Chapter 8:
Horrid 5. The Jar Where We Keep the Eyes
HG's horrid shorts
It sits on the mantel, a heavy Mason jar filled with a thick, preservative brine. HG told me they were "marbles," but marbles don't track your movement across the room. There are forty-two of them, varying in color from a pale, clouded blue to a piercing, panicked amber. They don't have lids, so they are forced to witness everything.
Last night, I woke up and found the jar on my nightstand. The brine was bubbling. One eye—a green one that looked exactly like my sister’s—was pressed hard against the glass, its pupil blown wide in a silent plea. I realized then that the jar wasn't full of eyes that had been plucked; it was a prison for the souls of those who looked too closely at HG’s work. I tried to look away, but my own vision began to blur. I felt a sharp, vacuum-like tug behind my sockets. Today, there are forty-three eyes in the jar. And for the first time, I can see the back of my own head from across the room.
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