The Eyes of Monsters

The fire burns down.
Burns out.


The embers remind her of teeth. Of claws. Of monsters.


Every glowing coal is the black heart of one of those creatures of the night. Those creatures that devour the children who wander into darkness. Those creatures that all other creatures are afraid of.


The world is so cruel to have such tokens of fear be birthed by such a beacon of safety. The shelter of the flames’ righteous anger is always followed by the cold indifference of night. And the coals. And the embers. The eyes of monsters.


So many things can happen in the night. Have happened in the night. Men die in the night who would not have died in the morning. Women cry for their lost children who wandered into darkness. Children, like herself, have sat by dying fires and watched those coals, those glowing eyes until they faded into the morning. The eyes of monsters are tricky and do not blink. They have no pupils, no eyelids. To match their stare is to forfeit sleep, for where there are eyes, there must be a face, and where there is a face, there are teeth. Children, like herself, have sat by dying fires and lost their game with the creatures of the night.
But not her.


And as the warmth of the sun warms her face the way the fire did the night before, her own eyes glow. In them, heavy and haggard, is triumph. It gives her strength. It gives her hope. In the morning, the eyes of monsters hold no sway. There is no longer a face, no longer any teeth. Instead, there are charcoal rocks that crumble under her foot. The dust that remains is the dust of dreams and nightmares. She carefully gathers it up in her hands. It feels lighter than sand, and not so coarse. The slightest breath of air blows it beyond her reach, into the sky, the distant trees. She must dispose of it properly.


The eyes of monsters taste like sand, though not so coarse. Her every breath attempts to blow it beyond her reach, into the ground. Her tongue shrivels, her throat tightens. If she had eaten anything beforehand, this would not be possible: the eyes of monsters are tricky and will force the body to reject them. Instead, she coughs, she heaves, and it feels as if she will die. She has done this enough times. The thought of death no longer scares her.


This ritual takes no more than a few minutes and when she wipes her lips clean of the saliva that has accumulated, her sleeve only makes them dirtier. There is still triumph in her eyes. Satisfied, or as close to satisfied as she can be, she directs them to the sun. To the east.






Her footprints are nearly invisible, even to the man. Nothing remains of her fire but a disturbed patch of ground. The sun has long since set, and he knows that she has stopped. He can wait. He knows that, eventually, he will crest a hill, and he will see the tell-tale glow of a fire in the distance. Then, the crackling sound of wood and flames. Then the heat. Then the girl. He can wait. Until then, however, he sits, and rests, and keeps his eyes on the tracks, the horizon. His eyes look for her. The eyes of a monster.