The Watcher in the Window

It was one of those rainy evenings, the kind where the world feels tucked away under a gray blanket, and all you want is to curl up with a book and pretend the outside doesn’t exist. I was halfway through a thriller, the lamp casting soft shadows on my living room walls, when I felt it—a prickle on the back of my neck. I glanced up, and there it was: a pair of eyes staring through my window. Not human eyes, mind you, but sharp, glinting ones, like they belonged to something that didn’t quite belong. Ever get that feeling, like you’re being watched, and you’re not sure whether to laugh it off or lock the doors?

I froze, book forgotten in my lap, heart doing that annoying skip it does when you’re not sure if you’re scared or just imagining things. The rain pattered against the glass, blurring whatever was out there, but those eyes—they didn’t blink. I live on the edge of town, where the streetlights barely reach and the woods creep closer than you’d like. It’s peaceful, mostly. But nights like this? They make you wonder what’s hiding in the dark.

I’m not one for ghost stories. Well, not usually. But my neighbor, old Mr. Callahan, he’s got a knack for spinning tales that stick with you. Last summer, over lemonade on his porch, he told me about the “watcher” his granddad used to talk about—a thing that lurked near the woods, never quite showing itself, always watching. “Just stories,” he’d said, chuckling. “But you keep an eye out, yeah?” I’d laughed then, but now, with those eyes staring through my window, his words didn’t seem so funny.

I stood up, slow, like moving too fast might break whatever spell kept that thing outside. I flicked on the porch light, half-expecting to see a raccoon or a stray cat. Nothing. Just rain and shadows. But the feeling lingered, heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath. You ever notice how the dark plays tricks on you? One minute, it’s just a tree branch; the next, it’s something else entirely. I didn’t sleep much that night.

The next morning, I found tracks in the mud outside my window—small, weirdly shaped, not quite animal, not quite anything I could name. I told myself it was nothing. A fox, maybe. But I keep thinking about Mr. Callahan’s story, about how the watcher never hurts anyone—it just… watches. Like it’s waiting for something. Or someone. I haven’t seen those eyes again, but I catch myself glancing at the windows more than I used to, especially when the rain comes.

I don’t know what’s out there. Maybe it’s just my imagination, fueled by too many late-night thrillers and an old man’s tales. But there’s something about the way the night feels now, like it’s holding a secret it’s not ready to share. So, here’s my question: what do you do when you feel eyes on you, but there’s nothing there when you look? Do you shrug it off, or do you start wondering what’s watching from the shadows?