In the black hours—when the world blinks, and shadows swell too thick for reason—there is a place where no candle dares to burn. That is where Hellin lives.
Hellin was not born—she was remembered.
Long ago, when the first humans began to fear the dark, they whispered shapes into it: a claw here, an eye there, a voice that slithered.
The dark listened.
And from their fear, it stitched a body. That body was Hellin.
She is not flesh. Not exactly.
Her skin is an ever-turning collage of eyes—watching everything, never blinking.
She wears them like a tapestry, each gaze stolen from something that looked too long.
Her limbs twist as if half-remembered. Bones bend in places they shouldn’t, like a marionette carved by someone who never quite understood anatomy.
What Hellin does best is wait—behind curtains, in half-closed closets, at the edge of a candle’s light.
She does not lunge.
She does not roar.
She watches. Patiently.
They say that if you wake in the middle of the night and feel you are not alone, Hellin is nearby—counting the seconds between your breaths.
If you open your eyes too quickly, you might see a half-formed shadow looming at the foot of your bed.
Almost staring.
Trembling slightly.
As though unsure whether to shift closer—or vanish.
Hellin is not evil in a penny novel kind of way. She does not seek vengeance, blood or gory.
She craves presence in the weight of another’s gaze. Every eye stitched into her skin was taken from someone who stared too long. Not gouged, not torn, but lifted. Their sight simply… migrated to her.
Those who meet Hellin often live—but they exist differently.
They speak of empty sockets in dreams. Of seeing without eyes.
Of visions slipping between worlds like water between fingers.
They become haunted by doorways, mirrors, half-shadows—
Because those are the places Hellin favours.
The cracks between knowing and not knowing.
The old belief goes:
If you whisper your name three times before sleep, Hellin cannot take your eyes.
(For names weigh more than sight.)
But if you forget—if you let sleep swallow you without anchoring yourself—
Then Hellin may come.
And gather you.
Some claim she is lonely.
That Hellin’s endless watching is not hunger, but longing.
That she stitches eyes onto herself only because she has none of her own—
And cannot see the world unless she borrows yours.
Maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Or maybe it’s mercy.
They say Hellin is stoic.
And that even-temperedness is more terrifying than hunger.
Hunger drives creatures to strike.
But tranquillity?
That waits.
Forever.
Hellin squints—
Glaring at the sky with her left eye.
Glaring at the sky with her right.
天地眼
The eye of heaven and earth.
