They’re Watching
As you’re eating dinner, watching reruns on TV, they’re watching.
As you sit on your computer late at night, they’re watching.
When you walk from your bedroom to the bathroom late at night, you can be certain that they’re watching. They watch everything you do. They listen to every little sound you make. They’re with you every second of the day, and every day of the year. “Who are they?”, you may ask. Well, it’s not so much a question of who they are, but what they are. For the lack of a better name, I simply call them ‘Watchers’. Everybody has one, and you’ve likely already seen yours countless times. It’s in the room with you right this second. Take a quick glance all around you. Chances are, your eyes connected with the eyes of your Watcher. Oh, but don’t bother looking again, they can’t be seen by normal people. We’re programmed not to take any notice of them. They could be anywhere, though. Hiding behind chairs in your dining room, watching you from atop your refrigerator, staring at you from underneath your desk as you do work, peeping at you from the end of your bed as you sleep. Some people are chosen, however. Chosen to be the few unfortunate bunch that get to see their Watcher. I am one of these unlucky few. They’re never fully exposed, but the sight of one is a sight to pity. They’re almost always hunched over in fetal position, their small, pale, boney body looking as if it would be crushed under the weight of its large head. They have large black, soulless eyes that are always staring right into yours. Always watching you… judging you… It starts slow, being able to see them. In the course of a few weeks, you’ll begin to see small movements in your peripheral vision. You will throw these occurrences off as normal, well, until the noises begin. The noises gradually get more and more defined over two or three weeks. In my experience, it was the slow patting of feet shuffling across my hardwood floor as I was trying to sleep. Then I begun to hear it graze the shower curtains as I shampooed my hair. Finally, I could hear it whispering to me when I was alone in a language I had never heard before. For weeks, I thought that I was crazy. For weeks, I considered checking myself into a mental hospital. For weeks, I felt like killing myself. That is, until I finally saw it. It was about a a year and a half ago, and I was reading Robert Stevenson’s novel, “Treasure Island”. As usual, I heard the slow patter on the floor coming from the furthest corner of my room to the end of my bed. Annoyed, I looked up, expecting the usual nothingness that I was used to seeing for the past months. When I looked up, it was the same sight I was used to seeing. There was however, something about this sight that made me feel uneasy. Finally, I noticed it staring at me from between the bars at the end of my bed. I could just see the outline of its head in the dark of the night. I quickly looked back at my book, acting as if I hadn’t seen it in hope that it would just go away. I sat there paralysed for what seemed like half an hour before I looked up again. It was still there staring at me. Looking at me. Watching me. You have likely had this same experience. The difference is that you don’t notice it watching you. You’re not supposed to notice it. It doesn’t want to be noticed. After a few days I began seeing it everywhere. Looking up at me from under the table while I ate dinner, in passing cars on my way to work, my watcher appeared everywhere. I scream at it to go away, but it just stares at me. I throw things at it, but it doesn’t move. My girlfriend and friends all left me because they thought I was acting psychotic. My family keeps telling me that they can help me, but I don’t need help. I just need to stare back, and it’ll go away. I rarely move anymore. I figure that if I bore it, it’ll finally leave. I’ll just have to sit here and watch it. I’m… always watching it… Credit To: RyRy Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.