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The Eyes

John Ragusa

    Young Darrin Posley was in town for an important business meeting. Aware of the enormous cost of hotel rooms, he decided to spend his night in the city at a bed-and-breakfast. He knocked on the door of the first one he found.
    A small, gnomish man answered his knock. “May I help you?” he asked.
    “I’d like a room for a night and breakfast the next morning,” Posley replied.
    The man allowed Posley to enter his abode. Then he announced, “I must ask for payment in advance.”
    Posley asked how much it would cost. The man told him his price. Posley paid him, and he said, “Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just finished fixing some for myself.”
    Posley shrugged. “Sure, that sounds good.”
    The man poured them each a cup of the beverage.
    “Cream and sugar?” he asked.
    “That’s fine,” Posley said.
    The man added those things to both their cups. Then he placed Posley’s cup in front of him and took his seat at the dining table. They each sipped their tea.
    Trying to create some conversation, Posley asked, “Do you have any family?”
    “They are all deceased,” he said flatly.
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “They’re in their resting places. That’s the best place they can be right now.”
    Then, out of nowhere, he came up with the most peculiar statement. “They were a very disagreeable bunch. They harbored hatred for all people.”
    Posley blinked. “You mean they were misanthropic?”
    The man nodded. “They loathed every individual they came in contact with.”
    The rest of the refreshment progressed with no further conversation. The tea was good, but Posley was feeling vaguely uneasy.
    When he was done drinking his tea, Posley said, “I guess I’ll retire for the night.”
    “Very well.” The man was enigmatic.
    He led Posley to his room. He said, “Good night to you.” Then he walked out and shut the door, which creaked eerily.
    Posley looked around him. The room contained only a bed, an end table with a knife on it, and a pair of portraits on the wall.
    Posley was drawn to the portraits. They showed a man and a woman, who were probably the landlord’s departed relatives. Their stern, unsmiling faces had a chilling expression of pure acrimony. But it was their eyes that captured Posley’s attention. They seemed to be peering deeply into his very soul. Posley had never seen such a look of unabashed malevolence before. It was as if they abhorred the sight of Posley. It sent shivers up his spine.
    But as repulsed as he was by the eyes, Posley still could not tear his gaze away from them. They were literally hypnotizing him as a voice told Posley, “Go to the table. Pick up the knife. Stab yourself with it.”

 

    Posley walked to the table in a trance. It was like an unseen force were guiding him toward it. He took the knife and plunged it into his chest.
    Suddenly, he was out of his trance. Staring with horror at the blood spurting out of him, Posley was filled with indescribable dread. Finally, he collapsed to the floor, a man no longer living.
    The evil little landlord came into the room. It was his voice that commanded Posley to kill himself; the eyes in the portrait, however, were what exerted their hypnotic control.
    Smiling with satisfaction at the corpse, the landlord dragged it into the backyard and buried it with the other bodies.

X X X

    The following week, another young man stood in the doorway and said, “I would like a room for one night.”
    The strange, tiny man smiled. “You’ve come to just the right place, son.”

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