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Moon’s eye

Mike Rader

    The last thing we see before we die — that’s what we take to the grave in our mind’s eye. I’ve read stuff like that before, knowing it might well be true. But for most of us I guess the last thing we see is nothing more exciting than the ceiling in a hospital room. For most of us, that is, except I had a moon’s eye.

    I write crime stories for a living. Often they’re inspired by real cases. Naturally it helps to have the write space (excuse the pun). Ten years ago I bought myself a rambling house on a small estate backing on to a dense forest. Trust me, a view of gloomy trees in winter does wonders for the creative juices. My name is Jonathan Easey, by the way, and my life has always been like my name. If I had a motto it would be “Easey does it”; that goes for my writing, for my life in general, for women too. I hate commitment like I hate rejection letters. That’s why I like living alone, and a big old house scares me not one jot!
    Late spring, the days longer, the evenings warmer, I often grab my notebook and go down to the back of the garden. There’s an old gate that opens into the forest. It makes one of those squeaking noises that would make a Foley artist proud. Through the gate, a path winds off into the trees. I’ve taken it more times than I care to remember. It plunges deep into the forest, past a lonely creek, and down to a nice flat rock where I sit and write sometimes.
    And that’s what I was doing, working on the plot of a story. An hour went by, the last of the sun piercing the dying light, when I realized I had company. One of my neighbors, I guessed. I gave the guy a quick look, a wave, and went back to my work.
    Something told me to give him a second look.
    He was just standing there, watching me, a thin man in mud-spattered clothes, a grin sloping across his dark face. I knew in that instant he wasn’t a neighbor. None of my neighbors have only one eye.
    I was on my feet in a heartbeat.
    “Am I disturbing you?” the stranger asked. He lifted a hand to his single eye, drawing attention to the empty socket on the other side of his harsh nose. He stepped closer. “A lot of people find my appearance unsettling.”
    As a rule, I like understatements. On this occasion, no. The man looked like he’d spent the night with the Gestapo. I could almost see the tracks in his skin where someone’s fingers had gouged out his other eye.
    I offered him the first platitude that came to mind. “It must have been a terrible accident,” I blurted out. “I’m sorry.” The shadows were darkening. I closed my notebook, stuffed the pen back into my pocket, and gave him a brisk nod. “Well, it was nice to meet you.”
    “You can’t leave now, Mr Easey,” he said.
    I felt my jaw drop open like a broken drawer. I got the first chill down my spine. It had nothing to do with the evening air. “How do you know my name?”
    “Please, don’t be angry,” the stranger said. “I know you’re a crime writer. I came to give you a story.”
    Let’s be clear: I wasn’t scared of this guy, but I didn’t care to spend hours out in the woods alone with him. “Let’s go back to my house,” I suggested, heading over to the path.
    He moved like lightning, blocking my way. “No, Mr Easey. I have to show you something first. You will find it unique.”
    I’m a words man, right? I pick up on words. So what could be “unique” in the forest behind my house?
    The stranger was so close I could see the tiny pieces of wet grass trapped in the mud that festooned his coat. So close I could smell decay on his breath.
    “You haven’t told me your name,” I said, trying to push past him.
    “Be patient, Mr Easey,” he insisted with a laugh.
    His mouth had opened wide. Mud and grass clung to his teeth and tongue.
    While that single eye of his — it was focused on me like a moon.
    A chill bored into my guts. He took my elbow, steering me into the undergrowth. “We can go this way.”
    I’d never left the path in the woods before. Not because I was worried about getting lost; I just didn’t see the point of getting scratched by thorns and bracken. Which was what was happening now
— a sharp branch scratched my skin as he pushed me farther into the gloom.
    “Careful,” I snapped, my feet caught in a tangle of undergrowth.
    I looked down. Saw the blood on the back of my hand. A nasty cut. I tried to stop and turn but the stranger’s grip tightened on my arm.
    “Hey,” I protested. “Stop right now.”
    He thrust me forward, pushing me along fiercely, his breath rank in the night. “Mr Easey, this is going to be the story of a lifetime.”
    It better be, I thought, as he shoved me between two massive pines, deeper into the forest.
    Then I was hurled forward, crashing to the ground, sprawling in a small clearing. A small clearing with a shallow grave, matted with mud and grass.
    “This has been my home for too long,” the stranger informed me.
    An invisible force held me pinned down. “What do you want?” I blurted out. I struggled to stand. Couldn’t. Sank back onto the soggy ground.
    “I used to live in your house. Alone, like you. One night some men burst in, stole money, beat me up. They dumped me here in that grave while I was still alive.”
    “Is that your story?” I demanded. Again I struggled to stand, but the ground seemed to clamp me in place. “Is that why you brought me here? Are you trying to tell me you’re a ghost?”
    The stranger kneeled down and his right hand reached across to my right eye. “When I finally died, I learned that no one can live in our house longer than ten years. Every decade, the ownership must change. I replaced someone else in this grave. Now you will replace me. In ten years’ time, you will make way for someone else.”
    “Are you crazy?” I fought to stand but my body was numb.
    Then I was screaming. His fingers gouged out my right eye. I saw him slip it into his own empty socket with a satisfied smile.
    “Enjoy your death, Mr Easey,” he called back over his shoulder as he stepped into the gloom.
    With one eye I stared up at the moon. It silvered the forest around me. I felt the ground sink and settle around me. My grave was deepening to accommodate my body. Finally all I could see was the moon through a narrow slit in the soil above my head. One large moon eye, strangely benevolent, it might have been the last thing I saw before I died. But no, that honor went to the fat worms that curled and writhed on my cheeks, and the insects that feasted on their new, warm source of food.

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