The Eyes of the Hallway (Flash Fiction)

The dim light at the end of the hallway was a mockery. It only proved how little light there was. He stood at the opposing end, using the foreboding darkness to his advantage. The hallway was long and straight. There were no windows to escape through. There were no paintings covering the bare walls. It was just him and the carriage.

He stared at the baby carriage with cold disdain, clutching his plush tiger. The porcelain doll smiled back with dead, black eyes. It was a smile she would wear until the end of time. It was a smile that was meant only for him.

He crept closer, step by step. The carriage consumed most of the path where the hallway took its turn. He moved it once, when he mustered enough nerve in the daytime, but dear old granny had moved it right back. Even more so, to the point that it took an effort to not brush against it as you passed.

The floor creaked, and the soulless holes lurking in that empty head seemed to take notice. A gust of wind tossed the branches outside. Despite the impossibility, her frozen smile widened. She could see him inching closer.

His body paralyzed with childish fear, and a coldness grasped his innocent heart. He held his tiger close, but the smile only grew larger, the eyes only blacker. He felt the shadows of the night reaching out for him, the dark fingers of an eternal embrace.

He bolted, the spell broken. He panted from under the safety of his covers. He tried to forget those eyes, but they would be there tomorrow, waiting for his return. They would wait for him forever.

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