It was late in the summer, when the evening air had started to bite, that I first saw the man with yellow eyes. He wore a threadbare shirt and matching pants, revealing his taut, bony skin underneath—dry, cracked, and darkened from living outside. His face was as sunken in as the rest of him, with hollow, shadowed eye sockets. It’s as if his being had cast a shadow over my mind, dimming everything around me like the shortening days of fall.
It is evening as I write this, sitting at my desk before a large bay window, watching for any sign of movement from the edge of the woods outside. Whenever night falls, fear arises at the thought of his eyes, glowing yellow in my memory. They weren’t bright like the sun, but like stained, gnarled teeth. How could they be so yellow? Was my mind deceiving me—the disturbing color only a reflection of the murky street light? I know one thing for sure, and it haunts my every waking moment: the man with yellow eyes was watching me.
The first night I saw him, I was walking my small, harmless dog through the neighborhood at dusk. One look at her, and you'd know I didn’t adopt her for protection—her short legs can’t take her very far very fast, and her doe eyes are anything but menacing. She even screeches in fear if anyone approaches too quickly or touches her ears with more than gentle pressure. But that night, it was my little dog who first sensed something was horribly wrong, and we would discover that neither of us could protect the other from the danger.
I live on a quiet street in a safe neighborhood where all the neighbors know each other by name. We always exchange waves or quick hellos as I stroll past rows of Craftsman-style houses, each with its own unique charm and history. But on this day, the yards were empty, and no one was outside to greet us—except for the man with yellow eyes. He didn’t belong here, and the darkness clinging to him felt foreign, not just to the neighborhood but to this world.
On that first night, he was standing still as stone on the corner across from where my dog and I were walking. I might have remained blissfully unaware of his unearthly presence if not for my dog, who froze, hackles raised. Our walk came to an abrupt stop as she stood her ground, head fixed on the threat I had only just noticed. The man was disturbingly motionless, as if he did not need to breathe—his yellow eyes so intense that their imprint lingered behind my eyelids when I blinked in panic. How long had he been standing there? Had he seen me open the gate to my front yard? Did he know where I lived? My thoughts raced, spiraling into panic and fear, and my mind screamed that I wasn’t safe.
The air was warm and dry, even with summer nearly ending, but the way he looked at me sent a chill through my body, making my skin prickle. My hands, now damp with sweat, gripped the leash tightly. As I shoved them deep into my pockets, I shifted my gaze to avoid his. I then pivoted, tugging my dog along, eager to put as much distance between us and him as possible.
I became intensely aware of the sounds around me—a lazy wooden wind chime, brittle creaking branches, and the faint drone of cars on the highway miles in the distance. My eyes darted in all directions, searching for anyone else on the street I could turn to for help, but there were no friendly neighbors outside to save me. It was just me, my dog, and the man with yellow eyes. As I attempted to increase the gap between us, I listened carefully for approaching footsteps or the crunch of leaves underfoot. His gaze, I thought, had lingered too long, and every instinct told me something was wrong. My dog confirmed it, continuously glancing back at him in alarm. I wasn’t imagining it—he had been watching us and was now slowly stalking us like his prey.
As I quickened my pace, my dog barely keeping up, I could feel his jaundiced eyes burning into the back of my neck. My chest tightened, my breath irregularly gasping for air. Mustering all my confidence, I straightened my posture and puffed out my chest in a feeble attempt at feminine bravado, only to spin wildly around and find that he had vanished. Silence hung in the air, the street eerily still—as if the world had stopped spinning.
Seizing the moment, I hurried through an alleyway I knew would lead me safely home, out of the man’s sight. It only took two minutes to reach the other side of the dark path, but I was out of breath when I got there… I must have been holding it in out of fear. I glanced around frantically but didn’t spot a soul as I slipped through my gate, scooping up my small dog like a football and rushing into the house. I locked every door, pulled down the window shades, and wiped the nervous sweat from my face. Letting my forehead rest against the back of the front door and still holding my fluff ball of a dog, I closed my eyes to calm down and slow my breathing. The silence was deafening, but I finally felt safe and hidden from those yellow eyes.
