The Box Of The Evil Eye

Indubitably, there is nothing about evil that can be deemed rational when it surpasses human comprehension. The madness I suffered was ascribed to a presence from which I could not escape its unyielding dominion.

It wielded absolute control over me; I had become a vile energumen, a participant in its perilous game of subterfuge. I did not know, even in the event of my demise, whether I would be freed from this dominant master, to whom I had been a subservient accomplice. Yet, the destruction of the evil eye seemed my only plausible escape.

The risk I took carried the possibility of my total downfall. Some would call it the act of a madman—and I acknowledge that few would endure what I had suffered so devilishly. I resolved to destroy the evil eye before it became aware of my plot and thwarted me. I knew I had to deceive a being that could not be beguiled easily. By a remarkable coincidence of nature, I discovered a way to distract—if not destroy—it.

Believe me when I forewarn you: the ceaseless horror I encountered was not limited to the last days of my earthly existence. The immeasurable effects of its influence were undeniable, and its wickedness was far from nameless. Its unmistakable name—evil—is incessantly cruel to its enemies.

What you will read is the true account of the events that transpired—a grave and unsettling veracity that may cause you to shudder in sheer fear. This confession, written now in the privacy of my secretaire, will remain here until it is found.

It began with a significant letter addressed to me from J. C. Bethell, Esquire. Mr. Bethell informed me of the untimely death of my grandfather, whom I had always esteemed with genuine affection. I arrived in New Orleans in October of 1849, precisely on a gloomy, cold afternoon, at the ancestral Betancourt estate.

I was a direct descendant of Viscount Antoine Betancourt, whose home I had come to visit from the far-off city of New York. The Betancourt name, French in origin, had been entrenched in New Orleans since colonial days, spanning both the French and Spanish Empires.

The enduring vestiges of French culture and savoir-faire remained embedded among the local denizens, and the Betancourt name was still regarded as illustrious and reputable despite the passing of time. The mansion was located in the French Quarter by the embankment, where the refined Creole elite resided. The long, soiled roads of the countryside that I had seen from the steamboat were replaced by the elaborate, labyrinthine streets of the vibrant city. From the port, the carriage passed down a narrow stretch of road that led to the distinguished Betancourt Mansion.

What I beheld was splendid—a lofty two-story edifice typical of the antebellum South’s grand mansions, with a distinctly French architectural influence. The façade and sturdy pillars spoke of old-world elegance, and the vast garden was a lingering testament to its colonial legacy.

Once at the mansion, I was kindly greeted by the elderly steward, Mr. Beauchamp, who promptly escorted me to my chamber upstairs. The drear structure of the mansion possessed a singular aspect of eerie dread—an aura of death I had never before witnessed.

The somber pall that follows the death of the lord of the house was undeniably present upon my arrival, and the mournful sentiment was plainly expressed in the eyes of the viscount’s servants. The mansion’s interior was a precise replica of the opulent homes one envisions from the Regency period of Paris.

There were commodious rooms and recently refurbished adjacent apartments. The staircase was magnificently crafted, its wooden balusters tinged with sparkling gold. Portraits of the viscount adorned the hallways, countless eyes following my every move.

All of this grandeur stood in stark contrast to the recent tragedy—the mysterious death of the viscount. I could not shake an uncanny premonition about the house that unsettled me, though I was seldom a man easily disturbed by trivial oddities.

While unpacking my belongings, an elderly maidservant of mulatto origin named Serafine tapped on my door to inform me that the family attorney, Mr. Bethell, awaited me in the great hall along with Mr. Beauchamp.

Without delay, I descended to meet them. The hall was particularly somber, its gloom reflective of the viscount’s passing, but what struck me most was the penetrating impression of two men eager—perhaps overly eager—to discern my thoughts and intentions.

The lawyer bore the visage of a grumpy and fastidious man, while the steward appeared watchful and composed. Though the entire situation was unsettling, we began our conversation with cordial salutations and mutual lamentations for the viscount’s death.

Soon the discussion shifted to the matter of my grandfather’s anticipated will. I was well aware that I was the sole heir, ever since the untimely deaths of my father and my cousins, Guillaume and Emmanuel. I listened intently to the lawyer’s precise words, anticipating the formal announcement.

