We Are Always Watching

by Hunter Shea

  Sinister Grin Press

  MMXVII

  Austin, Texas

  Sinister Grin Press

  Austin, TX

  www.sinistergrinpress.com

  March 2017

  “We Are Always Watching” © 2017 Hunter Shea

  This is a work of collected Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

  Edited by Erin Sweet-Al Mehairi

  Cover Art by Zach McCain

  Book Design by Travis Tarpley

  This one’s for Tobi

  Chapter One

  When the money ran out, there was nowhere else to go but Grandpa Abraham’s. The old man claimed his house was haunted; he’d said just as much to West several times during their one and only phone conversation. West had had no desire to talk to his absent grandfather, but his parents had insisted. Grandpa Abraham seemed just as unhappy to be thrust into the forced exchange.

  He did light up a bit when he warned West about the possibly possessed house—for his own good, of course. West Ridley was old enough to know that was just his grandfather trying to scare them off. He was, after all, a cantankerous prick.

  At least that’s what his parents called him when they thought West was out of earshot.

  “You grew up there, Dad. Did you ever see a ghost?”

  The battered Ford F-150 made every pothole on Route 80 feel like they were blasted mine holes. It was about as uncomfortable a ride as possible, and that was including taking school trips on those ancient, yellow buses. His mother had to trade in her Camry for this rust bucket because they needed the extra cash to pay for the move. Besides, where they were going, pickup trucks with four-wheel-drive were a necessity.

  His father’s eyes were closed, head in his large, calloused hands as if he were trying to keep it from rolling off his neck. Faint black stubbles peppered his shaved head. His once perpetually tanned skin had faded to a shade of heavy cream, the sun no longer his constant companion.

  “The only ghosts in that house are the spirits of all the field mice your grandfather’s caught in his traps,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “You want the bag?” his mother said, eyes on the road, one hand on the narrow wheel, the other holding a yellow plastic shopping bag.

  “Not yet,” his father said.

  “Why don’t you hold onto it just in case?”

  He pushed the bag away, daring to take a hand off his head. “I said not yet. I just want to get the hell out of this truck. Can’t you go any faster?”

  West’s mother pursed her lips. “Not without the truck falling to pieces. And even if I could get it to go more than sixty, we can’t afford to get a speeding ticket.”

  Plucking his headphones from his lap, West prepared to shut them out.

  “Thank you for never failing to throw that in my face,” his father growled. The nausea kept the usual bitterness from his voice.

  “That was totally uncalled for. I was just trying to help.”

  His mother tossed the bag onto his father’s lap. She fussed with the tight curls of her raven hair, pulling ringlets straight until they touched her shoulder, then let them spring back.

  When he didn’t reply, the bubble of rising tension in the car popped.

  Good. Dad would retreat into his misery and Mom would concentrate on getting them to Pennsylvania. Lately, uncomfortable silence was best.

  West sat in the back seat, crammed between boxes with clothes still on their hangers draped over them. Knees pressed together, he was just able to reach into his hoodie pocket to get his iPod. It was a first-generation Nano, a hand-me-down from his best friend, Anthony, when his parents upgraded him to a new iPhone.

  He wondered when he’d see Anthony in person again. Sure, they could call each other on his mom’s phone or maybe Skype on her computer, but he couldn’t imagine not hanging out every day after school or chilling out at the outdoor mall on weekends. Of course, getting access to his mother’s laptop was always an issue and who knew if there was such a thing as the Internet out in the sticks?

  Everything about this move sucked.

  And what kind of grandfather took delight in trying to scare his fourteen-year old grandson?

  His parents told him that he saw his grandfather when he was four, but he had no recollection. That was back when his grandmother was still alive. His father only had one photo of them, a faded Polaroid taken some time in the seventies, his grandparents younger than his parents are now. They stood beside a green Chevy Impala, neither smiling, about a foot apart, no sign that they were a couple, happy or otherwise. It was a grim snapshot that looked more like something captured in the 1870s.

  I’m surprised your father didn’t tell you about the ghosts, Grandpa Abraham had said to him the day his father made him pick up the phone because he wasn’t in the right head space- his words – to talk.

  What ghosts?

  Plural. The house so nice it was haunted twice.

  They were here long before I was born. I’ve made my peace with them, but I don’t know how you’re going to feel about it.

  West knew he shocked him when he said, Cool! Do you see full body apparitions, shadow people, hear voices, have stuff move around?

  He was answered by silence, then get your father on the line.

  Because Grandpa Abraham didn’t know him at all, he had no idea about West’s fascination with all things horror. Anthony’s father was a midlist horror writer, and their house was filled with all kinds of spooky memorabilia he collected from conventions over the years. After watching Friday the 13th at Anthony’s one day after school when he was just nine, he was hooked.

  His obsession deepened further when his parents expressed their dislike of the genre. According to them, he should be into sports, not werewolves and boogey men.

