My grandfather lived with me.
My parents refused to put him in a retirement home, and after a while, I could see why. He's grumpy, quiet, and worst of all, he doesn't have stories of the olden times. What kind of a grandfather doesn't love talking about the good old days?
No, my grandfather likes to watch me.
His eyes are pools of icy blue- a color popularized to be beautiful, but on him, they're downright terrifying. He has teeth that are yellowing far beyond the norm, and lines around his skin that make his face seem like a mask. He always smelled too. That would be excusable if he had a hobby like gardening or something, but he didn't even have a hobby.
He just liked to watch me.
I noticed it the first few weeks he came to live with us. My parents both work, so they left me alone with him at home. I'd go about my business and eat, sleep, and watch TV, but I felt like someone was always staring at me. By the fifth day, I figured out that the feeling wasn't from my imagination, but that he was causing it.
"Do you... want to watch the news?" I once asked him, hoping to garner a response.
My grandfather never answered.
Every time I opened the fridge, every time I hummed while I washed the dishes, and every time I rewatched my favorite season of anime, my grandfather would sit in the darkness of some other room and watch me. He never talked. He never smiled. He never even looked away.
His eyes were always on me.
It became stranger later on. When I took one of my usual trips to the kitchen at midnight to get a glass of water, I could have sworn I saw those light blue eyes peering at me through the darkness. It was too weird, I recalled. Doesn't the man ever sleep? Why was he so fixated on me?
But as soon as I turned the lights on, I couldn't see him.
Was he ever there?
When I brought friends over from school, he sat on a couch, his eyes never leaving me. Like the grouch he was, he didn't even greet my friends at all, but to my expectations, he stayed focused on me. When I snuck out of the house at three in the morning to go to parties, I felt his cold eyes on me as I made my exit. Strangely enough, he never told my parents what I was doing.
For some reason, all he would do is watch.
I asked myself many times why he was so intent on taking note of my every move with his pupils. Did I offend him? Was he simply judgmental? Why me? Did my parents put him up to this? Why, even at the darkest hour of midnight, was he staring at me?
What did I do?
I tried to bring up the question to my parents, but it didn't go well. My mother yelled at me for being disrespectful, and my father straight up punished me for even asking. They complained about me being insensitive, and threatened to ground me if I kept asking. I had no idea what I did wrong.
And all the while, my grandfather continued to watch me.
Eventually, I got sick of it. One day, I stormed right up to him and demanded to know why his eyes would never leave me. I yelled that this gaze felt like dead weights around my ankles, like I'd been cuffed to some invisible force. I insisted that the least he could do was to just talk to me if he felt like he was being left out of the family.
But after that heated monologue, he merely laughed at me.
Then, he fell silent.
And so, to my agitation, life resumed as "normal" as it could be. Eating, sleeping, cooking, chores, and doing homework while knowing full well that he was sitting down on a couch somewhere, keeping track of my every move. As time went on, those blue eyes of his became even icier, and I could almost feel a cold chill up my spine whenever I knew he was lurking. It was as if his stare had physical effects on me.
It was impossible, I assured myself. He was just a crazy old man, but the longer I stayed with him, the more I went paranoid.
I had to put a stop to this.
One day, I threw all caution into the wind and brought the topic up with my parents, asking them why my grandfather was so quiet all the time, and why he had a penchant for just sitting and staring at me. I told them that it didn't even happen to anyone else- just me. They got mad as usual, but I refused to give up. I badgered them until I broke them down.
My mother was the first to take pity.
"Sweetheart," she told me, ruffling my hair, "I think you need to get some mental help. I know a good therapist for kids your age."
I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, and I made that very clear to her.
"I'm not crazy, I'm just disturbed by the fact that he keeps staring at me all the time," I complained. "Can't you do something about him? It's so creepy!"
My father shook his head. "I agree with your mother. You need someone to help you with your delusions. I don't mean that in a harsh way, but you're my son and I don't want you to suffer."
It was as if my grandfather had cast a spell over them.
"Why?" I asked. "Haven't you noticed how strange he's been acting? It's freaking me out!"
"Your grandfather was a strange man, yes," my mother agreed, already picking up a phone book. "But that was... before he died."
My heart lurched. "Wh-when did he die? Last night?"
"No," my father denied. "He died just before we brought him here a few moths ago. We took custody of his corpse until the funeral director could make plans to bury him."
Out of the corner of my eye, for the first time, I saw my grandfather grin.
