When I woke up, the corpse was still in my bedroom.
I had no idea where it came from or why it was here. All I knew was that it had been there every day since last week, and it never disappeared.
And there it was, lying between my bed and my wardrobe, face up, eyes wide open, staring straight at me. It looked terrible, as if life had never treated it kindly.
It couldn't move, couldn't speak, and would never leave. It just lay there silently, completely still, with only its eyes watching me.
I brushed my teeth and washed my face. It was still there; I could see a dull, grey corner of it in the mirror. But I didn’t turn around or even spare a glance. Frankly, I was used to it. Or rather, I had to be.
I made myself a cup of coffee for breakfast. The table was right in front of the door, where I had a clear view of its face. Its eyes were fixed directly on me, and I couldn’t eat anything under its sight. Even the aroma of coffee was overpowered by the smell. Not literally, since others wouldn’t notice it. But I could. A slow, heavy odor had lingered in my nose. The smell I could neither swallow nor spit out.
I felt sick to my stomach, but I fought the urge to vomit. It wouldn’t have helped anyway. After all, throwing up wasn’t going to make the corpse disappear.
I got dressed and made my way to the library. I’d been studying for an important test, now just a few weeks away. Passing it was my only way out of this place. For years, I had been trying to escape everything here—the stares, the whispers, the memories, the nightmares. I couldn’t take it anymore. Only by acing this exam could I finally leave this fucking life behind.
Everything was going just fine… until I found the corpse in my bedroom.
packed my bag, trying not to look at the corpse, but I could still see it from the corner of my eye. Its lifeless eyes held a hollow gaze, pulling me in.
When I left, I had to step over it. Something cold brushed against my leg. A chill ran down my spine. I felt sick.
The library was quiet. I found a spot in the corner and opened my book. I took deep breaths, trying to just smell the paper. But it was no use—the smell stuck with me. A girl sat down nearby. She looked calm. I flinched and sank into my seat, keeping my head down in my books.
I couldn’t let anyone else smell it. Logically, I knew they couldn’t. It seemed only I could perceive the corpse. But what if they could? What if the stench was real, and the corpse was real, and they were just too polite to mention it? Or worse-what if they thought it was me? The idea made me almost choke. I quickly gathered my things and moved to a more isolated table. The girl kept reading. She didn’t notice anything. There was nothing to worry about.
On my way home, I could feel that something was watching me. Maybe it was the corpse. I couldn’t help thinking that it had been following me. But it was supposed to be at home, in my bedroom. I turned my head to look, but there was nothing. No one was on the street. All I could see were autumn leaves swirling in the wind.
It had started FOLLOWING me.
Wherever I went, it followed like a ghost I couldn’t escape. During meals, it sat across from me, watching me chew. I couldn’t eat under its gaze. When I walked, it dragged behind, always just out of sight. I was too scared to look back.
I couldn’t shake it off. It followed me into my study and sat in the chair opposite. It watched me read, watched me write. Even when I closed my book and tried to rest, it was still watching.
Every night, I tried to lock it out of my bedroom. But it was useless. The corpse would reappear in whatever room I entered, lying perfectly still, completely silent. It never spoke, never moved. It just STARED.
I couldn’t sleep. Its eyes stayed open all night. Every night it lay beside me, watching me struggle to fall asleep, forcing me to wake up to those same eyes growing darker each day.
Then one morning, I noticed something strange on its neck: faint bruise, like marks, as if someone had strangled it.
A cold dread washed over me. Without thinking, I touched my own neck. The skin was smooth, unmarked.
So why did it feel so hard to breathe?
It was truly disgusting.
What’s worse, it was rotting. Its skin had started to sag, exposing darker patches beneath. The stench grew so strong it made my eyes water—not from emotion, but from pure physical reflex. I ate less but threw up more, sometimes bringing up nothing but acid, often just dry heaving helplessly.
I began avoiding people and stopped going to the library. I couldn’t bear to be around anyone. I was terrified they would notice the smell on me, afraid they might follow my eyes and see it on the floor, even though I knew they couldn’t.
Once, the landlord came to collect rent. I stood blocking the doorway. He glanced at me curiously and sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
My heart jumped, but then he just said, “The dumpster downstairs must be full. Smells pretty bad today.”
So he really couldn’t smell it after all.
I spent all my time on two things: studying and trying to ignore it. Its decay became more noticeable each day, yet its gaze never wavered. steady, and persistent gaze, always fixed on me. Sometimes I spoke to it without sound: Just leave. Let me finish the exam. Once it’s over, I’ll go. And when I’m gone, you’ll never see me again.
