Surreal

The Watchers

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This post was originally published through Patreon on January 29, 2019.

Remy found the journal right where he’d left it: on the bedroom shelf beside his favorite book, The Shining. It stood at an angle, and where it touched the slanted afternoon light from the open window above, a shadow had formed, an intense and palpable black that might, for all Remy knew, be some kind of black hole, ready to suck him in should he venture too close.

He leaned in, his nose just inches from the leather binding, and after a deep, steadying breath, he snatched the journal up and carted it off into the basement, where the shadow’s entire family seemed to have congregated in his absence.

Remy sat before a wooden desk, set the book down, and after turning on a nearby light, he watched the shadow’s kin scatter to the far corners of the room. He opened the journal to the very first page, and there he ruminated over the text scrawled across the interior cover.

Property of Archibald Miller.
Do not read unless I’ve passed.

Archibald was Remy’s uncle, and since the man had, in fact, passed, he had no qualms about prying. The two of them hadn’t been close, but a chance encounter with his estranged sister had resulted in his acquisition of the journal.

The meeting had been an awkward one. Remy had stopped by home to check on Mom, and when he arrived, sitting beside her on the sofa was his sister, Jan.

“Oh,” she said, and she offered Remy a strained smile that he refused to return. “Hello.”

Remy didn’t meet her eyes, nor did he reply. Too many hurtful words had passed between himself and his siblings for him to ever make eye contact again. To think that the fighting preceding their falling out had revolved around a stupid inheritance—a different family member at the time, not his uncle—that he’d wanted no part of in the first place. In the years that followed, she’d extended multiple olive branches, but he’d resisted every one.

“Isn’t this nice,” his mother said, ignoring the extended silence following Jan’s unrequited greeting. “Remy, come sit with us.”

And he did, not for his sister but for Mom, who he didn’t wish to upset.

Just as the visit was winding to an end, Remy’s sister cornered him in the foyer and said, “We found something in Uncle’s house yesterday.” By we, she meant herself and Remy’s younger brother, John. She reached into her purse and produced the book that now lay open on Remy’s desk. “It’s a journal. I offered it to Mom, but she wasn’t interested. Said Uncle had secrets she wants no part of now. I just thought maybe you’d like to read it.” She looked up at him, and again, he refused to meet her eyes. “You know, since you’re the reader in the family.”

That was true. He’d always loved books. Back when they were kids (long before their falling out), he’d sneak off to his room while his brothers and sisters watched TV and lose himself in the darkly hypnotic worlds crafted by the likes of Neil Gaiman, Anne Rice, and Stephen King.

“Thanks.”

No doubt she’d hoped the gift would spark a renewed interest in their ruined relationship. He took the book from her and closed the door on his sister once more.

The journal, it turned out, was indeed full of secrets, and he couldn’t blame Mom for wanting no part of them. His uncle’s words were unnerving, and at first, Remy thought the man must have been delusional. But somehow, the journal’s contents stuck with him until it seemed his uncle’s mad ramblings followed him wherever he went.

Whether he was sleeping or awake, working or at rest, his uncle’s words took root, lodged in his heart like a tumor. A dark fascination took hold, and soon Remy was spending all his time in the basement, reading and re-reading the thoughts of a mad man and somehow making sense of them.

Now, again, Remy consulted the journal.

I have come to understand that, just as our eyes are windows into the universe, so too is the universe a window into us. Who, I have often wondered, might be using that window to watch over us? Today, the answer came to me and I am afraid.

From there, the man had gone on to detail a class of beings he dubbed the Watchers.

I see them in the shadows everywhere I go: the Watchers. I cannot look directly at them. Ironically, they don’t seem to like being watched themselves and they’ll vanish the moment you turn your head. But if you’re clever, if you train your eyes to make sense of what you see at the periphery of vision, there you’ll find them, always watching. And for what purpose? Are they beneficient? Malevolent? Perhaps neither. Perhaps we’re some kind of exhibit in a cosmic zoo, and those terrifying phantoms are much like ourselves, staring at creatures lower than themselves, perhaps musing, perhaps mocking, and always watching. Always, always watching…

Delusional, every word. At least, that’s what Remy wanted to believe. But hadn’t he tried his uncle’s experiment? Hadn’t he focused on what he could see out of the corner of his eye, and hadn’t he spied something strange, something off, an ever-present shadow that followed him around wherever he went?

