When he turned seven, he decided that he wasn't afraid of the dark anymore.

He began opening his eyes at night instead of closing them tight like he usually would.

One night, when he opened his eyes, there was a woman standing in the corner of his room. He wasn't afraid.

The next night, the woman was sitting at the foot of his bed, her back turned towards him. She seemed harmless.

The night after that, she was lying beside him, her face turned towards him. She was pretty, except for the red scar, and she stared at him a long time.

The little boy kept his eyes opened for a long time, on many nights. The people in his room didn't really matter to him, even when it got crowded. Old and young, male and female, fully-limbed and not, they were all just there to him. He was oddly unaffected.

They stared at him when his eyes were open, as he looked about the room or spaced out or thought about school. They stared at him a lot. They stared not at his arms or body or legs, they simply stared at his face. All the time. He wondered what they were thinking about when they did that, but eventually he supposed that they mustn't think at all. Spirits have no such capability, after all.

And on a night as normal as the rest, he arose from his sleep, opened his eyes, and his room was crowded as always. He stretched, accustomed to their presence. He closed his eyes and gave a big yawn accompany that stretch. And when he opened his eyes again, the little boy realised that he was blind.

Spirits don't care much for little boys. They don't care about little boys' arms or bodies or legs. They don't even care much for their faces. They possess all (or most) of these things, after all.

It's the eyes, you see. It's the eyes that open at night, that have such light, that radiate such soul, that they can't help but draw near to you. And when the eyes are open at night, they're the only things that shine in the dark.

And spirits, they don't know any better, you see... they can't help themselves. They can only try and take back what they knew when they were alive. And the light in the eyes at night is their compulsion. And they will look at it long and hard before deciding to take it back, even if doesn't belong to them.

ps. This wasn't meant for my literary agent. It was just something that came to me while lying awake at night. With my eyes open, naturally.