creepy eyed
Picture this:
You’re in Rimsky Korsakoffee. It’s one of those Portland staples, an old Victorian house turned into a coffeehouse. It’s close to midnight, and the place is nearly empty: there’s one or two other tables, a lone guitarist, and your buddy Patch. You haven’t seen Patch in at least a year and you’ve been catching up, first at a brewpub and now here at Rimsky’s. The beers were good, and so is the hot chocolate in your hands, but now they’ve caught up with you. So you ask Patch where the bathroom is. “Up the stairs,” he says, gesturing towards the front of the house. “Oh yeah,” he adds as you turn to go. “Make sure you look up.”
You find the stairs and walk up to the landing, then up further to the second floor. It’s quiet here in this narrow hallway, chillingly so. Other than the muted sound of the guitar downstairs, the only noise comes from rain outside and your footsteps on the carpet. The hall is maybe five paces long, and there are two doors on either side and one at the far end. They all bear signs saying ‘Do Not Enter’ or ‘Keep Going’, till you got to the one on the far left, which finally says ‘Restroom.’ You knock at the door, wait, and turn the handle to enter. It’s dark inside, the only light filtering in through the window coming from a street lamp outside. It’s a bigger room than you expected, your eyes adjusting as you feel along the wall for a light switch, and as shapes start to emerge from the darkened bathroom you realize with a start that someone else is in here, your breath catches in your throat and your roll up onto your toes as your body tenses, fingers scrabbling now, where’s that lightswitch something is in here where where-
-CLICK-
WHAT THE –?
You spend a minute staring at the bathroom’s permanent resident, not quite sure what to make of his glassy stare and his creepy, empty expression. You look around at the rest of the bathroom, taking in the ghostly toilet paper lady, back at the grinning face of the ghoul, before you finally remember to look up.
Yeah. That’s pretty cool, too.
You go about your business as quickly as possible, checking over your shoulder to make sure your undead companion isn’t crawling towards you to try and bite you on your ass. He doesn’t move, but you’re pretty sure he’s just waiting for you to get close enough to grab.
Downstairs again, you find your table and take your seat. “Did you look up?” Patch asks you.
“Yeah,” you say. “I looked down, too. It was…interesting.”
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