Watcher in the Woods

by Robert Liparulo

  Dad lowered the screwdriver and looked at him for a long moment. “Well . . . my mother never did. I don’t think the portals work that way.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “No.”

  David grew quiet.

  Finally his dad gripped his arm. “Your mother’s a strong woman. I’m sure she’s all right.”

  “She’s all right,” David repeated, “but she’s not here.”

  “She’s not here,” his father agreed.

  It took them another forty-five minutes to put locks on the rest of the doors. When it was done, they stood on the landing and looked down the twisting hallway at their handiwork. The hasps and padlocks attached to every door seemed almost an insult to the old-hotel décor. They were ugly and stark, like a scar on the face of a baby.

  His father rattled a fat ring of keys and said, “I’ll hold on to these.”

  “Dad?” David said. “Are the locks supposed to keep us out or keep them in?” He didn’t have to say who he meant by “them.” They knew about only one person who’d come into their house from another world—the big guy who’d taken Mom—but they all wondered if others could and would.

  “Both,” Dad answered. “Still hungry again, yet? Something smells good.”

  “We have to eat Toria’s cooking?” David asked.

  “She’s always helped in the kitchen.” He shrugged. “Guess we’ll see how she does.”

  David nodded, and Dad started down the stairs. As David was about to follow, he heard something in the hallway softly clink—metal on metal. He looked, but didn’t see anything. Then his eye caught a lock about halfway up on the left side. It was swinging back and forth.

  CHAPTER seventeen

  SUNDAY, 8 : 15 P . M .

  As long as David could remember, they had come together as a family for dinner. It didn’t matter how scattered they were during the day—Dad at work, Mom on errands, Xander with friends, David playing soccer, Toria at some music lesson or other—dinner reunited them, like bees returning to the hive.

  While Mom liked to make it nice, David thought it was Dad who wanted the coming-together in the first place. He called it an “anchor”—keeping them moored together despite their far-flung adventures—and an “island”—a place to see each other and rest from each day’s “struggle to stay afloat.”

  Those were Dad’s words on tough days. On better ones, it was something like “a romp in the surf ” or “backstroking through the day’s travails.” When David had asked him what that meant, he had said, “It means staying calm when troubles hit.”

  After that, David had sometimes found himself actually rotating his arms in a backstroke way to remind himself not to get too freaked-out. Odd thing was, it worked. Pop quizzes, bullies, not doing so well on the field—they lost some of their scariness with a couple pinwheels of his arms. He’d even come to enjoy the puzzled looks the gesture drew.

  He raised his right arm now and brought it back and down. He began to lift his left arm, but felt the extra weight on it and the dull pulse of his blood rushing through it, and remembered the cast. He raised it as high as his shoulder, then switched back to his good arm. Sitting next to him, Xander gave him a knowing smile.

  Toria had put a place setting in front of their mother’s chair. Sad, David thought . . . and a little creepy.

  His sister came in with water glasses, which she set precisely at each plate’s one o’clock position. The glass she placed by her mother’s plate was the only one that was empty. She gave it a little nod and glanced at the empty chair, as though seeing someone there that David did not. Then she strode back into the kitchen.

  Dad, sitting at the head of the table, opposite Mom’s place, caught the boys’ unease. He said, “It was my idea. In many cultures, families would keep a place at the table for a missing loved one, a son who’d gone off to war or someone who’d . . .” He let the rest of his thought trail off.

  David watched him. Dad didn’t want to say, “Someone who’d died,” and David didn’t want him to say it.

  More quietly, Dad continued, “It reflected that person’s place in their hearts. They were gone, but in a way still with them.”

  Toria came back with a tureen. A ladle rose from steaming yellow liquid. “Chicken noodle soup,” she announced.

  “You made it yourself ?” Xander asked.

  “Smells great!” David said, trying to make his enthusiasm sound less forced than Xander’s.

