Under a Watchful Eye

by Adam Nevill

  Beneath the lightening sky, the hedgerows and garrison fortifications formed the mounds that surrounded them. Elevated hundreds of feet above the sea, the atmosphere was thinner and colder.

  Exposed to the vast sky and the expanse of the sea, the great spaces enlarged Seb’s fear until he doubted he’d ever felt as insignificant. He knelt in the grass. Moisture passed through his jeans and fired shivers across his back and neck. He’d grabbed shoes as he passed through the front door, but in his haste to escape he’d failed to tug a jacket free from the rack in the hallway.

  Anxious at the movement of the nearest shrubs in the breeze, he stood up again, rubbing at the outside of his arms, and looked about himself.

  Between his desperate inhalations of the cold air, Seb finally felt able to speak. ‘What was that? What was it? You brought that into my home . . . last night . . . that thing. Are we safe?’ The final question, and the way he’d said it, made him feel pitiful.

  Ewan rolled onto his side. He sounded asthmatic, and was either sick or cleared his chest of phlegm. A shake of his tangled head served as a delayed response to Seb’s question. ‘Never,’ he gasped.

  Sweat frosted in the runnel of Seb’s spine. ‘What? Is it here?’

  ‘No . . . Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Not yet?’

  ‘I can’t feel it.’

  Seb realized he couldn’t either, that nauseating apprehension and the onset of an unnatural scrutiny. He moved closer to Ewan and stood over him. ‘You bastard. You brought that . . . that thing into my bloody life!’

  ‘I didn’t think they . . .’ Ewan never finished. Instead, he said, ‘What did you see?’

  ‘See? Something that shouldn’t bloody exist!’

  ‘What did you see? Tell me.’

  ‘A . . . a shape. Long . . . like a shadow. An animal, a man, I don’t know this time. What did you do? What? To bring it here?’

  ‘I never.’ Ewan wheezed and then swallowed noisily. ‘Not intentionally. What do you mean, this time? You’ve seen it before?’

  ‘Before you showed up, never. You prick!’

  ‘But you’ve seen it? When?’

  Seb recalled his dream, the one in which he’d been chased across the golf course, right before he’d heard something brushing itself down the side of the house. Becky had dreamed of it too and heard the same thing. Their walk in Marriage Wood had been interrupted by something just as unpleasant.

  ‘It was in the woods near here. Over there.’ Seb pointed towards the cliffs inland. ‘Something was in there, waiting for us. My girlfriend saw it too. The day after you appeared at the bloody window of that restaurant. It wasn’t right. Didn’t look right. Not normal. And I’ve dreamed of it. Because of you. You bastard.’

  Ewan placed his long, dirt-smeared fingers over his face and shook his head without speaking.

  ‘I thought it was one of your tricks. Why can I see it? Tell me! Am I in danger?’

  Ewan ignored him until Seb began shouting, ‘Am I in danger? You put me in danger! Am I in danger?’

  Ewan took his hands off his face and spoke without looking at Seb. ‘You’re probably fucked. We both are.’

  Seb wanted Ewan dead. Wanted to end the whole idea of Ewan by dragging the scarecrow body to the cliff edge and hurling it down to the rocks. He imagined the oily head breaking apart like a coconut shell. ‘Get rid of it! Just piss off and get rid of it!’

  Ewan struggled to sit up. His mouth and beard glistened. ‘I’ve never seen it here. He must be involved. Oh, Christ.’

  ‘Here? Who? Who is involved?’

  ‘I was only told about those others. They were used as threats, in the past. But I’ve sensed them, when I projected . . . That one could be directed? I didn’t believe it . . .’

  ‘Who? Who are they? What do you mean directed?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘I bloody do!’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And there isn’t time. It’s all got to go back. There’s been a misunderstanding.’ Ewan struggled to his feet while Seb tried to figure out what Ewan was saying. ‘It’s all got to go back today. You have a car.’

  ‘What?’ Seb grabbed Ewan by the collar of his anorak. ‘You’re going nowhere until you stop this. So fix it! Stop it!’

  ‘How do you get rid of what’s not there?’

