Once upon a time, in a distant uncharted land, an old man sat in a rocking chair on the porch of his 3-storey ranch house, a stone in his left hand, a walking stick in the other.
He judged the long, thin trees splintering his view of the ocean, from under his bushy eyebrows. He inhaled, and cast his eyes back, and his mouth crept open to reveal yellowed teeth. Sweeping his thumb across the smooth stone in long, undulating circles, and the trees were pulled from under the earth to a reasonable distance.
He blinked himself back to reality, and without taking his view from the ocean, pocketed his stone and went inside.
The old man spent the next days staring endlessly at the ocean from his living room window. The trees dared not to move back. The stone became heavy in his pocket, and he resigned himself to a stroll, thinking of the ocean all the while.
He came to a highroad, presumably older even than himself. He stood in a gap in the bushes, watching carts and horses pass. He obsered them from beneath his eyebrows. At dusk, posessed by what he had seen, he retired home.
Waking each morning for the following weeks to watch the passers-by on the road the old man became irritable and frustrated.
And then it all started to go wrong.
'DEMONS!' He would yell, stood at the curb of the old road, an old angry man, and beg the passers-by to leave. They barely noticed him, before they were promptly consumed, slipping into the earth in a flurry of dirt and torn flesh.
Days later, and the old man became increasingly angry, screaming and collpsing frequently in his home, sobbing endlessly for hours and exclaiming scornful things at nonsensical things. The trees soon moved back to obscure his ocean view, and his stone felt light. the passers-by continued to walk the old road, but none ever came the same way again, the old angry man banishing them to the earth.
One such day, and the old man was seated in his lounge, staring at the floor in front of his feet amusedly, listening to a radio. Upstairs his bathrtoom mirror splintered, seperating into a thousand pieces, crashing to the floor, and a thousand more. Outside the trees snickered, vertical orange streams flickering between them, gasping and laughing wildy at the scandal. A rat walked into the sea, and didn't come out. The old angry man cringed, and stood to inquire as to the sound's origin. There was no answer.
That night, whilst preparing for sleep, the old man noticed in his kitchen window, a face. More of an expression, or presence- but it was there, and it was horrible. in an instant he hadsnapped shut the door, refusing to go back inside his kitchen, wracked to the temporary image in his peripherals. Time gave him courage, and he took another stride into the room, refusing to glance rightward toward the window as he went about his nightime routine. The old angry man busied himself with making a sandwich, though by this point not even he knew quite why, perhaps for the sake of granting something for his hands familiar. At some point he went into a trance, not by any definition magical, merely one of exhuastion and a rudimental task, such as you might get form working on a field for the long hours of the day.
But then he turned, and was arrested by the sight of the figure, as it were before. Yes, the figure- for it had shoulders beneath it's very circular head, it's mouth a curled non descript grin- the old man's sight of the thing completely locked by it's own insistent gaze. It must have been 8 feet tall to stand halfway up the window given the house's foot high foundations, but no thoughts or images occured to the man of the creature's body, merely it's perfectly circular head, and terrifying eyes that seemed to peek inside you and strangle your scream in your throat. The man's lips parted again to reveal those yellow teeth, but no sound came out. The figure vanished in an instant.
The following night saw the man truly lose his mind. No thoughts of the ocean or the road came to him, instead haunted by that other presence.
The old man was rocking with his legs in his arms in the corner of his bedroom, beside his low bed. Opposite, there was a window, that didn't face the ocean. He knew it would appear. But there as nothing more terrifying than it, and he was immobilised by the empty window, anxious for it's iminent return, incapable of standing up or closing the blind- for fear of seeing it again.
Then it came to him again. Eyes arresting his own, pulling out the scream from his throat before he could even exhale-
The old man died that night. No one walked across the highroad again. The trees have grown taller since. No one knows if the old man is still in there.