We Are Always Watching

by Hunter Shea

  What stopped her was the writing someone had made with their finger in the dust.

  In huge block letters, it said: HELLO. HAVE A NICE NAP?

  She looked to West. “That wasn’t there yesterday, was it?”

  His eyes were glued to the mirror. “No way. We all would have noticed that.”

  “Then who the heck… Abraham. Abraham!”

  He lazily opened one eye. It seemed a great effort to roll his head to face them. “Whuu?”

  “Did you see your mirror?” Debi said.

  “My what? Why are you waking me up talking about mirrors?” He crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes.

  “I’m talking about what’s on the mirror. Did you write that?”

  Both eyes snapped open. He slammed the leg rest down, the springs twanging like strings plucked on a warped harp. He waded through the junk furniture to get closer.

  Debi saw the muscles in his back draw up. He scratched his head, then his ass.

  “I never asked anyone to come here,” he muttered so softly, she could just make out the words.

  “What do you mean?” Debi asked.

  Shrugging out of his threadbare shirt, Abraham used it to wipe the mirror clean, leaving behind rainbow arches of dust.

  “Abraham, who wrote that? Was it Matt?”

  He stormed out of the room without giving her so much as a parting glance. The sour pungency of his body odor lingered long after he was gone.

  “Ooookay,” West said. “Totally sane.”

  Debi ushered him into the kitchen. “I can’t argue with you there. You want to help me get some semblance of a meal together?”

  “Sure.” West set the table while she popped the lids off of the Tupperware containers from the fridge.

  What the hell just happened here? she thought. Please don’t tell me we’ve moved in just as Abraham is having dementia setting in. God, if you’re testing us, please, we’ve been through enough.

  She smiled at West while he found glasses and silverware.

  All the more reason why I have to try to keep things as normal as possible for him.

  They looked up from their tasks when Matt appeared in the doorway. He held his cane in one hand and the back of a chair with the other. He looked terrible.

  “Hey, I didn’t hear you come home,” he said. There was no warmth in his voice, no sense that he was happy to see her.

  “I’m not surprised,” Debi said. “Your father’s TV could drown out a building demolition.”

  He turned back toward the living room. “Huh. I guess I’m already used to it.”

  She wanted to tell him about what West had been worried about, what they saw on the mirror and Abraham’s bizarre reaction. But not now. Not in front of West. It would have to wait until later.

  “Dinner will be ready before you know it.”

  She hoped Abraham would remain in his room.

  If Matt had written on the mirror to get the old man’s goat, in a way she was grateful. Abraham Ridley was an acquired taste, and after almost twenty years, even she still had a long way to go.

  ***

  Dinner was mercifully quick and disturbingly weird. West’s father kept shooting him glances over forkfuls of spaghetti, as if he wanted to talk about what had happened earlier. But he never did, so things were left in the air. West was still mad at him and not ready to accept an apology. Not this time.

  “You want me to bring dinner up to Grandpa Abraham?” he asked when he’d practically licked his plate clean.

  “I can ask him if he wants to come down,” his mother said.

  “It’s fine. Hey, it’s on my way. I want to bring my book and iPod back to my room.”

  He felt bad for being such a crybaby in the car with his mother. A blind man could see she was all torn up with guilt. He didn’t need to pile on, but he was so pissed at his father, he needed to take it out on someone.

  Maybe Grandpa Abraham wasn’t all that bad. He’d never know unless he tried to get to know him better. He was his grandfather, after all.

  “I think that would be nice,” his father said, giving him a thumbs-up. “Maybe a little dinner in bed will help soften his stance on us interlopers invading his space.”

  His mother prepared a plate. When she went to pour a glass of milk, West said, “Wait. Maybe he’d like the stuff under the sink better.” He pulled the curtain back to reveal several bottles of booze.

  “How about something a little lighter, like a beer?” his father said, reaching over to fish a can out of the refrigerator. “He’s still a Bud man.” He handed the cold can to West.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” his mom said.

  “The man could drink varnish and wake up without a hangover. One beer won’t hurt him.”

  The stairs popped and cracked as he carried the food and beer to his grandfather. He had to tap on his door with the toe of his sneaker.

  “What?”

  “I have dinner for you.”

  “Did I say I was hungry?”

  “It’s almost eight o’clock. I figured you would be. I have a beer, too.”

  The knob turned and the door opened. Grandpa Abraham was just sitting back down on the edge of the bed. He snatched the can from West’s hand, popping the tab. After he took a long pull, he said, “You can put the plate over there.” He motioned toward the bedside table. On its surface were a couple of prescription bottles and a lamp. There was just enough room for the plate.

  “Didn’t we have that last night?” he grumbled.

  “Mom didn’t have time to make something new.”

  “Least I was hoping for out of this mess was some home cooked meals.”

  West went on the defensive. “That is a home cooked meal. We just made it last night. It’s still good.”

  Grandpa Abraham’s eyes rolled toward him, practically burning through him. West held his ground. His emotions had been all over the place today. He was too worn out to be afraid at this point.

