WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

vicariously, through books. This isn’t bad. Living through books is even better

than having friends and knowing . . . men.”

With the assistance of a pliable family doctor, Violet had kept Nora out of

public school on the pretense of poor health. She had been educated at home, so

books were her only school as well.

In addition to having read thousands of books by the age of thirty, Nora had

become a self-taught artist in oils, acrylics, watercolors, pencil. Drawing

and painting were activities of which Aunt Violet approved. Art was a solitary

pursuit that took Nora’s mind off the world beyond the house and helped her

avoid contact with people who would inevitably reject, hurt, and disappoint her.

One corner of Nora’s room had been furnished with a drawing board, an easel, and

a cabinet for supplies. Space for her miniature studio was created by pushing

other pieces of furniture together, not by removing anything, and the effect was

claustrophobic.

Many times over the years, especially at night but even in the middle of the

day, Nora had been overcome by a feeling that the floor of the bedroom was going

to collapse under all the furniture, that she was going to crash down into the

chamber below, where she would be crushed to death beneath her own massive

four-poster bed. When that fear overwhelmed her, she had fled onto the rear

lawn, where she sat in the open air, hugging herself and shuddering. She’d been

twenty-five before she realized that her anxiety attacks arose not only from the

overfurnished rooms and dark decor of the house but from the domineering

presence of her aunt.

On a Saturday morning four months ago, eight months after Violet Devon’s death,

Nora had abruptly been seized by an acute need for change and had frantically

reordered her bedroom-studio. She carried and dragged out all the smaller pieces

of furniture, distributing them evenly through the other five crowded chambers

on the second floor. Some of the heavier things had to be dismantled and taken

away in sections, but finally she succeeded in eliminating everything but the

four-poster bed, one nightstand, a single armchair, her drawing board and stool,

the supply cabinet, and the easel, which was all she needed. Then she stripped

off the wallpaper.

Throughout that dizzying weekend, she’d felt as if the revolution had come, as

if her life would never be the same. But by the time she had redone her bedroom,

the spirit of rebellion had evaporated, and she had left the rest of the house

untouched.

Now this one place, at least, was bright, even cheerful. The walls were painted

the palest yellow. The drapes were gone, and in their place were Levolor blinds

that matched the paint. She had rolled up the dreary carpet and had polished the

beautiful oak floor.

More than ever, this was her sanctuary. Without fail, upon passing through the

door and seeing what she had wrought, her spirits lifted and she found some

surcease from her troubles.

After her frightening encounter with Streck, Nora was soothed, as always, by the

bright room. She sat at the drawing board and began a pencil sketch, a

Preliminary study for an oil painting that she had been contemplating for Some

time. Initially, her hands shook, and she had to pause repeatedly to regain

sufficient control to continue drawing, but in time her fear abated.

She . was even able to think about Streck as she worked and to try to imagine

just how far he might have gone if she had not managed to maneuver

him out of the house. Recently, Nora had wondered if Violet Devon’s pessimistic

view of the outside world and of all other people was accurate; though

it was the primary view that Nora, herself, had been taught, she had the nagging

suspicion that it might be twisted, even sick. But now she had encountered Art

Streck, and he seemed to be ample proof of Violet’s contentions, proof that

interacting too much with the outside world was dangerous.

But after a while, when her sketch was half finished, Nora began to think that

she had misinterpreted everything Streck had said and done. Surely he could not

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