They only move when I'm not looking directly at them.

It started with the floral wallpaper in the hallway — the one my grandmother put up in the seventies. The pattern always had these little circles that could almost be eyes if you squinted. I never paid much attention until I moved back into the old house last month.

The first time I noticed was when I was carrying boxes. Out of the corner of my eye, one of the circles seemed to shift. When I turned to look, it was just wallpaper. Normal. Static.

But the shifting kept happening.

I'd walk down the hallway and feel watched. In my peripheral vision, the pattern would rearrange itself — circles becoming pupils, vines twisting into lashes. When I whipped my head around, everything snapped back to innocent flowers.

I started testing it.

I'd stand perfectly still, staring straight ahead, and use a hand mirror to watch the wall behind me. Nothing. The pattern stayed put. But the moment I looked away from the mirror — even for a fraction of a second — I could see the eyes forming, blinking, following my reflection.

They learned my habits.

When I cooked, the eyes in the kitchen wallpaper would watch my hands on the knife. When I read in bed, the bedroom ones would lean closer, as if trying to read over my shoulder. When I showered, the bathroom ones... well, I started taking faster showers.

Last week I tried covering them. Painted over the hallway wallpaper with flat white. The next morning, the eyes were back — not in the pattern, but pressed against the fresh paint from the inside, creating raised bumps that pulsed faintly when I walked past.

They're getting bolder.

This morning I caught one moving while I was looking directly at it. Just for a moment — a single blink that happened too slowly to be imagination. When I stepped closer, the wall was smooth again.

But I know what I saw.

They're learning that I know.

And they're tired of pretending.