Scopaesthesia
there is no face in the window.
asylum.
a·sy·lum
/əˈsīləm/
noun
1. the protection granted by a nation to someone who has left their native country as a political refugee.
shelter or protection from danger.
2. an institution offering shelter and support to people who are mentally ill.
how confidently i announced
that ghosts were nothing more
than figments
of an imaginative (or perhaps deluded)
mind.
$2,000. help wanted.
i thought,
what the hell? why not?
the cameraman never dies.
it never crossed my mind
that the cameraman
could suffer a fate worse than death.
there is no face in the window.
they even provided me a camera;
some fancy gadget
they ordered off of amazon
that claimed to be able to record
the paranormal.
it was heavy. i figured if a ghost came at me,
i'd go down swinging 300 dollars
worth of equipment at their dead face.
we saw nothing.
honestly, as much of a skeptic as i was,
i've always hoped something
(or someone)
would prove me wrong.
as we walked through the hallways,
grainy, dim-lit footage marking our path,
i found myself hoping:
show me something, anything.
we marched along for hours,
with a kid four years younger than me
narrating the scene.
"12:34 p.m., eastern standard time...
no signs of any activity yet. my name is
kevin schumer, i'm here with my crew
and tonight we are joined by..."
he pauses.
"the cameraman," I finish,
which prompts a few uneasy giggles.
yep, that's me,
the eternal watcher.
i see and i record
for posterity.
there is no face in the window.
we were there until four a.m.
our eyelids had grown heavy.
our livestream had exactly one viewer.
perhaps that was why
i felt like i was being watched.
nothing had happened. no doors
had slammed, no windows broken.
we were alone.
yet i could not shake the feeling...
there is no face in the window.
i drove myself home.
headlights lit up the parking lot.
yellow lines. black asphalt.
then darkness again
as i made my way up
three flights of stairs
to my apartment.
my lights refused to turn on.
a power outage? or had my power
been cut?
i did not know. i was too tired to care.
tomorrow, my check would hit
my account
and then i could solve the problem
of late rent.
i laid down,
in nothing but boxer shorts,
awaiting the release of sleep,
and found that
i could not hold my eyes shut.
a feeling was sinking into my spine
like a numbing injection
and i found myself tingling with
some unseen awareness.
i was being watched.
there is no face in the window.
it has been
three weeks
since i had looked outside
that night
to reassure myself
that i was alone.
there is no face in the window.
yet the feeling did not leave.
it only grew.
more and more, i believed
i was hunted. haunted.
there is no face in the window.
each night i check the door,
the closet, the bed, the window—
wait, the window—
tonight,
(one last desperate cry,
the moment before the mind
shatters)
THERE IS NO FACE IN THE WINDOW.
it has followed me home.
now i will follow it home.
to my sanctuary.
to my asylum.
i am the face in the window.
you will feel me watching,
just as i felt it.
when you look outside tonight,
do not trust your eyes. trust
your instincts.
there is a face in the window.