Cold, fat raindrops splattered against the grey siding of the old house. It had once been white, but decades' worth of dirt had turned it a dull shade of melancholy. The young man stared at it despondently, expecting to see grime sliding off with the trails of water, but soon found that the house was simply in a perpetual state of filth. He was dismayed by the sight before him – the splintering wooden porch, the droopy shingles, the small and cloudy windows. There were rock sculptures scattered around the overgrown yard, shrouded in shadows and crumbling at the edges. They were so old that they were no longer recognizable, but for their eyes, which were as clear and defined as his own. The man shivered, and looked once more towards the mansion before him. It certainly was a mansion, but not quite the one he'd been expecting based on the letter he'd received from his uncle a few months earlier.

The young man's uncle, Harvey, was his only remaining relative, and a distant one at that. The two had never been close – Harvey was a very wealthy man, but had always been overly paranoid and lived in seclusion. When both of the young man's parents mysteriously disappeared early that year, Harvey (his mother's brother) reached out to his nephew for a favour. He wrote to ask the boy to stay at his house for a few days while he was out on personal business, as he was terrified of being robbed, and had no one else to ask. He made sure to describe his home as the epitome of luxury and to promise pay. The young man had eagerly accepted, expecting a relaxing vacation at his rich uncle's estate, but upon seeing the house he realized his error with a sick feeling in his stomach. He would be stuck in this desolate, run-down old house with no form of transportation for days on end. He cursed Harvey for his despicable lie and began to make his way to the front door.

The house stared him down as he dragged his drenched person and belongings onto the porch. As he reached for the doorknob, he noticed with a start that it, too, was shaped like an eye – almost identical to those of the statues in the yard. Unnerved, he entered the residence and proceeded slowly through every room, unable to shake the feeling that it was not as empty as it seemed. To his relief, as the rain subsided so did his intense feeling of dread. Later that evening, he was calm enough to go to sleep in what he assumed was the master bedroom, and rested undisturbed until nearly noon the next day.

When the young man awoke, he was once more plagued by the terrifying sense that he was being watched. He suddenly felt incredibly claustrophobic and jumped up to open the large window beside his bed. He fumbled with the latch, and when he bent down to inspect it, pure horror prickled down his spine. It was yet another eye, intricately carved and much too lifelike, as if it knew something he did not. Desperate to escape the house and the multitude of eyes he was beginning to see everywhere he looked – on the clocks, carved into the bedposts, even in the cracks in the walls – the man decided to take a walk along the countryside to calm his nerves.

Twenty minutes into the walk, the young man stumbled across an old gate. It hung off of its hinges, swaying in the slight breeze. The sign beside it had faded into an indecipherable state, but he thought he could make out the faint outline of an eye. He was too curious to keep himself from entering. As if in a trance, he carefully stepped through the tall grass until he came to a small cemetery with a spattering of gravestones. Noting a swirling of fog along the ground that he hadn't noticed roll in, he bent down to get a closer look at one of the headstones. He made out the letters of a name, one by one. All of a sudden, the young man lurched back violently. He had just read his own father's name.

Convincing himself it was some strange coincidence, the man tried to control his quivering limbs. He leaned back in to read another headstone. This time, he let out a low moan. There was his mother's name, clearly engraved, on the gravestone directly beside the one with his father's. The young man's vision began to waver. He jerked up unsteadily and began to run, only to trip over a root within a few short steps and tumble into what seemed to be a ditch. Night seemed to have fallen in a matter of seconds. He stood up in a panic and stared at the fresh, damp dirt surrounding him on all sides but the top. He was standing in an open grave. Inch by inch, he pulled himself out of the deep hole and found himself face-to-face with its headstone. His terror was tangible. It swam around his face and wrapped itself around his neck. He couldn't breathe. He looked down at the name in front of him. Letter by letter, syllable by syllable, he read his own name out loud and let out a wail. Right beside it was the image of an eye. He could not see, could not breathe, could not move. Everything went black.

When the young man woke up, it felt as if years had passed. His eyes snapped open and he found himself back in his uncle's house, lying in the very bed in which he'd last slept. It was dark – nighttime again. He tensely surveyed the room, straining his ears for the slightest creak of a floorboard or smallest sound of a breath. He had absolutely no recollection of leaving the cemetery on his own; no memory of tucking himself into bed. Suddenly, the man caught a twitch of movement in his peripheral vision. He shot straight up in bed and whipped his head towards the door. There, from the shadows, the hazy figure of a woman materialized. She was terribly skinny; her pale, wispy hair tied back in a knot; her feet bare. She raised her face to him, only to reveal deep, shadowy, empty sockets where her eyes should have been. Even without them, he had no trouble recognizing his mother.

The man scrambled backwards, pressing himself against the wall. His mother's ghost took a step forward and opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound emerged. She shuffled towards an armchair opposite the bed and sat delicately, her joints poking out like knives. She tried to speak once more, and her voice was faint and shrill, but present. “Son,” she whispered. The young man did not move an inch. She drew a ragged breath. “Leave this house. There is no time... no time to waste. Harvey... he is here now. He never left.” She glanced quickly towards the door, then continued, picking up speed. “He's been waiting. He's the one who dragged you back here. He murdered me, and your father, and dozens of others, and soon you too. He's insane; he's convinced that every single one was out to get him. Every eye, every single eye on this property he carved to represent one victim. So many eyes keeping watch, their spirits forever trapped in this forsaken house! Escape now, before he comes for you. I love you...”

With that, the ghost of the young man's mother crumbled to ashes. Her son gasped, and at that very moment the window slammed open. Wind rushed into the room, swirling the ashes around and around. The young man rose to his feet, preparing to run for safety, but he wasn't quick enough. Before he'd taken a single step, a flash of lightning revealed another dark figure in the doorway. This time it was clearly Harvey. There was no doubt in the man's mind. He made a move for the window, but was again too slow. His uncle had him by the arms in an instant and proceeded to tie his wrists and ankles together with alarming speed that indicated a great deal of practice. The young man was sick to his stomach, realizing that he would die at the hands of his Uncle Harvey like his parents before him. Harvey snapped the leg off of a nearby wooden chair and held it over his head. His eyes sparkled with excitement. The young man squeezed his eyes shut and prepared himself for the blow that would, and did, put him under once more.

The next time Harvey's nephew regained consciousness, he awoke to the smell of damp earth and the sound of his uncle cackling like a madman. He was sore all over his body, and he was bound so tightly he could not move a muscle. He became aware of the fact that he was again in the open grave he'd fallen into earlier, and that his uncle held a shovel. His uncle was shovelling dirt into the grave. With every load of dirt, the man became increasingly desperate, writhing and squirming with every ounce of energy he had. It was no use. He struggled even after he could no longer see a thing and even when the weight on top of him felt like more than he could bear. He fought until he drew his last breath, but draw his last breath he did. Harvey packed on the last of the dirt and drew an eye in the soil with a twig, giggling to himself. Finally, he brushed off his hands and strolled home through the rain, whistling as he went.

Amidst the crack of thunder and flash of lighting of one of the worst storms of that year, Jonathan A. Brady was buried alive by his Uncle Harvey. Harvey was never caught – neither man was ever seen again.