The Eyes That Never Close

The haunting began the night Magda’s father died in a derelict hospital overlooking the fog-draped coast of Whitby. It was early October, and the biting winds off the North Sea swept through the town with an unnatural chill. Magda sat beside his bed as he took his last rattling breath, her hand cold in his weakening grip.

“He’s coming,” her father whispered, his sunken eyes wide with terror.

“Who, Papa?” she asked, leaning in to catch his final words.

“He’s… watching. He never leaves,” he murmured, his gaze flickering to the darkened window as if expecting to see something there.

The doctor’s assistant, a portly woman with kind eyes, touched Magda’s shoulder. “He’s delirious, dear. The fever’s taken him.”

But Magda couldn’t shake her father’s final, fearful look. That night, alone in their small flat by the cliffs, she could almost feel a presence pressing in, waiting in the shadows that pooled in every corner. It was an ancient, oppressive weight, a darkness that felt alive.

The next evening, Magda climbed the path to the lighthouse, taking her father’s old post. It was a lonely, thankless task, watching over the cliffs as the waves below clawed at the shore. She worked in silence, adjusting the beacon and cleaning the lens, her fingers numb from the cold. She tried not to think of the creeping dread that had begun to nestle in her chest, a feeling she couldn’t explain.

But as she descended the spiral staircase, she felt it: a prickling sensation at the back of her neck, as if someone was watching her. She spun around, expecting to find herself alone. Yet the shadows seemed thicker, clinging to the edges of the staircase, just out of reach of the lantern’s light. She heard the faintest whisper—her name, barely a murmur against the howl of the wind.

“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice small and uncertain. The sound died, swallowed by the cold walls. Her question met only silence. 

That night, sleep did not come easily. She lay awake, her heart pounding, hearing faint creaks from the floorboards outside her door, as if someone were pacing. But whenever she gathered the courage to check, she found nothing but shadows and the dim outlines of the furniture.

The days blurred together, each one darker than the last. She noticed a change in the townsfolk, their wary glances and tight-lipped murmurs when she passed. Word had spread of her father’s last words. There were whispers that he’d been haunted—claimed by something ancient and evil, something that roamed the cliffs in fog and shadow.

She tried to shake it off as superstition, but the feeling of being watched persisted. Sometimes, on her way back from the lighthouse, she would sense something just out of view—a figure, perhaps, lurking in the mist that drifted over the cliffs like ghostly fingers. Every time she turned to catch it, there was only emptiness, but the sense of a presence lingered, a shape half-formed, always out of reach.

One night, she noticed something strange. The garlic she’d hung by her door had withered and turned brown, and the mirrors in the flat had all cracked, fine lines spider-webbing across the glass. The crucifix she’d clutched each night had grown cold, as if drained of warmth. And always, always, she felt that same gaze upon her, an intensity that left her cold.

That evening, as she climbed to the top of the lighthouse, a fog rolled in from the sea, thick and suffocating. The beacon’s light cut through it, casting ghostly shapes on the water. She scanned the shore, feeling the weight of unseen eyes watching her every movement. For the first time, she thought she glimpsed something—a shadow darting just beyond the reach of the light, its form barely distinguishable from the night.

“Show yourself!” she cried, her voice echoing against the cliffs. But only the waves answered, crashing violently against the rocks below.

As she turned back toward the stairs, a low, whispering voice drifted through the thick air, barely audible but unmistakably calling her name.

“Magda…”

She froze, her hand clenching around the railing. The voice was low, mocking, carrying a hint of amusement that sent a shiver down her spine. It was close, too close, but no matter how she strained her eyes, she could see nothing in the darkness but the swirling mist.

“Who are you?” she whispered, feeling the weight of the question settle into her bones.

Silence again. And then, just as she began to descend the stairs, she felt a rush of cold air at her back. She turned, but the staircase behind her was empty, shadowed, and silent.

Days passed, each one darker than the last. The fog seemed to linger constantly, a pale curtain draped over the town. Even the locals began avoiding her, as if the shadows that followed her might somehow taint them, too. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave Whitby, to abandon the lighthouse. Her father had given his life to this place; how could she turn her back on it now?

