WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

blamed on instinct, he had not behaved in accordance with his self-image as a

hard-bitten canyon squatter. If he armed himself with the rifle now, when there

was no compelling need for it, he’d lose a large measure of self-respect, which

was important because the only opinion of Wes Dalberg that Wes cared about was

his own. No gun.

Wes risked going to the living room’s big window. This was an alteration made by

someone who held the Forest Service lease on the cabin about twenty years ago;

the old, narrow, multipane window had been taken out, a larger hole cut in the

wall, and a big single-pane window installed to take advantage of the

spectacular forest view.

A few moon-silvered clouds appeared phosphorescent against the velvety blackness

of the night sky. Moonlight dappled the front yard, glistered on the grill and

hood and windshield of Wes’s Jeep Cherokee, and outlined the shadowy shapes of

the encroaching trees. At first nothing moved except a few branches swaying

gently in the mild wind.

He studied the woodland scene for a couple of minutes. Neither seeing nor

hearing anything out of the ordinary, he decided the animal had wandered off.

With considerable relief and with a resurgence of embarrassment, he started to

turn away from the window—then glimpsed movement near the Jeep. He squinted, saw

nothing, remained watchful for another minute or two. Just when he decided he

had imagined the movement, he saw it again:

something coming out from behind the Jeep. He leaned closer to the window.

Something was rushing across the yard toward the cabin, coming fast and low to

the ground. Instead of revealing the nature of the enemy, the moonlight

made it more mysterious, shapeless. The thing was hurtling at the cabin.

Abruptly—Jesus, God!—the creature was airborne, a strangeness flying straight at

him through the darkness, and Wes cried out, and an instant later the beast

exploded through the big window, and Wes screamed, but the scream was cut short.

9

Because Travis was not much of a drinker, three beers were enough to insure

against insomnia. He was asleep within seconds of putting his head on the

pillow. He dreamed that he was the ringmaster in a circus where all the

performing animals could speak, and after each show he visited them in their

cages, where each animal told him a secret that amazed him even though he forgot

it as soon as he moved along to the next cage and the next secret.

At four o’clock in the morning, he woke and saw Einstein at the bedroom window.

The dog was standing with its forepaws on the sill, its face limned by

moonlight, staring out at the night, very alert.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Travis asked.

Einstein glanced at him, then returned his attention to the moon-washed night.

He whined softly, and his ears perked up slightly.

“Somebody out there?” Travis asked, getting off the bed, pulling on his jeans.

The dog dropped onto all fours and hurried out of the bedroom.

Travis found him at another window in the darkened living room, studying the

night on that side of the house. Crouching beside the dog, putting a hand on the

broad furry back, he said, “What’s the matter? Huh?”

Einstein pressed his snout to the glass and mewled nervously.

Travis could see nothing threatening on the front lawn or on the street. Then a

thought struck him, and he said, “Are you worried about whatever was chasing you

in the woods this morning?”

The dog regarded him solemnly.

“What was it out there in the forest?” Travis wondered.

Einstein whined again and shuddered.

Remembering the retriever’s—and his own—stark fear in the Santa Ana foothills,

recalling the uncanny feeling that something unnatural had been stalking them,

Travis shivered. He looked out at the night-draped world. The spiky black

patterns of the date palm’s fronds were edged in wan yellow light from the

nearest streetlamp. A fitful wind harried small funnels of dust and leaves and

bits of litter along the pavement, dropped them for a few seconds and left them

for dead, then enlivened them again. A lone moth bumped softly against the

window in front of Travis’s and Einstein’s faces, evidently mistaking the

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