A Glance At Midnight

The Eyejacker.

That's what the newspapers called him. It felt like every bad super-hero story. Like some cigar-chomping tool at the local Tribune slapped on a random name he pulled out of his ass.

Picturing an editor trying to come up with a catchy name for my sister's killer gives me a rage headache. I now know how every victim feels when they see the media lifting a criminal to celebrity status. I didn't understand that line of reasoning before.

So, basically, I'm writing this now as a sort of counter against that mindset.

When I arrived at my sister's house that night, I expected nothing other than to console her over the loss of our mother. Mom had passed away a couple weeks prior, and, being all but a shut-in, sis had no one else to talk to when a bout of depression hit.

I had brought a bottle of wine. I don't remember what kind. Getting drunk and watching old home videos seemed work in the past. There's only so much you can grieve before your body shuts down from exhaustion, and there was really nothing I knew how to do other than helping that point arrive a bit sooner.

I rang the doorbell two or three times. No answer. Now, she had never tried to take her life in the past, but given the situation, the possibility was on my mind. I didn't think it was likely enough to immediately call 911 on the spot, but it was just possible enough to send me into a small panic.

I checked the back door and the windows. Just like the front door, they were all locked tight. The house had belonged to out parents, and I had spent a few nights trying to figure out how to sneak back in after a night of teenage debauchery. A quick shimmy up some lattice work, and I was able to try the second story.

The bathroom window was wide open.

It was a cold night. It was November.

I didn't feel the chill of the night until I saw that open window and the curtains fluttering inside. Then, all at once, the icy wind and crisp bite of the air hit me like an injection of ice water in my veins.

Climbing in, I noticed dirty, black boot prints on the otherwise spotless bathroom tile. Work boots. Men's boots. Size thirteen or more.

I called the police immediately and was told to stay in the bathroom until the authorities arrived. The dispatcher was very insistent, cutting through my random, dumbfounded gibberish with that same clear message. Over and over again.

I made my way through the dark upstairs hallway, having traded my phone for a glimmering pair of scissors from the bathroom counter.

I didn't know whether to call out or stay quiet. The debate raged back and forth in my brain. If I called out, maybe I would be told everything was actually alright. Maybe sis had finally met the girl of her dreams online. A very large woman with very large feet, who worked a hard job and tracked it in the house with her. That didn't explain why she would've come in through the window, so it seemed implausible.

It was just as likely to think that if I called out, whoever had broken into the house would kill my sister, my only surviving family member… my only true friend, really… before fleeing into the night.

Maybe calling out would scare him away and save her.

I couldn't sort it out in my head, and in the end, staying silent and trying to assess the situation won out by default.

By the time I reached her bedroom, I knew in my heart that she was already dead. I can't explain it. It's not one of those strange sibling things where twins feel each other's pain or whatever. It was just the overall stillness of the house. The silence, the lack of a running television or radio despite all the lights being on.

I knew, absolutely knew, that even if my sister was in the house, she wasn't home.

The pent-up dread in my heart gave life to a burst of adrenaline as I all but kicked open her bedroom door. The clatter and slam surprised me - almost as much as it surprised the man crouched over my sister's bed.

He was dressed in black sweat clothes. Black gloves made somehow darker by the dampness of blood. He wore a blue ski mask, its eye holes stained with what looked like rivulets of black mascara. The goo seemed infected. Thick, like tar.

He looked up at me with surprise. It was a feeling we shared. My eyes met his, but only for a brief moment before I looked down at my sister's body.

She was laid out almost peacefully. Her white nightgown, now marred with red hand prints, made her look like a sacrificial virgin on some ancient pedestal.

He made a break for the window. It wasn't open, it was locked, so I assume he probably would've dove head-first through the glass. I closed the distance quickly. While he had struggled with my sister, probably chased her through the house, then exerted the effort of murdering her… I was fresh. Ready. I had only just began feeling the fight-or-flight rush of terror and hateful exhilaration.

I caught the man at the edge of the windowsill. Pressing him against a dresser, I buried the shears at the middle of his shoulder blades, then several times between his ribs. I had a brief flash of reading a news story about a skateboarder who accidentally severed his spine at the neck, and never walked again. I started jabbing the killer there.

He never screamed, cried, or cursed at me. It could be that I just knocked the wind out of him… but he never so much as grunted or groaned. He just scrambled against the wall, against the furniture, as I stayed on top of him like a sadistic rider.

The police found it all very interesting. I could tell they were amused at times when I was explaining the course of events. It made me hate them almost as much as the man I had killed. It made me want to throw up.

Verbally, they chided me for risking my life and taking matters into my own hands. Behind that, I could see a strange sort of admiration. Maybe I was mistaken, but I felt like they wished more criminals suffered the fate I had dealt.

I sat in a squad car as they went upstairs and attempted to sort things out. It was then that I had the opportunity to come down off of my unwanted high of blood lust. I had to breathe harder. I had to cry. I had to use the bathroom. Every human need and emotion came knocking, taking its place back from that icy chill that filled me earlier.

It wasn't until that moment that I realized… before the police told me, and way before I read it in the paper.

The killer's eyes.. when my gaze locked with his for that brief moment. Shimmering green. Flecks of gold. Beautiful, innocent, yet sadly wary of the world.

They were my sister's eyes.

So yeah.

I think you can see why I don't appreciate the media buzz around her death. I didn't like when photos of her body were leaked. It doesn't matter if they put a black bar where here eyes had been. It doesn't matter how many times they call her "sleeping beauty" or "the sad sacrifice" or any of that. It's an insult to her dignity no matter how you present it.

I report every single "True Murder Case" video I see that talks about her. I'll keep doing it, too. Please keep crying about how you're making a living off of the grief of others, and now it's being taken away. It's one of the few times I smile, anymore.

Giving a murderer a portmanteau for a name in lieu of an actual identity does nothing more than project him to some kind of sick, stupid "urban legend" status. I don't know who he was, either. I don't know how he did what he did, and I don't know if he could really see me through his stolen eyes, or if he was just following the sound of the door flying open.

The difference between me and them is that I don't make up bullshit explanations.

My sister was a human being. She liked to play online games, and she would pretend to be a guy to avoid having to turn down advances. Her first kiss was with the most popular girl in middle school, and I gave her flack because I felt like she 'stole' my chance. My sister would sew pin cushions in the shape of small animals, despite the fact she didn't need them and wouldn't sell them. She wouldn't eat pizza, no matter how incensed everyone around her would become.

She was a real person.

She matters so much more than some random, unoriginal coward who hides behind a mask and preys on people more interesting than himself.

As I mentioned, I wanted to write this out to explain exactly how I feel.

If you'll excuse me, now, I have to go make my weekly anonymous threat to the newspaper. I know it's petty and dumb, but it lets me feel less helpless in an otherwise bleak and lonely situation.

Hey. Maybe some day they'll come up with an asinine name for me.


  • This story is inspired by, but not based on, the popular creepypasta "Eyeless Jack".
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