The Man in the Corner of My Eye

Nathaniel Mumau

I was rifling through bills in my kitchen when my attention faltered. My mind flitted from the envelopes to his presence behind me. He stood just beyond the edge of my vision. My eyes twitched to the corners of their sockets. His faint form fled from my sight.

As usual, he was trying to get away.

Do you know the feeling? In a dark room, when your attention is elsewhere? Preoccupation wanes for a moment, and there he is. In the corner of your eye—the silhouette of a man. You twist, hunting for his full form, yet in his place is a coat rack, or a reflection in the window. But he had been there. It wasn’t an optical illusion. You just weren’t quick enough.

This time was different. I had the kitchen chair to thank. He tripped over it, apparently.

I spun quick as a whip, and there I saw him. Flopped on the floor, the chair overturned. I stared blankly—like a dog who’s finally caught his tail. He stared back, shocked. “Criminy!” he murmured.

He was a lanky man, dressed in all black. His shoes were soft, padded. He wore dark, chunky goggles akin to an aviator’s. He glanced around as he lifted himself from the floor, unsure what to do next. He righted my chair. “Sorry about that,” he muttered gruffly.

I set the bills down. “Who are you?” I asked. I don’t think I was panicking. I imagine I’d already surmised the answer to my own question. Yet in such a surreal situation, what else could I do but inquire?

“I’m toast, is what I am.” The man sighed. He pushed his goggles to his forehead. Dark, hollow sockets lay beneath. He rubbed his eyes (or lack thereof) with the heels of his hands.

“I caught you, didn’t I?” A hint of excitement touched my voice. Like I was scratching off the final numbers on a winning lotto ticket.

“Well, I tripped,” the man mumbled, more to himself than to me. He collapsed into the chair he’d righted. His lower lip jutted in a juvenile pout. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“I always knew you were there …” I spoke slowly. My mind worked vague thoughts around mental corners. “I sensed you, but I never truly saw you. Every time I turned … Why? Why did you hide?”

The man shrugged. “For fun, I s’pose. Why does anyone play any game?”

My brow knitted. “If it was all a game … Have I lost or won?”

“You’re not the player, sport. More like the pawn. Could I have that drink now?”

“I never drink,” I said curtly.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not talking ‘bout the casual stuff. You got any lighter fluid? Or liquid detergent?”

I ignored the request. “Why me? Why did you toy with me all this time?”

“Some folks never notice, never turn. It’s no fun with them. But those folks with a healthy paranoia? Now that’s a game.”

“But I wasn’t paranoid! I was right, all along! You were tricking me—hiding from me! But not anymore. I’ve caught you. And now that I’ve caught you …”

The man smiled grimly. Thin lips curled over razor teeth.

A veil lifted from my mind. This man was no man at all.

“I’m disqualified, sport,” he whispered. “It’s a shame. I was this close to making the big leagues. That gang has a lot more fun.”

“You’re only an amateur?” I murmured. “Is that why I could catch you?”

“The big leagues get caught, too.” A thin tongue flicked between his teeth, like he could taste what his imagination conjured. “But that’s what makes them the big leagues. They’re trying to get caught.”

Needles of adrenaline spiked my limbs. I wanted to back away, to make a break for the door, to arm myself with a weapon—yet my first defense was denial. “You’re lying,” I stammered. “All my life, you’ve been just behind me? It can’t be true.”

He crossed his arms. “Won’t be true anymore, sure. These league transfers are the worst. Guess I’m just a sore loser. Don’t make it too easy for the next guy, yeah?”

I didn’t allow myself to process his words. “You’re not real,” I insisted. “I’m tired, or I’m already dreaming. I’ll blink my eyes and you’ll be gone.”

His empty sockets betrayed nothing. He waved a hand. “Get it over with.”

I wrenched my eyes from him, towards my butcher’s block. I unsheathed a cleaver and spun back.

Gone. In the time—less than a second—when my eyes had darted from him to the knife and back, he’d vanished. I held my breath, listening carefully.

***

All along I’d suspected I wasn’t alone, but it was only ever a suspicion. A half-guess at the reality.

I know the truth now. For while the first player has gone, his promise of the second is surely fulfilled. An empty kitchen is before me—but not so behind. No more shadow in the corner of my eye. Such subtlety is moot. Now there is breath on the back of my neck. Hot, heavy, and so, so near.

Had I not learned of the game, I would have considered the breath a stirred wisp of air. Perhaps the flutter of insect wings, shifting the currents along the hairs of my neck. Had I not known of the game, I would have turned around. A mundane impulse spurred on by twitches in the particles on my skin.

But he warned me. They’re trying to get caught.

I squeeze the cleaver’s handle. The breath on my neck quickens. Behind me, whoever it is—whatever it is—grows excited. Can it tell I want to spin and face it, head-on?

I have spent my whole life looking over my shoulder, certain there was someone just beyond my eyes. Now I stand stock still in my kitchen, forced to face forward. No longer seeking to discover what is hidden—in fact, willing very much the opposite.

The breath on my neck is undeniable.

© Variant Literature Inc 2023