Who are these children with the black eyes and odd demeanor whose intentions are unknown? They, deceitfully, try to pry their way into your home, or car as you will read about, using their child-like charms and unscrupulous manners. Most people with a brain, however, won’t let them in. Not because they are children, or rather, strangers but primarily because their eyes are filled with the darkness that is black. The children are often described as being peculiar in their actions and motions that pulsate a sense of danger or caution into an individual.
A journalist by the name of Brian Bethel was the first to document an account, or rather a frightening interaction, with the black eyed kids, or BEK, in 1998. Here is his story as first posted on the internet:
I don’t really know what I’d call this story if I was submitting it for publication in Fate or something of its ilk. “Brian vs. the Evil, Black-eyed, Possibly Vampiric or Demonic But At Least Not Bloody Normal Kids” doesn’t have much of a ring to it. (Shrug.) 
But that’s at least an accurate title.
As so many things do, it all started out innocently.
My Internet Service Provide used to have offices in a shopping center before they moved to their (comparatively) lush accommodations elsewhere. There was a drop box at that original location. The monthly bill was due, and thus, there but for the Grace of the Net I went.
It was about 9:30 p.m. when I left. From my relatively isolated apartments, it’s about 10-15 minutes or so to downtown (Abilene has a population of about 110,000).
Right next to Camalott Communications’ old location is a $1.50 movie theater. At the time, the place was featuring that masterwork of modern film, Mortal Kombat. I drove by the theater on the way into the center proper and pulled into an empty parking space.
Using the glow of the marquee to write out my check, I was startled to hear a knock on the driver’s-side window of my car.
I looked over and saw two children staring at me from street. I need to describe them, with the one feature (you can guess what it was) that I didn’t realize until about half-way through the conversation cleverly omitted.
Both appeared to be in that semi-mystical stage of life children get into where you can’t exactly tell their age. Both were boys, and my initial impression is that they were somewhere between 10-14.
Boy No. 1 was the spokesman. Boy No. 2 didn’t speak during the entire conversation — at least not in words.
Boy No. 1 was slightly taller than his companion, wearing a pull-over, hooded shirt with a sort of gray checked pattern and jeans. I couldn’t see his shoes. His skin was olive-colored and had curly, medium-length brown hair. He exuded an air of quiet confidence.
Boy No. 2 had pale skin with a trace of freckles. His primary characteristic seemed to be looking around nervously. He was dressed in a similar manner to his companion, but his pull-over was a light green color. His hair was a sort of pale orange.
They didn’t appear to be related, at least directly.
“Oh, great,” I thought. “They’re gonna hit me up for money.” And then the air changed.
I’ve explained this before, but for the benefit of any new lurkers out there, right before I experience something strange, there’s a change in perception that comes about which I describe in the above manner. It’s basically enough time to know it’s too late. 
So, there I was, filling out a check in my car (which was still running) and in a sudden panic over the appearance of two little boys. I was confused, but an overwhelming sense of fear and unearthliness rushed in nonetheless.
The spokesman smiled, and the sight for some inexplicable reason chilled my blood. I could feel fight-or-flight responses kicking in. Something, I knew instinctually, was not right, but I didn’t know what it could possibly be.
I rolled down the window very, very slightly and asked “Yes?”
The spokesman smiled again, broader this time. His teeth were very, very white.
“Hey, mister, what’s up? We have a problem,” he said. His voice was that of a young man, but his diction, quiet calm and … something I still couldn’t put my finger on … made my desire to flee even greater. “You see, my friend and I want to see the films, but we forgot our money,” he continued. “We need to go to our house to get it. Want to help us out?”
Okay. Journalists are required to talk to lots of people, and that includes children. I’ve seen and spoken to lots of them. Here’s how that usually goes:
“Uh … M … M … Mister? Can I see that camera? I … I won’t break it or anything. I promise. My dad has a camera, and he lets me hold it sometimes, I guess, and I took a picture of my dog — it wasn’s very good, ’cause I got my finger in the way and …”
Add in some feet shuffling and/or body swaying and you’ve got a typical kid talking to a stranger.
