The Watcher

You never know who it is that watches you. You know when you are watched. You feel the eyes, at night when the moon is weak or on a day when the sun disappears. In fact, when the sun vanishes or the moon isn’t full, you worry. And you should. That is when the watcher comes.

Thank God you live where the sun rarely disappears, and the moon is almost always full.

You’re not alone. Others have watchers, too. No one knows who they are. They just are. Always have been. Your father, grandfather, great great great great grandfather had one. They never knew who watched, so what makes you think you can figure out who the watcher is?

Yet, I feel your determination to solve this riddle. The desperate pull to venture into the field when the sun finally fades. What do you suppose you’ll learn? What will you do? Why is this need consuming you?

Why, why, why?

***

He felt eyes everywhere, pulsing into his front, side, back, even above and below. They had come early that day, when the sun didn’t rise. It had been many years since this happened, and he had forgotten the burn that comes when you are watched. A burn that felt like someone started a fire close to you, but not on top of you. If you feel on fire, run. The watcher is close.

As he walked along the sidewalk, which churned like half-formed butter as it did every Tuesday, his hair began to rise. A quick sigh was followed by him pushing his hair down and putting on his standard-issue static cap. The government won’t get rid of the static—it keeps the birds away—but they at least give you a cap.

He was heading toward the field at the edge of town, past the bar that no one goes to yet always remains. As he passed, the door creaked open and a shadowy form peered out. From inside, he could hear the sounds of patrons laughing. The laughs sounded canned, fake, but he was intrigued enough to want to examine the goings on inside. Instead, he avoided looking as he walked past. You should avoid looking, too. He once lost a friend to the laughter, and he could still hear his friend’s now tinned voice coming from within if he tried hard enough to listen.

When he reached the edge of the field, he paused. He sank to his ankles in the churning concrete. Muttering to himself, he dislodged his feet and danced a jig to keep from being absorbed. It had happened to him once before, and that had been an unpleasant week.

He stared intently at the field before him. He had heard the stories from others who went into the field and came back, and also heard even more stories of those who went into the field and never returned. Those who returned seemed different, but he couldn’t be bothered to figure out why. All he knew was that they felt relief from not being watched anymore. He wanted that relief. Finally, he drew a breath and stepped into the field, his foot hovering for just a moment before he placed it down. He glanced up, confirming that the sun had indeed disappeared, and began wandering through the grass.

All sound ceased to exist. Had it ever existed?

At some point a bench appeared, so he sat, nodding to the scurrying blur that darted toward the unseeable edge of the field. When the blur gives you a gift, you accept.

He sat and watched. Watched. Watched. Days slipped by as he watched. Watched. Weeks slipped by and still he watched, watched, watched. Finally, three minutes after he sat down, the field decided to give him an answer. He saw who the watcher was. Relief flooded through his body, the burning sensation from the watching eyes dissipating into a fog that floated above his head. The fog swirled about, unsure of where to go if it didn’t exist as a burning feeling, then it wandered away. Who knows where the fog is now?

He got up, gave a curt nod, and walked away. He reached the edge of the field and confidently stepped onto the still churning concrete. The sun was gone, and he was no longer watched.

If you knew this man, he would appear to be himself when you first saw him. His body a familiar shape, his clothes still recognizable. When you look into his eyes, at first you would wonder if he had a secret he wasn’t sharing. The longer you look, the less familiar he will become. His body becomes fuzzy on the edges as though he is merging with the background, each shape slightly altering. Just enough to make you wonder if he is the person you know, but not enough to make you suspect that anything is amiss. You would shake your head and wander away, confused, before eventually forgetting that you even knew this man.

***

Whenever the sun disappears or the moon isn’t full, you are watched. If you go to the field, like I know you want to, you may be shown who the watcher is.

If you look carefully, the watcher almost looks like you.

Don’t look carefully.