Mr. Bethell revealed that I was entitled to the deed of the Betancourt Mansion, which now belonged to me, as stipulated by the viscount’s final testament. The only condition was that I must preserve the mansion’s grandeur in its original form.

Beyond this, there was one peculiar stipulation—a dire warning not to open the abandoned room upstairs. When I inquired about the reasoning behind such a warning, I was told only that it had been the viscount’s explicit instruction.

At the time, my thoughts were preoccupied with honoring my grandfather’s last wishes. His suicide had haunted my reflections throughout my journey, and I was determined to learn more. I knew that if anyone could shed light on the true cause of his death, it would be Mr. Beauchamp.

After the will was signed and formalized, Mr. Bethell shook my hand and departed, but not before offering his congratulations. His duty concluded, he assured me that any future matters could be addressed at his office on Royal Street. He handed me his business card, and I thanked him for his diligent service.

Mr. Beauchamp, too, took his leave, but before he departed, he fixed me with a grave stare and offered some cautious advice. I was uncertain what he meant to imply, but I listened attentively. He urged me to be judicious in my actions and not to repeat the sins of my grandfather, warning that such transgressions would lead to ruin. When I pressed him for clarification, he merely smiled and said it was best to heed his words.

I then asked directly about the circumstances of my grandfather’s death. His response was measured and unsettling; he said it was better I did not know, and that I should pray for my grandfather’s soul, trusting it now rested in the care of his celestial maker. Troubled by his evasiveness, I nonetheless admired his loyalty to the viscount and dismissed his words as perhaps the ramblings of an old, overly cautious man.

Left alone in the mansion with only a few servants, I retired to my chamber to rest after the long journey from New York. In a state of placid repose, I was unexpectedly awakened by the peculiar sound of a whispering voice outside my chamber door.

Slowly, I rose and stepped into the corridor, intent on discovering the source of the surreptitious voice. But as soon as I ventured out, the whispering ceased abruptly, leaving me confounded and unable to determine its origin. I returned to my room, unsettled.

The next morning, I took breakfast in the dining hall and conversed briefly with Serafine. I was curious about her relationship with the viscount and her opinion of his character. I also inquired about the strange noise I had heard the previous night. She spoke fondly of her rapport with the viscount and suggested that the noise might have been the commotion of the streets outside, or perhaps the creaking of old doors stirred by the bayou’s whistling wind. I was not convinced, but for the time being, I let the matter rest.

After breakfast, I prepared myself for the funeral rites to be held that day for the late viscount. He was to be buried in the local cemetery in the French Quarter, alongside the other Betancourts of our distinguished lineage—a tradition dating back to the first of our ancestors who arrived in the city a century ago.

This hallowed ground also held the remains of my beloved father, who had perished so young in the War of 1812. I had not seen my grandfather in person until my arrival, and nearly two years had passed since our last encounter. Nothing could have prepared me for the ghastly and discomfiting emotions I experienced upon seeing his lifeless form within the coffin. Though he was a man of stature, only a few noblemen attended the private ceremony. According to the servants, while the viscount was well known, he had gathered more enemies than true friends in his lifetime. As per his instructions, the ceremony was brief. He had been born a Catholic, but like myself, was never a devout practitioner of the faith.

There was something immediately distinctive: the unsightly glass eyes set in his sockets, reflecting like luminous crystal balls. At first, I hadn’t noticed the initial eeriness, but as I bent to touch his forehead, I saw those striking, illuminative eyes. One of the servants explained that the viscount had lost his vision and was blind; the glass eyes had been chosen so that no one would see the blindness in his expression if his eyes were ever opened.

This was at the viscount’s own request, and I wasn’t one to question his wishes or instructions. Yet another curious detail stood out—a peculiar object placed around his neck. It resembled some foreign Egyptian or Middle Eastern trinket.

Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a talisman: the apotropaic Hand of Fatima. I learned it had been a gift to the viscount from the Andalusian people during a visit to southern Spain. I was familiar with Europe’s many superstitions and their influence in the Americas, but I hadn’t realized their reach or lasting effect.

Nor had I been informed that my grandfather had belonged to a secret society, the name of which was never disclosed to me. When I pressed for more information, the steward, Mr. Beauchamp, merely nodded, indicating he knew little of these clandestine activities. It became clear that a deepening mystery surrounded the viscount, and I found myself increasingly intrigued.