  ‘They are . . .’ He didn’t know how to phrase the question. What kind of horror writer was he? ‘That thing . . . it’s leaving a body, yeah? Like you do?’

  Ewan shook his head dismissively, even contemptuously, at Seb’s feeble comprehension. He tried to prise Seb’s bloodless hands from his collar, but ended up holding Seb’s wrists.

  The subsequent grapple felt increasingly hopeless and pathetic the longer they stood there, Seb without a coat in a dawn wind that whipped off the bay.

  ‘You tell me,’ Seb roared at Ewan. ‘You tell me what that was!’

  ‘I have to go. It’s not safe. Get off me.’

  ‘Safe? What? Not safe for who? For you?’

  Ewan pulled back and Seb went with him, barely staying on his feet. ‘Where are they?’ Spittle flew from his mouth and peppered Ewan’s face as he demanded the information he was also reluctant to receive. ‘The people who are projecting a malicious version of themselves, that’s what they are doing, isn’t it? Where are they, the bodies? Who are they? What has any of it got to do with me?’

  ‘Versions? That’s not a version,’ Ewan said with a returning spike of the usual sarcasm. ‘That is what they are.’

  The only thing preventing Seb from punching his old friend was the weakening effect of his own fear. He gathered himself. Stay angry. ‘Bullshit! Where are they? Where do they live? That thing with the sack on its head . . .’

  Ewan was almost crying when he asked, ‘What? What did you just say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About a bloody sack?’

  ‘The head, it was covered. In my dream and then . . .’

  Ewan stared at the grass, his eyes protruding. ‘Len,’ he said to himself. ‘Thin Len. You saw him.’

  ‘What? What are you saying? Who is Len?’

  ‘Oh Christ. Thin Len.’ Ewan clawed his face. ‘They’re not living. But they exist.’

  ‘You better start making sense or I’ll put you down for good, you prick!’

  ‘A child-killer. He was a murderer. He was hanged. I thought he was a myth, a story.’ But he’s not, or so Ewan’s hapless, drawn face seemed to communicate.

  Seb could hear himself wheezing, but he managed to pant out, ‘What?’ in a tearful voice.

  ‘Let go!’ Ewan roared. They struggled again, briefly wrestling and twisting around each other upon weak legs, until Ewan lost his balance and pulled Seb to the ground.

  Seb regained his hold on Ewan’s greasy jacket.

  ‘Piss off!’ Ewan batted at his hands and kicked at him while remaining on the ground as if he were too tired to get back up again. ‘You think you can understand? They are the parallel. Hinderers.’

  Seb let go of Ewan and raised himself to his feet. He looked about the common in bewilderment. ‘What? What does that mean?’

  As if confronting some terrible truth, Ewan dropped his face inside his hands. Perhaps he suffered a revelation that had been much postponed. ‘Hinderers in the passage. That’s what they’re called. I was told things. I glimpsed something, but only when . . . when I went further.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Ewan appeared too frightened to continue. He began to shake, his face creased as if he were about to cry.

  ‘Hinderers in the passage? What bloody passage?’

  A palsy took over Ewan’s hands.

  ‘They’re dead?’ Seb asked, his own voice a ghost of itself.

  Ewan nodded. ‘They reside over there. Oh, Christ.’

  ‘Where? Where?’

  ‘Discarnate. Trapped . . .’ Ewan’s attention drifted from Seb and he mumbled to himself in what sounded like a
weird stream of consciousness, gibberish but alarming gibberish. ‘The subnormal of the mist. People of the mist. They can’t ascend. There’s no physical body. Don’t you get it?’ He looked at Seb and raised his voice close to a shout, ‘And for him, Thin Len, this was never about choice!’

  ‘What are you saying? How can I see it? How?’

  ‘Hades. They drag vestiges of the body veil through the halfway place. They repeat . . . they rage blind for decades, centuries . . .’

  Ewan struggled to get to his feet, then began glancing about himself in a baffled, childlike fashion that made Seb feel much worse.

  Ewan paced in a small circle, his long hands clutched to his scruffy cheeks. ‘To stumble and crawl in the blackout, in the mist . . . to be denied ascent.’

  He muttered other things that Seb didn’t catch, but he did make out, ‘To be in terror, always. The confusion . . .’