  “You’re welcome,” West said.

  To his surprise, his grandfather chuckled. He drank the rest of the beer and crushed the can.

  Guess he doesn’t get his cans redeemed.

  “You’re not as much of a little fag as I thought you might be.”

  The other F-word was like a punch in the gut. It was just something that he and his friends never said. Like the C-word.

  Was that supposed to be a compliment? The generation gap between them was wider than the Grand Canyon. West was only fourteen, but he understood that words changed their meaning from generation to generation. Like when he once said a girl in his class was ratchet in front of his parents and they looked at him as if he’d lost his command of the English language.

  “She’s a tool?” his father had said.

  “No. Ratchet means ugly.”

  “I’ll take you to my toolbox and show you what ratchet really means.”

  That was back when his father could easily walk down to the basement and grab his toolbox. Back when he still used those tools daily.

  “What’s the matter? Did you go mute on me?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Wouldn’t want to think I broke you. Why don’t you get me another beer?”

  He wanted to say, “Why don’t you get it yourself? You’re not crippled.”

  Instead, he said, “I could.”

  Grandpa Abraham ran his hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, you’re not going to wait until I say please, are you? You’re worse than a wife.”

  West couldn’t resist a small smile. “You just said it. I’ll be back.”

  He ran downstairs and grabbed another Budweiser.

  Before West handed the beer over, he said, “I’ll give you the beer if you can answer something honestly.”

  “It’s my beer, so you don’t have the option of keeping it from me.”

  The words sounded harsher than he looked when he said it. West held it out, but not close enough for him to grab it. His grandfather s
louched back into a stack of grimy pillows by the headboard. He stared at the ceiling, heaving a couple of heavy sighs.

  “You’re one persistent little runt,” he said. His stomach shook with a laugh. “You might not like hearing this, but I was the same way when I was your age.”

  West wasn’t crazy about being called a runt, but Grandpa Abraham wasn’t much taller. He wondered how much he’d been teased throughout his life. Maybe that’s why he was so bulky, as a way to offset his small stature. God knows, West had considered downing protein shakes and lifting weights, if he had the money to purchase either.

  “I’ve heard you say worse things,” West replied. He stepped closer and handed the beer over.

  Popping it open and slurping out the escaping foam, Grandpa Abraham said, “Okay, shoot.”

  “Were you serious when you told me the house is haunted?”

  “Why you askin’?”

  West played it close to the vest. “I just wanna know.”

  Grandpa Abraham studied him for an agonizing minute. “I knew something spooked you before.” His blunt fingers got lost in the white tangle of his sprouting chest hair. “Look, this house has been around for a long time. It was built before Roosevelt was president. I mean Teddy, not that socialist FDR. Things happen in a house this old. Some of them good, some of them bad. The land itself has been in our family for two hundred years. Before that, it was all Unami Indian land. People have been living and dying here probably before that dago Columbus got his ass lost.”

  “What do you mean by bad things?” West wondered if he was going to regret opening this can of worms.

  Grandpa Abraham stared wistfully out the window into the black blanket of night. “They say emotions can be left behind, just like spirits. These four walls have absorbed their fair share.”

  “Has… has anyone ever died in the house?” West’s hands clenched in his pockets.

  His grandfather nodded, eyes closed for a moment, as if he was recalling the names and faces of all those who has passed.

  He drained the beer can dry and pointed at the floor by West’s feet.

  “Most recent was when I found your grandma right there. She’d been sick a while and stayed in bed all day and night. I’m not sure how she managed to get out on her own. I keep wondering if she knew the end was coming and was trying to get me. Everybody dies alone, but it’s a comfort to have someone near. I was at the Post when it happened. If she wanted to haunt me, I guess it serves me right.”

  West didn’t know what to say. For the first time since they’d arrived, his grandfather looked frail, vulnerable.

  He was going to ask about his Aunt Stella, but decided against it. And there were all the questions he had about that strange writing on the mirror. Now wasn’t the time.

  “You want me to get another beer?”

  “No, I’m done. I just want you to know this. You are never, ever alone in this house. Now I don’t know if that’ll keep you up nights excited or crapping yourself, but it’s the truth. Even if we were all to walk out that door and drive far away, this old farmhouse will never be empty. Never.”

  West lingered in the doorway for a moment. The old man’s voice was thick and raspy, sounding every bit the spent man. “Okay. Well, if I don’t see you downstairs later, goodnight.”

  A head nod was all he got in reply.

  Maybe Grandpa Abraham wasn’t a total asshole. Just now, West couldn’t help but feel the sadness and weariness that weighed the man down.

  When it came to the crazy message on the mirror, it wasn’t much of a stretch to consider his grandfather was the culprit, whether he was aware of his actions or not. Something wasn’t quite right with him. Living out here alone all these years, surrounded by spirits and lingering bad energy, was enough to take a toll on anyone.

  West lay on his bed, fiddling with his iPod. He kept glancing up at the words on his ceiling.

  WE SEE YOU

  What was with all the weird messages in this house?

