The Watcher

“I need you to listen to me very carefully. You don’t know me, but I know you.” The voice in my head was calm as a cleaver. I had held my breath waiting when I noticed the blank envelope among the bills and circulars. I turned the letter carefully in my hands. No need to worry about fingerprints. The police had visited dozens of times, drank gallons of coffee, walked in unenthusiastic circles with large flashlights. But life was nothing like CSI. As the lined torn notepaper fell from my fingers, I released that breath.
It was time to walk, to check each window, check behind each door. The lightning in my brain sparked. Its tragic music of thunder wouldn’t stop until I completed my rounds. I rubbed my graying temples. The letters had been coming for years. Cryptic warnings like Just remember the spider, my boy or Patience no one gets out alive and odd questions, Do we need more fresh blood? Or why don’t you just leave already? That letter gave me the chills. But I knew my duty.
I needed to keep family safe. Seven years of penny pinching and living in a crap hole studio apartment had paved the way to this our dream house. Our slice of manicured crabgrass and neighbor barbecues with a thirty year mortgage, my realm could not taken away so easily. The sky had purpled and grown cool. It was a good night for thick grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Macy would be home soon. There was an invite to yet another graduation party on the refrigerator. Had I put it there? Must’ve. My storm clouds lifted. Cheese, butter, pickles, I gathered the sandwich fixings and made a mental note to pick up fresh half and half. The crumbled note joined its brothers in the kitchen rubbish bin.

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