  Seb grabbed Ewan’s shoulder. ‘What happened to the bloody light! The unlimited freedom? The power, the strength, the vitality and the marvels of the marvellous, Ewan? Where is it now? I didn’t see a bloody trace of it back there!’

  Ewan grinned at Seb, but only with his mouth because his watery eyes were still stricken with the horror of some terrible epiphany that had settled inside his ugly skull. ‘The paradise belt. They’ll never know it. They don’t conform to earth or paradise conditions, you idiot.’

  ‘Idiot? You fuck!’

  ‘They’re in the greylands, fool. They’re shades.’

  Holding his face, Ewan resumed walking, but in tighter circles. ‘Jesus, Jesus . . . The gliding of the double.’ He closed his eyes and swallowed.

  ‘The gliding of the frickin’ what?’

  ‘Oh God, that I should have seen it . . .’ Ewan began to actually cry. His chest heaved out sobs. This wasn’t an act to gain sympathy and he again reminded Seb of a small boy. ‘I should have not seen that. I never wanted to. Never, no. But it’s me! Me, it’s crossed over for me. They sent it. The light is dimming for me. But I won’t . . . I won’t . . .’ Ewan had lost his train of thought, along with his wits.

  ‘This thing, the hinderer, you said it can be directed?’

  Ewan nodded once, quickly. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘It came after you, not me?’

  ‘I have to get away from here.’

  ‘Please do, but first—’

  ‘Money. I need money.’

  ‘Now, there’s a surprise.’

  ‘You have enough. What do you need it for?’

  ‘What?’

  Ewan’s eyes narrowed and he displayed his discoloured teeth. ‘All those savings!’ He spat at Seb’s feet. ‘Bloody ISA. High interest bonds. From writing that shit! You won’t miss a couple of grand. Five, six, seven, that’ll do it.’

  ‘What?’ Shock left Seb dizzy. Ewan had been through his personal financial records. When he’d been asleep, Ewan must have rummaged through the bank statements in his office. Seb’s body shook with anger, disbelief, confusion, the cold. ‘You . . . you went through my files.’

  Ewan wrinkled his nose. ‘So what?’

  Seb went for him, swinging his limp arms. He landed a punch on Ewan’s chest, and another blow on the side of that greasy head.

  Ewan partially ducked out of the third swing, but Seb reached for his jacket, the throat, that tangled hair. He wanted to tear Ewan apart with his bare hands.

  ‘Get off.’ Ewan broke from Seb’s clutches, then snatched at one of his forearms. And with a strength that surprised Seb, Ewan swung him around in a circle until his feet left the turf. When Ewan let go of his arm, Seb’s feet didn’t regain the earth for several seconds.

  Pain seized his diaphragm as the air was forced from his lungs on impact with the ground. He landed hard, rolled through the wet verdure, momentarily unsure of where his arms and legs were. When his lungs finally filled, his will to fight was gone. He wanted to be sick.

  Ewan’s shoes skittered in their haste to leave him behind. Off through the grass he went, a raggedy vagrant, returning to the stony path they had staggered up to reach the common. But Ewan was not trying to get away from Seb. He was going somewhere to save himself. Seb’s fate meant nothing to this old friend. It never had done.

  He brought this into your life and now he’s running away.

  An hour later, Seb stood outside his house. The front door was open but he made no attempt to enter. Merely looking inside at the familiar coat rack and framed pictures made him feel like an invalid handicapped by his own terror. He might have been a ghost himself, revisiting a place from which he’d been expelled and could no longer claim as his own.

  All the time wondering if something was waiting inside, he repeatedly scoured the windows to make certain that nothing was looking out. Perhaps it crouched in its own sickly luminance, in a dim corner of a room, a form indistinct but exuding the gravest threat to his mind, life, and what came after.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said and bent double to let the dizziness pass. A sudden recollection of that shadow on the wall, its motion, its reaching for him, had made him giddy. Mere suggestions of the thin arms and much-changed hands were literally sickening. And the grief in it, the guttural noises of a beast insensible with rage, the sight of it rising . . . He could not bear to remember how he’d felt when Ewan had shut him inside the bedroom with it.

