The Black eyed Children

I wait in the car, bored, while Mom is in the store. It’s dinner time and already pitch black outside. What’s taking her so long?

I yawn and let my head rest on the car seat, nodding off. A loud knock on the driver’s side window startles me awake.

Two boys, one older, one younger, with pale white skin and hoodies pulled over their heads stand by the car, staring blankly at me. “We need a
ride. Will you let us in?” asks one of the boys.

A cold chill runs through me. Something about the pair isn’t right.

“No way,” I say. Were they serious? “My mom will be back soon.”

“We’re just kids; we need a ride,” pleads the older boy.

I don’t want to let them in, but I move my hand slowly to unlock the car. As I’m about to flip the lock and let them inside, I glance up at the boys’ faces one more time and my breath catches in my throat. Their eyes are black as ink.

No irises. No pupils.

“We can’t come in unless you tell us it’s okay,” says the older boy.

I remove my hand from the door lock.

“Let us in!” shouts the smaller boy, slamming both palms on the window.

I turn toward the store for help and see Mom wheeling her cart toward me, unaware. I wave frantically at her, while the boys bang hard on the windows. When I look back, the noise stops and just like that, the black-eyed boys are gone.