Creative Writing | Horror | Blue Eyed Girl


I thought I’d share some horror today on the blog, I started this piece not so long ago and would love some feedback! Comment below! 

Since the age of four I had to wear a patch over my right eye. Kids are cruel. I have been called Blackbeard, Captain Hook and teased by boys putting on mock pirate voices. Mum would only let me take my patch off in the house, because out in public I would see bad things with my right eye, bad people.

Grandma Smith had the Sight in both eyes but at the age of twenty-three she had taken a knife and gouged them out. She told me that she could still see them though. Their faces imprinted themselves on her thin eyelids so she was never free.

“Your blue eye is special,” she told me. “Don’t destroy it. Use your brown eye everyday but in bad times that blue one might save your life.” Mum would always tut and sigh.

“Don’t scare her,” she’d say, “She was convinced a woman in Sainsbury’s had no face because you made her curious enough to take her patch off and imagine things,” she hissed.

“Lynne, if you don’t believe then why you do make her wear that hideous thing?” Grandma Smith asked. My Mum didn’t answer.

“That lady was a soul sucker.” I had commented calmly, breaking the silence whilst playing with my dolls at Grandma Smith’s feet. “When you were looking at the beans she said she was going to pull my eye out.” Grandma Smith laughed and reached out a thin hand, I took it in mine.

“Really Jez,” my Mum said. “What have you been reading?”

“Don’t worry you about those no face daemons baby,” my Grandma said ignoring my Mum’s question, “they can only hurt bad people.”

“Like Jamie?” I asked, thinking of my older brother who was currently grounded for swearing in the street.

“Oh no, Jamie’s not that kind of naughty.” Grandma Smith had reassured me, “He’s a good boy really, no daemon will hurt him,” she patted my hand and then sat back in her chair, the light reflected on her mirrored glasses.

I smiled and continued to play with my doll. Grandma Smith smiled too and readjusted her glasses higher onto her nose.

Mum sniffed in a disapproving way and left the room. She always left the room, even when I told her not to. That day, her scream. I can still hear it now when I close my eyes.

I don’t wear the patch anymore. The kids that live in my cul-de-sac call me Mad Eye Moody, but I don’t think even he could see I shit that I do. Sometimes I think maybe I should just leave my patch on, it would make my life a lot easier.

It was a cold Saturday in November when the new family moved in across the street. I was sixteen and still living with Mum, Grandma Smith and Jamie in the same small house, down Andelside Lane. I watched from the window as the family unloaded their boxes from the large van as quickly as possible, so as to get out of the cold quicker.

Their breath rose in misty clouds in front of their faces and their cheeks were pink. There was a Mummy and a Daddy and a little boy and a little girl and a baby, a real family. I pressed my nose up to the glass to watch them, this real, perfect little group moving into their perfect little house, so that they could be a perfect little family together.

“Stop being a curtain twitcher.” Grandma Smith said, as she read a book with her thin fingers. I rolled my eyes, “And don’t do that,” she scolded me. I laughed. Even without her eyesight she knew exactly when Mum and I were pulling faces at her.

I turned back to the window, only the little girl was outside now her blonde hair shimmering in the half light, small strands of it caught by the wind, waved around her forehead. She looked up at the window and stared at me, I knew she couldn’t see me behind the blinds but my heart began to beat faster.

Something warned me that I mustn’t let this little girl catch me watching her. I frowned and raised my patch so that my blue eye could look too. The light hurt it and I blinked back tears in that one eye. When it had re focused the little girl was gone.

“What’s wrong baby girl?” Grandma Smith had asked, putting down her book and turning her head towards me at the window.

“There’s a new family in the street.” I said.

“Oh yeah, I heard they were moving in.” Mum said as she stirred a cup of tea in front of her and flipped over another page in her glossy magazine.

“The little girl…” I said, my voice high pitched and trailing off at the end. That little girl made me feel some sort of irrational fear, like I needed to lock all the doors and close the curtains and keep everyone safe in this room.

“I got that feeling too,” Grandma Smith interrupted my train of thought. She felt for her side table and placed her book on it. I moved over to help her stand up, her thin fingers gripped my arm as she struggled to get upright. She shuffled towards the window, I stood beside her looking towards the house but couldn’t see anyone in the windows.