***
The next night, I went outside to take a phone call, lightly pacing back and forth and picking the skin around my fingernails, utterly unaware that I was an anxious wreck. It was my mother checking in after my desperate text message the night before. I thanked her for finally responding, although I was irritated with her halfhearted concern—I assured her I was okay and that I definitely didn’t need her to drop by or spend the night. “You’re all alone in that big house. It’s not right. Maybe if you met a nice man, you’d feel safe,” she said. I looked back toward my front door, spotting my white fluffy dog peering out at me through the sidelight. I smiled and rolled my eyes at my mother’s suggestion, making the dog jump up excitedly and put her paws on the glass. “I don’t need a man, mom. It was a man who was following me, after all”.
One millisecond after hanging up the phone, a woman’s voice startled me from behind. “On your left!” she shouted, barely dodging me as I slowly registered her not to be the threat I had anticipated. She smiled and waved apologetically at me without slowing down. She was running alongside a horse of a dog—some kind of hunting breed—that eyed me suspiciously, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth, easily keeping pace with its owner. I noticed the woman wearing a light-up vest to make herself more visible and squinted as I watched her run toward the descending sun. I thought her either very brave or very stupid. I stood and watched as the last light disappeared from the sky. Suddenly feeling vulnerable in the open, I rushed back into the house. I wrapped my shawl tighter around myself, unable to shake the feeling that I was being observed.
***
On the third night, I had all but forgotten the man with yellow eyes. He flickered in and out of my mind like a fading, distant memory, and the fear that burned like ice in my chest was slowly melting. I put on a cup of tea to warm the cold that still inhabited my body and entered the study to finish my evening journaling ritual. The small dog was half asleep on the loveseat to the left of my desk, her eyes lazily tracking my every move.
As I settled into my chair and picked up a heavy pen, an object outside darted across the corner of my eye. My heart leaped out of my chest, and I tried to focus my eyes on spotting any change in the scenery in front of me, but everything looked as before. After a beat, I shook my head in embarrassment. I looked down at my journal, reading the same sentence repeatedly, unable to focus on the words: The man with yellow eyes must have been a figment of my imagination, a twisted manifestation of all my fears and loneliness. As I reread the words, I couldn’t help but feel that something outside had shifted, and once again, a sinister presence was watching me closely.
Feeling as if the world was crashing in on me, I stood up and glared outside the window in defiance. I scanned the treeline, half-expecting to see those yellow eyes staring back at me. Then, a shadow, dark like a storm cloud, flickered across the window. I blinked wildly in shock, and my dog bolted upright on the sofa, letting out a low whine, her ears pinned back in dread. Something was wrong, and we both felt it.
The night grew darker, the air heavy with anticipation. I drew my face closer to the window, the fog of my breath expanding across the glass. Then he was there, directly before me, standing motionless at the edge of the woods. His eyes glowed fervently like a beacon breaking through a marine layer. Panic hit me, sending a wave of needles crawling across my entire body. The taste of honey and roses from the tea was gone, replaced by the sour tang of bile rising from my stomach. I was frozen in terror, with my feet rooted to the Persian rug beneath me. I could only watch as the brilliant light sent shadows dancing across my study. Instinctively, I lifted my arm to shield my eyes from the blinding brightness.
But just as quickly as the man appeared, he disappeared, zapped out of the night in the blink of an eye, the yellow light with him, plunging the yard back into darkness.
The yellow-eyed man wasn’t just a figment of my imagination—he was coming for me, and I could feel his gaze as if it had branded me. My dog whimpered, trembling as she realized she couldn’t protect me. I sat beside her on the sofa, allowing her to curl up in my lap, her nails digging into my thighs in trepidation. Together, we looked expectantly out the window, waiting for him.
About the Author
Lindsey Goodrow (she/her) is a gay, sober essayist based in Long Beach, California. Her work explores the addictive patterns and feelings that shape our lives. She has been featured in The Gay and Lesbian Review and Dream Boy Book Club. Her monthly newsletter, Sober Gemini, is published on Substack.
About the Artist
Viggo Krejberg is a 22 Year Old Chicago based Artist and Animator. He attributes his work to being heavily inspired by artists such as Junji Ito, Bryan Lee O'Malley, and Ian Worthington. Updates on his art & current projects can be found on his Twitter @VKrejberg.
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