The Eyeless

Trigger warning: Mention of depression and suicide.

It was the annual Viking News Christmas party, and the newsroom hummed with the kind of festive cheer that only came once a year. Fluorescent lights reflected off garlands of tinsel, paper snowflakes hung askew from the ceiling, and “All I Want for Christmas Is You” blasted from a single, slightly battered Bluetooth speaker near the conference room. Beneath the mistletoe, sports reporter Danny Van Hoosier had been sneakily trying to engineer a kiss, much to the chagrin of gossip columnist Katherine Evangelista, who had expertly ducked him all evening. 

Editor-in-chief Patrick McKean, nicknamed “Perry White” for his gruff demeanor and tireless dedication to journalism, surveyed the room from his usual perch near the coffee pot. He nodded approvingly at the spread—Michael Simmons, their human-interest writer and unofficial party planner, had gone all out this year. Cookies, punch, and little sausage rolls were piled on mismatched platters; the centerpiece, a lopsided Christmas tree, stood decorated with ornaments lovingly contributed by the staff over the years. 

What wasn’t as familiar was the unfamiliar face in the corner.

The woman sat on the edge of a chair, barely visible behind a cluster of staff exchanging Secret Santa gifts. She was Korean-American, with sleek black hair framing her face and startlingly warm brown eyes that seemed to drink in the room as if she were memorizing every detail. Dressed in a modest winter coat and a red scarf, she held a glass of punch in one hand but didn’t sip from it. 

Sam Ihle, crime reporter extraordinaire (and a man not particularly skilled at minding his own business), elbowed Jodie Williams, seated next to him. “Who’s that?” he asked in a low whisper. 

Jodie, wearing a sleek black dress with a pearl necklace reminiscent of her Audrey Hepburn fixation, gave the woman a sideways glance. “I thought you knew. You’re supposed to be the guy with the sources.”

Sam shook his head. “Never seen her before.”

By now, others had noticed her, too. Danny nudged Michael, who had been explaining the origin story of his famous eggnog recipe, and pointed her out. “New hire?” 

Michael, a consummate gossip hound even off-duty, frowned. “No one told me we had one.”

Patrick McKean overheard the exchange and frowned deeply. “I haven’t hired anyone,” he muttered, stroking his chin. His words rippled through the room, their weight taking hold. 

“If you don’t know who she is…” Jodie’s voice trailed off, her professional curiosity fully piqued. 

The woman didn’t seem fazed by the growing attention. If anything, she appeared detached, as though watching a movie unfold instead of existing in it. Whenever someone approached, she offered a polite smile but no details about who she was or why she was there. 

Sam finally took it upon himself to find out. Nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he walked over, introducing himself with his signature awkward charm. “Hi, I’m Sam Ihle—crime reporter. Haven’t seen you around here before. Are you…uh, new?” 

The woman studied him for a long moment, her smile faint and enigmatic. “No,” she said quietly. “Not new.”

Sam blinked. The answer was both simple and maddeningly vague. 

“Well…welcome to Viking News. Everyone here calls me Clark Kent,” he added, trying to lighten the mood. 

To his surprise, the woman gave the smallest chuckle. It wasn’t mirthful so much as resigned, like someone hearing a tired but endearing joke. 

“You do look the part,” she said at last. And that was all. 

When Sam rejoined Jodie, Danny, and Michael, all of them gave him the same questioning look. 

“Nothing,” he admitted, exasperated. “Said she’s not new but didn’t elaborate.”

The hours ticked by, and the mystery grew. When Katherine tried to introduce herself, the woman excused herself quickly, stepping momentarily into the hallway before slipping back in. When Julio Vasquez, the cartoonist, attempted a handshake, she hesitated before accepting, her gloved hand almost too cold to be real. 

“She’s gotta be an artist,” Danny suggested. “Photographers and artists always have that air about them.” 

“That’s insulting,” Julio replied, mock-offended. 

Pat remained uneasy. He prided himself on knowing everything about his staff; every byline was like one of his kids, and this woman was an interloper in his family. If she had crashed the party, she must’ve had a motive, right? Or maybe…maybe she was someone who had worked there decades ago, dropping in unannounced for old times’ sake?

It was Michael who finally cornered her, casually sidling up with his third glass of eggnog. The room had thinned out slightly, a handful of people bidding early goodbyes as the party wound down. 

“You know,” he began, offering a warm smile, “I’ve been playing host all night, but somehow I’ve failed you, haven’t I? No one’s properly introduced us. I’m Michael Simmons.”

She turned toward him, her brown eyes locking on his face. This close, Michael saw something he hadn’t noticed before: an indescribable sadness buried beneath her calm exterior, like a shadow hidden under winter’s first snow. 

“I’m Jenna,” she said, her voice as light as frost. “Jenna Kim.”

Michael’s smile faltered. The name struck a chord deep in his memory. The Eyeless.

“You worked here once,” he said, though it wasn’t quite a question. 

Jenna inclined her head. “A long time ago.” 

Michael searched his mind. His predecessor, Ed Fisher, had loved to tell Viking News lore, and the urban legends had come as freely as newsroom gossip. That name…Jenna Kim. 

“You—” The words caught in his throat. “You were…” 

“An intern,” she supplied, tilting her head slightly. She gestured toward the far wall where a door stood half-hidden behind the Christmas decorations. 

The darkroom.

Suddenly Michael’s chest felt tight, the room colder than it should have been with the radiator humming loudly. Everyone at Viking News knew the story. In 1981, a young photographer named Jenna Kim had worked the darkroom late into the night. One evening, an accident had occurred—some said she’d been careless, others blamed faulty shelving. A jug of developing fluid spilled, splashing directly into her eyes. 

Her injury blinded her permanently, stealing the promising future she’d imagined for herself. Several weeks later, she took her life in despair. 

Michael froze, the pieces snapping into place with a clarity that made his blood run cold. He looked toward Pat, who was now fussing with the coffee machine in blissful ignorance of what was happening. Around them, laughter and conversation swirled as Jodie showed off her latest Audrey Hepburn impression, yet all of it seemed muted. 

“You’re—” He tried to take a step back, but it was as though the air itself were pressing against him. 

She turned to him fully now, brown eyes gleaming in a way that no living person’s eyes should. “I’m still here,” she said softly, almost apologetically. 

And then she simply wasn’t. 

Michael staggered, his eggnog splashing to the floor. The buzz of the room came rushing back all at once, conversations overlapping in cheerful oblivion. He looked around, panicked, scanning every corner of the room. 

“Where’d she go?” Sam asked, leaning against Jodie and munching a candy cane. 

Michael barely processed the question. He moved toward the darkroom door, hand trembling as he gripped the doorknob. 

When he pushed it open, the tiny room yawned with shadows and dust, untouched except for a faint, unplaceable scent of chemicals. Against one wall sat the old wooden counter, its surface scarred from decades of use, and above it, the cabinets where they still stored outdated supplies that should have been cleared out years ago. 

Atop the counter was something new: a single photograph, black and white, perfectly exposed. Michael reached for it cautiously, lifting it into the fluorescent light spilling in from the hallway. 

The picture showed the newsroom bathed in warm holiday glow—the same party they were having. There was Jodie at her desk, Sam gesticulating wildly in conversation, Patrick gruffly observing, and Michael himself holding a glass of eggnog. 

In the corner, as crisp and clear as anything, stood Jenna Kim, smiling faintly, hollow, black sockets where her eyes were supposed to be, fixed squarely on the camera.