THE EYES He stood so still . . . frozen by an intense emotion that, compounded with the frigid air, coursed through his body, and locked his joints. Fear, like a bitter chill, has a way of numbing your mind along with your spirits and senses, and makes the object of your fear seem so monstrous, like a monument to something so ostensibly infallible. The wind persistently lashed across his body, beating his skin into a pale submission until it burned and kindled as the fire in his gut. Fear. It permeates every fiber of the body and assumes absolute control over every function. To a child, emotion is everything, and he was no different in that respect. He drove his hands deeper into his pockets, as if the tension would somehow cease the tremors that convulsed through his limbs. His breaths became short, rapid . . . and yet still coiled slowly out into the ebony that hung overhead as they escaped his nostrils. The coils released themselves, stretching across such a vast expanse of emptiness, though still muddled with luminous points of unearthly brilliance.      Without being aware of doing so, he had resumed walking the pattern of bricks and loose gravel that disparately lined the sidewalk that paralleled the street. He was so young, and so easily influenced. Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled past his eyes. It was one of those cold sweats, the kind that make you wonder how they started on such a cold night, as you suddenly become aware of that clammy dampness in your palms. His friends had coerced him into going, but it hadn't required much coercion, because he was too proud to stay home. Turning the final street corner seemed so dark, and the imposter ghouls and goblins seemed to disappear, taking their scavenge for sugar elsewhere. Those last steps before that house were so long and so arduous, and each gust of wind seemed to carry away some of his balance. It was so austere, so intimidating . . . the epitome of fear. Visions of Norman Bates danced between his ears as he stared, transfixed by the awesome sight, absolutely intimidated.      Yes, it was a house, but the fear that engulfed its image made it so much more. He could almost hear those deep guttural noises winding through the empty halls. Death had made its presence known. A dead man had lived there, or rather still lived there, after so brutally dying there. The friends never could trace the tale back to its origin, but they knew it was true. Murder. It's one of those ominous words that holds meaning only for those that have experienced it, or at least think they have. A good storyteller could have put his listener into that house during that murder, and made him feel as if he truly understood the horror. That is exactly what one of his friend's fathers so eruditely did about a year before. Through his words, the kids could see that man, skin stretched tightly over his protruding skeleton, marred by sweat and blood, and the indescribable horror reflected in his eyes as his heart wept its sanguine tears for the last time. The kids could almost taste the thickness of the iron as it passed through their nostrils and down their throats, and feel the crimson warmth on their fingers. But it was the eyes. Those eyes were the connection to some shred of humanity, to the soul beneath the haggard skin and manifest bones. The eyes made the horror real, and they made that inauspicious word so tangible. They could show or conceal the true murderer with perfect discretion. Made evident was the shock of brutal murder, and the numbing realization that real life could produce such horror. That father was obviously trying his hardest to make sure his kid didn't turn out gay, but it was his story though, that first struck fear into the children's hearts, inducing their endeavor. Even more real than the story would be the feel of the soft wood floor planks creaking beneath the weight of their trembling bodies, as they searched for their own truth.      Joining the small gathering of about three boys in front of the house, the physical manifestations of his fear concealed themselves, as not to embarrass him. Not one of the boys dared break the arcane silence, until he himself built up the courage to speak.      "Well? Um, are we goin' in . . . or not?" Raising the pitch of those last words, it came across as a meek plea. That plea though, was understood as a personal challenge by the rest of the boys, because if he thought he was better than they were, braver, well he was wrong. Their nervous tension was beginning to impair their perception, and their judgement became more and more clouded. It's like one of those fogs that drops like a curtain over the cornea, and are almost undetectable until they have completely clouded all mental capabilities.      "Of course we're goin'!" This boy spoke with strong conviction, betraying his humble emotions. He was no coward. They all better know that. Still, not one of them took the initial step.      "So, then go!" he yelled ardently. "You're not scared. Are ya?" Now this was meant as a personal challenge, and not only that, but a challenge on the highest level. He had questioned the boy's manhood. Now any perceptive third grader would have responded with the equivalently challenging retort, "No! Are you?" Unfortunately, this boy was the brutish type, whose intellectual faculties would never blossom at the rapid rate of his testosterone levels, and he was stumped. Then the perfect response dawned on him.      "I ain't afraid! It's just a stupid house." What a save. That's right because now they all knew he was a man, dauntless. And exactly at that moment he was hit squarely with the realization that he had, in effect, offered to go into the house first, and forced to tender his services to preserve his unwell salvaged reputation.      "Then goŠ" And the boy did go, slowly. He stumbled along the decayed concrete that writhed through the matted plot of grass, before halting at the base of some stairs that became more contorted and rotten with every gust of wind. That grass, caked with mud and tears, was a hallowed ground of lush green feeding off desiccated brown. It was a habitat for such implausible, immoral life, yet still it lived, as a sort of juncture. The boy ascended those steps with all of the confidence he could fathom, feeling the grasp of death so firmly on his shoulders. It was no longer a choice to keep moving. With every step, his confidence wavered and that knot rose in his throat, choking him. He paused before the doorway, and the others mirrored him some fifteen yards behind, mouths agape in the face of such wonderful terror. The doorframe forebodingly swayed and creaked, but simultaneously called the boy to proceed. Inside, the ancient white walls shone through the blackness, the plaster acquiescing to almost one hundred years of abuse, and more recently, neglect. It was no longer a home because a home is defined by the life it fosters, and without that life it lacked that human connection, and became a horror itself.      "So? What's in there?" he called from the impregnable safety of his friends, partially afraid of the answer and partially wishing that he had been the one to enter first. Glory. That's what it was all about. He craved it Š the feeling that he was better and braver than anyone else. Maybe the boy would run screaming from the house, and then he could triumphantly attain his gory. He already knew he was superior, and that glory was rightfully his. Even so, he questioned himself: would he climb those steps, or would he match the fleeing boy step for step? Deep down he knew. As he pondered his personal shortcomings, he failed to notice that the boy never responded, but then he remembered. Only silence. Inscrutable silence. Deafening Š It made him wonder if he had ever known what it was to hear, because in the foreign silence his mind misplaced the experience. In the midst of his struggle to remember came a scream, and his ears were born anew so beautifully sensitive. The wind resumed thrashing through the lifeless leaves that somehow still gripped the trees, creating an execrable harmony with the pitch of the unnatural, bestial release of pure human emotion. Again there was silence. Then came a voice, reborn with confidence and understanding it had never known.      "I can see him Š" It was calm, collected, and stated with a whisper-like quality that floated across the sky on a breath of cool air. It reached him. He had never run so fast before, and if it wasn't for the sound of his feet clamoring the steps, one would have assumed that the was running home, but he wasn't. His footprints gauged the soft wood as he pounded across the porch, murdering the plank that could no longer endure the weight of abuse. Wood splintered as he crashed through the doorway, showing no regard for the damage he created. Abuse. Neglect. It was all the same. He only wanted to see him. He pounded across the floor, and the walls began to quiver and break. He wanted to reach his hand through the misty current of forgotten flesh, to know that it was real. The plaster crashed from the walls onto the once lavishly treated oak under his feet, as he ran to the point where the boy stood Š so still. The house frame protruded as its substance began to wither, weeping its own tears. He finally reached the boy, and as he watched the house disintegrate around him, he looked into the boy's eyes. He was searching for an answer. The boy, lips quivering with a bluish hue, pupils acutely fixed, was in shock. Then those lips moved, shaping the image with his words.      "I can see the eyes..."
Brian Matthews
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