The Watcher

1

A pale ring of light encircled the aged rocking chair, it’s cracks, gouges and other imperfections revealed ever so utterly in the August moonlight. Over the years, the weathered old-timer had provided comfort and consolation to children and mother alike.2

Betsy Miller remembered the days she’d rocked in that chair with a child in her lap and a book in her hand before sending the tots off to bed. She recalled the nights one of her sons would come running into the room upon waking from a nightmare. Betsy would hoist herself to her feet, hobble across the floor, and drop into the wooden chair. She would hear all about whatever nightmare either of her sons had had before she sent him back to bed and remained in the old rocker. Clive would wake up to her frustrated sobs. “I could never protect them,” she’d cry, “no matter how hard I’d try, I could never protect them.” One night, Clive had awaken to find that his wife had fallen on her way back to bed and had lain there sobbing quietly, not wanting to disturb him. He’d bought her a cane the next afternoon. These days, though, her house had grown quite empty. The boys had grown and left home, and she and Clive now inhabited the dark, old house alone in a small town in southern Iowa.3

Betsy lifted herself from the elderly chair, grasping her cane, and carried herself slowly across the bedroom. She lay down by Clive’s side, breathing hard from her efforts to reach the bed. The old man had already slipped off to sleep. Betsy smiled, pressed her lips to his forehead, and closed her eyes.4

The night carried on as the moon slipped slowly across the star-studded sky, and the blanch spotlight left the weathered chair and stole artfully across the floor, over the bed, and over the wall before disappearing from the room.5

The moonlight was positioned just above the oaken headboard when Betsy stirred. She twisted round, only a little, and opened her weary eyes just wide enough to see a shadow which had never been present in her bedroom before.6

The antique chair was rocking back and forth, slowly, silently, and a thin, hunched form sat watching the sleeping couple. “Is she awake?” came the raspy whisper from the man, clearly an intruder, in the chair. Fearfully, Betsy attempted to feign sleep. She mimicked her husband’s breathing patterns, shut her eyes tightly. At first, she only felt more awake, but after a while, she nearly forgot the strange man’s presence. She began to feel that perhaps she had dreamt him, though a dreadful fear was still burdened the pit of her stomach. Eventually, she drifted off to sleep.7

When Betsy woke in the morning, Clive was in the adjoining bathroom, and no one else was present in the house. The small lady lifted herself painfully to her little feet and moved desperately toward the bathroom door.8

“Clive,” she panted, bracing herself on the door frame when she reached her destination, “someone was in the house last night.”9

The man had been standing at the sink, half his face covered in shaving cream. He set down his razor and turned to face his wife. “What’s that?” he asked hoarsely.10

“There was a man,” said Betsy. “There,” she added, pointing, to the chair. “He was watching us, Clive; he was watching us sleep.”11

“Are you sure, love?” Mr. Miller asked, moving past the woman toward the telephone in the bedroom.12

“I am,” she replied nervously. “I woke and saw him,” she explained. “He was just rocking in that chair!”13

The aged gentlemen lifted the phone to his ear and dialed the police. Betsy heard him ask for an officer to be sent to the house to investigate. She trudged to the bathroom to freshen up and dress while her husband finished shaving.14

The police arrived at ten o’clock and knocked on the door. Mrs. Miller waited in the sitting room while Clive showed two officers into the home. One officer was plump with a bristly brown mustache, while the other was tall, blonde, and considerably younger. The Millers showed them to the bedroom, where they searched for fingerprints, footsteps, and other clues, none of which were found.15

“Are you sure he was here?” asked the plump officer. (The tall one didn’t speak much.)16

“Why, of course, I am,” Betsy answered. “And he was mumbling to himself. And he was watching us sleep!”17

“And you say you were sure the doors were locked?”18

“They were, officer,” said Clive. “I’m sure I locked them last night, and I surely found them locked this morning.”19

“Hmmm,” purred the plump officer. “We’ll have a look upstairs before we go, but if we find nothing there, we may as well give up.”20

Clive showed the police officers the upper floor while Betsy remained in the sitting room, sipping hot chocolate. Nothing was found. Mr. Miller thanked the policemen and showed them to the door.21

The following night, however, Betsy woke again to see the figure hunched in the chair, rocking back and forth. This time he seemed not to notice her. She could not return to sleep that night. She remained awake all night and into the morning, staring straight at the ceiling.22

At four o’clock, the thin man stood and shuffled out of the room. Betsy remained still for several moments before bursting into tears, her small form heaving under the blanket in silent sobs. She was still crying when her husband awoke.23

“Betsy,” said he, “Betsy, what’s wrong?”24

“He was here again,” she sobbed. “He was here 25

again last night.”26

“Who was here?” asked Clive. “That man?”27

“Yes, and he was watching us again.”28

“All right,” said Clive, rising and approaching the telephone. “I’ll have the police come over again.29

While Clive was on the phone, Betsy hobbled difficultly to the bathroom to clean up a little.30

Today, when the plump officer and the tall officer returned, the looked at Mrs. Miller strangely. Still, they investigated every door and window, each possibility which their minds were able to conjure.31