He wanted to believe his uncle was crazy, that the man had been a closet schizophrenic, and that his journal was proof that he should have been committed long ago. But hadn’t he found his uncle’s phantoms even outside in direct sunlight?

Like his uncle, Remy had glimpsed whatever was watching him from the other side of that cosmic window, and now he was afraid.

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Connection

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The phone rings and Kevin answers.

“Hello?”

But static is his only reply. Kevin waits one second, two seconds, three, then ends the call and drops the phone back into his pocket.

The phone rings again.

Kevin glances at the screen—Unknown Number—and answers once more.

“Hello?”

Static.

Kevin waits some more, then drops the phone onto the coffee table and takes a seat on the couch, waiting for the other party to call back. He’s been through this a thousand times before and will go through it a thousand times again. He knows this call is important, and he’ll answer as many times as it takes to make a connection.

The phone rings again, and this time, when Kevin answers, there’s an ocean of static. The sound is so loud, so irritating that he has to hold the device in front of him to keep from going deaf.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

Now, at last, the static changes. The pops and hisses run at first closer together, then further. The sound begins to take shape, but it has not yet resolved into a language Kevin can understand.

This time, he does not hang up. Instead, he leans back and puts the phone on speaker, saying, “I’m here when you’re ready. I’m listening.”

Now, a crackling burst of something that almost resembles a voice.

Come on, he thinks, silently rooting for the person on the other end of the line. You’re so close. You can do this.

“—ell— Can—”

The two partial words emerge from that roiling sea of static, and Kevin cheers.

“Yes,” he says. “I can hear you now. Keep trying.”

“—ello,” the almost voice says before collapsing into static.

“I’m still here.”

“—an you hea— e? —eed help.” Static. “—ou help m—” Static.

Kevin has the sinking feeling they’re not going to make it through on their own. It’s happened many times before, and Kevin, already aware of what he must do, cups his hand over the phone and closes his eyes.

All at once, he’s flying. Not his body, which remains planted on the couch in his apartment, but his soul, which shoots through space and time to bridge the gap.

I’m here, Kevin calls in a soundless voice that ripples across the cosmos.

At last, the two souls meet.

Help me.

That’s what I’m here for, Kevin answers.

Kevin can feel the other soul’s relief rolling off of him like heat.

I didn’t know if you could hear me. I thought— I tried—

But there they stop and say no more.

A soul, male, trapped between two worlds, stuck on the precipice between life and death.

Listen, Kevin says, having done this many times before, you have to let go. I can’t help you break free until you do.

But my wife, my children—

Kevin sees the cord that tethers him to the Earth, quivering with worldly concerns.

You can’t be with them anymore. It’s time to move on.

But who will take care of them?

Kevin understands this kind of post-mortem anxiety well. With great care, he makes contact. A connection is forged between their intersection, and for a timeless instant, the two souls merge. A spark of something like electricity passes between them, and the man, frightened, tries to pull away. But Kevin’s grip is tight and he does not let go.

See for yourself how your wife and children are getting on without you.

Kevin reaches across a great cosmic threshold, and together they traverse the intricate tapestry of human life that covers the Earth. Starting from the top, they burrow down through more than six billion lives, narrowing their focus until the man’s wife comes into view. They watch her, working hard to put food on the table, and when it’s clear his family’s financial means are taken care of, Kevin shifts their attention to the man’s children, playing on the swings at school during recess. They feel as one his wife’s and children’s pain, their sadness, and their grief, but also their determination, their grit, and most of all, their obstinate will to go on living.

As you can see, your wife is strong and capable of providing for your family on her own, and your children, though sad, have already learned to go on without you.

No, the man says, still afraid and clinging to what he’s lost. I can’t go. I can’t leave them. I can’t—

Kevin grabs the cord that binds his soul to the Earth, and in one deft motion, severs it in two.

The man’s soul howls, wounded and in shock.

No! he cries. Nonononono!

But without that tether to the Earth to hold him back, Kevin can already feel the man’s mind clearing and his heart preparing for the mysteries of Beyond.

Go, Kevin says, not unkindly.

For a moment, the two regard each other. Then the man’s soul nods, a gesture of gratitude and respect.

Thank you, the man says, then kicks off and rockets into Beyond.

Kevin feels a tug on his own cord. It calls him back to Earth, and soon enough, he’s opening his eyes on the couch, the phone still sitting on the table beside him.

“Good luck, my friend.”

There are other calls that night, a few as desperate as the first. Kevin answers each in turn—”Hello?”—and someplace, sometime, another connection is made.

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