E's Friends: Those Damn Red Eyes

There are no words I can use to describe just how terrible I felt after reading this story. It's been a long time now, but I am experiencing a very similar unknown force as the one that's been plaguing me since childhood. It's been well known now, that the demonic attempt to break us, to oppress us, to force us to give up our souls willingly, to steal our very lives from us. That is something that has happened to me before, but nothing as utterly terrifying as this. Nothing as horrible as what happened to a very good friend of mine. Without further ado, prepare yourself for this true story...of the thing with those damn red eyes...

"It was cold as shit, and I was bored. My mind was wandering, like usual, and something used that opportunity to work its way into my brain. I remember that I was with my Grandpa and my Father. We were 5 feet into the ground, huddled next to a propane heater and looking through the branches that covered our duck blind. It was cold as shit, and the birds weren’t flying. That’s about all that I can remember about the day I almost killed myself. 

I hated to hunt. Still do. I hate every part of it. Waking up at 4 am to drive an hour to either our farmland or an old strip mine that we leased was the dumbest thing I had ever heard of. It was always cold, and they expected me to sit in a tree or down in a hole in the frozen ground to wait for an animal to cross my sights? No way. There was just no joy in it for me. Why am I murdering this animal when I have NO intentions of eating it? It just didn’t seem right. 

I hated to hunt, but I loved my Grandpa. More than just about anything in the world. He took me in when I was 9 months old and raised me, off-and-on, like one of his own. He tried his best to teach me all about the world and how to live a life worth remembering. I would have done anything to make him happy, and that included freezing my ass off and missing my shots on animals on purpose. 

This time was different. I had spent most of the previous night hiding under my blankets. There was something in my room and it wouldn’t leave me alone. It would sit on my bed. It would scratch my legs. It would breathe on my neck, a feeling that was both cold and hungry at the same time. I would close my eyes and try to pray it away, but after every “amen” came the inevitable laugh from my closet. I would open my eyes to see it watching me. Its red eyes motionless in the dark. Watching. Tormenting. Laughing away the hours until my Grandpa would come into my room to wake me. 

That night wasn’t the first, and it hasn’t been the last, but something felt different. It felt rushed, like it was in a hurry. In the past, it would poke and prod at my body and play pranks on me like a shadowy trickster. A lampshade falling on me here, a tug on my blankets there. That night felt important, though. It went from playing tricks to trying to shatter my sanity, from a gentle bullying on the playground to a dangerous rendezvous in a dark bathroom. I was always able to laugh it away. It was just the old house I grew up in. Something was still there, and it didn’t like that I was, too. No big deal. I was always told that my god was bigger than anything dark that would try its hand against me. My grandpa told me that whenever I would tell him that my room scared me. 

So, there I was, sitting in the blind, freezing and exhausted. My mind began to wander, as it tends to do still. I started thinking about how tired I was, replaying every event from the night before. What was so wrong with me? My grandparents never saw or heard anything. My sister never did, either. My Dad laughed it off when I told him about it, so why was this thing coming after me? 

'Fuck, I’m tired.' 

The first time it bothered me was when I was very young. Young enough to sleep in the same bed as my father, at least. We were in my grandparent’s basement, sleeping, when it woke me with a chuckle. I remember being so cold and feeling something almost metallic scrape against my ankle. It was smooth, like the barrel of the gun perched in front of me in the blind. 

'I need to sleep.' 

It grabbed me that first night. I felt its cold fingers dig into the meat of my lower calf and pull. It was dark, but I could see its eyes. They were bright red. An angry red. It was pulling me towards those hate-filled red orbs, where I just knew there was a gaping maw of razorblades waiting to bite down and take me to hell. I was frozen, until I felt my leg slide off the bed. It was winning, and there was nothing I could do.

'It’s pointless to fight it.' 

I started to kick. I kicked and kicked. I kicked until my hip felt like to was going to pop out of socket. I grabbed onto my Dad and tried to pull myself back up onto the bed. Instead of helping me, I felt his hand brush mine away. Why in the hell would he do that?

'Because he wanted to be rid of you.' 

After what seemed like an eternity, the thing at the end of the bed finally let go. It didn’t go away, though. It crouched there, watching, for the rest of the night. I cried, not understanding why my Dad wouldn’t help me. He looked so peaceful, sleeping with a slight smile on his face. What was he dreaming about?

'Living his life without you there to weigh him down.'  

Why the fuck was I thinking about that night? It was years ago, and I’m freezing my ass off in a pair of camouflage pants that don’t even fit right, let alone keep me warm. To keep my mind occupied, I started wiping down my gun. I checked to make sure that it was unloaded, of course, which it was. Just to be sure I was being safe, I checked the safety. On, as always, so I was free to handle the gun without danger. 

'You sure about that?'

Yes, I was sure. I wiped and polished the gun until I could see my face in the cold barrel. I could see the reflections of both my Grandpa and my Dad in it, as well. They were both reclined against the metal side of the blind, asleep and snoring loud enough to make sure we wouldn’t see any ducks that day. I wonder if they would miss me if I wasn’t there with them?

'I wonder what it would feel like?' 

It was an intrusive thought, but one that felt right. To find the answer, I placed the butt of the shotgun against the floor and leaned forward. I double-checked the safety, and it was on. I just wondered what it would feel like to place the gun in my mouth. It fit like it was formed just for me. It tasted like metal, like blood. 

'Doesn’t it feel right?'