In short, they’re usually apologetic. People generally teach children that when they talk to adults, they’re usually bothering them for one reason or another and they should at least be polite.
This kid was in no way fitting the mold. His command of language was incredible and he showed no signs of fear. He spoke as if my help was a foregone conclusion. When he grinned, it was as if he was trying to say, “I know something … and you’re NOT gonna like it. But the only way you’re going to find out what it is will be to do what I say …”
“Uh, well …” was the best reply I could offer.
Now here’s where it starts to get strange.
The quiet companion looked at the spokesman with a mixture of confusion and guilt on his face. He seemed in some ways shocked, not with his friend’s brusque manner but that I didn’t just immediately open the door.
He eyed me nervously.
The spokesman seemed a bit perturbed, too. I still was registering something wrong with both.
“C’mon, mister,” the spokesman said again, smooth as silk. Car salesmen could learn something from this kid. “Now, we just want to go to our house. And we’re just two little boys.”
That really scared me. Something in the tone and diction again sent off alarm bells. My mind was frantically trying to process what it was perceiving about the two figures that was “wrong.”
“Eh. Um ….” was all I could manage. I felt myself digging my fingernails into the steering wheel.
“What movie were you going to see?” I asked finally.
“Mortal Kombat, of course,” the spokesman said. The silent one nodded in affirmation, standing a few paces behind.
“Oh,” I said. I stole a quick glance at the marquee and at the clock in my car. Mortal Kombat had been playing for an hour, the last showing of the evening.
The silent one looked increasingly nervous. I think he saw my glances and suspected that I might be detecting something was not above-board.
“C’mon, mister. Let us in. We can’t get in your car until you do, you know,” the spokesman said soothingly. “Just let us in, and we’ll be gone before you know it. We’ll go to our mother’s house.”
We locked eyes.
To my horror, I realized my hand had strayed toward the door lock (which was engaged) and was in the process of opening it. I pulled it away, probably a bit too violently. But it did force me to look away from the children.
I turned back. “Er … Um …,” I offered weakly and then my mind snapped into sharp focus.
For the first time, I noticed their eyes.
They were coal black. No pupil. No iris. Just two staring orbs reflecting the red and white light of the marquee.
At that point, I know my expression betrayed me. The silent one had a look of horror on his face in a combination that seemed to indicate: A) The impossible had just happened and B) “We’ve been found out!”
The spokesman, on the other hand, wore a mask of anger. His eyes glittered brightly in the half-light.
“Cmon, mister,” he said. “We won’t hurt you. You have to LET US IN. We don’t have a gun …”
That last statement scared the living hell out of me, because at that point by his tone he was plainly saying, “We don’t NEED a gun.”
He noticed my hand shooting down toward the gear shift. The spokesman’s final words contained an anger that was complete and whole, and yet contained in some respects a tone of panic:
“WE CAN’T COME IN UNLESS YOU TELL US IT’S OKAY. LET … US …. IN!”
I ripped the car into reverse (thank goodness no one was coming up behind me) and tore out of the parking lot. I noticed the boys in my peripheral vision, and I stole a quick glance back.
They were gone. The sidewalk by the theater was deserted.
I drove home in a heightened state of panic. Had anyone attempted to stop me, I would have run on through and faced the consequences later.
I bolted into my house, scanning all around — including the sky.
What did I see? Maybe nothing more than some kids looking for a ride.
And some really funky contacts. Yeah, right.
A friend suggested they were vampires, what with the old “let us in” bit and my compelled response to open the door. That and the “we’ll go see our mother” thing.
I’m still not sure what they were, but here’s an epilogue I find chilling:
I talk about Chad a lot. He’s still my best friend, my best ghost-hunting companion and an all-around cool guy. He recently moved to Amarillo, but at the time this happened was still living in San Angelo of Ram Page fame.
I called him and talked to him briefly. He had two female friends with him at the time, both professing some type of psychic ability.
I started telling him the story, leaving out the part about the black eyes for the kicker. One of the women (we were on a speakerphone) stopped me.