  On the plus side, West devoured horror books like they were M&Ms. For that, his parents were somewhat happy.

  “Any port in a storm when it comes to reading,” his father said. “Back in my day, it was comic books. That’s the only way I was able to make it through The Odyssey and Moby Dick.”

  For West, ghosts were mysterious but not creepy. From everything he’d read and watched, they were just people without an earthly body. It was really kind of sad when you thought about it. Like being lost and invisible all at the same time – every little kid’s nightmare.

  No, stories of ghosts were not a deterrent for him. He hoped there was some truth to it, but it was a slim hope. Everything about the last year was a shit show. Why should living in some old farmhouse in Pennsylvania make things better?

  Watching the trees zip by, West looked for a podcast to listen to, settling for Bloody Good Horror, the movie review show that never failed to crack him up. The banter of the five guys, followed by a beer recommendation, word of the day, and review of a new slasher flick that just came out, did the trick and took his mind off his family’s new low.

  ***

  His mother tapped his arm, his signal to take off his headphones.

  “We there?” he asked.

  He’d spied the sign for Buttermilk Creek from the corner of his eye when they jumped off Route 80. The town was just a few exits over the Delaware Memorial Gap Bridge, separating New Jersey from Pennsylvania. Before they left, he’d looked the place up on Wikipedia. It had been founded in the mid-1700s and had a population of a couple thousand people. Where West was coming from, that would fill a neighborhood.

  It was still a mostly farming community just out
side the Poconos. Everything about it looked boring as hell. The highlight of the year was the annual Apple Fest.

  It looked like they were in a different world. This was the deep country, as far as he was concerned. His father had said there was an amazing pie shop not far from the bridge, hidden somewhere within the trees, jagged mountains on either side of the road. He’d promised to take them there once they settled in.

  “You haven’t lived until you’ve sat back with a slice of their shoo fly pie,” he’d said, rubbing his stomach.

  “Complete with flies buzzing all around it,” his mother added. “I remember they were in need of better screening on their door and windows.”

  Pie. That was literally the only selling point they had to give when they talked about the move. It didn’t do much to pique West’s interest.

  “It’s just up there,” his mother said, pointing to a dirt road to their left. The road they were on now was lined with thick-trunked trees in full bloom, their canopy blocking most of the sunlight. He didn’t see any houses around.

  His father was snoring, head leaning against the window.

  “Are you sure? Maybe you should ask Dad.”

  “GPS works out here. It’s not as remote as it looks.”

  “It looks like we’re in Oklahoma.”

  From where they were coming from, a bustling New York suburb, this may as well have been Saturn. Going to the store to get a Red Bull would probably require a thirty-minute car ride. West slumped into his seat.

  The long, narrow driveway seemed to stretch on forever. Huge gouges had been carved out of the hard-packed earth and gravel. The Ford wheezed and creaked, dipping from side to side. His father smacked his head against the window and woke up cursing.

  “It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose,” his mother snapped, both hands gripping the wheel. She leaned forward as if that would help her find a more navigable route to the house.

  Tall, golden stalks of ragweed swayed in the late afternoon breeze. West rolled down the window, took in a lungful of country air. It smelled sweet and pure, with a tang of onion. He wasn’t sure if he liked his air this fresh. It just didn’t seem right.

  “Looks like you’re going to have a lot of mowing in your future,” his father said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Yeah, right. I’d need a tractor to whack these weeds.”

  When his father didn’t say anything, his hopes dared to soar just a tad. “Am I going to get to drive a tractor?”

  It was two years until he could get his driver’s license, the Holy Grail for all teens. He’d sell his entire Fangoria Magazine collection for a chance to get behind the wheel of some heavy-duty farm equipment.

  “Your grandfather hasn’t worked the land since I was younger than you. He used to have a tractor. Big, blue sucker. If it’s still around, I’ll bet it’s rusted solid.”

  West sighed.

  So much for that.Back to everything sucking.

  “Finally,” his mother said, leaning back into her seat.

  The ragweed pulled away like a stage curtain, the end of the rutted road in sight, and the faded white farmhouse dominating the small rise.

  The house looked old.

  Was old.

  It was a flaking scab on a fleshy field of neglect. West took a breath, held it unconsciously, eyes roving over the bleak tableau.

  If ever a house was haunted, this was it.

  A brown picket fence, gaps in the slats like a rot-toothed smile, rose and fell along the side of the hulking structure. A lone tree loomed over the front yard like an expectant vulture, its denuded limbs casting gnarled finger shadows on the lawn. It looked like it had died years ago but forgot to fall. A rusted Dodge pickup looked like it was melting into the soft ground.

  West dug it.

  His mother’s ESP was working, because she said, “Right up your alley, huh?”

  “Straight out of central casting,” he said, tucking his iPod away. “All it’s missing is a tire swing with a frayed rope and a couple of creepy girls singing nursery rhymes.”