When I returned to the mansion, I was troubled by these new discoveries about my grandfather. Being naturally inquisitive—and at times captious—I felt compelled to investigate further. I spent the rest of the day wandering the vast estate, exploring the endless narrow corridors upstairs and downstairs. They were ominously dark at night but splendidly radiant at the first light of dawn.

Outside, the sounds of tangled gardens, flapping shutters, riverboats, large steamers, quadroon balls, the polyglot voices of foreigners, and the revelry of adventurers within the city’s circumference were all abundant and lively.

That night, I again heard the familiar voice from the previous evening. It happened around midnight while I was sleeping upstairs. I was awakened by a terrible nightmare—a vision of a bizarre man and a mysterious box adorned with a menacing evil eye both outside and within it.

I awoke drenched in sweat, chills creeping down my spine. Gradually, I realized it had only been a nightmare. Once I regained my composure, I again heard the same voice. I stepped out of the room to investigate, moving quietly through the shadowy corridor until I reached a room at the corner of the second story. The door was shut and secured with a lock.

Without access to the room or a key, I decided it was best to return to my chamber. The next morning, I asked the maidservant, Serafine, about the locked room. Her reaction was guarded, but her explanation seemed reasonable. She told me that no one had occupied the room since the deaths of my grandfather and great-grandfather, Valentin Betancourt, the original lord of the Betancourt Estate. I had heard much about his decorated career and honors, particularly in the French and Indian War, but questions about his true identity still lingered.

Serafine knew little of the man’s personal history and suggested I consult the family archives for more information. I agreed, deciding to delve into that later. For the rest of the day, I focused on urgent estate matters. It was then I learned that the viscount had left behind significant debts. A certain creditor, Mr. Greaves, arrived unannounced, intent on collecting what was owed. He was well aware that I was now the proprietor of the estate.

I was taken aback by how quickly word of the viscount’s death had spread and questioned how he had learned such personal information. He declined to reveal his source but presented legal documentation as proof. His manner was firm and persuasive, and I realized I was at a disadvantage, having no prior knowledge of the viscount’s financial troubles.

I told him I would consult the family lawyer, Mr. Bethall, immediately. Mr. Greaves agreed and said he would return later, as he had other business outside New Orleans. Judging by his stern demeanor, he was serious in both his demands and justification.

His parting words struck me as a veiled warning. I summoned Mr. Bethall, who arrived within the hour, and I explained Mr. Greaves’s visit and his demand to settle the debt. Mr. Bethall then revealed that my grandfather had accumulated many debts due to his reckless and indulgent lifestyle. When I pressed him for clarity, he admitted that the viscount had been descending into madness, driven by an insatiable appetite for pleasure of all kinds.

This was a startling confession—one I had neither suspected nor imagined in such stark terms. The debt was substantial, but what troubled me more was the disturbing nature of the viscount’s behavior.

The more I spoke with Mr. Bethall, the more I sensed he was withholding additional details. I requested access to the viscount’s financial records so I could determine if other debts remained. He assured me that once the documents were prepared, they would be at my disposal. I thanked him and escorted him to the door. Before he left, I asked if he knew anything about the mysterious locked room upstairs, supposedly once occupied by the viscount and his father.

He seemed caught off guard but quickly replied that he knew nothing of the private rooms. After he departed, I stood alone in the main hall, quietly taking in the fine tapestries and silk draperies that adorned the space.

The mystery of the viscount deepened with each revelation. I had known only of his stern, upright reputation but had been ignorant of the private scandals—gambling debts, mistresses, and other indiscretions—that were now being revealed.

The remainder of the day was spent adjusting to my new surroundings and contemplating my next move after learning of the many misdeeds attributed to the viscount. I was seated in the downstairs study, sipping a glass of Burgundy, when I began to hear the recurring, anonymous voice of the stranger of the night. For some inexplicable reason, I felt utterly drawn to its hidden source.

Once again, my inquisitive nature compelled me to investigate, and I did so with sharp attention to every sound around me. I ascended the staircase and reached the mysterious room that had always been closed. I knew only that it was the viscount’s chamber and nothing more. The corridor was empty, as were the other rooms nearby, and I walked toward the door from which the voice was emanating.

At last, I had located the origin of the haunting voice. It was coming from behind the viscount’s door, and I hesitated. Without a key, I was unsure how to gain entry, yet the thought of intrusion tempted me. I decided to try opening the door with the needle of a felt brooch I had found earlier in one of the upstairs rooms.

