Watchers of the Night

by Matthew Keith

  * * *

  After they hung up, he didn’t leave his room. He did something that he never usually did—he lay down on his bed. He lay there thinking about who he was and who he had in his life. He had his mom and dad, of course, and he felt like family should always come first, but the truth was they didn’t, not for him. They hadn’t for a long time. Throughout the time that he’d been dealing with his sleep issue, it had always been Stephanie and Steven who helped him through it. With them, he never had to apologize for it and never had to feel like he couldn’t be himself.

  Other than Stephanie and Steven, there really weren’t any others that he would call true friends. He had acquaintances back at North Hardin High, but that’s all they were. No one else there knew about the biggest issue in his life: his sleeping problem. Some of the people at Astralis like Liz, Juliet, Kenneth and Parker seemed like maybe they could become better friends someday, but he knew that they’d never achieve the same degree of trust and loyalty that he had with Stephanie and Steven. There was just too much history and shared experiences for anyone else to get there.

  Stephanie was right; he wasn’t an angry guy. He just generally didn’t get angry because he knew what that was like and he wanted no part of it. Back when he’d first starting dealing with his sleep issue, he’d spent a few months feeling angry almost every day. During that time, he alienated most of the people that cared about him while carrying his resentment around in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t take more than a few months before he’d found himself alone most of the time. It was then that he realized what a waste of time it was to dwell on anger and resentment. The simple truth about anger was that the only person who ever knew how angry you really were was yourself. No one else could ever recognize it for what it was. You could tell them, but even then it would still only be words they heard, not that awful burning, consuming, and self-destructive emotion. Anger, he’d realized, was self-pity in another form.

  So he’d let go of it. Not because anyone felt he should, but because he’d known it was such a colossal waste of his time and energy. He’d simply made the decision not to be angry and there hadn’t been a day since that he had allowed himself to get to the point that his anger brought on self-deprecation.

  Loyalty and friendship. Those were two words that Stephanie had used, and he had to admit that when he thought about the bond the three of them shared it did bring a fire into the pit of his stomach, but not like what you’d feel with anger. More like a warm glow.

  “Ten minutes.” Lydia’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  He and Stephanie’s conversation was what was on his mind when the sun set and he drifted down into the dream, that warm ember of friendship filling his mind and heart.

  When he opened his eyes, only a few moments had passed. He stood up, feeling good and thinking how lucky he was to have a friend like Stephanie, until he realized that the door to his room was still shut. He’d been so intent on speaking with her that he’d closed it for privacy and then forgotten to open it back up before falling asleep.

  Reaching for the knob, he grabbed hold and tried to turn it, but nothing happened. His hand just slid around the outside.

  Turning away, he paced the small floor of his room, thinking.

  He tried to focus on being angry for his lack of forethought and channel that into a strong enough emotion to get the door open, but just like in the training area he couldn’t work himself up to it.

  Standing in the center of his room, feeling impotent and stupid and knowing it was his own fault, he shook his head, calling himself a fool.

  And then he realized Stephanie was right. He was ashamed. He was always ashamed of being so different from everyone else. He’d spent so many nights over the past five years wandering the streets of Radcliff, lost in self-pity. What a waste of time. What a waste of energy.

  Or was it?

  He thought back to those nights and realized that every night, somehow he had found a way out of his house. If he wasn’t able to touch or move anything, how had he gotten out?

  Simply by knowing he could, that was how. Or more accurately, by not knowing that he shouldn’t be able to.

  Picturing himself in his mind’s eye, Paul realized he’d been moving things all along, not because he was angry, or happy, or sad, but simply because he hadn’t been trying. He hadn’t known he wasn’t supposed to be able to do it. It hadn’t occurred to him that he should be trying to focus just to open a door or even lift his covers off himself to get out of bed. All along, he’d been doing it naturally.

  And since coming to Astralis, somehow he’d blocked that natural ability simply because he’d been told by everyone here that he shouldn’t be able to.

  Walking back to his door he stood for a moment, looking down at the door knob.

  There is no block, he told himself. There is no block. You can do this.

  And then he reached out and focused his mind on the door handle. He felt a warm wash go through his body, ending at his outstretched hand. It felt as if someone had run a warm liquid through his veins, warming him from the inside out. He grabbed the door handle as natural as he would at any time during the day… and opened it.

  Watching it swing open on silent hinges, he stood there, quietly exultant.

  He breathed in deeply and then set off down the hallway.

  The elevator was no problem this time. Gladys just happened to be walking past when the door slid open and he laughed in glee as she ducked her head into the elevator car, peeking to see if anyone was there. He was a little surprised when she softly asked, “Paul?”

  He wasn’t aware that she knew about his ability, but he supposed it made sense that she would if she was working with a CIA agent like Lydia. In fact, Gladys was probably with the CIA herself. He’d have to ask Dr. Abrams about it.

  Just because he could, he reached out and squeezed her hand. She jumped and gave a shrill shriek. Watching her turn tail and head back toward the reception area, Paul chuckled and hurried on toward the training room.

  As with the previous two nights, everyone was there waiting for him. Steven stood on his podium, his body rigid, as if he were holding himself up simply by force of will.

  Dittrich was standing in the doorway and began by saying, “Paul, I thought tonight we might start with some exercises—”

  But Paul strode right past him to the table. Focusing all his energy, feeling the warmth, he swiped the ball from its resting place with the flat of his hand, bouncing it off the wall at the far side of the room.

  “What the crap!” Steven yelped, looking around wild-eyed. “Paul, man, is that you?”

  “Damn right it is, buddy.” Even though he knew Steven couldn’t hear him, it felt right to reply.

  He went to his friend, the warmth still coursing through his veins, and happily shoved him hard enough to push him off the podium into a heap on the floor. Focusing one last time, Paul patted Steven on the back twice.

  He turned back to the stunned group in the room and asked, “So now what do we work on?”