The Attic Eye

I’m shaking. My hands won’t stop. Been up in the attic for hours, just trying to clear some stuff. My mom’s old boxes mostly. Dust everywhere, smells like mothballs and forgotten things.

Pulled out this one box. Had my name on it, scrawled in crayon. “Jessica.” My second-grade teacher’s handwriting. Nostalgia hit me like a brick.

Opened it up. Inside – my old report cards, a handful of dried dandelions, terrible drawings. Felt good for a second. Safe. Like going back.

Then I saw him. Buried under everything else. My lopsided clay rabbit. Made him in kindergarten art class. Mr. Henderson helped me with the ears. I remember it so clearly. He was my favorite thing for months.

Picked him up. Expected the light, brittle feel of dried clay.

But he was heavy. Way too heavy. And there was this weird, faint line running all the way around his middle. Like he was made in two pieces.

My heart started pounding. Didn’t know why. Just a feeling. I ran a thumbnail along the line. The dried paint flaked off. Then the clay started to chip away.

Underneath… wasn’t more clay. Or plaster.

It was something grey. Smooth. Like dull glass. Embedded right there. Right in the middle of his belly.

I scratched harder. More clay fell. The grey thing was round. Perfect circle. And it looked… *looked* like it was staring back.

I chipped away the last bit covering it.

It was a small, grey lens. Flush with the surface. Like an eye.My breath hitched. A lens. Embedded in my kindergarten art project. It made no sense. My fingers trembled as I turned the rabbit over in my hands, examining every inch. The rest was undeniably clay, painted a cheerful, if slightly uneven, brown. But this lens… it was alien. Cold to the touch.

I ran downstairs, the rabbit clutched tight in my hand. Mom was in the kitchen, humming as she chopped vegetables.

“Mom,” I said, my voice shaking. “Do you remember this?” I held out the rabbit.

She glanced at it, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Oh, sweetie, your little bunny! You loved that thing. Made it in kindergarten, right?”

“Yes,” I said, forcing myself to stay calm. “But Mom, look at this.” I pointed to the lens. “Do you remember this? Was it always there?”

She squinted, pushing her glasses up her nose. “A… lens? Jessica, I don’t remember anything like that. Are you sure it’s the same rabbit?”

“Positive,” I said, my voice rising. “I remember making it. I remember Mr. Henderson helping me. But this wasn’t part of it. I know it wasn’t.”

Mom frowned. “Maybe it was a button or something that fell off something else and got stuck in the clay while it was drying? You were a messy kid.”

That didn’t explain the smooth, perfect fit. Or the feeling of dread that was creeping through me.

I went back to the attic, the rabbit my only companion. I found my old kindergarten class photo. There was Mr. Henderson, smiling and kind-looking, surrounded by a gaggle of five-year-olds. I scanned the picture, searching for… what? A clue? Something that would make sense of this.

Then I saw it. A small, almost imperceptible glint in Mr. Henderson’s eye. Not the normal reflection of light. This was… metallic. Grey.

I grabbed my laptop and started searching. Mr. Henderson. Kindergarten. The year I was in his class. Nothing. Pages and pages of nothing. It was like he never existed.

Panic swelled in my chest. This wasn’t just about a weird lens in a clay rabbit. This was about something bigger, something hidden.

I looked back at the rabbit. The lens seemed to shimmer in the dim attic light. An idea, crazy as it sounded, bloomed in my mind. What if… what if it was a camera?

I held the rabbit up to my eye, covering my other eye and focusing on the lens. The world seemed to sharpen, to become unnaturally clear. And then… I saw it. Not the attic, not the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. I saw a series of numbers, flickering green against a black background. Like a computer screen.

My head swam. I pulled the rabbit away from my eye, stumbling backwards. What was I seeing? Where was I seeing it?

I looked back at the rabbit, the fear a cold knot in my stomach. This wasn’t a childhood memento. This was something else entirely. Something dangerous.

Suddenly, a sharp pain exploded in my head. I cried out, dropping the rabbit. The attic spun. I could hear a faint buzzing sound, growing louder and louder.

Then, everything went black.

I woke up in my bed, the morning sun streaming through the window. Had it all been a dream? I sat up, my head pounding.

Then I saw it. On my nightstand. The clay rabbit. Still lopsided, still brown, still… there.

I picked it up, my heart in my throat. The lens was gone. In its place was a small, perfectly round hole. Like something had been carefully removed.

The buzzing was gone too. But the feeling lingered. The feeling of being watched. The feeling that my childhood, my memories, had been tampered with.

I knew one thing for sure. The rabbit was more than just a piece of clay. And my childhood, my whole life, would never be the same.