The Watcher

 I can feel him watching me. Not like someone watching you from across the room, but really feel him. He's there, I know it. Just waiting, waiting.

I looked behind me and stared into the darkness. I didn't want to, but I forced myself to wait for my eyes to adjust. I had to make sure he wasn't really there. So I waited. I faced that black abyss, but it was hard. Damn these eyes! Why did I get dealt the bad hand with vision? Maybe if I adjust my thick f*****g coke-bottle glasses. No, he's not there. Just the bed and the dresser.

You know that relief you get when you dodged a bullet? Like when your mom narrowly missed the hidden porn mag under some clothes? Or the relief you get when you come? Yeah, mine is better.

F**k. Why does he watch me? I brought a shaky hand up to my mouth and took a drag on my cigarette. It was a stale taste, like kissing a smoker rather than actually smoking. I mean this pack must be five years old.

I did quit, you know. When my son was born, I quit that and the drink. I figured I had to take care of myself, and I did, don't get me wrong. I did really good for a while.

But he came back. Like he always does.

I took another drag and turned back to the only light in the room: my dinky little laptop. I write horror stories for a living, currently a story about the dead. That's irony, right? Writing about the fictional dead so I could really live? I was never really good at humor.

I set the stale cigarette nub down and moved my fingers on the keyboard. The clicky-click of the keys was deafening in the silence. I could feel it weighing down on my back, like a stone. A really big stone.

Or like abysmal hands with long, reaching fingers pressing down on your very existence. My hands started to shake so hard, I had to stop typing.

Then I heard another noise. One that stopped the cogs in my head from turning, one that made the sweat on my bare back creep back into my pores, that's what that f*****g sound did to me. It was a grinding, stretching sound. Like when you pull on a blanket and it slowly starts to rip? That's the best I can explain it. But it wasn't a f*****g blanket.

It was his jaw that was grinding. It was his gray, dead cheeks stretching. I could just see his mouth widening into a giant black hole. His teeth are yellow and decayed. Maggots are pouring over his bottom lip, making little thuds on the wooden floor like rain on an umbrella. His eyes are black except for tiny, red pinpricks that sat in the middle of his eyes.

His jaw is still dropping, stretching his cheeks. Oh, f**k, just leave me alone.

I turned around this time. I stood up, too. I knocked over my little wooden chair. I'm shaking all over. I can't tell if that is sweat or piss in my underpants, but either way they are glued to my thighs with moisture.

The room looked the same. Empty and such. But he is there. I walk over to the curtains. I'm careful not to step on any maggots. This room feels like a royal god damn hallway when it's dark. But I finally get there, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood. I peek through the middle of the curtains and I see him. The blood or whatever's left leaves my face and fills my feet. He is standing in the middle of the motel parking lot, staring right at me. Right through me. I can feel his eyes reaching into me, clutching my heart like they were his long claws.

I swallow down a handful of copper and stare back. That's all I can f*****g do, you know! Once he sees you, you're fucked, man! What would you do!

So f**k you. And him.

S**t. He's cocking his head to the side like a damn dog. I can hear the popping of his vertebraes and the cracking of his dry hide and dead muscles.

So I make sure the door is locked, because that'll do a lot of good. I look back outside and he's gone. That's almost worse, isn't it? Not knowing where he is?

I can feel the sweat pouring down my face now. I start to get an itch in my arms. It almost feels like cockroaches or ticks gnawing at my skin. But I know it's not. I know the truth. It's him. It's the tips of his long fingers, tickling me, tormenting me. So I wipe the sweat off in handfuls and walk back to my rinky-dinky laptop. I look at it, but I can't f*****g write. Not like this. Not with this fear, this constant horror, consuming my mind. If you could feel every individual cancer cell, I imagine it would be like this; centipedes crawling over my brain and my heart and my stomach. Hundreds of them with all of their legs.

I shudder and slam my laptop shut.

That was a bad idea. The room was just swallowed by the darkness. His darkness. It's his home, I think. He can move through it like water moving through itself. Fluid and everywhere. So I won't lie when I say I ran to the bathroom and threw up the switch. Light filled the room and I could almost feel him receding away from it.

I stare at the black room and I see him with his gaping maw drooling maggoty saliva. I could see the other men and women, the other artists and drinkers, that he had consumed. They were all crawling on top of each other, trying to escape the dark recesses of his throat. Some had tears in their eyes and others had determination.

But all of them were screaming.

And staring at me. I can't help you. I just can't.

I turned to the sink and turned on the cold water. I splashed my face and my arms. I'm not going to escape this. It's almost a relief because I've been running for, I don't know, weeks? Months? But the relief is brief. Fear stomps back in. His weapon. His creation.

Because everyone fears the unknown, right? Even if it excites them, the fearfulness is still there, hiding in a corner.

Watching.

I look at myself in the cracked, yellow mirror. I push up my sliding glasses and run my trembling fingers through my decaying hair. The stress has riddled my face with acne and cold sores. My lips are cracked and bleeding and my eyes are blood shot.

Then everything starts to change.

My jaw starts to drop and my skin turns gray and splits, popping like good firewood or dry bones. The teeth I have left turn black and fall out. My eyes shrivel and sink into my skull, becoming little red pinpricks.

F**k, I didn't notice the light went out.

But I still see the change, the mouth widens, and I'm left staring into his maw. I see myself.

I'm falling, struggling to stay on top of the naked crowd, all begging to escape. I feel nails drag against my back as some poor soul like me gets a foot hold. There's a tugging on my ankle. I look back and see giant black spiders with agonized faces dragging me down. I look back up and see his mouth closing and slowly the darkness consumes me.

He has me. I am now apart of him.

The Watcher.

Author's Note

It has been so long since I've written a story. I think I started writing and deleting two other stories before getting through this one. I hope you like it.