They’re Watching E-Book

Michael David Wilson

• Herausgeber: This Is Horror
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

From the hosts of This Is Horror Podcast comes a dark thriller of obsession, paranoia, and voyeurism.

After relocating to a small coastal town, Brian discovers a hole that gazes into his neighbour’s bedroom. Every night she dances and he peeps. Same song, same time, same wild and mesmerising dance. But soon Brian suspects he’s not the only one watching and she’s not the only one being watched.

They're Watching is The Wicker Man meets Body Double with a splash of Suspiria. 

Leseprobe

They’re Watching

Michael David Wilson

Bob Pastorella

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Authors

Also From This Is Horror

Also From the Authors

A This Is Horror Publicationwww.thisishorror.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-910471-06-7

Copyright © Michael David Wilson and Bob Pastorella 2020

All rights reserved

The right of Michael David Wilson and Bob Pastorella to be identified as the authors of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2020 by This Is Horror

Editor: Max Booth III

Cover Art: Pye Parr

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Praise for the Authors

PRAISE FOR MICHAEL DAVID WILSON

Propulsive, modern, funny, frightening. The Girl in the Video will make you think twice about opening any anonymous videos sent your way. Then it'll make you think twice again. Michael David Wilson has long added to the genre with his incredible podcast/press This is Horror, but here he offers a book, and now it's time for someone else to interview him.

Josh Malerman, New York Times bestselling author of Bird Box

The Girl in the Video took me somewhere I didn’t want to go via a route I didn’t want to take. It’s an unsettling story of love, lust, and cultural disorientation that’ll flirt with you and then, when you’re at your most vulnerable, take full advantage of your good intentions.

David Moody, author of Autumn and Hater

PRAISE FOR BOB PASTORELLA

If you’re looking for a pulpy fast-paced southern-fried sleazed-out hard-boiled blast of bad drugs and weird crime, Mojo Rising’s got you covered in spades. Just go easy on the Mojo, alright? You open up the doors of perception, you never know who (or what) might break on through.

Jeremy Robert Johnson, author of Skullcrack City

Praise for They’re Watching

Feast your eyes, your heart, your deepest desires on Michael David Wilson and Bob Pastorella’s They're Watching. It’s fast, it’s immersive, it lingers in your mind for days. This novel will not only leave you stranded in an awkward, breathless position wanting more, it will beg you to look closer, not just at the pages, but at that piece of your soul that wonders: is a secret really that bad if no one knows?

Mackenzie Kiera, Ladies of the Fright podcast and author of All You Need is Love and a Strong Electric Current

Michael David Wilson and Bob Pastorella have designed this highly entertaining and fast-moving thriller, an intricate little mind game with an unlikely hero and elements of both mystery and horror that will keep you guessing until the last page.

S.P. Miskowski, author of I Wish I Was Like You

One of my favorite reads this year.

Brennan LaFaro, Dead Headspace podcast

For all This Is Horror Podcast listeners.

Have a great great read.

1

The fish motifs were jarring, but all in all Brian liked the way the apartments looked. The security gate and cameras mounted in the alcove gave him peace of mind, even though the thought of being watched unnerved him. The balconies were welcoming and spacious. Unlike his previous place they didn’t resemble prison cells—the wrought iron bars, thick with rust, had suffocated him. The sinister fish statues scattered around the complex, with oddly angled fins and roaming eyes, served as a warning, telling thieves and burglars to stay away. The cameras for those who didn’t heed their advice.

Most of Brian’s belongings were scheduled to arrive later that afternoon. Impatient and curious, he needed to see his apartment, to check out the layout and visualise it with furnishings. The job was long-term even if the apartment was temporary, but Brian knew how easily temporary could become permanent once he settled into his comfort zone. He got out of his car—a maroon Ford Focus he’d owned almost a decade, banged-up but dependable—and checked he had the key in his pocket for the hundredth time.

A pretty woman—long black hair and large stylish sunglasses—rushed through the alcove to the pavement and headed to a car parked a few spaces from his.

Brian nodded at her. She barely smiled, flipped her ponytail at him. He tried not to stare. She was wearing rainbow yoga pants that left little to the imagination. No doubt that glimpse would give him something to think about later, after he’d settled in.

