The Watchers by Mark Andrew Olsen Read Free Book Online Page B

father’s expression had been so altered that day, such a departure from his usually cool and competent demeanor, that even then she had taken note.
    And now he was looking at her with that very same unhinged expression.
    For a second she had the macabre sensation of already being in the grave, peering up at the mourners of her own funeral.
    â€œDaddy?” she heard herself say in alarm.
    Then the cause of his devastated expression came rushing back to her.
    Third week in this bed. No answers. No encouraging signs. Not even a diagnosis to speak of. Only the knowledge that she was dying. Yes, dying. Inexplicably, inexorably, painfully.
    At the age of twenty .
    Maybe his premature reaction to the sight of her wasn’t so unjustified. “I’m still here,” she said in a weak voice. “Daddy. Please. Don’t look at me that way.”
    Startled from his grief, he stirred himself and allowed a paternal smile to warm his features once more.
    â€œI’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
    Instead of returning the smile, she scowled and peered at him. A fierce shudder cascaded down her spine.
    She had just seen . . . felt . . . something . A breeze, a wisp, a flutter. A chill through her heart. A dark wing across the empty air just in front of her.
    â€œDad, did you just feel something?”
    â€œSomething what?”
    â€œI don’t know. Something passing, a shudder, a presence even?”
    He stared at her. “No, sweetie . . .”
    She sighed and shut her eyes. Yes, she had seen it— or had she ? Had she glimpsed an eerie haze drift in front of his shoulders?
    She saw something again, and almost screamed—for it was now clear.
    And terrifying.
    A gauzy face, revolting and horrific at once. A mouth, leering and ravenous. A palpable shroud of something that made her want to crawl out of her skin.
    â€œAre you okay, sweetie?” came his voice through what sounded like a thick cloud.
    She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s part of the sickness. I don’t know—this morning my vision started to get blurred with these optical illusions. These little vapors, wisps of something. And every hour they get more . . . distinct. And horrible. Sometimes it even seems I can see faces on them. Just now it became totally clear. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t explain it, ’cause they’re very . . . I know it’s childish, but they really give me the creeps.”
    â€œThey’re just hallucinations, honey,” said the nurse at the foot of her bed. “I’m sure we can get you some drugs to make them—”
    â€œNo, please,” Abby interrupted. “No drugs. I don’t want to spend my last . . .” She realized what she was starting to say and paused. “I don’t want this time to be a haze.”
    â€œI’m so sorry, sweetie,” her dad said. He sighed with a heaviness that made the nurse, even his wife, Teresa, who stood to one side, glance at him sharply. “But please, don’t tell me. Don’t bring up these things. Please. Just don’t.”
    â€œBut, Dad, if I can’t talk to you about it, who can I talk to?”
    His head began an almost involuntary shake. “I don’t know. One of your friends? A counselor? I’ll pay.”
    â€œPlease. Don’t make it about money.”
    â€œI’m not, Abby. I’ll even bring in a chaplain, if that’ll help.”
    Abigail stretched her face into an exaggerated look of surprise. Anybody who knew her father knew about his feelings toward organized religion. Ever since her mother had led Abigail in a sinner’s prayer at the age of eight—during one of her calmer periods just before her disappearance—the subject had been a wedge between her and her father. After her mother had vanished, Abigail had clung to her new beliefs, and then her church, as a source of solace. Then, as she matured, it