  She dipped her head. “It’s Campbell’s.” She sat and ladled soup into her bowl, then passed the tureen to Dad. She leaned toward him and whispered. “The candles.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Dad said. He stood, patted his pockets, found a lighter. He leaned to light the candle nearest him, then walked around Toria to reach the one on the other side of the table. Between the two candlesticks, Toria had placed an arrangement of flowers and what looked to David like weeds from their yard.

  Back in his seat, Dad smiled at each of his children. He held one hand out to Toria and the other to Xander. David was glad to see Xander accept it without hesitation. He and Xander gripped hands as well.

  David rested his cast on the table near Mom’s place setting. He knew if she were there, she would stretch to grip it. He locked eyes with Toria and could tell she was feeling the same thing he did. Sadness, for sure, but something else: it was somehow more active than that, like having a wound poked. It was a stark reminder that Mom should have been there, but she wasn’t.

  Without a word, both David and Toria lifted off their seats to clasp hands across the table. It seemed right to David that it was awkward and uncomfortable. A link in their family chain was missing; they weren’t supposed to fit right without it.

  After that, they bowed their heads, and Dad prayed. “Dear Heavenly Father, thank You for this food and this family. Please be with our wife and mother. Keep her safe.” He was silent for a long time, perhaps searching for words that wouldn’t come, or maybe talking privately to God. Finally he said, “Amen,” and the kids repeated the word.

  “Remember last Sunday?” David asked. “You told Mom we’d go to church this Sunday—‘no excuses.’ ”

  Dad frowned. “I wasn’t expecting such a doozy of an excuse. But no more. Next week for sure.”

  David smiled weakly. “That’s what Mom said.”

  “I know. And I mean it. Your mother will kill me if I let things fall apart here.”

  They ate their soup in silence. Their spoons clinked against the bowls. David didn’t intend to slurp his soup, but did anyway. Xander probably intended to and did. David had heard expressions like “the silence was deafening” and someone’s “absence filled the room.” They had never made sense to him. But now he understood.

  “David?” Dad said, startling him out of his thoughts.

  David felt something on his cheek and touched it. He had not realized he was that close to crying. Close? He was crying. He used his napkin to wipe his eyes. “I’m okay.”

  Toria set down her spoon, walked around the table, and wrapped her arms around him.

  Dad found and held his gaze. David had always thought his father resembled the perfect knight. His face was lean and strong, almost muscular; he had a broad forehead, direct eyes, and a slightly cleft chin. David had inherited that cleft, unlike his siblings. He sometimes studied his features in a mirror, wondering from which parent each came and if all of them together made him look strong or weak, like a man or a wuss. His father definitely did not look like a wuss.

  As though he had read David’s mind, his father said, “It’s not unmanly to cry, son.” His eyes flicked to Xander, including him, then back to David. “If we didn’t have strong feelings, how could we love or fight? When our flesh is cut, we bleed. When our heart is broken, we cry. There’s nothing wrong with that. It only becomes a problem when it gets in the way of what you have to do. You can’t crumble when others are counting on you.”

  David sniffed and nodded.

  That
’s what he means, he thought. He’s protecting us. He probablywants to cry himself, even now. But he has a family to protect and a wife to find.

  Dad said, “Do I smell something besides soup, something good?”

  “Meat loaf,” Toria said with a smile. She released David and ran off to get it.

  Dad looked compassionately at his boys. “We’ll be okay,” he whispered. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Xander shrugged.

  David thought about it, then he smiled and nodded.

  “Ta-da!” Toria said. She was wearing oven mitts and carrying a casserole dish. So much steam rose from it, David couldn’t make out her features. Then the dish shattered on the floor before he even realized it had slipped from her hands. Toria screamed.

  Dad, David, and Xander jumped up from their chairs.

  David said, “Did you burn yourself ? Are you all right?”

  Then all three of them realized she was staring at something. They turned their own gazes toward the door that opened into the foyer.

