You noticed the wallpaper bubble first, .
Then the faint shape beneath it — round. Watching.
You peeled it back. It looked like… an eye?
But when you blinked — it blinked back.
You covered it again and laughed it off.
Next morning, the wallpaper was torn down.
Not one. Dozens of eyes. Blinking in silence.
You screamed. The eyes dilated.
Your phone camera refused to capture them.
The wall looked blank in photos.
You invited a friend over to prove it.
Until they touched the wall — then screamed and ran.
They won’t return your calls now.
You feel watched in every room.
The bathroom mirror fogged up on its own.
A message appeared: “You’re next.”
You wiped it away. It came back.
Now it just says “Don’t blink.”
You started sleeping with the lights on.
One night, the eyes turned red.
They wept. The tears crawled toward you.
You sealed the room. Moved to another.
Then you saw it — a tiny eye beneath your nail.
It blinked once. And vanished.
You shaved your head. Searched your skin.
There were no more eyes. For a while.
Then one blinked on your back — in the mirror.
But your back felt nothing.
The eye followed your movements perfectly.
You tried stabbing it. Blood ran cold, then hot.
You passed out from the pain.
When you woke, your own eyes were gone.
You looked in the mirror — the wall had them now.
You screamed blindly. Crawled to the hallway.
A voice whispered, “Watch.”
You felt your eyes back — but they weren’t yours anymore.
Everything looked... backwards.
The walls were smooth again. Too smooth.
Then someone knocked from the inside.
You opened the door. But there was no door there.
Just a soft, fleshy surface. Breathing.
You reached out to touch it. It felt like your face.
Your lips. Your nose. Your eyes.
The walls now see everything you see.
They whisper secrets before you think them.
You covered every wall in black paint.
But at night, green eyes glow through it.
Watching you sleep. Until you never wake again.