After several attempts, I finally managed to open the door and stepped inside. The room was in disarray, with thick dust falling from the chandelier. Cobwebs covered the furniture entirely. It was clear the room hadn’t been used in some time, and a shadowy gloom, tinged with decay, filled the space.

I looked around to make sure no familiar servants were near before continuing my search. Seeing none, I moved forward until my eyes caught a striking portrait of the original Viscount Valentin Betancourt hanging above the fireplace.

I observed the colorful features of my great-grandfather and noticed the familiar pose common to all of us Betancourts—a certain debonair air unmistakable in its likeness. But it was his piercing eyes that struck me most, too vivid to ignore. As I touched the frame, I felt something solid behind it. I kept pressing and eventually lifted the portrait, revealing a hidden metal strongbox. I did not know the combination.

How could I open it without the code? To my astonishment, the voice whispered the numbers to me. I dialed them in, and the strongbox opened, revealing an arcane black box within. Immediately I wondered: to whom did this unique box belong?

Why had it been hidden so carefully, as if meant never to be found? One detail caught my eye: a strange depiction of an eye, unsettling in its allure. The voice sounded again, and, as if compelled, I opened the box—only to recoil in horror.

Inside was a glaring, grotesque eye staring at me with chilling lifelikeness. Its lens moved side to side with shocking speed, as though the eye were alive. I slammed the box shut, refusing to open it again. Yet the fixation of that eye seemed to call to me, commanding me to open the box once more.

When I did, the wicked eye peered out, vividly animated, bewitching me with its gaze. The voice grew more forceful and commanding, its influence tightening around my will. I was powerless against its fiendish grasp—until suddenly, the voice stopped. I closed the box and fled the room, terrified by the horrors I had witnessed.

Out in the corridor, I took a deep breath and returned to my room. Serafine, the maidservant, spotted me entering and immediately noticed how shaken I was.

She asked if I had been spooked by a ghost of the mansion. I merely smiled and told her I had been startled by the noises of the busy streets outside. I don’t know why I didn’t mention the vile eye or the box—except that something seemed to prevent me from doing so. Was it the eye’s influence?

Whatever it was, it was trying to control my perception and will. I pondered this as I sat alone, the sheer fact of the eye’s existence enough to disturb my thoughts and ignite my imagination.

I knew I had to solve the mystery of the living eye and the dark secrets of the Betancourt family. That night, I dared to reenter my great-grandfather’s chamber. This time, though the door had been closed, it swung open easily for me. The voice returned, instructing me to open the strongbox and bring the black box back to my room.

I obeyed, and once inside my room, I slowly opened the box again. The sinister eye gazed at me with that same hideous stare. Despite my efforts to resist, I could not break its hold. From that day forward, I was under its terrible influence, unable to offer any true resistance. Suddenly, the box slammed shut as Serafine knocked at my door, informing me that a Miss Lemelle had stopped by earlier and would return the following morning.

The maidservant seemed to sense that something troubled me. I considered confessing the secret of the eye, but its silent order held me back. I assured her it was nothing but fatigue.

In the morning, I awoke to the voice once again, but for a brief moment, I managed to resist its call. Miss Lemelle awaited me in the study—a striking young lady, undeniably attractive. But who was she, and what did she want?

When I met her, our parley concerned her indiscreet affair with the viscount, and I was under the casual impression that she was flirting with me. I later learned she was one of many mistresses of my grandfather, who had been gallivanting much in the city. I presumed I had seen my fair share of conveniences and was a man of pleasantry and impeccable charm—until my convivial encounter with the captivating Miss Lemelle.

True, I was an eligible bachelor, but I succumbed to the lustful pleasures of Miss Lemelle and other women. Scandalous rumors soon circulated of my debauchery and peccant affairs, unbefitting the conduct of a gentleman of my stature.

Within weeks, the evil eye sought to control my every action. My mental faculties were inhibited by its merciless stare and the repetitive voice. In the rare moments when I was strong enough to resist its unyielding power, I seized the chance to appease it. My world began to change drastically; every fanciful whim and carnal desire I had was granted at will. What seemed madness at first evolved into blatant, covetous acceptance.