“These children had black eyes, right?” she asked. “I mean, all-black eyes?”
“Er … Yes.” I said. I was a bit taken aback.
“Hmmm,” she said. “One night last week, I had a dream about children with black eyes. They were outside my house, wanting to be let in, but there was something wrong with them. It took me a while to realize it was the eyes.”
I hadn’t even gotten as far as them wanting to come in.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I kept the doors and windows locked,” she said. “I knew if they came in, they would kill me.”
She paused.
“And they would have killed you, too, if you had let them into your car.”
So, from this extra-long post, we have three unanswered questions:
A) What did I see?
B) What would have happened if I opened my car door?
C) Why does Chad always get the cool psychic chicks?
Quite creepy, to say the least! One might wonder what would have happened had he let them into the car. Here is another account of the Black-Eyed Kids (BEK) as told by Simon Byrne:
I’m a 21-year-old student graduate from England and was browsing the website when chance took me upon account of black-eyed kids. I never thought I’d recount what I’m about to say as it affected me deeply.
About three years ago, I arrived in London. I was a new student on a lovely university that had a beautiful, huge wooded campus. Into my second week everything was going well. I’d made friends and we had begun to have social gatherings in the woods. This usually involved wine, tinned food and campfires. It was pretty good.
One night I was invited out to one, except I had a big essay to finish. I told them I’d catch up with them later as I knew where it was. The accommodation block I was in was pretty empty. It was completely segregated for about 500 metres from the main block. Apparently, a big party was happening. This didn’t trouble me as there were huge fluorescent lights everywhere.
I got ready and was just about to open the door when I realized there was a pretty girl on the other side. This wasn’t unusual as friends visit friends and I don’t mind opening the main door. I was just finding my keys when my mind just went black. It was as if my mind had hit a huge wall of dread. I looked at the girl and the thought struck me that she hadn’t said a word. I’m not an unattractive guy, but this girl was looking so intently at me that I found it extremely uncomfortable. It was as if she had a horrible, horrible longing or intent. I’ve realized that usually when strangers have plans, they don’t normally do this.
Something was telling me to get back to my room and lock the door, but my social skills said no. I was about to go and she needed to get in. It’s the slowest thing I’ve done, but I started to turn the key. My eyes flicked to her face and I felt very weirdly nauseous. She had started to smile. I kept saying Jesus over and over in my head. When the door opened, she didn’t make an attempt to move. I said, “Well–?” To this day I don’t know why, but something told me not to finish the sentence to which I would have said, “…aren’t you going to come in?”
She talked. It was very very odd. Her voice was like a person that is very boring, but also horribly intelligent. “Invite me in now.” If she had said, “Go on, aren’t you going to invite me in?” I would have took it as flirty girl behaviour. My body was seizing up though. All the happiness was draining from me. This had all happened within a minute, but I’d experienced about a year’s worth of negative feelings. It was when my eyes looked at her eyes when I realized they were horribly shadowed. I just flicked it off as her being a drug addict or something. My eyes naturally turned downwards.
That’s when I realized something was very very inhumanly wrong. Her feet. She had no shoes on or socks. But her feet looked…decayed.They weren’t bloody, while they should have been, but they were horribly cut and yellowed. I looked at her and then something happened. I just realized she was evil. I said in a firm but unsteady voice, “Go away. You’re not wanted. I believe in God and you shouldn’t be here.”
She started snarling, and very oddly she appeared to be trying to get in, but something was preventing her, even though the door was shut. It didn’t even seem to be me talking. I chanced one last sentence. “You’ll never get what you want.” I shut the door and heard a horrible pounding. I just kept walking. I heard laughing or something, but while this was all happening my hand had already dialed campus security on my mobile. I broke down. I couldn’t even talk. Everything that happened after was a blur. I even had sessions with a councilor, but as I’ve never had any unnecessary breakdowns in my life she couldn’t find anything wrong with me. I was told by a lot of people that I shouldn’t talk about it again. There are a lot of things in this world that don’t belong. I’ll never forget that night though.
