“I stood on the chair, heart hammering against my ribs. I wasn’t looking at a battery; I was staring into a tiny, glass lens hidden inside the smoke detector. ‘They’re watching me,’ I whispered, my skin crawling. I didn’t rip it out. I played along. Three days of deafening silence passed until my daughter leaned in, smiling coldly: ‘Dad, why were you crying in your sleep last night?’ I never told a soul. How did she see me?”
The Glass Eye in the Ceiling I’ve lived in this suburban house in Ohio for twelve years, and I thought I knew every crevice of it. My name is Mark, a single father trying my best to raise my teenage daughter, Chloe, after my wife passed away. The routine was bone-deep: work, dinner, silence. It…