The complex was called Pelagic Court which was an improvement on Grey House in Birmingham, a place that lived down to its moniker. Inside, the apartment was larger than he’d expected and smelled brand new. Fortunately, the aquatic motifs that punctuated much of the buildings’ exterior were absent inside. The furnishings were modern, with off-white walls and light blonde wooden cabinets. Brian pulled the safety strap off the fridge-freezer and opened the door. Two empty ice trays sat on the shelf. He reached for a tray but jumped back when he saw the cockroach on its back. Dark brown hair-covered legs raised up in the air. Brian prodded the bastard, checking it was dead, then pushed it into his hand, and lobbed it out of the window. He rinsed his hands, eyes peeled for other unwelcome visitors.

Brian filled the ice trays from the sink. The ice would go well with whiskey later. Once the movers dropped everything off, he’d want a drink, which reminded him he needed to stock up on essentials. Satisfied for the moment, Brian locked up, then located the closest supermarket on his smartphone, ignoring the distant music from a neighbouring apartment.

His new home was a small seaside town on the South Coast. Emphasis on small, it was a far cry from the Midlands where he’d been spoiled with a multitude of shops and pubs. Still, there was a big Sainsbury’s a twenty-minute drive away, though Brian thought a forty-minute round-trip a bit much for a few provisions, so headed into the town centre to see what it offered. As luck would have it, there was a farmer’s market every last Tuesday of the month. One stall had locally grown fruit and veg—ripe red tomatoes, deep green cucumbers, and apples bigger than Brian’s fist. They let him look and touch without being too snotty.

Brian followed the crowd to the independent supermarket in the corner: ‘Dylan & Son’. According to the sign it had been in business since 1912. If that many people were packing into a place so small it couldn’t be too bad and it sure beat trekking out to Sainsbury’s every time he ran out of bread. Things got off to a rocky start when some bearded bloke wearing a leather jacket and smelling of cigarettes and strong cologne bumped into Brian on his way out of the supermarket. Brian quickly helped him pick up his fallen shopping. They both made mumbled apologies and went their separate ways.

Whilst Brian was at the back of the shop looking for milk, he turned to see a tall man with an unkempt beard and long flowing red robe saunter down the aisle, shaking hands with everyone he approached, stopping for a few minutes to chat with some of the shoppers. Spicy incense perfumed the air. The guy smelt like one of those old goth emporiums that sold dragon figurines and pendants, legal highs and shisha, magic spells and so-called potions. Brian tried not to pay him any attention lest he get drawn into a conversation he didn’t have time for. He pushed his trolley closer, avoiding eye contact with Red Robe.

“Now, don’t trust …” but the conversation between Red Robe and the young couple petered out, as though they didn’t want him to hear.

Perhaps it was just Brian’s imagination because soon they were speaking again, saying their goodbyes. As Brian drew parallel, he looked up at Red Robe who quickly turned away. Spared an awkward conversation, Brian collected his milk and searched for the eggs.

Brian got lost returning to the apartment—unable to shift the image of Red Robe parading up and down the aisles like a fucking celebrity—and ended up putting his address into the phone’s SatNav. He didn’t want to rely on it—and hated the robotic voice with its sickly sarcasm—but it was better than driving in circles. To top things off, a swift moving train caught him at a level crossing. By the time he made it home, the movers were waiting for him, their giant removal van backed close to the apartment’s entrance. Brian left his things in the car whilst he unlocked the front door, grateful he was only on the first floor.

“You made it in record time,” he told the driver—a gruff man with yellow teeth. He handed Brian the invoice to sign.

“Guess the rent here is high,” the driver said, grinning like he knew something he wasn’t sharing.

“Good thing my job pays well.” Brian signed the paper, getting a whiff of stale cigarettes and body odour.

“Can’t all be rich and stuck-up,” the driver mumbled.

Stuck-up? Brian didn’t say anything—he’d seen the size of the driver’s biceps. His two skinhead colleagues were no layabouts either. Brian grabbed the groceries from the car and put them away. He got out of the way of the removal men and went for a wander around the block. There was a whole lot of nothing, but eventually he stumbled upon a corner shop where he picked up some beer for the removal men. He grabbed the cheapest crate he could find, not because of the money, but because he feared they’d think he was even more ‘rich and stuck-up’ if he bought the fancy stuff.

Back at the apartment, the lads appreciated it, busting open their cans and sucking foam from the top. Brian joined them, chugging a can of his own. He wasn’t much of a beer man, but he had to admit it felt right drinking a few with these guys. On the way out the driver held back, whilst his colleagues rushed to the van. Brian stuffed his hands in his pockets. Was the driver waiting for an apology? Eventually Brian. relented.