“You two really need to give this up.” Mum muttered taking a long sip from her cup.

“Be quiet Lynne,” Grandma Smith said, she took hold of my hand and squeezed it. “you be on the lookout for that little girl,” she muttered to me, “I have a feeling that we might need to call Arnold.”

I squeezed her hand back, mainly out of fear and to also assure her that I realised how serious the situation was. If Arnold was needed then it was bad.

When I first saw Arnold I thought he was something only my right eye could see but I noticed my Mum shudder as he entered the room and realised he was just a scary looking man. He was tall and thin with a startlingly white, haggard face and was always dressed in a stiff, smart, black suit.

Thin hands emerged from the cuffs of that suit, topped off with crooked, arthritis riddled fingers that bent strangely at the joints. His nails were long, for a man, and yellowing at the ends, a myriad of blue veins pushed up against his thin white skin on these hands that made me think of rivers and dead people making their way to Hades, in a story Grandma Smith once read me from a dusty book on Greek Mythology.

His hair was grey and long at the back, but thin on top revealing a white shiny head and he would brush one crooked hand over it to smooth what little hair he had sitting there. Arnold performed exorcisms and he looked the part.

I’d watched one once, holding Grandma Smith’s frail hand as he held down a young girl and muttered what sounded like nonsense under his breath. The girl’s body had gone into spasm, her back arching and she pushed herself up off the bed with her toes.

Arnold’s chanting had gotten louder and he pushed down harder on the girl as her body started to rise. Grandma Smith had begun to chant too. I didn’t know what they were saying so I just concentrated really hard on wishing for the daemon to leave her.

The girl started to thrash, her red hair flailing around her head and her grey eyes rolling backwards into her skull. She vomited and coughed it up onto her face and neck.

Grandma Smith heard this, she let go of my hand and went forward, patting the bed to find the girl on it and pulling a handkerchief from her pocket she wiped the girls face and spoke soothingly so as to calm her as the last part of the incantation was being spoken.

I moved forward too after a short time and Grandma Smith indicated I should take her place so she could help Arnold, so I stood and I wiped the girl’s face careful not to get any sick on me or actually touch her.

I’d been told to keep my eye patch on, so I couldn’t see the daemon, but I was curious. With Arnold and Grandma distracted I raised my eye patch slightly to look at the girl and instantly recoiled in horror. Her face was hideous.

With the daemon inside her it was a crawling mess of maggot and leeches and insects crawling where her skin should have been and her hair was a writhing black mess on the bed. Her face turned to look at me and I saw the daemon smile underneath the disgusting insect skin.

“Do I look pretty?” it hissed, I shrieked and backed away.

“Put your eye patch on Jez!” Grandma Smith screamed at me but I couldn’t lower it now, I had to make sure it didn’t go anywhere, move into anyone else. Arnold seemed oblivious of what was happening and continued to chant and hold the daemon down.

“Come here girl,” the daemon taunted me, “come here and we can be real friends. This one wasn’t much use, but you can See can’t you? You can See us.” I shook my head, staring at its ugly mess of a face and it snarled at me in anger.

“Patch on! Now!” Grandma Smith yelled. I snapped my eye patch back down and it was only the girl I could see now, shaking and convulsing on the bed.

She’d been sick again whilst I had been looking at the daemon. The she started to shout, but it wasn’t her voice. It was lower, deeper and harsher than any voice I’d ever heard. Everything you saw in the Exorcist when it comes to daemon possession is pretty much true I’m afraid.

“I’m going to kill you,” the girl said and her eyes had focused on me now, they were no longer rolled back into her head. “Once I’m out of this body, I’m going to find you and kill you and all your family.” Grandma Smith slapped her round the face to draw the attention away from me.

“You old bitch,” the girl growled in that deep voice, “I’m going to skin you alive…” then she stopped talking, as though something had grabbed her by the throat and she made a choking sound.

I raised my eye patch again and saw the daemon leave, a whirling swarm of insects and blackness that went straight through the wall and was gone.

Grandma Smith and I had never spoken of that exorcism again and she had never asked me to help with another, thinking I was too curious and too dangerous to help.

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