The Whispering Eyes
Betrayal of betrayal of betrayal. And so it was, they said: Read me.
How the f’ing hell did I get stuck in this bottle?
I’ll tell you how. I was betrayed.
I don’t mean those small betrayals by family or friends that irk you, and you’re really bitter about it, staring in the mirror each morning repeating all the things you ‘should have said,’ or lamenting and ruminating about all the things you ‘should have done.’
But you can move on. You get over it.
Not this kind of betrayal though. Not the kind where you are rightly, deeply, and utterly stabbed in the back.
My bitter tale of woe began when I entered that antique shop.
Sound familiar? Many a tale begins like this, doesn’t it?
I bet it doesn’t end like this one…
I’m a historian by career, and I love antiquing. Mr. Jones is my name; Faculty and researcher. And, history, is my thing.
I loved to dig through ancient relics of humanity in antique shops, imagining how this item or that one was used, and by whom. And thinking on what their lives must have been like in centuries past.
One beautiful fall day, I was driving through New Hampshire on backcountry roads so I could witness the splendid autumn colors. Daffodil, tangerine, and umber leaves burst like fireworks on every tree and flit through the air like beautiful confetti.
On my meandering scenic drive, I passed into a little New England town with all the charm you’d expect from the old colonies. Historic buildings lined the streets, some dating back as early as the 1650s. Naturally, as a historian, I had to stop.
As I walked along Main Street, I noticed a small, tucked away antique shop down a narrow gray-stoned alleyway.
I was immediately excited. What wonderful relics would a town like this have in store for me?
I’m by no means a small man. Broad-shouldered, even built like a football player, with blond hair and brown eyes. I had even played a bit in high school.
So, the alley felt cramped around me as I entered it, almost closing in, and my vision tunneled toward the door. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over me, making the world swim slightly, as if this moment had already happened, or strangely, had always been waiting to happen.
I shook it off and pushed the wood and glass door open, brushing the bell above it.
Bring-bring.
An old woman tottered out from the back room, wearing overalls and thick spectacles beneath a shock of gray hair that made her look like a deranged laboratory scientist.
Her gravelly voice rasped, “Let me know if you have any questions, son.”
I wandered through the rows of shelves crammed with treasures, inspecting each piece.
Then my attention was drawn to a glass case by the counter. A small light shone down on something unique inside.
It was a vase or pot of sea-green ceramic, covered all over in carved blue eyes.
The eyes seemed to watch me as I approached.
The old woman sniffed. “Yeah, that there is a beaut, ain’ she? Found that while travelin’ India. Never seen nothin’ like it anywhere else.”
I nodded, fascinated. “Do you know the history of it?”
She shrugged. “Well, I suppose as much as I could gather, being as I don’t speak no hindi or nothin’. Merchant said it was an ancient urn, and the dust of Gods were in it. Though it’s sealed up real tight, so never seen inside it myself.”
The craftsmanship was exquisite. Unlike anything I’d ever seen. I crouched to examine it more closely through the glass. The eyes seemed to shift as I moved.
Then I heard it. A whisper.
Read me.
I turned sharply. The shopkeeper stood still and silent, watching me.
A chill crept up my spine. “How much are you asking for it?”
She tapped the countertop with one bony finger. “Well, I don’ know. Merchant said it was good luck and all. Never tried sellin’ it.”
I loved bargaining with antique dealers, almost relished it. The thrill often surpassed the object itself. “I’ll offer $500.”
Her eyes widened. “For an ancient relic with God dust? You must be jokin’.”
The urn stared at me.
I stared back.
Read me.
My chest tingled with euphoria. I had to have it. “$1,000.”
She considered. “I might part with it for $2,000.”
“I can do $1,500.”
“Okay, so, I’ll make you a deal, for $1,700,” she said. “But not a penny less, you hear me son?”
“Done.” I pulled out my credit card.
She shook her head. “Oh now, I don’t do me no credit or fancy phone payin’ apps or the sort. Cash only.”
I sighed. “Okay, I’ll be back soon.”
I left, found an ATM, and withdrew the money. I returned, pushing the door open eagerly, almost afraid my new treasure would be gone.
Bring-bring.
She had already removed the urn from the case, polishing it. “Here now, see how nice it looks.”
I handed over the cash.
She set the urn on a small, antique wood table in a back corner of the shop, surrounded by shelves of old bottles. “Go on now, sit with it. I’ll fetch wrapping and a box to keep it all safe.”
She disappeared into the back.
I sat down to marvel at my new treasure, turning it this way and that, and imagined where in my apartment I could display it.
The eyes seemed to shift and watch me as I moved it.
I blinked.
A wind of whispers ran over my skin.
Read me.
I jerked around, but the shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen.
A cold chill crawled its way under my skin, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on end.
I inspected the lid. Upon it was an inscription.
It looked like hindi, though I couldn’t be certain.
Then the letters melted and reformed before my eyes.
I dropped the urn like a hot stone.
It banged on the table with a clang and wobbled until it came to rest, the eyes intent upon me.
Read me.
Unease gripped my chest.