It never answered, but only watched. Sometimes I screamed, threw whatever was nearby, trying to force it back to wherever it came from. But it was useless. It stayed silent, and I was always the one who had to clean up afterward. That silence frustrated me more than anything.
All I cared about was taking the test. I repeated to myself: Just hold on. After this, everything will be okay. I can leave. Go somewhere new, where no one knows me, where my past can’t follow. I can become a different person, and start over with a new name, a new life. That idea kept me going. I lost myself in books and practice problems, trying to fill my mind with anything but that smell and that stare.
But no matter how hard I focused, I couldn’t block it out.
It was always there.
Life turned numb. There was just me, and the corpse.
On the night before the exam, I hardly slept.
It lay on the floor beside my bed, eyes wide open, fixed on me. Sometimes I almost imagined it—its fingers seemed to twitch slightly, its chest seemed to move with faint, shallow breaths. But whenever I looked closer, it was completely still. Maybe it was just the maggots.
I got up and went to the bathroom. The light was harsh. In the mirror, my face looked pale and tired, with dark circles under my eyes. The person staring back had a cold, unfamiliar expression—one that uncomfortably resembled the lifeless eyes on the floor.
The reflection started to look more and more like the corpse.
I couldn’t get that face out of my head—the face of the corpse. A face completely drained of life, so tired that not even death could take away its exhaustion. And those eyes… already dead, yet still watching. Still watching, watching, always watching.
In the mirror, I saw the corpse again.
It was still WATCHING.
I leaned over the sink, and threw up.
On the morning of the exam, I woke up.
In the past, every time I opened my eyes, I would notice small shifts in its position. Its head might be tilted a little more than yesterday, those hollow eyes perfectly aligned with where I slept. It was as if it had adjusted itself quietly during the night, just to keep watching me.
But now, the corpse had lost all shape—hardly recognizable anymore, just a mess of rot and torn cloth. Yet somehow, its eyes remained untouched, lodged deep in the decay, still fixed on me.
I hurried to the bathroom and threw up. Afterward, I splashed cold water on my face and stared into the mirror.
I still hated the person looking back—but at least he was clean. At least he was alive.
Then I walked out. As usual, I didn’t look down when I stepped over it.
The examination hall was quiet, filled only with the sound of pens scratching on paper. I focused completely on my test, losing myself in the questions. Strangely, for those few hours, it didn’t bother me at all—I didn’t smell anything, didn’t feel it watching. I wrote down everything I could remember.
When it was over, I went home.
It was gone.
Nothing was left on the floor—no stain, no mark, no trace. The air was still and clear. I took a deep breath, holding onto that fragile calm. Maybe now I could go back to my bedroom. Maybe now I could sleep.
But as I stood in the doorway, that cold feeling returned. The sensation of eyes on my neck. Without hesitation, I turned away. I slept on the sofa that night.
Indeed, the smell had disappeared. Yet something deeper than instinct told me it was still here, waiting in silence. Something that implicit if I opened that door, I would see it again: a pair of rotten eyes, staring out from the dark.
Even disappeared, it never stopped WATCHING.
I never slept in the bedroom again.
The day the results came out, the sky was clear. I walked up to the bulletin board and pushed through the crowd. My name was on the list. I had passed! A huge wave of relief washed over me. It was over. Everything was over.
I turned around, ready to go back, pack my things, and leave this damn place for good. No goodbyes—there was no one left to say goodbye to.
That morning, I put on my coat, picked up my suitcase, and was ready to walk out into my new life. But as I opened the door, I saw it. There it stood—just a few steps away, looking exactly like me. Same clothes. Same face. Alive. The sunlight fell sharply on it, making the moment feel brutally real.
It looked at me, eyes hollow. Empty.
Then it raised its hands.
I was thrown violently to the ground, its grip closing around my neck. Its face never changed, blank, detached, but its hands pressed harder, growing even colder. I wanted to say something, to struggle, to fight back. But I didn’t. I just lay there, staring up into its vacant eyes, watching them silently.
As the world faded, I thought of the corpse one last time.
It was another new day. A new city. A new life. I opened my eyes and drew a slow breath, ready to embrace my new day.
Then the smell hit me.
A foul, Rotten smell.
I turned my head and looked toward the floor beside the bed.
And there it was. A corpse lay there, eyes open, fixed directly on me.
Its face was horribly familiar—so familiar it turned my stomach. It didn’t move. Didn’t speak. It couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and would never leave. It just watched. Always WATCHING.
It was my corpse.
I got up, stepped around it, and began to get dressed.