“We’ve found no more today than we did yesterday,” explained the plump officer. “Perhaps you’ve just been dreaming,” he suggested.32

“But I haven’t,” cried Betsy.33

The two officers looked at each other. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Miller,” said the plump one. “We just can’t find any trace of an intruder.” Next, Clive showed them to the door and they were gone again.34

“Some help they were,” Betsy grumbled.35

“Now, dear,” said Clive, “there’s really nothing more they could’ve done.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Are you quite sure you weren’t dreaming?”36

“Yes, I am quite sure,” insisted the old woman.37

That night, Betsy woke again and heard him breathing across the room, heard the rocking chair squeaking ever so faintly. This time, though, she did not open her eyes, she did not chance a glance at him. She simply waited for sleep to return to her and pull her away from her waking nightmare. In the morning, she asked Clive, “Oh, won’t you call the police once more, dear? I swear he was hear again.”38

The old man sighed and reached for the phone. At ten o’clock that morning, the tall, blonde officer arrived alone. He explored the whole of the house before announcing, “There isn’t a clue to be found,” and showing himself to the door.39

“Betsy,” said Clive after the tall officer had left, “are you still entirely sure you could not have been dreaming?”40

“I could not have been dreaming,” cried his wife. Later that day, she heard him on the phone saying, “She is growing quite strange lately.”41

“Quite strange,” grumbled Betsy as she drove to a local hunting store. She purchased a shotgun that day and brought it home and placed it under her side of the bed she shared with her husband. That night she woke and saw the thin man hunched in the chair yet again. “I shall reach for my gun,” she thought, but she found she was much to frozen with fear to move even an inch. She merely lay there trying to will herself to grab for the shotgun. The man left again at four o’clock, and Betsy went back to sleep.42

“I bought a gun,” she told her husband the next day.43

“You bought a gun?” said he. “Why on Earth would you do that?”44

“The man I told you about,” she explained, “he’s been here every night. I bought it to use on him. The police are no help, but I must defend the both of us somehow. Surely he doesn’t mean to simply watch us each night.”45

Clive frowned but said nothing. That afternoon, while Betsy was preparing supper, Clive removed the ammunition from her new purchase and then returned it to its place under the bed.46

That night, Betsy woke, and the man was there again, rocking slowly, breathing heavily, watching ever so intently. This time, Betsy did not remain still. She moved as quickly as she could, grabbing the gun from under the bed, aiming it at the stranger, pulling the trigger – but nothing happened. The thin man lunged at her, and she screamed. His teeth sunk into her right arm and she screamed louder yet. Clive sat up quickly, took the gun and swung the butt of it at the thin man’s face, sending the stranger running off into the hall and, from there, out of the house. The old man tried to follow the figure but lost him among the shadows.47

Clive Miller returned to find his wife sobbing into her pillow. He took her into his arms and held her until morning. When they awoke, the old man called the police.48

“What did they say?” Betsy called from the bathroom when she heard Clive hang up.49

“They won’t come back,” said Clive. “They don’t believe us.”50

When Betsy staggered back into the bedroom, Clive was replacing the ammunition in Betsy’s shotgun. “Thank you,” she whispered, throwing her tired arms around him.51

That night, Clive woke to find a strange new shadow swaying against the wall – an old woman perched in the rocking chair, holding a shotgun. He turned to find his wife was no longer by his side. He recognized her form in the chair and turned back over to sleep.52

Betsy rocked back and forth in the chair, cradling her precious shotgun. “Let him come back,” she whispered. “Just let him come back, that son of a bitch.”53

When Clive woke in the morning, Betsy smiled at him, stood, and hobbled to the bed. “I believe I’ll take a short nap,” she sighed, pulling the blanket over her small, withered body. Clive took the shotgun from her, frowning, placed it under his side of the bed, and stepped away.54

Later that morning, Mrs. Miller awoke for only a moment to hear her husband on the phone with someone. “She is growing quite strange,” he was saying. “She was sitting up late last night – all night I think . . . . ”55

His voice trailed off as her eyes closed slowly 56

and she dozed off again. She was up in time for supper, and she was up all night after that, rocking back and forth in the old chair, holding her shotgun.57

A pale ring of light encircled the aged rocking chair, it’s cracks, gouges and other imperfections revealed ever so utterly in the August moonlight. Over the years, the weathered old-timer had provided comfort and consolation to children and mother alike. It had seen restless nights and calm winter mornings. It had seen drowsy evenings and rainy afternoons. It had watched the sanity slip from the mind of its owner. . . . 58

The antique chair was rocking back and forth, slowly, quietly, and a thin, hunched form sat watching the sleeping man. “Is he awake?” came the soft, clear voice from the old woman in the chair. Silently, Clive twisted around toward the circle of moonlight, the rocking chair, and his wife. There she sat – rocking, simply rocking back and forth – holding her shotgun and mumbling to herself now and then. The old man frowned, feigned sleep as a single tear rolled down his cheek. He simulated slumber until it came real and he left his wife alone in the waking world in the night . . . watching.59