THE UNDERTAKER and other Macabre Tales

THE WATCHER PART V

James came home the next day and the thing was a few feet closer to his home. Steve said he had tried to burn it. Burning it is only one way to get rid of it, James reasoned, there has to be another way.

He grabbed his baseball bat from the garage and made the long walk across his yard. James watched it from a ways off. He had picked up a few rocks on his way over. James threw the rocks at the creature. Soft at first, they just bounced off harmlessly and hit the ground with a heavy thump. Then he threw harder. The rocks connected with the thing's flesh. James could hear it. The sickening way the body acted like a cushion, absorbing the shock, almost like it was real. But there was no reaction. No pain. No change. No broken bones. This wasn't going to be easy.

When James ran out of rocks, he tried the bat. He had hit three home runs last season, the most on the team. He wound up and took a crack at the thing's back. He swung as hard as he could. CRACK!

James held the broken bat in his hands. This was impossible! James couldn't believe it. His favorite bat, snapped in half like it was a toothpick! And the thing just kept looking at him. Staring deep into his soul.

That was the worst part about it. The way it looked at him.

James decided that was enough for one day, but he had to do something about its eyes. He ended up grabbing a spare sheet from the closet and threw over the creature. The sheet draped around the thing like a ghost. It covered the eyes, but somehow not seeing the face made it scarier. But there was nothing he could do. He couldn't face those eyes again.

 The calls began soon after that. Steve would call James in the middle of the night, having panic attacks. He wasn't sleeping. This whole thing was affecting him way worse than James. James wasn't sleeping much either. But he'd found a solution. Sleeping pills and booze. That knocked him out for long enough to get a few hours, enough to get him through the next day until he did it again. So long for sobriety. Years of effort, down the drain. But this thing was gnawing at him, eating him alive from the inside out. It was the only way he could go on.

James would comfort Steve. Talk him down from his midnight frenzies like a good friend. He just needed some sleep. He suggested that Steve see a doctor. Steve would eventually calm down and hang up. Eventually, James stopped answering the phone.

Days went by. James' was barely keeping himself together. He was spending more and more time at work. Anything to stay away from home. From that thing in his yard. Even under the sheet, it was still watching him. He knew it was.

Everyday it would inch closer to his house. He never saw it move. But he knew it was moving. What happened when it got to the house? He wondered. Something told him he was going to find out.

He thought about moving, but he knew that wouldn't fix it. Whatever this thing was, it was after him, not his house. Not his wife. Him. So what were his options? James went over them in his mind. See a doctor. Confess. Ignore it. Move. See a doctor. Confess. Ignore it. Move. See a doctor. Confess. Ignore it. Move. See a doctor. Confess. Ignore it. Move.

James had always been a grade A procrastinator. He had to pick one of those options. Right now ignoring it was winning. But he knew that wasn't going to solve the problem. The party was coming up. This weekend. Anne's yearly shabang. He had to keep himself together, at least through the party. Then he would pick one of the options, and deal with this thing head on. He just had to get through one more weekend.

The next day was Tuesday. James was just having his morning coffee when there was a knock on his door. Two police officers greeted James, one of them was balding and the other was thin, almost skeltal. Neither was smiling.

"Are you James Lynch?"

" Yes."

"Do you know a man named Steven Boyleton? Lives across town?"

"I know him."

The second policeman, the one who was balding, handed James a small, plastic bag with a folded piece of paper inside it.

"Steve was found dead last night inside his home. He left his note. It's addressed to you."

James looked at the note. It had his name written on it. His stomach dropped out from under him.

"How did it happen?"

"Suicide, apparently."

James felt strange. He didn't feel sad, he felt relieved, in a way. He also, in this moment, when he should be devastated for his friend, felt scared. Scared for his own life. Scared of the note. Scared of the thing that was looming out in his yard behind the policeman. He could see it then, in that very moment. He wondered if he took the sheet off if maybe he would find Steve underneath.

James didn't open the letter until later that day. He was at work, on his lunch break when he finally built up the courage to open it.

He unfolded the paper very carefully. The message was only a few words. Written in Steve's very recognizable handwriting: I found a way to make it go away.

James crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash.

CONTINUED IN NEXT PART...