The nightly visits continued. She would lie in bed, listening as footsteps creaked outside her door, feeling the weight of eyes she could not see. She grew exhausted, drained from the lack of sleep and the strain of constant vigilance. But worse than the fear was the curiosity—a dark, treacherous part of her that wanted to understand this presence, to learn its name.

Then, one night, as she returned from the lighthouse, she felt it again—a presence so heavy it seemed to press down on her like a physical weight. She froze, her heart pounding, feeling the suffocating closeness of it. And this time, she knew she was not alone.

In the dim glow of the lighthouse, she saw something moving in the fog, just beyond the edge of her vision—a tall, dark shape, blurred and insubstantial. It shifted, dissolving into shadows and mist, but its gaze bore into her, filling her with a chilling certainty that she would never truly be alone again.

Trembling, she backed away, clutching her crucifix. She reached the safety of the lighthouse, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking as she bolted the door. She whispered prayers, clutching her father’s crucifix so tightly it left an imprint on her skin. But the feeling of that gaze—relentless, unyielding—remained, seeping into her thoughts like poison.

The next night, she lay in bed, exhausted yet unable to sleep. She stared into the darkness, her thoughts clouded with fear and exhaustion. And then, just as her eyes grew heavy, she heard it—the sound of something shifting at the foot of her bed. Her breath hitched, and she lay paralyzed, feeling a cold dread settle over her as the presence drew nearer, its shadow casting darkness even in the dim moonlight.

“Magda…” It was a whisper, faint as a breath. She felt her blood run cold.

Her fingers tightened around the crucifix. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for morning, hoping this nightmare would pass. But the voice continued, low and insistent, like a song that wove itself into her mind.

“You cannot hide from me, Magda.”

The words slithered into her thoughts, coiling around her will like a serpent. She tried to fight, to keep her thoughts her own, but she felt herself weakening, her resistance slipping like sand through her fingers. For the first time, she was beginning to understand: this was not merely a haunting. This was a siege on her very soul, a slow erosion of her spirit.

With the last of her strength, she forced herself out of bed and stumbled to the window. In the pale dawn light, the fog lifted slightly, revealing the cliffs and the angry, roiling sea below. She gripped the windowsill, the cool air brushing against her feverish skin. She could almost feel his eyes on her, watching, waiting.

“Leave me alone!” she shouted into the morning mist. But the silence that followed seemed to mock her, a void that pressed in on all sides.

The day passed in a daze. She kept glancing at the shadows, half-expecting to see him—some shape lurking just out of sight, waiting for her to let her guard down. As evening approached, she knew she couldn’t face another night alone in her room, listening to the creak of unseen footsteps. Desperate, she took a lamp and climbed the path to the abbey ruins, hoping the ancient stones might offer her some sanctuary.

She wandered the ruins, clutching the lamp as dusk settled around her. Shadows stretched long and thin across the broken stone, and the fog drifted in, thickening as if alive. She felt his presence, stronger than ever, and her heart raced with both fear and an inexplicable pull to go deeper, to uncover what lay beyond the veil of shadow.

And then she saw it: a dark figure, barely visible in the fog, standing just at the edge of her vision. She felt his gaze upon her, more real and intense than before, as though he was finally revealing himself—but still, he remained just out of sight, his form dissolving if she tried to look directly at him.

“Why are you here?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The silence stretched, thick as the mist. And then, just as she began to turn away, the voice echoed once more, low and mocking.

“You invited me in.”

She staggered back, a memory stirring—a fleeting touch, a whispered word in the night.

 She remembered feeling a shadow in the room, almost reaching out to it, a small part of her drawn to its darkness. Her own curiosity, her need to understand the one who haunted her, had been enough. She had unknowingly accepted him into her life, into her thoughts.

“Leave,” she whispered, clutching her crucifix. But she knew it was too late. She could feel the darkness closing in, wrapping around her mind, his voice embedding itself deeper with each breath.

In the fog, she saw his eyes—two pinpoints of red, glowing faintly before fading into shadow. She knew she would never escape him. Dracula was a shadow that lived not only in the night, but in the cracks of her soul, forever lingering in the places she could not see.

The haunting had only just begun.