Weeks passed and then came my first terrible murder. It happened on an otherwise ordinary day, when Mr. Greaves returned to claim the debt the viscount had owed him. The butler at the time, Simon, informed me of his visit while I was in my chamber upstairs, contemplating what to do with the tenacious Mr. Greaves. The evil eye suggested I kill him, as it was the "logical" choice.

I was reluctant, and the notion of being a cold-blooded murderer sickened me to the core. I had no other viable option, and the evil eye masterfully convinced me to dispose of him. Thus, I committed my first crime.

That very night, I murdered Mr. Greaves. I devised a deceptive ruse: I told him I would repay my grandfather’s debt and arranged to meet him near the dock by the river at ten o’clock. I knew the harbor would still be active and raucous. When Mr. Greaves arrived, I was waiting. Though extremely nervous, the evil eye’s voice gave me the confidence to execute the plan.

I hid beside cargo being unloaded from a ship and, at the opportune moment, pushed him from behind. He fell into the depths of the water, where a steamboat crushed him instantly. Dead was Mr. Greaves, and resolved was my grandfather’s pending debt.

His body was found later, and his death was deemed an accident—a mere slip of a drunkard, as he was well known for his temulence. I knew the truth but kept silent. The next victim was Mr. Bethell, the family lawyer. Again, the evil eye’s deadly influence compelled me.

I had uncovered that Mr. Bethell was embezzling from the Betancourt estate and planned to flee to Europe within two days with his ill-gotten wealth. I poisoned his whiskey at my house, and within hours, he was found dead on Bourbon Street. His death was ruled a heart failure.

The third victim was Mr. Beauchamp, the devoted steward, who had colluded with the cunning Mr. Bethell and, worse, had contracted someone to kill me. The evil eye informed me of this treachery, and I planned to mete out retributive justice. I summoned Mr. Beauchamp to the estate under the pretense of a meeting. As he stood at the top of the staircase, I pushed him from behind. He didn’t see me coming, and in the reflection of a mirror, only a shadowy figure was perceived—an imperceptible, unidentified man. Luckily, no servants were present to witness the macabre act.

The final murder was of the lovely Miss Lemelle. Her disingenuous duplicity had betrayed me, and for the sake of my reputation and honor, I had to get rid of her. In the main hall, while we were in a tender embrace, I covered her mouth with a handkerchief until she gasped her last breath. Of all the deaths, I regretted none; they were all deserving. Miss Lemelle, too, had been part of the plot to murder me.

Of contemptible malice, you say I am—but I contend that a monster like me is no worse than they, if I am guilty of murder in the greater scheme. One cannot forget the appalling madness and trepidatious horror that commanded my will—the evil eye.

Despite my every effort to escape its grim influence and echoing voice, I failed miserably. Pantagruelian banquets for forbidden guests were held weekly, and my concupiscence was insatiable. For weeks and months, the evil eye wielded dominion over me. I caroused through New Orleans at night, in search of satisfying my incredible passions and penchants for liquor.

Beyond selfish indulgence and restraint, I believed my mischievous deeds would remain unsuspected. But one day, near Lafayette Square at St. Charles Avenue, close to Gallier Hall, I was approached by a gentleman who claimed to know of my murders.

He identified himself as Mr. Burnett and tried to blackmail me. I was not intimidated and dismissed his accusations as bluff. I even dared him to report me to the authorities, which he swore to do. He warned me repeatedly, but I scoffed and laughed in his face, emboldened with abderian wit.

I left him at the square, and that same night, New Orleans police knocked on the mansion’s door. Unprepared for their visit, I felt a flicker of nervousness. They questioned me about the deaths of Mr. Beauchamp, Mr. Greaves, Mr. Bethell, and Miss Lemelle. I denied involvement, claiming ignorance of any foul play.

Lacking evidence or reliable witnesses, they had only the testimony of a bitter man, as I pointed out. Mr. Burnett had no viable proof, and I provided alibis for each murder, quelling their suspicion. They departed, but I wasn’t certain they wouldn’t return. For my safety, I knew I had to eliminate Mr. Burnett.

It wasn’t fear but prudence that drove me. The evil eye, ever attentive, overheard the conversation and reinforced my resolve. I lay in wait outside Mr. Burnett’s hotel on Tulane Avenue. When he emerged, I followed him to Loyola Avenue, where he paused to meet someone.