  “I used to bug your grandfather to put up a tire swing,” his father said. “He told me I’d crack my skull open on it. So, I was left to my own devices, which led to me actually cracking my skull open when I thought I was The Human Torch and jumped off the shed out back.”

  “That’ll teach him,” his mother said with a nervous laugh.

  None of them really wanted to be here. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that some really bad stuff must have gone down for West’s father to avoid coming back all these years. Whatever it was, they were going to have to suck it up, because in a few minutes, they were all going to be roommates.

  The Ford’s brakes squealed. West popped the door open, anxious to stretch his legs.

  The farmhouse looked deserted.

  There appeared to be three floors and nothing much of a porch – just a little space by the front door big enough for a couple of chairs. Weren’t farmhouses supposed to have wraparound porches with rocking chairs and spittoons and wind chimes?

  There wasn’t another place in sight. His father had said there were homes on the edges of the property, but they were either too far away to see or concealed by trees. Even the sounds of traffic were missing way out here. It was as remote as being on a deserted island. In a world where strip malls, chain restaurants, and boxy hotels were popping up like chicken pox, this place was a throwback to pioneer days, at least to West. He wouldn’t be surprised if Grandpa Abraham told him they’d have to churn their own butter.

  West didn’t hear his mother come up beside him. She draped an arm over his shoulder and squeezed.

  “I know you’re hating this right now,” she said low enough so his father couldn’t hear. “You’ve been amazing through all of this and I love you. I promise this is only temporary. You ever hear of the phrase grin and bear it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, just follow my lead.”

  The front door opened, the screen door banging against the frame. The old man was short but built like a fireplug. He had a full head of long, graying hair but his square jaw was clean-shaven. He stood with his hands on his hips, squinting at them.

  “That you, Debi?” he said.

  “Here we go,” she said to West from the side of her mouth. She broke out in a big grin and waved. “Hi Abraham, it’s been too long.” West watched her stride to the porch, acting like this was a treasured family reunion.

  “Is Matthew feeding you? You’re all skin and bones.”

  “And you look great.”

  West’s father said, “Can you find my cane?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  So that was how you grin and bear it. West’s friends called it being plastic. It came in handy when dealing with teachers. And now, grandfathers.

  “He looks like an old-time wrestler,” West said, pulling the cane out from under a box of books.

  His father chuckled. “You’re right, he does. The long hair is a new thing. Guess he got tired of paying someone to cut it. He can be as cheap as the day is long. Here, help me get on my pegs.”

  He grabbed his father’s arm, pulling him gently out of the car. He slipped the cane’s handle into his other hand, steadying him as best he could.

  “You mind walking with me?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  They ambled toward the house, Grandpa Abraham and Mom watching their unsteady approach.

  “I thought you’d be in a wheelchair,” Grandpa Abraham said with a tone that sounded like a mix of derision and disappointment.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Finally face-to-face, estranged father and son didn’t shake hands or hug or say they were glad to see one another. West looked from one to the other, waiting for something, but he wasn’t sure exactly what.

  The old man broke his father’s gaze and looked to West. “Looks like you got my genes there, kid,” he said, patting his head roughly. “Pint sized just means folks w
ill spend a lifetime underestimating you. It’s fun to knock them on their asses from time to time.” When he smiled, the lines around his eyes deepened, stained teeth peering out from behind his thin lips.

  Before his father could protest, Grandpa Abraham barked, “No sense standing out here like a bunch of scarecrows. I have to feed this wife of yours. She’s got the hips of a little boy. Hell, just like him.”

  He stormed into the house muttering to himself.

  West looked to his mother, who had managed to keep her smile in place, though it had lost some of its initial dazzle. His father looked ready to spit nails. She took his hand in hers, a rare gesture lately.

  “Come on, we knew it wouldn’t be easy,” she said. “Let’s go inside and see how we can fatten me up.”

  Chapter Two

  A long, narrow hallway led to a kitchen that was surprisingly filled with light. The threadbare runner had a pattern so worn down from years of foot traffic it resembled the faded Shroud of Turin. West Ridley noted that there were no pictures on the walls. The place had a funky odor – like old vegetation and dirty underwear. He prayed his mother’s touch would at least improve the house’s bouquet.

  He walked past the living room, mismatched furniture clogging the space with barely enough room for a stand with an old tube TV.

  “I have liverwurst and bologna. You pick,” Grandpa Abraham said.

  He gestured for them to take a seat around the old aluminum table, yellow padding poking out from cracks in the chairs. West helped his father sit, making sure he didn’t fall.

  “Thank you,” he said, his eyes dancing a bit. That happened when the spins hit hard.

  A loaf of off-brand bread landed on the table, followed by plastic bags of cold cuts. Next came a bottle of mustard, the top missing, with a thick brown crust on the spout.

  “You so fancy you need plates?” his grandfather asked, rooting around a cabinet and coming up with a short glass.

  “Never considered eating off a plate fancy,” West’s father said.