The Glass Eye on the Mantle

“You feel it too, right?” Annette’s voice was a tight thread, barely cutting through the rustle of dry leaves kicked up by an unseen current.

Pete shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, the cheap denim rubbing uncomfortably against his knuckles. “Feel what? The cold? It’s October, Chlo. Always cold.” His breath plumed, a brief, ghost-like cloud that dissipated too quickly in the heavy air.

She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead, where the streetlights blurred into an indistinct glow. “No. Not just… the cold. It’s like, when you know someone’s behind you, even if you don’t turn around. That prickle on your neck. Only, it’s everywhere.” She hugged her arms tighter across her chest, the worn fabric of her jacket making a soft, sibilant sound.

He kicked at a loose stone on the pavement, sending it skittering into a puddle that wasn't there a moment ago. “You’re just spooked because Dad’s been… weird. It’ll pass. He’s probably just stressed from work.” He didn't believe it. Not really. But saying it out loud felt like a spell, a ward against the creeping unease that had settled in their home like mould on old bread.

“Weird doesn’t cover it, Pete. He’s been like… a ghost in his own house. And he stares.” Her voice dropped, a near whisper. “Not at us, exactly. But through us. Like he’s trying to see something else. Something inside our heads.”

A shiver traced its way down Pete’s spine, despite his best efforts to ignore it. He remembered last night, their father at the kitchen table, spooning soup into his mouth with methodical, unnerving precision. His eyes, usually a flat grey, seemed to hold a flicker of something new, something almost predatory, as he watched them. Pete had chalked it up to exhaustion then, but Annette’s words twisted it into something more sinister.

“He’s just tired,” Pete tried again, the words feeling thin and unconvincing even to his own ears. He scraped the sole of his boot along the damp concrete, the sound a small, sharp protest in the pervasive quiet. The autumn night swallowed every other sound: the distant hum of traffic, the occasional bark of a dog. Only their footsteps and the whisper of the wind remained.

The Unblinking Eye

They were nearing the old Elm Street bridge, its wrought-iron railings black silhouettes against the faint glow of the city centre beyond. It was always colder here, the wind whipping off the unseen river. Annette pulled her hood up, her face disappearing into the shadow. “He asked me about my friends,” she said, her voice muffled now. “Specifically, what we talk about when we’re alone. And he said… he said it would be ‘beneficial’ if I kept him ‘informed’ about our plans.”

Pete stumbled, catching himself before he fell. “He what? Like, spying?” The idea, spoken aloud, sounded absurd, cartoonish. But the prickle on his neck returned with a vengeance.

“Not spying, exactly,” Annette said, her voice tight with a strange mix of fear and indignation. “More like… wanting to know everything. For our ‘safety,’ he said. But it felt like… a threat.” She finally looked at him, her eyes wide and dark in the gloom. “He even mentioned something about ‘unnecessary risks’ if we weren’t ‘transparent’ with him.”

The streetlights seemed to dim a fraction as they passed beneath them. Pete chewed on the inside of his cheek. Their father had always been protective, overly so since their mother left. But this was different. This wasn’t protection. This felt like… ownership. And the feeling of being watched intensified, settling like a weight on his shoulders, not just Annette’s.

A gust of wind, smelling faintly of wet dust and cold sweat, swirled around them, tugging at their clothes. Pete scanned the shadows, the dark gaps between houses, the skeletal trees whose branches clawed at the sky. Nothing. No shape. No movement. Just the unyielding gloom of late autumn. But the feeling persisted, a constant, low thrum beneath his skin.

They turned onto their street. Their house, a squat, redbrick bungalow, looked like a black cavern under the inadequate glow of its single porch light. But it wasn’t the darkness that caught Pete’s attention. It was the car. Their father’s sedan, usually parked in the garage, sat gleaming wetly in the driveway, even though it hadn’t rained. And he was supposed to be at the office until much later.

“He’s home,” Annette whispered, the sound laced with something akin to dread.

Pete felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “Early. Why’s he early?” His question hung in the damp air, unanswered. A sudden flicker of movement in the front window – a curtain, perhaps? – made him jump. It was gone, if it had ever been there, leaving only the dark reflection of the night.

Inside the Quiet

The front door was unlocked, a detail that usually wouldn’t register but now felt like an invitation to something unsettling. The house was too quiet. Not the usual quiet of an empty house, but the hushed stillness of a place holding its breath. The air inside was cold, colder than outside, carrying a faint, metallic tang that Pete couldn’t quite place.

