Blind Fear: Unraveling the Psychological Maze in Whitefish

I bought a house in the small town of Whitefish. The house wasn’t new, but I didn’t really care. The important part was that I could get out of the city. I had just got out of an abusive relationship a few months ago. He was a narcissist and a control freak, constantly invading my privacy and even planting hidden cameras around the house. While I managed to get him arrested after catching him planting a tracking device, I couldn’t shake the feeling of constantly being watched.

I felt his hidden cameras were everywhere, watching me at home and on the streets, so I decided to move out into the country to somewhere less crowded, just for peace of mind. The house itself was big and somewhat drafty, but otherwise very welcoming. The agent who showed me the house had been obligated to mention that a serial killer had lived here in the past. However, she, and later, my next-door neighbor Annie, both told me not to be too worried. Three other owners had lived there since then, and all of them were very happy during their time here. At least that’s a better deal than what my friend Joan got.

I loved the house. Its interior furnishings were beautiful and very comfortable, although there was a disturbing excess of mirrors. The people of Whitefish were friendly, often inviting me over for dinner. “Be there for each other,” they said after hearing my reason for moving here, “That’s the key to making sure everyone who lives here feels at home.” But after a while, I stopped feeling at home. The sensation of my ex-boyfriend watching returned, worse than before. I tried to ignore it, but soon I started to become paranoid, losing sleep. Perhaps it was because I’d heard too much from Joan and that nasty incident with the house she bought. It was during this time that I heard about The Whitefish Daffodil, the serial killer who had lived in my house. No one knows his exact kill count or methods, but The Whitefish Daffodil was said to be someone with an extremely severe case of narcissism.

People said that he couldn’t feel comfortable unless he felt he was being watched. He was finally exposed after being caught in the act of putting up a scarecrow to watch him during the night. Only it wasn’t a scarecrow. The Daffodil had murdered a 17-year-old girl and turned her into a scarecrow, just so her corpse could stare at him while he slept. He escaped justice, and the police never discovered his real identity. The story gave me chills, and afterwards, I felt like there were hundreds of eyes watching me wherever I was. However, today was the day I finally lost it. I was making breakfast when I felt the eyes on me again, as potent as ever. It was as if my ex-boyfriend was still here.

Instinctively, out of fear, I threw my kitchen knife, which smashed through a mirror, stabbing into the wall. As I looked at the knife I’d pulled out from the wall, I found myself staring back at a pair of eyes, pickled in formaldehyde. I’d been watching the police peel away the wallpapers of my house for hours now. So far, they had found 164 pairs of eyes in little glass jars hidden in fake walls behind the mirrors. Each and every one was staring at me.

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