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I had never been one to believe in things I couldn't see with my own eyes. So when I first heard the story of the Black Eyed Children—children with pitch-black eyes who appear out of nowhere, often at night, asking for help—I brushed it off as nothing more than superstition. After all, no one in their right mind would open the door to a child they didn't know at that time of night.
But the thing is, I wasn't prepared for what happened to me.
I'd been traveling through the remote regions of Russia, visiting friends in a small village near the Ural Mountains. The air was fresh, the nights were quiet, and the surroundings were peaceful—so much so that it was easy to forget how isolated the place really was. This wasn't the city; this was the kind of village where you could go days without seeing another soul.
I had been staying in an old guest house at the edge of the forest. The owner, an elderly woman named Yelena, was kind enough to prepare meals and give me advice on local customs. Her house was warm, full of the smell of fresh bread, and the sound of crackling wood in the stove.
That night, I found myself on the porch, staring out into the dense forest. The moonlight bathed everything in a strange glow, and the woods, with their shadows and whispers, seemed alive. I tried to ignore the unsettling feeling that crawled up my spine and turned my attention to the sounds of the night. Birds, wind through the trees, the occasional creak of wood—all typical for the area.
And then, I heard it. The unmistakable sound of footsteps.
I turned quickly, half-expecting to see Yelena returning with something, or perhaps a wandering animal. But what I saw made my blood freeze.
A child. Maybe ten years old. Standing at the edge of the porch, watching me.
I blinked, trying to shake off the dizziness that suddenly overtook me. It was as though the air had thickened around us.
"Are you lost?" I called out, unsure if the kid had wandered out from the forest.
The child didn't answer immediately. It simply stood there, its small form bathed in the soft light of the moon. A shiver ran down my back as I took in the child's features—something about it felt wrong.
The child was wearing a heavy coat, though it was warm outside. Its hair was unkempt, and its face seemed pale, almost sickly. But what caught my attention the most were the eyes. There was something off about them—completely black, devoid of pupils, completely alien. They stared at me without blinking, unblinking and unfeeling.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
"Can I help you?" I asked again, my voice trembling this time.
The child didn't respond. Instead, it took a slow, deliberate step toward me. I should've closed the door, I should've locked it, but for some reason, I couldn't move. Something about its presence was paralyzing, as though it was drawing me in with its gaze.
"Let me in," the child finally said, its voice soft, but carrying a strange weight to it, as if it were pressing against my chest. The words felt unnatural, cold.
I took a step back, feeling the door behind me. "I—I can't. You should go home. It's dangerous outside at night."
But the child only smiled. Not a child's innocent smile, but something far too knowing, far too unsettling. Its eyes never moved. They just kept staring, locked onto me like a predator.
"Please," the child whispered, "Let me in. I need to come inside. I'm cold."
A chill ran through me, colder than anything the night could bring. There was something about the way the child spoke that made my heart race. I knew this wasn't normal. I didn't know what I was dealing with, but I knew it wasn't human.
I forced myself to take a step back, my hand trembling as I reached for the door handle. I turned it, ready to shut the child out, but before I could, I heard it again:
"You're not going to let me in, are you?"
The child's voice was no longer soft—it was sharp, like the scrape of metal on metal. My fingers froze on the door, and I glanced back. The child hadn't moved, but something in the air had changed.
The darkness around the porch seemed deeper, heavier, and the wind had stopped completely. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for me to make the wrong move.
I should've shut the door. I should've locked it and stayed inside. But somehow, I couldn't stop myself. I turned around, facing the child again.
"You're not going to let me in, are you?"
The child repeated it, the words echoing in my head, and this time, the voice was joined by others. Thousands of voices, all whispering the same thing, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Suddenly, I felt it—something in the air, a presence that made my skin crawl. The shadows around the child began to shift, twisting and curling like smoke. And those eyes—those black eyes—seemed to draw closer, as if they were pulling me in, deeper and deeper into their darkness.
"You're not going to let me in…"
I don't know why I moved, but I did. I closed the door as fast as I could, locking it with trembling hands.
The knocking began almost immediately.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Soft at first. Then harder.
I could hear it coming from every corner of the house, the windows, the walls—the sound of those tiny hands beating against everything.
I couldn't breathe.
I turned away, backing up into the living room, where Yelena's voice echoed in my head: "Don't open the door to children at night."
I grabbed the phone from the table, my hands shaking violently, and tried to call the police. But before I could dial, the knocking stopped. The silence was suffocating.
I waited, watching the door. The black-eyed child wasn't gone, I could feel it. The chill in the air had only deepened.
I don't know how long I stood there, waiting for the knock to start again. But eventually, something changed. I could hear breathing behind me—slow, deliberate, as if someone was standing just out of sight.
I dared not look.
Suddenly, Yelena's voice rang through the house, breaking the silence.
"Don't answer it, no matter what."
I spun around, but she wasn't there.
The house was empty.
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To be continued...
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