  He now felt a great need to sit down, to be comforted. The incremental death of his own scepticism had left him a very nervous man, somewhat bewildered and increasingly prone to mutter to himself and to twitch. A rapid ageing seemed to be upon him. He knew he stood at the boundary of new terrain in which he had no guide and no foreknowledge.

  Without doubt, the dreams had come with Ewan, like a cerebral infection transmitted by psychic means. And what could he understand of the black passage and its watery bottom, in which strange umbilical growths had anchored a congregation of strangers?

  The distant face in the woods and its every intimation of malevolence, its derangement, had been no act of the imagination either. It was the same thing that had crawled along the outside wall of his home and hunted him across the golf links in a dream. These had been premonitions and forebodings of what had started to become. Right here, around him. And had not the very materials of the world, ordinary items like a sun umbrella and his own bloody towels, become charged with a supernormal character before his very eyes?

  There was an existence beyond this one, then, though what evidence of an afterlife he’d encountered brought him no comfort or hope. Attempts to comprehend this halfway place, this passage, where ‘hinderers’ existed, enlarged his mind into what may have been an antechamber of madness.

  You’re probably fucked.

  Ewan had truly disrupted the world that Seb had taken for granted. Not only with squalor, but by creating a new environment where the unnatural existed. ‘Ewan, you bastard.’

  Preposterous. He was afraid his mind was coming apart from the sheer strain of what was trying to enter it. Reason would not respond, or even meet this new reality halfway. Only his imagination sufficed.

  Perhaps this state could only occur at certain times, though, and only near Ewan? He wanted to believe that, because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. He just wanted this all to stop.

  The prospect of removing Ewan from his life, by any possible means, now seemed justified. But feeling that murderous impulse was not the same as carrying out the task. Though who would miss Ewan? He’d damned himself a long time ago. It was obvious that Ewan had long forfeited more than his health and personal happiness. Ewan had come here with the purpose of threatening, extorting and blackmail through means too unique for belief, or for referral to the law.

  That thing had been an agent for someone else. Ewan had mentioned a ‘misunderstanding’. There were others involved in this too. Collusion didn’t strike him as improbable. But collusion with what?

  Seb’s sole task must now be the prevention of a further tarnishing by association. But where was Ewan?
Had he come back here?

  He had nowhere else to go.

  Seb drew the latch on the shed door, a wooden hutch at the foot of his rear garden. From within the jumble of tools that smelled of oil and rust, he removed the steel-bladed ‘moon’, a lawn-edging tool. At the very least he’d make Ewan understand that he could never come back to this house in any form.

  As Seb approached the open front door, the softening of his limbs resumed, and his arms were rendered numb by the idea that the ‘moon’ would be of no use against what had followed Ewan here.

  Hinderers.

  Thin Len. Child-killer. Hanged.

  ‘Ewan.’ His first attempt to call out in an authoritative tone failed.

  ‘Ewan!’ Still not loud enough and no one upstairs would hear him. Maybe that was the point.

  ‘Ewan!’ Much louder and, as soon as he’d spoken, Seb tensed to flee.

  No response arose from within the house.

  Seb stepped inside.

  Silence amidst the fragrance of the morning’s damp air that had seeped inside. No sound of movement upstairs either, but he couldn’t prevent himself from imagining another up there, holding their breath, if respiration was even relevant in these circumstances.

  Expecting the sudden brightness to provoke motion, Seb flicked the upstairs lights on.

  Nothing stirred.

  His own heartbeat was affecting his balance, but he moved up the first flight and peered about the passage.

  His bedroom door was closed. Same with the doors of two of the spare rooms. Ewan’s room was open. Before they’d scarpered like terrified children to the nature reserve, two hours earlier, Seb believed, this was how they had left the house.

  Holding the moon’s semicircular blade before him as if it were a bayonet, he crept further inside. Opened the first guest room and scrabbled a hand about to flick the lights on.

  Nothing inside, at least nothing visible. The second spare room was the same. His bedroom appeared banal in its ordinariness. The chest of drawers was still skewed at an angle behind the door and the blinds were open, but the room appeared empty of whatever had assumed an awful version of the living in the early hours of that morning.