WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

had the uneasy feeling that his good grooming and big smile were elements of a

carefully calculated disguise. He had a keen animal watchfulness, a coiled

tension, that further disquieted her with every step they took away from the

front door.

Following her much too closely, virtually looming over her from behind, Art

Streck said, “You’ve got a nice house here, Mrs. Devon. Very nice. I really like

it.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, not bothering to correct his misapprehension of

her marital status.

“A man could be happy here. Yeah, a man could be very happy.”

The house was of that style of architecture sometimes called Old Santa Barbara

Spanish: two stories, cream-colored stucco with a red-tile roof, verandas,

balconies, all softly rounded lines instead of squared-off corners. Lush red

bougainvillea climbed the north face of the structure, dripping bright blossoms.

The place was beautiful.

Nora hated it.

She had lived there since she was only two years old, which now added up to

twenty-eight years, and during all but one of them, she had been under

the iron thumb of her Aunt Violet. Hers had not been a happy childhood or, to

date, a happy life. Violet Devon had died a year ago. But, in truth, Nora was

still oppressed by her aunt, for the memory of that hateful old woman was

formidable, stifling.

In the living room, putting his repair kit beside the Magnavox, Streck paused to

look around. He was clearly surprised by the decor.

The flowered wallpaper was dark, funereal. The Persian carpet was singularly

unattractive. The color scheme—gray, maroon, royal blue—was unenlivened by a few

touches of faded yellow. Heavy English furniture from the mid-nineteenth

century, trimmed with deeply carved molding, stood on clawed feet: massive

armchairs, footstools, cabinets suitable for Dr. Caligari, credenzas that looked

as if they each weighed half a ton. Small tables were draped with weighty

brocade. Some lamps were pewter with pale-gray shades, and others had maroon

ceramic bases, but none threw much light. The drapes looked as heavy as lead;

age-yellowed sheers hung between the side panels, permitting only a

mustard-colored drizzle of sunlight to enter the room. None of it complemented

the Spanish architecture; Violet had willfully imposed her ponderous bad taste

upon the graceful house.

“You decorate?” Art Streck asked.

“No. My aunt,” Nora said. She stood by the marble fireplace, almost as far from

him as she could get without leaving the room. “This was her place. I . . .

inherited it.”

“If I was you,” he said, “I’d heave all this stuff out of here. Could be a

bright, cheery room. Pardon my saying so, but this isn’t you. This might be all

right for someone’s maiden aunt . . . She was a maiden aunt, huh? Yeah, thought

so. Might be all right for a dried-up maiden aunt, but definitely not for a

pretty lady like yourself.”

Nora wanted to criticize his impertinence, wanted to tell him to shut up and fix

the television, but she had no experience at standing up for herself. Aunt

Violet had preferred her meek, obedient.

Streck was smiling at her. The right corner of his mouth curled in a most

unpleasant way. It was almost a sneer.

She forced herself to say, “I like it well enough.”

“Not really?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “What’s the matter with the set?”

“The picture won’t stop rolling. And there’s static, snow.”

He pulled the television away from the wall, switched it on, and studied the

tumbling, static-slashed images. He plugged in a small portable lamp and hooked

it to the back of the set.

The grandfather clock in the hall marked the quarter-hour with a single chime

that reverberated hollowly through the house.

“You watch a lot of TV?” he asked as he unscrewed the dust shield from the set.

“Not much,” Nora said.

“I like those nighttime soaps. Dallas, Dynasty, that stuff.”

“I never watch them.”

“Yeah? Oh, now, come on, I bet you do.” He laughed slyly. “Everybody watches

‘em, even if they don’t want to admit it. Just isn’t anything more interesting

than stories full of backstabbing, scheming, thieving, lying . . . and adultery.

You know what I’m saying? People sit and watch it and cluck their tongues and

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