This story was selected as the winner our Scary Story Contest for our Oct. 4 , 2024 Spooky Issue.
Evan Baughfman is a Long Beach author with several horror novels and short stories published. You can read more about him and his work at amazon.com/author/evanbaughfman.
A Single Eye
My ten-year-old daughter beamed: she had a valentine. Some boy at school gave her a teddy bear. A mangy, moth-eaten thing that stared with a single eye.
I mentioned the toy’s unsightliness. The bear was the boy’s, Grace said, once his entire world. She loved holding his past, this present. She wouldn’t let me launder it, said it would lose the boy’s scent. I rolled my eyes. Had hoped the washing machine might tear the vile animal apart.
That night, I stood silent at Grace’s door. My girl slept, the grisly Cyclops in moonlight beside her. The ugly “bruin” reminded me of the stupid college mascot her useless father had worshipped until he died.
I couldn’t allow some boy to infiltrate my home. Undo everything I’d built with tears and grit, alone. Do you understand what I did and why?
I rushed forward, fast. I snatched—strangled—the awful toy. I choked down a laugh, carried the bear outdoors.
The neighbors’ dog snarled from behind their fence. The drooling monster bared its teeth any time it could. Man’s best friend? Yeah, right! Though, the beast would soon help me eliminate the eye…
I raised my arm, threw the bear—an admirable arc. After catching the toy, the noisy dog went mostly silent. Gaps in the fence showed canine jaws snapping through the bear’s throat, removing the ursine head. I turned from the dismemberment, smiling.
I returned to bed, where I slept very soundly.
In the morning, I cooked breakfast, awaiting Grace’s wail. My prediction: she’d sob when she found the bear had vanished. My solution: she’d feel sunnier once she had my waffles, her favorite.
Right on cue, Grace saw the bear was gone, panicked, and gave a shout. It would turn up somewhere in her messy room, I explained, lying to my girl even as tears gushed down her cheeks.
At the dining table, she craved no Belgian. Insisted on another treat. From her pink backpack, she withdrew a box of candy hearts, also gifted by the boy. Each piece was more disgusting and vibrant than a cast-off eye.
She scattered colorful candies onto an empty plate. Giggled at imprinted phrases as she chomped them between grinning teeth.
She showed me one heart’s message. In letters clear and bold, the confection read, “CONFESS.” Another sweet declared, “BAD MOM.” Others said, “U LIE.” Every word besieged me. I could not believe my eyes.
I blinked. Fumed. Further inspected the insulting sweets. Multiple hearts boomed, “EYE C U.” More called me “SELFISH.”
I swatted the tarts—plate—aside. My child asked me why. I didn’t answer and, instead, brought the waffles over. A fork. Some syrup, too.
Grace refused the meal. I tried forcing the fork upon her. She seemed afraid of the tines. I screamed at her to eat! She recoiled, insisting that I was insane.
Our argument was interrupted by many sudden knocks. The front door… Someone continued their rap, rap, rapping. The noise squeezed me. A headache bloomed behind my eyes.
On the porch: our neighbors. Owners of the violent mutt.
They spoke to me in anger. My brain was in a fog.
Their pet just had surgery. Their beast had nearly died.
The news freezed me, headache squeezing my widening eyes.
They had awakened to their beloved giving yelps. A trip to the emergency vet had resulted in the doctor removing a teddy bear’s head from the dog’s belly.
Absurd! The squishy skull had been swallowed whole?
The neighbors found the rest of the toy, disemboweled in the grass. They accused my girl of evil, of attempting to hurt their pet.
No! The bear still teased me! Had returned with its single eye!
I assured the neighbors that Grace was not involved. But yard security camera footage proved the nasty plaything had flown over their fence.
Grace stood behind me, audience to every detail. She told them I must’ve tossed the bear. That I was disturbed.
I sighed. Admitted the deed.
The neighbors wouldn’t reprieve me. Judged with four glaring eyes. Said I was deranged.
Voice shrill, I begged for them to listen. They said they had to involve the police.
Faces red, they walked toward their property.
I followed after, pleading, still clutching Grace’s fork.
They thought I meant to stab them.
I told them to, please, PLEASE, look into my eyes!
Instead, they ran. They cursed my name.
The chase was on.
I pursued in my slippers, trying to convince them not to dial 9-1-1. I tripped on
cracked cement.
Faceplant! Ow!
The fork tweezed me! Tines pierced my open eye!
That was weeks ago…
Grace no longer speaks to me. Neighbors are suing. I know which hurts more.
My daughter’s silent treatment. Her disappointment. Lack of understanding.
Tears dribble now, from my single eye…