Therefore, I had to kill that conniving, scurrilous scoundrel. I had once thought of exacting revenge through interment—burying him alive—but that seemed more a nuisance than a true solution. I waited outside the hotel where he was staying on Tulane Avenue, lurking until he stepped out.

When I spotted him, I followed at a distance as he made his way to Loyola Avenue, where he appeared to be waiting for someone. I had planned to strangle him, but a fortuitous opportunity arose. A heavy wagon, playing the operonicon known as a calliope, clattered by, frightening the horses of another large carriage.

The result? The instant death of the fastidious Mr. Burnett. I hid in the corner of the street, remaining unseen as his lifeless body lay crushed beneath the wheels. My problem had been solved—or so I thought.

Upon my return to the mansion, I was confronted by the maidservant, Serafine, standing rigidly in the corridor by the main hall. Her expression was unmistakable. At first, I wasn’t sure what to make of it until she declared she knew everything—including the murders I had audaciously committed. I denied any involvement and insisted I had no idea what she was talking about.

She mentioned the box and the evil eye, claiming to be aware of its corrupting influence. Then she told me the ancient tale: my great-grandfather, Valentin Betancourt, during a trip to Spain, was gifted the box containing the evil eye—but succumbed to its terrible power. In his madness, he had attempted to take his own life but failed. Ultimately, my great-grandfather was murdered by his own son—my grandfather, Antoine Betancourt.

The revelation was unfathomable, a truth so inscrutable and shocking that my mind reeled. Why had he killed his own father? And whose eye was in the box?

At that moment, the voice of the evil eye interjected, urging me to ignore the truth. My thoughts spiraled; I could no longer think rationally. I was descending into madness, my heart pounding with a swift, unbearable beat.

For a fleeting moment, I resisted the relentless whisper of the evil eye. I begged Serafine to tell me whose eye it was. Her answer left me shaken. It was the eye of my great-grandfather, the original Viscount Valentin Betancourt.

I was staggered, confused, and before she could elaborate, the power of the evil eye surged, commanding me to kill the maidservant. I had once claimed I felt no remorse for the murders I’d committed, but I was wrong—terribly wrong. There was one death I regretted: Serafine’s. Her fate was sealed; she had to die to keep silent.

In that fateful moment, my right eye transformed into glass, identical to the eye I had seen in my grandfather’s corpse. I scarcely remember how I killed her—only that I did. One of my eyes had become glass, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the other would follow, transforming me from man into monster. I had eliminated my last obstacle—or so I thought. One witness remained: the evil eye.

But who would believe me if I claimed the evil eye was the true culprit? The eye would never betray me, so long as I obeyed its will. It sought to replace my eyes, just as it had tried with my grandfather.

Soon after, the police returned to the estate, this time determined to question me about Mr. Greaves’s murder. A witness had surfaced, claiming to have seen me near the scene shortly after the death. I was jittery, covering my glass eye with spectacles, claiming my eye had reddened with time. The officer sensed my anxiety, but without solid evidence, he couldn’t tie me to the crime.

They left, but the evil eye wasn’t finished. Its verdict: Officer Bordeaux had to be exterminated like a sewer rat. I was torn between dread and the fading hope of salvation. I refused to meet the same fate as my forebears.

I dismissed the remaining servants and, in moments when I briefly resisted the eye’s influence, I planned my escape. Yet the murderous urge simmered, and I agreed—reluctantly—to kill the officer. I sent a mysterious note under an alias, baiting him with details only the real murderer would know.

We arranged to meet at the corner of Esplanade Avenue under cover of night. I waited in disguise, tense and ready. A dog’s loud barking broke the stillness, followed by the approaching footsteps of a man. When the officer arrived, I attacked him from behind with a metal rod—only to realize too late that it wasn’t Officer Bordeaux. It was another policeman, part of a clever ruse to trap me. I managed to escape, but the officer had torn off my false mustache and beard, recognizing me.

I fled, a hunted animal, dashing back to the estate. I raced upstairs and into the tunnels beneath the cellar that led to the sewers and canal. The evil eye urged me toward escape on a steamboat.

As I was about to flee, I heard loud tapping at the mansion’s front door. The police announced themselves, ready to arrest me. I clutched the box of the evil eye and ran down the stairs.

We escaped. I fled to Charleston by steamboat, never to return to New Orleans or the Betancourt estate. The stranger I had seen so often was, in truth, the ghost of my great-grandfather.

