Chapter 32. The Watcher
The Watcher
I see what’s happening: You’re settling in, finding friends.
You’re here for the long haul. I watched through your window as you opened the desecrated book.
That must have been quite a fright. It looked like it was burnt and bleeding after you dropped it in the sauce.
That part wasn’t even planned, but sometimes the universe just gets it right.
Except it didn’t—not exactly.
That special delivery should have sent you packing your bags and hightailing it out of Beauport. But no, it appears you’re very determined. You’re obviously going to make this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?
Two can play at that game.
I wait until the house is empty. You’ve taken the car, and your roommate has gone off to work. I’ve been watching her, too, and I likely know her schedule as well as you do. She’ll be gone for a while, but I can’t be certain when you’ll return, so I have to use my time wisely.
The good news is, I know what I’m looking for—I just don’t know where to find it.
Getting in is a breeze—as easy as having a key. I’ve been doing this for a while now. I close the door behind me, and it latches with a gentle click. The house feels lonely. The scent of warm, sun-soaked fabric fills the air, reminiscent of a summertime nap.
Your small, three-legged creature immediately greets me.
I bend down to say hello. Making friends is in my best interest. The cat lets out a sweet meow—or is it a cry of fright?
Cats normally have a wariness around strangers; it’s an important survival instinct.
But this one isn’t hissing. Its ears aren’t flattened.
It’s definitely your cat, Holly—just as unaware of danger as you are.
I make sure the back door is unlocked in case I need to make a quick escape. After that, I give the kitchen a once-over. All I see are dishes in the sink. And you really should turn off your coffeepot when you leave the house, Holly. You, of all people, should be aware of the fire risk.
I find an upside-down legal pad in the living room—possibly the start of your next book? That is what I came to find. What are you considering? What story are you going to share with the world?
My chest tightens as I turn over the pad, and then I breathe easier. You’re struggling, I can tell. You have ideas, but nothing is sticking. You don’t have the story.
But I stop myself. I’m being too confident. After all, I haven’t searched the whole house yet.
It’s strange to be in your home, Holly, amidst your belongings. But they’re not really yours—they’re mostly your mother’s. How does it feel to be back in this house, trapped in a time capsule, surrounded by so many ghosts? Do they haunt your dreams?
I’ve been watching you for so long, but now I feel like I’m walking in your footsteps.
I try to think like you. Maybe you can access your deeper thoughts and creative ideas only in private.
I know you, Holly. You’re an introvert. You close the door, shut out the world, and create one of your own—on paper, in prose.
It’s safer there. The real world feels unreliable. Threats lurk around every corner.
I should know.
This house has only two bedrooms. It’s easy to tell which one the teenager lives in, so I focus on the other.
My footsteps are as quiet as your cat’s when I slip into your private space.
I open a few bureau drawers, but I find nothing but clothes.
Then I see a box next to your bed, the lid slightly askew.
I peer inside. It’s full of loose pages.
The title page jumps out at me. This—this is what I’m looking for.
My fingers tingle with anticipation as I lift the stack of paper. I begin to read. My throat tightens on page one.
This is exactly why something needs to be done.
You must be stopped.
I hear car wheels on the gravel drive. Slipping the pages under my arm, I silently descend the stairs. I try to be quiet, but the screen door creaks on its rusty hinges as I push it open.
Somebody should really fix that.
But it’s no problem—you didn’t hear me. I’m out the back door before you’ve even parked the car.
I imagine how upset you’ll be when you discover your book is gone. But it’s safer this way—safer for me.