“Listen, about earlier, I wasn’t being a dick when I—”

The driver cast his hand aside. “Don’t worry about it, mate. Water under the bridge and all that.”

They continued to stare at each other. When the driver raised his hand to scratch his skull, Brian actually flinched. Brian then cleared his throat and scratched his own head as if the visual equivalent of autocorrect.

“It’s just …” the driver said, then trailed off. “You’ll be all right here, yeah?”

Now it was Brian’s turn to look confused. “You’ve moved everything inside, so …”

“Of course, of course. You seem like a good kid is all.” The driver backed towards the van. “Look after yourself and thanks for the beer.”

The driver practically ran to his van, much as his colleagues had. Soon after, it bolted off down the road, leaving Brian alone on his doorstep.

Look after yourself … ? 

Brian appraised the car park. His was the only vehicle. Where was the young lady he’d seen earlier? Maybe she didn’t live here—probably the girlfriend of the other tenant.

And who was the other tenant? Brian imagined a young chap, blonde hair, total gym rat into his exercise. Maybe he’d return in the evening with Yoga Pants. Just how soundproof was the apartment? He’d heard music earlier and wondered if he’d hear the two of them going at it, shagging long into the night? The last place he’d lived the walls were practically rice paper, there’d been this young couple next door with a lot of stamina who believed louder sex was better sex.

Brian wandered into the kitchen where he poured himself a large Maker’s Mark and cola, ready to call his sister, Helen. She’d been happy about his move: a fresh start will be good for you. You need to get out more and mingle. Not very subtle code for ‘find a girlfriend and settle down for Christ’s sake.’ At any rate, Brian needed to tell her he’d made it down here safely but knew she’d have too many questions about everything and nothing. The thought of talking on the phone for hours when he had so much to do made him queasy. Helen meant well, loved him more than he likely deserved, but the whiskey provided a mild numbness, it took the edge off her constant badgering.

He was about to call when the folded scrap of paper was shoved through the door.

Brian opened it—blue ink on white paper. Two words: “Get Out.”

Who the …?

He opened the apartment door. “Hello?”

His voice echoed in the empty hall.

Brian rushed into the bedroom and peered out of the window. Whoever had left the note was either out of sight or in hiding. But who the hell would leave such a thing in the first place? And why?

“Get out …” He’d barely got in the damn place.

Brian rubbed his forehead. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity. Someone had had beef with an old tenant and left the note for them. Though Brian had thought the estate agent had said he was the first to live here—the dead cockroach in the fridge-freezer suggested otherwise. Perhaps the note had been meant for his neighbour? The mystery sender had posted it through the wrong door—a simple enough mistake to make. Still, Brian didn’t fancy living in a place where people left passive-aggressive notes. And how did they get into the building in the first place? Wouldn’t they need a key?

Brian puzzled over the matter a little longer until his laptop started singing in the living room. On Skype, Helen’s display picture lit up the computer screen—side-parted golden locks teased her shoulders, light makeup, a soft smile. He quickly put on The Ocean’s Heliocentric, grabbed the glass of Maker’s Mark from the kitchen, and slouched back on the sofa—making as though he was having a good time and not shaken up from a vaguely threatening note, barely hours after moving in. He answered the call, deliberately selecting audio only as he scanned the living room for anything untoward. Mostly it was just cardboard boxes. Aside from the Bose speakers and whiskey glasses, Brian had yet to unbox anything, and he’d only unboxed them because he’d marked the packages appropriately: ‘fragile’ and ‘important music shit’.

“Hey!” Helen’s voice came through first, followed by her well-lit kitchen. She was chopping up vegetables, hair scrunched back in a bun, some pop hit playing in the background. “I was worried about you. Thought you’d have called by now.”

He rubbed sleep out of his eyes, brushed a hand through his dishevelled hair, and turned on video.

“Sorry, I got distracted.” Brian sat up straight on the sofa, forced a smile like ‘hey, sis, everything’s cool here, definitely not freaking out.’

Helen was frowning.

“It was a long drive down here,” Brian said. “Then there were the removal men, shopping, checking out the neighbourhood. I’ve barely had time to sit down.” He got up and started pacing the living room as if to make his point.

“It looks dark in there, everything okay?”

Brian turned on the light. The sun going down as the evening drew near. “See what I mean? So preoccupied I forgot to switch the lights on.”