One ordinary day in the West Indies, I decided I could no longer bear the infernal madness. I resolved to end my life abruptly. I couldn’t continue as a maniacal killer, enslaved by the evil eye’s relentless grip.

It was in the stillness of the night that I finally realized how far I had fallen. The mansion, once a place of refuge, had become a labyrinth of shadows, each corner hiding memories I longed to forget. The rooms were filled with echoes of voices that no longer spoke, faces I could no longer see. The only constant, the only presence that remained, was the evil eye. It lingered, always watching, always controlling.

I sat in my study, the box resting on the desk before me. The eye glowed faintly, like a dying ember, but its power was as potent as ever. It had been years since I had first encountered it, and yet, I felt no closer to understanding its true nature. How had something so small, so seemingly innocuous, become the center of my existence?

I could feel its gaze upon me now, even though it was closed within the box. It was always there, always watching, always whispering. And yet, it had never been enough to satisfy its hunger. I had killed countless times, each death a desperate attempt to free myself, but the eye had only grown stronger. Each victim, each soul I sent into the abyss, had only fed the eye’s insatiable hunger for more. It had become a cycle—endless, unyielding.

I couldn’t escape. The evil eye would never allow it.

But upon that night, I had made a decision. I would end it. I had to confess. I had to speak the truth before the madness consumed me entirely. The police would come. They would piece together the horrors I had committed, and I would finally be arrested for my brutal crimes.

I took the pen in my hand, the ink gliding smoothly across the paper as I began to write. My confession was simple, but it was the only thing left for me to do. I wrote of the murders, of the lives I had taken, of the influence of the evil eye. It wasn’t just a tale of my descent into madness—it was a plea for redemption, a cry for help that I knew would never be answered.

When the letter was finished, I folded it carefully, placing it in an envelope. I knew it would be found eventually—when the police came to investigate, when they searched the house, when they finally uncovered the truth. It was only a matter of time.

I stared at the box one last time, my eyes filling with consternation. I had failed. I had allowed the evil eye to take everything from me—my soul, my sanity, my humanity. There was nothing left.

As I stood, ready to leave the room and face the consequences of my actions, I heard a soft sound behind me. At first, I thought it was the wind, but then it grew louder, more insistent. I turned around, my heart pounding in my chest. It was the voice of my madness.

In my final confession, which I left behind for the authorities, I admitted my guilt in those horrendous murders. But I insisted it was the evil eye that commanded me, making me its helpless accomplice. Perhaps it sounded like lunacy, but I prayed my grievous sins would be expiated by my demise.

The tropical heat clung to my skin like a second layer, suffocating and relentless. Sweat trickled down my back as I trudged through the dense underbrush of the jungle, the scent of saltwater heavy in the humid air. The West Indies, with its lush, wild beauty, felt like a prison. A prison I couldn’t escape, no matter how far I ran.

I hadn’t seen another soul for hours, but the silence only deepened the madness that festered in my mind. The evil eye was never far, always watching from within me, whispering in my ear, feeding on my guilt, my fear, my shattered sanity.

I stumbled through the thick vines, my mind a blur of distorted thoughts. The images that haunted me—those damned images of the people I had betrayed, their eyes wide with terror, their faces contorted in pain—flickered in and out of my vision. I could still hear their screams, still feel their hands reaching out for me, begging for mercy. I had ignored them all. I had done worse than that. I had reveled in their suffering, all at the bidding of the eye.

The curse of the black box had been my undoing. I had thought it was nothing more than a strange artifact, some trinket to dabble with, something to amuse me. But when I opened it, when I unleashed the power of the eye, I had sealed my fate. Now, there was no escaping it, no escaping what I had become.

I sank to my knees on the muddy earth, my breath shallow, my chest tight. The weight of the guilt was unbearable, and yet I couldn’t stop running. I had tried. I had tried to make amends, but the eye—no, it—was always there. It followed me, deeper and deeper into the jungle, as though it were a part of the land itself. It was as though the very soil of the West Indies had become tainted, cursed by the evil that I had awakened.

The faint sound of waves crashing against the shore reached my ears, reminding me that I was not far from the ocean, from the very coast where my journey had begun. I had thought I could outrun it. I had thought I could leave it all behind, escape to the vast expanse of the sea. But the ocean, with its rolling waves and its winds, was no more free than the jungle. Both were bound by the same curse, the same malignant presence that had taken hold of me.

