My name is Michael, and this past summer, I took a trip to California to visit my family. It was supposed to be a simple vacation—a break from the daily grind, a chance to reconnect with my parents and younger brother. We spent most of our time doing the usual touristy things—beaches, museums, hiking in the hills—but it was on one of those hikes that everything changed.
We were exploring an old, overgrown trail near an abandoned mining town. The area had been long forgotten, a relic of the Gold Rush days. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant call of birds. It was peaceful, almost too peaceful, like the world had decided to take a breath and hold it.
As we wandered through the ruins of what had once been a bustling town, I noticed something half-buried in the dirt near an old cabin. It was a small, weathered case, the leather cracked and worn from decades of neglect. I brushed off the dirt and opened it, revealing a pair of ancient-looking glasses inside. The frames were tarnished, the metal dull with age, and the lenses—well, there were no lenses at all. Just empty frames, fragile and delicate.
At first, I thought they were just a strange old relic, a curiosity to take home as a memento. But something about them drew me in, a strange compulsion that I couldn’t quite explain. Without thinking, I slipped them on, expecting to see the world through empty frames.
But what I saw was something else entirely.
The moment the glasses settled on my face, the world around me changed. The sun-dappled forest, the crumbling ruins, the trail where my family walked—all of it was still there, but overlaid with something else, something wrong. Standing in the clearing, just a few feet away, was a being—a tall, gaunt figure with skin as pale as bone, its eyes black and hollow, like deep, endless voids.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The figure was motionless, its long limbs hanging unnaturally at its sides, its head slightly tilted as if observing me. It was too tall, too thin, its body elongated in ways that defied natural proportions. But the worst part was the way it stared at me, those empty eyes locked onto mine with a predatory intensity.
I ripped the glasses off, my heart pounding in my chest. The figure was gone, the world returned to normal—the birds chirping, the wind rustling the leaves. My family was still there, oblivious to what I had just seen. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined it, that my mind was playing tricks on me.
But then I made the mistake of putting the glasses back on.
The figure was still there, closer this time, its head now tilted at an even sharper angle, as if trying to peer into my soul. It hadn’t moved—at least, not that I could see—but it felt like it was getting closer, inch by inch, the air growing colder with each passing second. And then I noticed the others. They were everywhere, scattered among the trees, lurking in the shadows. Tall, thin figures, all watching, all waiting.
I yanked the glasses off again, terror surging through me. My family was still laughing, still walking ahead, completely unaware of the horrors lurking just out of sight. I wanted to scream, to warn them, but I knew it was useless. They couldn’t see what I was seeing. They couldn’t feel the cold dread that was seeping into my bones.
I shoved the glasses back into the case, my hands trembling, and slipped it into my pocket. I tried to act normal, to pretend that everything was fine, but my mind was racing. What were those things? How long had they been there, hiding just beyond the veil of reality? And more importantly, why could I see them?
The rest of the hike was a blur. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. Every time I glanced over my shoulder, I half-expected to see one of those figures standing there, waiting. But they never appeared—not without the glasses.
That night, back at my parents’ house, I lay awake, the case clutched in my hand. Part of me wanted to destroy the glasses, to get rid of them and whatever horrors they revealed. But another part of me—a darker, more curious part—needed to understand, to see if it was real.
So, in the darkness of my old bedroom, I put the glasses on one last time.
They were in the room with me, standing in the corners, their hollow eyes fixed on me. One of them was closer than the rest, its face—or what passed for a face—just inches from mine. I could feel its breath, cold and damp, against my skin. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but stare back into those empty voids.
And then, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, I heard it speak.
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
I tore the glasses off and threw them across the room, my heart hammering in my chest. The figures were gone, but the words lingered, echoing in my mind. I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t. Every shadow seemed to move, every creak of the house a reminder that they were still there, waiting.
The next morning, I buried the glasses in the woods, deep enough that no one would ever find them. But it didn’t matter. I can still feel their presence, still hear that whisper in the back of my mind.
They’re out there, just beyond the edge of what we can see, waiting for someone else to find them.
And once you’ve seen them, they never let you go.
