Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

In the heart of the Desolation Crag, where no map dared tread and compasses spun wildly, stood the ruins of an ancient structure carved straight into the mountainside. They called it the Temple of a Thousand Eyes, though no one alive claimed to have seen more than the entrance.

Because those who entered never returned.

Until tonight.

Clara Veil had spent her life hiding what she was. A performer, a liar, a girl with eyes that shimmered like mercury in the dark. The Hollow One had marked her young. The cult whispered her name in back-alley tongues. And now, drawn by visions of writhing stone and blinking walls, she stood at the foot of the temple—alone.

A carved archway loomed above her. No door. Just darkness and cold air that reeked of old stone and fresh fear.

She stepped inside.

The air thickened immediately, muffling her breath. The walls pulsed faintly, and every few feet, a carving watched her—round, open, unblinking eyes etched into the stone.

First a dozen. Then hundreds.

Then more than she could count.

She pressed forward.

As the corridor widened into a dome-shaped chamber, her skin prickled. The walls, floor, even ceiling were covered in sculpted eyes—some wide with terror, others closed in mourning, many gouged out.

At the center stood a dais of bone-white marble.

On it, a mirror. Cracked. Ancient.

She approached and caught her reflection.

Only it wasn't her.

The woman in the glass had no pupils. Her mouth was stitched shut. Shadows coiled behind her like tendrils.

"You have come, child of mirrors," a voice whispered from the walls.

Every eye blinked in unison.

Clara clutched the amulet around her neck—a charm of silver and ash once gifted by Madame Grin, meant to ward off possession.

"What are you?" Clara asked.

"I am the Watcher. The Seer. The first to open and the last to close."

From the cracks of the mirror slithered something eyeless, a mass of flesh and teeth. It coiled around the dais but didn't strike.

"You were born to see, Clara Veil. To see beyond illusion. We gave you those eyes."

She felt her irises burn. Her vision blurred—and shifted.

She now saw every truth behind every lie the temple ever swallowed:

A boy who carved out his eyes to silence the whispers.

A priestess who became a vessel for a thousand souls.

A king who fed his people to the walls in exchange for foresight.

"You may leave," said the voice, "but your eyes are now open forever. You will never unsee. Never unknow."

Clara turned, resisting the gravity of the mirror's pull.

As she fled, the temple began to hum, every carved eye watching her retreat, blinking in slow rhythm.

Outside, the moon was high. Her hands trembled. In every shadow, she now saw faces.

She would never be alone again.

And far above her, carved into the crag, the thousand eyes wept tears of stone.