  Maybe it really is haunted.

  West didn’t know what to make of all of it, or how he felt. The possibility was as exciting as it was terrifying. If one of them was his grandmother, that should be a good thing, right? As for the other spirits, the remnants of bad energy, he wondered. Were they watching him now?

  Of course they were. It said so on his ceiling.

  Chapter Seven

  West awoke to the chaotic music of early birds chirping their fool heads off. The sun wasn’t even up, but nature was ready to roll.

  “I thought the country was supposed to be relaxing,” he said, burying his ears in his pillow to no avail. He was on a damn farm, and the damn birds were making damn sure he didn’t sleep like a normal teenager.

  After quietly slipping into the bathroom to pee, he went back to his room and eyed the cardboard box of magazines they’d brought back from storage. He was up anyway. Might as well do something useful.

  Using an X-acto knife, he peeled the flaps back. On top of the horror magazines were the carefully folded pictures that he had on his wall back home. A plastic tape dispenser and case of tacks had fallen to the side of the magazines. One-by-one, he took out the pictures, unfolded them, and placed them on the unmade bed.

  If he was going to be here for a while, he needed to make this as much like home as possible. For West, home meant being surrounded by images from his favorite movies and stars.

  There were stills from movies like Paranormal Activity, It Follows, Hostel, and the remake of Dawn of the Dead. He’d seen the original, but he preferred the fast zombies in the newer version. They were a lot scarier.

  His favorite picture of Elvira in her black dress with the plunging neckline, reclining on a red velvet lounge chair, would be the centerpiece of the wall behind his bed. Bald and creepy Michael Berryman from The Hills Have Eyes and Nazi werewolves brandishing machine guns from An American Werewolf in London lay alongside 8 x 10 movie posters for Halloween, Friday the 13th, and The Amityville Horror. He wasn’t alive when those movies came out – heck, his parents weren’t even dating then – but he prided himself on knowing all the classics.

  For the better part of an hour, he filled the walls with glossy and sometimes grizzly images. He’d had a poster of Scarlett Johansson but it ripped when he’d tried to take it down. He wondered if that record store in Stroudsburg had posters.

  By the time he was finished, the sun was up and the soft breeze that had blown steadily through his window all night had given way to the insidious creep of humidity. The birdsong was overwhelmed by the incessant scratching of heat bugs.

  And now he was hungry.

  He went downstairs and made toast with cream cheese and grape jelly, washing it down with a mug of orange juice. Since coffee wasn’t an option – his mother had forbidden it until he was older – he settled for an overload of sugar to get his ass in gear.

  He got changed, made sure to put a bottle of sunscreen spray in his pocket, grabbed yesterday’s book and a new one by Gord Rollo he’d found at a library book sale, and headed outside. The blackened, gnarly tree out front was there to greet him. From a distance, it looked as if it had once been on fire, but up close, he could see it was just some weird rot blackening the tree like an overripe banana.

  “Good morning Halloween tree,” he said, patting the trunk. Bits of bark flaked away in his hands. It looked like a good sneeze would uproot the crippled thing. Since it offered no shade, he had no intention of spending time beneath it.

  It was going to be another long day, but he wouldn’t be afraid to pop inside from time to time to get food and water.

  West was still smarting from his father’s outburst the day before. He’d had a chance to make it right last night but it never happened. When he was younger, his father wasn’t just a dad, he was his best friend. They did everything together. “You two are as thick as thieves,” his mother would say as they set out to create an elaborate scavenger hunt around the house or huddled in the basement putting m
odels together. He should have treasured those moments more, taken more pains to sear them into his memory.

  How was he to know it would all go away one day?

  West could spend an entire day with his father now and miss him deeply.

  Enough.

  You’ve played that song too many times.

  Walking around the house, he took time to absorb the creepy looking place his parents had consigned him to live in. Paint was flaking as bad as the bark on the tree. Most of the windowsills had been chipped away by time and rain and snow, splintered wood showing through garish green paint. The farmhouse had a wide, flat roof. West wondered what kind of stuff was up there, bleached by the sun. Would there be balls and Frisbees that his father had lost up there when he was a kid?

  Along the side of the house was a pair of metal doors. A rusted chain was looped around the handles, fastened with a padlock. It had to lead to the cellar. West kicked at one of the doors. The metallic clang seemed to echo for miles.

  The air smelled so sweet, so fresh and alive. He didn’t want to plant his ass in some spot and read just yet. There was plenty of time to lose himself in another world.

  He’d already been by the old barn. Time to head in another direction and hope he didn’t cross into hostile redneck territory. He walked through the high grass with his arms outstretched, sharp and sometimes tacky stalks scraping against his palms and fingers.

  A hawk circled high overhead. His shirt stuck to his back. He had to wipe a line of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. West took a quick peek back to make sure the house was still in sight.

  It’ll be easy to get lost out here. That is not an option!

  The tall green and amber vegetation was getting to his shoulders and above. Something made a slithering noise by his feet. He stopped.

  Please don’t let it be snakes.