The Dark Issue 78 by H. Pueyo

Author:H. Pueyo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: dark fantasy, fantasy, horror, magazine
Publisher: Prime Books
Published: 2021-10-27T20:40:38+00:00

Rob Costello (he/him) is a queer man who writes dark contemporary and speculative fiction with a queer bent. His work has appeared in The Dark, F&SF, Hunger Mountain, Stone Canoe, The Wondrous Real, and Narrative, among other publications. He teaches writing fiction for young readers at the Highlights Foundation. Find out more at: www.cloudbusterpress.com

The Catcher in the Eye

by Ai Jiang

I kept my right eye closed because I saw ghosts through it. My parents thought they were imaginary friends I would soon outgrow—they weren’t. But what did they know anyway?

“One—or two?” my optometrist asked, switching lenses.

“Two,” I said. He repeated the process until I recited the words on the eye exam chart a few feet in front of me which had come into focus. To him, there were only words. But through my right eye, there was a woman—translucent, but not enough—in clothing stained by dried blood below the hips, smiling. In her hands, there sat a child’s head. I closed my eye.

“Please keep both eyes open for the exam,” said the optometrist.

My breaths stopped and opened my right eye. I screamed when the woman’s face, merged with the child’s in a strange blurring of features, shuddering momentarily like static channel, appeared before the lenses.

I squeezed my eyes shut, throat burning, tears drenching the neck of my shirt. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, but the other times were bearable—the visions weren’t as clear. It had only been a month since the ghosts appeared, but it felt like it had been years.

Before leaving, I paused by the entrance, listening to my parents’ whispers. Mother clutched Father’s arm.

“Well, what are we supposed to do about it?” Mother said.

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to offer advice on this . . . perhaps a specialist,” said my optometrist.

Behind my parents’ stood the woman with the child’s head in her hands—the faces no longer merged. She squeezed then stretched the child’s face, the skin looking far too elastic.

In a photo pinned up in my mother’s room, she cradled my newborn self on the hospital bed, smiling though her gown was soiled. She was smiling, but there was so much blood.

The woman stepped into my mother’s body, disappearing. And the child’s head floated towards me, its misshappen mouth ajar, mouthing, “Remember me?”

My parents never brought me to the optometrist again.

I didn’t want to see the ghosts, but they wanted to see me.

Later that night, my mother tossed me an eyepatch made of beige silk. “Here, just wear this for now. It should help with your . . . issues.” She swirled the glass of wine in her hand, a drop spilt over the side, dropping onto the red loveseat. A tight smile flashed across both our faces, teeth clenched so tight I was surprised they didn’t all fall out. So similar. I stopped smiling. The fabric of the eyepatch felt rough in my hand, like it had been used for a long while before.

In the bathroom mirror, the edges of the fabric seemed to dissolve into my skin, making it appear as though I only had one eye.

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