  A man was standing there, smiling.

  CHAPTER eighteen

  SUNDAY, 8 : 41 P . M .

  “Hey! Hey!” Dad said. He stepped over the broken casserole dish and ruined meat loaf. As he strode toward the man, Dad’s hands came up, as though he intended to physically toss the guy out on his head.

  David wanted to shout out a warning. It was the man he had seen in the woods, the one who had watched them fly.

  The man raised his palm to Dad, his own warning to keep Dad at bay. He said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was deep and smooth.

  Despite the urgency his sudden appearance had put into all of them, his words came out slowly. David detected a slight accent he couldn’t place.

  Dad stopped inches from the man’s outstretched hand. He said, “You walk into my home and—what?—oops? I don’t think so.” He stepped closer. His hand touched the man’s arm to nudge him toward the door.

  “It was unlocked,” the man said. “My coming in was . . . habit, I supposed you’d say.”

  “Habit?”

  “You see . . .” The man’s voice trailed off. He had scanned the faces of the King children, stopping on David’s. His eyes appeared gray and slightly too large for his face, which was lean and muscular. He had thin lips, which seemed to be perfectly horizontal: they offered no hint of a smile or a frown. The man’s hairline had ebbed back from his face, giving him a large forehead. His hair, black with threads of silver, was swept back and fell to his shoulders. It looked wiry, like the Brillo pads Mom used to clean their iron skillet.

  The man’s gaze seemed to reach past David’s eyes to examine his thoughts. David fought the urge to run, to get away from his piercing stare, but he couldn’t move. The man’s eyes held him in place the way a pin holds a bug to a cardboard display.

  “Sir!” Dad nearly yelled.

  The man pushed his lips into a twisted smile, then snapped his gaze away from David.

  He continued talking to Dad, as though he hadn’t paused to scare David spitless. “You see, I used to visit this house. I’ve always found it lovely. Are these your children?”

  “What do you mean, ‘visit’?” Dad said.

  “Your boy,” the man said, gesturing toward David. “If I may ask, what happened to his arm?”

  “Little accident,” Dad answered.

  The man nodded knowingly. “Boys will be boys.”

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Dad said.

  The man’s raised palm turned so it became a hand extended in greeting. “Taksidian,” he said. “You may call me Jim.”

  Dad ignored the man’s gesture. “Mr. Taksidian, the door is this way. . . .”

  Taksidian frowned. “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “About what?”

  “You are Edward King, are you not?”

  “You know I am.”

  “And you own this house?” While he spoke, the man’s gaze drifted again to David. Slowly, the man winked at him.

  David felt himself on the verge of either passing out or peeing his pants. He mumbled something that he had intended to be “Excuse me,” but it didn’t come out that way at all. Forcing himself to break away from the man’s stare, he walked into the kitchen. As soon as he knew he was out of sight, he put his back up against the wall and edged close to the doorway. For the second time that day, he found himself eavesdropping on his father’s conversation.

  “I have to confess to a bout of foolishness,” the man said.

  “How’s that?” his father prodded.

  “This house,” the man said.

  His deep voice reminded David of hypnotists he’d seen in movies. The tone of their voices alone made people want to do what they asked.

  “I’ve admired this house for a long time. I kept telling myself to buy it, but—and here’s where I’ve been foolish—I never thought I needed to hurry. Here you are, proving me wrong.”

  “Well, Mr. Taksidian, if—”

  “Jim, please.”

  “Jim,” Dad said. His voice was softening.

  David knew his father would give the man the benefit of the doubt. As though walking into someone else’s home could ever be an accident!

  Don’t cut him any slack, Dad, David thought. This guy meant to scare us. He knows more than he’s letting on.

  Dad went on: “If it’s any consolation, this house has been in my family a long time. It was never for sale.”

  “Really?” the man said. “What about now?”

  “I’m sorry?” Dad said.

  “I’m willing to make a most generous offer.”