“Dad?” Annette called out, her voice small and tentative, swallowed immediately by the oppressive silence.

No answer. No TV. No music. Just the rhythmic hum of the old refrigerator, a lonely, persistent pulse in the heart of the house. Pete noticed the faint scent of stale coffee, mixed with something else, something sharp and chemical. He looked down at the entry table. Keys. Wallet. All in their usual place. A freshly folded newspaper sat beside them, its headlines unread.

He nudged Annette. “He’s definitely here. Where is he?”

Annette was already moving, her movements careful, almost balletic, as if trying not to disturb the profound stillness. She went to the living room first, peeking around the doorframe. “Empty.” Then the kitchen. “Empty.” The dining room. Empty. Her voice became more urgent with each declaration.

Pete's eyes scanned the living room. Everything was meticulously tidy. The cushions on the sofa were plumped, not a single wrinkle in the throws. A stack of magazines, perfectly aligned, sat on the coffee table. But something was off. The small, ceramic bird, usually perched on the windowsill, was now on the mantelpiece, its glazed eyes staring directly at the sofa. It was a small detail, utterly insignificant, yet it lodged itself in Pete's mind, a tiny shard of wrongness.

Annette walked past him, a frantic energy vibrating through her. She was heading towards their father’s study, the room that was usually off-limits, always locked. Today, the door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible.

“Annette, maybe… maybe we shouldn’t,” Pete started, a sudden wave of apprehension washing over him. This felt like crossing a line, stepping into a secret that wasn’t theirs to uncover.

But she ignored him, pushing the door open wider. The study was dark, the blinds drawn tight. She fumbled for the light switch, flicking it on. The room was bathed in the harsh, unflattering glow of a single overhead bulb. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with dense, academic tomes their father spent hours with. His desk was neat, a single pen resting on a blank legal pad.

Annette walked straight to the large, antique globe that sat on a stand in the corner. She ran her fingers along the smooth, lacquered surface, then, with a sharp intake of breath, she pressed a specific point near the equator. The globe made a faint click. A tiny, almost invisible panel on the side of the stand slid open. Inside, nestled amongst some old papers, was a small, black device, no bigger than her thumb, with a tiny, blinking red light.

Pete felt the air leave his lungs in a rush. He stumbled towards her, his eyes fixed on the device. It looked like a flash drive, but the red light… it was too deliberate, too knowing. It was active. It had been watching. All of them. In their own home.

Annette’s face was pale, her expression a mixture of shock and a terrible confirmation. She pulled out the device, her fingers trembling. “He was listening,” she whispered, the words barely audible. “To everything. All of it.”

A sudden thud from upstairs, a floorboard creaking heavily, made them both jump. Their father was home. He had been home all along. The quiet hadn’t been emptiness. It had been an audience.

The Unspoken Agreement

Pete stared at the small black rectangle in Annette’s hand, feeling the cold weight of it despite the distance. His mind raced, a chaotic storm of betrayal and fear. This wasn’t just 'weird' or 'stressed'. This was deliberate, insidious. The domestic cocoon they thought they lived in had been a cage, its walls porous, its privacy a lie. The thud upstairs repeated, closer this time, accompanied by the faintest groan of a spring, the sound of their father getting out of bed.

“What do we do?” Pete’s voice was hoarse, barely his own. The question hung heavy, thick with the damp air of secrets. He felt a profound shift, a crack in the foundation of everything he thought he knew about his family, about safety.

Annette looked at him, her dark eyes now holding a steely resolve that replaced her earlier fear. She closed her hand around the device, concealing it. “We act normal,” she said, her voice stronger, though still quiet. “We pretend we didn’t find anything. And then,” she paused, a flicker of cold calculation in her gaze, “we figure out what he’s listening for.” The upstairs floorboards creaked again, followed by the distinct sound of footsteps approaching the top of the stairs. The quiet had broken. The game had changed, and they were, terrifyingly, in it.

A New Kind of Watch

The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs, then began their slow descent. Annette’s hand tightened around the small device, her knuckles white. Pete knew, without a word being exchanged, that they had just entered a new, dangerous chapter of their lives, one where their home was no longer a sanctuary, and every conversation would be a silent battle for truth.

Their father was coming down. And this time, they would be the ones watching him.

His foot landed on the bottom step, heavy and deliberate. The metallic tang in the air suddenly felt sharper, like the taste of something bitter on the tongue.