He Comes Closer When I Blink

He Comes Closer When I Blink

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📅 Published on September 26, 2018

"He Comes Closer When I Blink"

Written by P.F. McGrail

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Estimated reading time — 3 minutes

Father O’Brian-

You’ve asked me to keep a journal, and here it is.

It seems that relocating to Maryland was a waste.

Moving from one house to another doesn’t seem to stop anything, and the police are at a loss. If you are unable to help us, the easiest path forward is just to give up hope.

Hope hurts too much if there is no faith to lift its wings.


Day 1 – Our first night on Hill Street did not offer any peace. The constant ticking of the clock was audible from every room in the house.

We don’t own a clock.


Day 2 – Georgia, five years old and our youngest, smiled and handed me a piece of paper. “I drew a picture, Daddy,” she offered with an impish grin. I took it from her to inspect it.

The page was blank.

“Georgia, my little sweet tea, this page is blank,” I explained softly.

Her face grew red. She stamped her feet. “It’s not blank, Daddy, it’s a picture of our family! Put it on the fridge!”

Georgia almost never yells, so this concerned me greatly.

But that paled in comparison to what I felt when I looked down at her and saw that she had no eyes.

I should say, rather, that the whites of her eyes were in place – but nothing more. Her pupils and irises were gone. Only livid, veiny tendrils of red crisscrossed the alabaster surface.

Georgia did not seem to notice they were gone. She grew louder and continued to yell.

I slammed the paper onto the surface of the refrigerator and shakily affixed a magnet to it.

When I looked back at my daughter, her eyes had returned. She was smiling. “Thank you, Daddy!” she chirped, before skipping down the hall.


Day 3 – I had gotten out of bed in the middle of the night for a glass of water. I can’t explain it perfectly, but humans do have a certain amount of echolocation at their disposal. Something about the way our house sounded was off.

I stepped into the darkened living room with the hopes of alleviating my fear. But the discomfort only grew.

I fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on.

The entire room was upside down. All of the furniture was affixed to the ceiling as though it were the most natural state in the world. Lights illuminated the scene before me by shining upward from the ground.

After staring for several seconds, I decided that the best approach was to turn the lights back off. This way, at least, I wouldn’t have to see it.

The rest of the house was (or at least felt) right-side up.

The living room appears normal in the daylight.


Day 4 – The locusts are bad this year. Every garden on the block has wilted except for ours.

We planted tulips, but only snowdrops are growing.

I have to mow the lawn twice a day to keep it from getting overrun.


Day 5 – A box arrived in the mail today. It had my name on it, written in a child’s handwriting. There was no return address.

Inside the box were 1,913 human teeth.


Day 6 – The refrigerator is now completely covered with “drawings” that Georgia has given me.

Every single one of them is blank.


Day 7 – I get up before the rest of the family every day to inspect the house. The interior was fine this morning, though I did avoid the living room light. I no longer look in that room before dawn.

There were footprints outside the door.

The prints formed a long, muddy trail from the street. They appear to come from a man’s shoe.

At least the first ones did.

As the prints got closer to the house, they became gradually elongated. First twelve inches, then thirteen, fourteen, a foot and a half, and finally two feet long.

The last two prints in front of the door were the width of my torso, and as long as I am tall.


Day 7 – I’m typing this on my laptop in bed. My wife has been calling me, softly and patiently, from the living room.

Her voice is coming from the ceiling.

I’m too afraid to go out there.

Tell me father, what happens after the seventh day?

CREDIT: P.F. McGrail

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Click HERE to check out P.F. McGrail’s book, Fifty Shades of Purple:

Fifty Shades of Purple

🔔 More stories from author: P.F. McGrail

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