  David could almost hear the man smiling. He felt something touch his arm, and he jumped.

  Toria stood in front of him. She whispered, “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh.”

  She leaned closer. “What’s the matter? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Come on.” He walked back into the dining room, trying not to look at the man. He stopped at his dad’s side and gripped his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” his dad was saying. “This house is not for sale.”

  David stared at the man’s hand. It was powerful looking, veined and wrinkled. Scars marred the skin, slashing across the knuckles. A thick welt of scar tissue ran up the back of his hand and disappeared into the sleeve of his overcoat. His fingernails were longer than they should have been. Dracula hands, he thought.

  “Is that something you and Mrs. King have discussed? Perhaps I should talk to her. I have a . . . way with women.”

  David felt the muscles in Dad’s arm tense up. He tightened his grip. As much as the man deserved it, he thought Dad hitting him was a very bad idea.

  CHAPTER nineteen

  SUNDAY, 8 : 52 P . M .

  Holding onto Dad’s arm as Dad spoke to Mr. Taksidian, David’s heart stepped up from a gallop to a headlong run.

  Was it his imagination, or had the man’s voice taken on a threatening tone when he mentioned Mom? As much as he’d have rather avoided the man’s piercing eyes, David looked up to his face.

  Dad said, “Your way with women’ has nothing to do with my wife, sir.”

  The man was looking up toward the second-floor landing, as though expecting to see Mom standing there. He said, “I meant only that she should hear my offer. As I said, it’s quite generous.”

  “She’s not here right now.”

  Dad’s voice had taken on a hard edge. David wondered if it was from the stress of having to lie about Mom or because the man’s pushiness had made him angry.

  “Oh? When will she return? Perhaps I can wait.”

  Dad said, “She’s away. Maybe a couple weeks.”

  “I see,” the man said. His Dracula hand slipped inside his overcoat. It reappeared holding a small pad of paper, which he opened with a flick of a fingernail. His other hand dropped into an outside pocket and produced a pen. He said, “If you’ll tell me how to reach her, I’l
l give her the details directly.”

  “The house is not for sale,” Dad repeated. “Now, if you’ll please . . .” He nodded toward the door. “We were just sitting down to dinner.”

  The man didn’t budge. He stood like a statue, casting his awful gaze at Dad’s face. David realized that Dad had leaned closer to the man. He was staring him down, not blinking.

  Way to go, Dad.

  “Houses like this,” the man said, “are always more than most people can handle.”

  When Dad did not respond, the man continued: “You know, not as stable as they look on the surface. A wall might collapse. Other surprises. I would hate . . .” He took the time to look at Xander, then Toria, finally coming to rest on David. “I would hate to see anything happen to your lovely family.”

  “Good night, Mr. Taksidian,” Dad said.

  The man closed his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Will you at least hear my offer?”

  “No.”

  His eyes opened slowly. He nodded and turned. He opened the front door but did not step through. Without looking back, he said, “Mr. King . . . I have a nasty habit of getting what I want.”

  Again, Dad said, “Good night, sir.” The “sir” sounded as sharp as a fist striking a skull.

  The man stepped out, and the door closed behind him.

  The family didn’t move for a long time. They just stared at the door. David wondered if anyone else expected the man to come back through.

  Finally Xander went to the door and turned the knob that engaged the dead bolt. He looked at Dad. “What just happened?”

  Toria said, “Who was that?”

  Dad told her, “If you see him again, don’t go near him.”

  “Dad,” David said, near a whisper. He was still gripping his father’s arm, tighter now. “That was the man I saw in the woods.”

  “What?” Xander said. “When we were flying? When you fell?”

  David looked up at his father and knew right away that Dad had suspected as much.

  “But wait,” Xander continued. “If he saw David flying or hovering or whatever it was we were doing, why didn’t he say anything about it? I mean, that’s gotta be, like, the weirdest thing anyone has ever seen, right? You don’t just ignore it.”