I pulled myself to my feet, leaning against the trunk of a tree, my hands slick with sweat. The heat was unbearable now, as if the air itself was trying to suffocate me. My eyes burned with fatigue, and yet I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed them, I saw the eye. It was always there, lurking in the dark corners of my mind, its gaze fixed on me.

“You cannot hide from me,” the voice in my head which was cold and serpentine uttered. “You are mine.”

I pressed my hands to my temples, trying to block out the voice, trying to block out the nightmare that had become my life. But there was no escaping it. No escaping the eye.

I thought back to the first time I had opened that box—how I had felt the strange pull, the magnetic force of it. It had whispered to me, promised me power, control, things I had longed for but never had. It had offered me a glimpse into the depths of human desire, a power beyond my wildest dreams. But I hadn’t understood what I was truly asking for. I hadn’t realized that the eye was not something to be wielded. It was something to be feared.

I had used it. Used it to twist the world to my will, to manipulate and destroy those around me. But now, it was me who was twisted. Me who was destroyed.

The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the jungle, the sky painted in hues of orange and red. The evening breeze rustled the leaves, and for a moment, I thought I heard footsteps behind me. I turned sharply, my heart racing, but no one was there. Only the endless jungle and the sound of the ocean crashing in the distance.

I tried to move forward, but the weight of my own thoughts held me back. How many had I killed? How many had suffered because of me? I thought of an the old woman, her face wrinkled and wise, her eyes filled with the knowledge of the island’s curses. She had warned me. She had told me the story of the evil eye, how it was a curse passed down through generations, a power that no mortal should ever seek to control. She had told me that once the eye was unleashed, there was no turning back.

But I had been too arrogant. Too desperate. I had ignored the warnings, thinking I was invincible. And now, here I was, alone in the heart of the West Indies, hunted by my own actions.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of the ocean. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my thoughts, trying to hold on to the last fragments of who I had been before the eye took hold of me. But there was nothing left. The man I had been was gone. All that remained was a hollow shell, filled with the echoes of the evil eye, whispers that would never cease.

I had tried to escape, but there was no escaping the truth. There was no running from the monster I had become. And in the silence of the jungle, I realized that the true prison wasn’t the eye, or the curse, or the land that had been tainted by my actions. It was me.

I was the prisoner now.

The waves crashed against the shore again, louder this time, as if calling me, beckoning me to the edge of the world. But I knew better. The ocean was no escape. The eye would follow me wherever I went.

It always did.

Even in my distant island refuge, the evil eye’s control endured. My killing spree continued until, one day, in my private chamber, I finally summoned the strength to resist. It was then that a strange occurrence caught my eye—a dead plant, brittle and lifeless, standing as a silent omen.

When I examined the plant, I noticed it had withered and grown etiolated. For a brief moment, I thought of the light, and how sensitive it was to the human eye. The sun's ray, which had entered the room, shone too brightly and bothered me. It was at that precise moment that I realized the light could harm or even destroy the evil eye.

I had planned to drink a glass of wine mixed with enough poison to end my life, but I hesitated. I had to test my theory and see if the evil eye was truly sensitive to the light. The eye had always been confined to darkness, locked in the box. I knew it could sense my intentions through my facial expressions—it read my mind and controlled me.

I went upstairs to the room where the box was kept, determined to trick the evil eye. I walked toward the closed window and slowly lifted the curtains. As I reached for the box, I felt the eye’s awareness. It knew my deception, and it tried to force me to abort my plan. But I resisted its oppressive will. I carried the box to the window, opened it, and let the sunlight stream in. That’s when the light began to cause the evil eye to die and bleed.

The eye tried to enter my own, but I fought back. Then, it began to absorb my eye—my glass eye was turning into the evil eye. In desperation, I hurled myself out of the window, breaking the glass as I fell to the ground. When I hit the earth, I was found dead, with a glaring glass eye.

On the table in my room, there was an inanimate object—a horrifying black box. After my death, the police discovered the box, along with my grisly confession. One of the servants, who had witnessed my fall from the window, told them of my demise. Upon retrieving the black box, the police saw a strange eye depicted on its surface. When they opened it, they found something unspeakable inside. The dark film of the eye seemed to reflect with malevolent intent. Yes, the evil eye was not dead—it had moved!

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