A story my father told me once. In the second person present! Oh, dear Jesus, no!
Watcher
Feil
This isn't at all appropriate, you know. I need a candle. Yes, that's what I need. One moment, if you don't mind.
Ah, that's better. Now, if I'm to tell you a scary story, I had best do it with the lights off. It's just not a proper ghost story with the lights on, you know. You're closer—would you mind?
Ah. Wonderful. Now, where am I—ah, yes. Best adopt a hushed tone, you know, build to the climax in volume and whatnot.
I suppose, though, that the appropriate question is “Where are you?”
It's twilight, and you're in your home, in a nice little town. Minding your own business. You've lived there for several years, and you've gotten to know most of your neighbors—all save one. Well, you chat with him from time to time when you meet on the street, and he seems a nice enough person. He brought you a basket of cookies when you moved in.
But he never seems to be around at night. The lights in his house are always out, and there's never the blue glimmer-glow of a television set. Maybe he has a night job?
But then you see him—it's twilight, remember, and you're in your home, minding your own business, reading a book. You see him out the window, walking off down the street with a shovel in his hand.
Now, you're a decent sort, I'm sure, so you stay and turn back to your book. But you just can't keep him off your mind. What is he going to do with that shovel? Why is he going out at night? There are a hundred perfectly reasonable explanations, but for some reason you just can't get him out of your head. You flick your eyes up and see him still walking, off a ways down the street.
“Well,” you say to yourself, “I'm never going to find out if I just sit here.” So you check the page number on your book and put it down, then you go out to follow him. It's really none of your business, but your curiosity has gotten the better of you.
It's getting dark, and you begin to wonder what you're doing out here at this time of night. And what he's doing. There's a quarter moon in the sky, and a cold wind has blown in from the hills. You shiver. Barely visible in the moonlight is your neighbor, still walking with his shovel.
A feeling of irrational dread passes over you as you see the graveyard in the distance. Then your neighbor stops, checks over his shoulder (you hide behind a bush to avoid notice) and clambers over the fence.
What is he doing? Where is he going with that shovel? It's weird, but you don't have anything to be afraid of, do you? You feel a tingling sensation down the back of your spine, like you're being watched, and cast a quick glance behind you despite yourself. It's just nerves, of course.
What is he doing? Curiosity overcoming you, you climb silently over the fence.
After a few moments, you see your neighbor stop at a grave still uncovered by grass. It must only be a few weeks old. You take cover behind a large tombstone and watch as he starts to dig.
Fear is submerged by rapt concentration and overwhelming curiosity. He works diligently, silently. The only sound is the scrape of shovel on dirt, the hiss of wind, the patter of dirt landing in the growing mound beside him.
The shovel strikes wood with a thunk, and you jerk despite yourself. What is he doing?
With a quiet creaking sound, he lifts the lid of the coffin. You find yourself straining forward, eyes wide. What the devil is he doing?
The answer comes a moment later as he tugs a corpse from the coffin... bends down... and takes a bite.
You blink. You blink again. You feel sick to your stomach. You can't stop watching. A million questions whirl in your head; you feel torn between your overpowering curiosity and your instinctive desire to run like hell.
Curiosity wins. He doesn't even know you're here. You're safe. Aren't you?
He keeps eating for several minutes; the sound, quieted by distance but sharpened by the still night, is of wet slurping and tearing. You're vaguely reminded of the noises a dog makes eating wet food.
When he lifts his head at last, his mouth is wet with blood and scraps of gore. Your eyes are stinging, and you realize you've forgotten to blink.
He casts a glance your direction, but he doesn't see you. You're safe. Aren't you?
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, dumps the half-eaten corpse back in the coffin, and closes the lid. As he begins to shovel dirt back into the hole, you realize the insanity of what you're doing. You crawl away, keeping below the level of the tombstones; when you reach the gate, you clamber over it as swiftly as you can.
You don't stop running until you're in your house. You turn all the lights on, close all the doors, and huddle in your living room with the curtains closed. You can't get him out of your head; the next day you think about him all day at work, and when you come home you find yourself sitting, doing nothing, staring out your living room window and waiting for the sun to go down.
Did you imagine it? Did you fall asleep reading? Surely you fell asleep reading—your neighbor wouldn't do that. Would he?
You can't go to the police. Not until you know. Who would believe you? Is he even doing anything illegal? You think he is, but you're no lawyer. It's not like anyone's in danger....
You find yourself jittering with anticipation as the sun dips below the horizon, almost wishing that he'd come out with his shovel and end the suspense.
As twilight seeps into the city, casting a half-light and long, sable shadows, you see him, shovel over his shoulder, walking out his front door and down the street. Your heart jumps; your stomach sinks; you are compelled to follow.
Sure enough, he walks straight to the graveyard, picks a new grave, and digs up an evening snack. Again, you watch for hours, scarcely blinking, until he finally puts the corpse away and starts to throw dirt back into the hole. Then, only then, do you flee.
The same procedure is repeated the next night, and the next, and the next, rain or shine, warm or cold. It becomes almost routine, a part of your daily life. It continues for weeks, unchanged.
The twenty-third day is different.
Again, he digs to the silence and the sound of shovel-scrapes and sighing wind; again he stoops, opens the coffin, begins to devour the corpse. Again, the sound of the tearing of wet flesh reaches you from the distance, sharpened by the night.
You stare, as you always stare, in rapt attention at this inconceivable aberration, this monster who devours human flesh by night.
But this time—this time, he pauses before he's satisfied. He looks up, slowly, his face dripping gore—and looks you straight in the eye.
Your eyes are wide, fixed on his.
A rictus-grin spreads over his face. His voice is colored by madness and his wide, wide smile when he speaks; his soft, lilting voice is carried perfectly by the night:
“I see you.”
At this stage, it's customary to blow out the candle, mm?
There.
Are you scared?
Watcher [supershort macabre/horror]
Moderator: LadyTevar