You know what? It fucking did. It felt like the answer to all of my prayers. All of those nights awake, scared and alone, would be over and I could finally get some fucking rest. Of course, I never would kill myself. It was a ludicrous notion, but I just wanted to know what pulling the trigger would feel like. Would I be able to do it? I mean, I unloaded the gun before I picked it up and I have checked the safety twice. It wouldn’t do anything, but it would be cool to feel that power.

'Go ahead, give it a try. It’ll be so cool.' 

I reached down to the trigger, where I checked the safety for a third time. Something started to tickle the back of my mind. I shouldn’t be doing this. Something wasn’t right. I couldn’t reach the trigger all the way with the gun in my mouth, anyway, so I started to put it away.

'Put it under your chin.' 

No, I was good. I had my brush with badassery and allowed myself to feel like an action hero for a second. It was time to put the gun away.

'Put it under your fucking chin.'

Something was pushing my head from behind. I felt its cold fingers grab my skull and force it forward towards the gun. I fought it for a second, but it was far too strong. I tried to look over my shoulder, but I couldn’t get a good glimpse of what was doing this to me. All I could see was darkness, a darkness that was blacker than shadow, and a single red eye. 

'Pull the fucking trigger and end this.' 

I tried to scream, I tried to whimper. Anything to get my Grandpa or my Dad’s attention. I kicked my feet, but the gun still found its way under my chin. It felt right. It felt like my whole life was leading to this moment. It felt at home pushing into the soft flesh beneath my tongue.

'Now reach down and pull the trigger. You checked the safety, right? Nothing will happen. It’s not even loaded.' 

I started to cry. I did check the gun. Multiple times. If I just pulled the trigger, would it leave me alone? I was crying for help, but my Grandpa and Dad didn’t move. I didn’t understand how they couldn’t hear me. I was almost screaming.

'Oh, they hear you. Trust me. They’re not even asleep. They just want to be rid of you. So, reach down and pull the fucking trigger.' 

It all made sense. They knew that I hated hunting. Why, then, would they bring me out here and “fall asleep”? It’s because they wanted me to do this. I remember all the times my Dad dragged me around behind him. From wife to wife, he would show me off to impress them, then move me back to my Grandparents once actually having a kid started to cramp his style. I remember sleeping on the living room floor of my fourth step-mother’s home with my best friend when she kicked me awake, telling me to pack my shit and get out. I was 11. I guess I was good enough to be a token of great fatherhood, but when it came down to it, I was never actually wanted. 

'You see? This will make everything better. You’ll show them. Go ahead. Give them a little scare. They’ll hear the click of the empty gun and wake up and realize that they should have loved you more. Everything will change.' 

It felt right. It felt like the only way forward was to stop resisting the force pushing on the back of my head and do this. It wasn’t loaded, anyway, so nothing would happen. I would pull the trigger, they would hear the click, then it would be over. I would finally be loved. 

'You will finally be loved. I promise.' 

I relaxed. I felt warm for the first time all morning. With the gun resting snugly underneath my chin, I reached down with my right hand. I felt a smile cross my face as this was happening. After all these years, I would finally be loved. Loved the way I saw my Dad love his step-children. Loved the way I saw on television. Loved the way I was supposed to be loved. I felt the curve of the trigger on my thumb. It seemed to fit perfectly. I felt the same cold, hungry breath on the back of my neck. 

'Go ahead. Show them. Show them all.' 

I pushed down with my thumb, but what came after wasn’t a “click”. Something with the force of a freight train hit me square in the chest, knocking me over backwards and opening a gash on the back of my head. Blood flowed from my skull and the blind filled with thunder. Fire erupted from the muzzle of the gun, singeing the brim of my hat, which was still falling from my head. Branches from the camouflage fell all around me. I was dead. I knew it. I was finally loved. 

My Grandpa stood over me, all 6’6” of him shaking and crying. I couldn’t distinguish him from the ringing in my ears, but I could read his lips. “What are you thinking?” he kept asking me, over and over. He smacked me on the side of the head, not hard, but hard enough to clear the fog. “I love you, goddamnit. I love you, you damn fool,” he said as he pulled me close into his chest. I still remember how he smelled. He has been gone for 6 years now, but I will never forget that smell. Fear and anger mixed with confusion and a protective reflex. 

I have seen the thing with the red eyes many times since then, but its words fall on deaf ears. I was loved, I was cherished. Although it might still pull on my leg from time to time, its claws never sink too deeply. I was loved, I was cherished. And even though he may be gone from this world, my Grandpa continues to save my life from the red eyes of hell every day."

This story was very personal and very hard for me to get through. It was something that after I had read through, I felt very mixed emotions. I was terrified because I actually saw that someone out there was experiencing a similar thing that I was, and I was saddened because of the events that transpired to my friend. I really couldn't believe that this...this thing...this thing that torments me even today, had also gone after him. This is a story that made me want to cry at the end of it. It also made me think of my grandfather (may he rest in peace), and of my faith (of which I am Catholic). This tells me the supernatural, the otherworldly, whatever you want to call them, can influence us, they delve deep within our minds, and they try as hard as they can to take us away from everyone and everything we love. I find strength in my faith, and whatever you believe, I hope you find strength in yours.

I want to thank my good friend Tyler Liston (@tyliston on Twitter) for sharing this story. If you have a true story you want to share as well, DM me @EnzosReviews on Twitter or send me an e-mail (enzoloveshorror@gmail.com)

If you or someone you know is in crisis or contemplating suicide, reach out to someone who can help. There are people ready and willing to listen to you, there are people who are ready to help. Call the National Suicide Prevention Line: 1-800-273-8255