I have to be imagining things.
I hesitantly reached out to pick it back up and looked at the lid. Now I could understand the inscription.
I whispered out-loud as I read it, “By ash and oath, I bid thee let me see.”
The feeling of déjà vu washed over me once more.
My head swam and the world went blurry. Blackness formed at the edges of my vision.
And then I was swept down a black river, flailing and screaming, until the river dropped me into a small room of stone that was rounded on the sides.
Shock and disorientation overwhelmed me as I lay there. Rising, I stumbled, eyes darting around in fear and surprise.
“Hello Sweetling,” trilled a honied voice behind me.
I spun.
Leaning against the stone wall of the room stood a beautiful woman with dark skin and black, glossy hair that hung in curls to her waist, with the cutest little horns peeking out atop her head. Her come-hither glowing eyes captivated me. She wore a sari of shimmering red silk and gold, with many gold rings around her neck and upon her wrists.
It had to be a dream. I’d passed out and this was a vision.
I looked around, but it was only us in the stone room, and no doors or exits or furniture. “Whe…where am I?”
“You are in my home. Don’t you like it?” She smirked.
I blinked, still more confused. “Home?”
She nodded and prowled around me, her glossy black hair swaying. “You are more handsome than the previous visitors.”
I turned with her, uncomfortable under her unwavering observation. “Previous… What? Who are you?”
“I am a jinn, tied to this bottle for millennia, and bonded to do as my master bids.”
I had a sharp intake of breath. “This…that is… is impossible.”
She tilted her head, contemplative. “They all say that.”
My eyes shot back to her. “All?”
She nodded.
I ran a hand down my face and looked around again. But the stone room was completely enclosed. “Don’t… well… in the tales, jinn grant wishes. Do I get three wishes now?”
Her head tilted back, and she laughed. It was like birds and soft chimes and wind all wrapped into one. It bared her beautiful, slender neck encircled with the many gold bands. A desire to kiss that neck overwhelmed me. The desire went straight to my gut and drew me to her.
Suddenly I was before her, and yet I hadn’t moved.
She ran a finger gently down the side of my face. I shivered.
“You are sweet. Sweeter than the others.”
Goose-pimples spread across my arms as I leaned into her touch.
She pouted then, making her even more desirable.
She put a hand on either of my shoulders. And I thought, hoped, she might kiss me.
She leaned in and whispered, “Even I was betrayed.”
Then she shoved me back into the stone wall with a force a woman this tiny and dainty shouldn’t have.
I staggered back into the side of the room, only I didn’t hit stone; with horror, I melted into it.
I screamed and thrashed as the stone of the wall shifted to liquid and crept over my body, enclosing my legs and arms to trap me.
I begged. “Please. Please! I don’t understand. Please!”
The liquid continued its way up my body, now covering my chest.
I thrashed, but the wall held me tight. “Please, please, tell me what is going on?”
She smiled. “My master thanks you for another hundred years of life.”
The liquid was crawling up my neck now, creeping closer and closer to my face.
My eyes darted around wild, my breathing ragged, fear overtaking my senses as I tried to rip free, but couldn’t.
“Please please please.”
The liquid crept up my chin and into my mouth until my sobs and pleas were muffled and fear overtook every thought.
Soon, I was drawn into the stone entirely until only one eye remained uncovered, which popped out on the other side of the urn, now added to the many eyes there.
A golden wisp of smoke rose up from the urn, as if one eye had been released. A sigh of utter relief expelled from the smoke.
The old shopkeeper tottered close and picked the urn up.
She lifted it until she was eye to eye with my one remaining eye. “Mr. Jones. How good of you to come by today.”
She smiled a wicked, wicked smile. And I hated her with my entire being then.
She was becoming younger and younger. Her skin grew less wrinkled by the second, and her hair turned from gray to a beautiful auburn. Her cloudy eyes clarified, becoming a deep, rich brown again.
And soon before me stood a young woman of exquisite beauty. And then I hated her even more.
She set the vase back in its lighted case. “Thank you for more years of youth. Did you like my jinn, Mr. Jones? Isn’t she wonderful?”
Her fake country accent was gone, and now she spoke with the accent of days bygone.
“My story about finding this urn in India was true, though it was many centuries ago now. And no dust of the Gods lay within, but only that wonderful jinn. My last wish to her was that she trap souls in this urn for eternity, giving me their life force. But, alas, it only holds fifty souls. So, once fifty more enter it, your soul will be released from your bondage into the afterlife. So, do be a good little slave, and entice customers in, won’t you?”
And, so it was, whenever the door rang,
Bring-bring…
And a customer looked at the vase,
I, Mr. Jones, said…
“Read me.”
Author Note
This was originally posted by @ctfinney as a writing challenge - to produce a short flash fiction piece 300 words or less that centered on an image. Which I submitted. However, I liked the flash piece and photo too much - and decided to then write something longer.
Be sure to check out @ctfinney’s Substack for many wonderful and fun things:
Incredible story... and you have lyrical prose that I wish I could do. Omg! The twist on jinn and the master feels so dark that it right up my alley. <3