“But you’re okay? You seem … distant.”

“I’m tired, that’s all. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

The sound of a baby wailing in the background made Helen put the vegetable knife down and look off-camera. “It’s okay, honey—shh, shh.” As if by magic, Helen’s words settled the kid. Brian wished his words were half as effective, these days he could barely get his subordinates to listen to him at work. It was just as well he’d been relocated and reassigned to a new department. A fresh opportunity to present himself as an employee who carried clout. Which he had to be, they weren’t just going to move anyone from the Midlands down to the South Coast, especially when they’d taken care of much of the costs and kitted him out with a fancy new apartment.

“Gracie’s not been sleeping well,” Helen said. “She’s teething.”

Brian nodded. He didn’t have much experience with children but knew enough parents with young kids to understand it was hard work. Gracie started wailing again, louder, more like caterwauling. Guess Helen doesn’t have the magic touch after all.

“Sorry about this, I’d better go,” she said. “But you are okay, aren’t you?”

“I’m good, Helen. But what about you?”

She forced a smile. “Oh, you know me, I’m surviving. Keith will be round in a few hours to help with Gracie, so …”

Keith was Gracie’s paternal grandfather and unlike his son, Mike, he was a constant in Gracie’s life. Mike had bailed before Gracie’s birth and as far as Brian understood, they’d barely spoken since. He knew the relationship had ended badly, though Helen had been vague with the details, and Brian had elected not to ask.

Brian closed the laptop. There was something about speaking with Helen that made him feel insignificant. She had the high-powered job, the fancy house, the nice car, and seemingly did everything from making a sandwich to defending a client to the highest standard. And all of this as a single mother, five years Brian’s junior. Their parents, two years gone from this world, had always maintained they didn’t have a favourite, but in Brian’s mind the better of the siblings was glaringly obvious. He picked up the half-full whiskey glass and sank it, then poured himself another, this time straight, and sank that, too. Get a hold of yourself, man. You’re doing well, this move is your making, and you know it.

He headed to the bedroom where he unpacked some of the basics: clothes, toiletries, towels and tea towels, bathroom products. But he lacked the energy and concentration to get much of it done. He flopped back on the bed and examined the ‘Get Out’ note. Brian told himself he was in control and drank whiskey until he believed it.

Re-energised, Brian resumed the music, this time opting for Mastodon’s Leviathan, and began unpacking whilst thrashing his head to ‘Blood and Thunder’.

Brian wasn’t sure how long it took him to unpack the boxes in the living room but by the time he was done Leviathan was long over and his media player was selecting songs at random. There was a moment he thought his player was malfunctioning. As though two songs were playing at once. He muted his music, the other song’s tempo now easier to hear. It came from next door. Strange, hypnotic music flowed softly from the walls.

His neighbours were finally home.

2

Soon Brian found himself tapping away to the rhythm of the song. Its texture teasing him. He was in the presence of something special and longed to fully taste it. He followed the sound from living room to hallway where the tone was more prominent. Brian moved back and forth, searching for the optimum listening position. The open wardrobe blocked the wall, separating his and his neighbour’s apartment.

Only one thing for it—he opened the door and leant inside, straining to hear.

A stack of towels blocked the back of the wardrobe. He pushed them aside, longing for a place to rest his ear—some of the tower of towels toppled over and flopped to the floor. He reached out to catch them but wound up smacking his right elbow against the metal hanging bar which struck the floor.

Expenses spared, huh?

Brian retrieved the bar and tried fixing it back in place when he noticed the piece where it connected to the wall was loose. He pressed it in, but it wouldn’t budge. Prying his fingers underneath, Brian felt to see if there were nails holding the wall piece in position. As he dug deeper, the damn thing came off in his hands. It was nothing more than a painted piece of plasterboard. Bloody hell! He’d have to make a call to the estate agents first thing in the morning. There was no way the piece would stay up on its own, and he didn’t have any nails, or even a hammer to set it back.

Then he noticed the peephole.

Light shining from it.

It gazed directly into his neighbour’s apartment and was the exact size of his eyeball. As if someone had made it especially for him, and only him.

He peeked for a second, catching a silhouette, but was embarrassed, quickly turning away and stepping out of the open wardrobe. He was no creep. He put the towels back, concealing the hole and backing away.

In the living room, Brian examined the last of the unpacking, determined to finish even if it meant pulling an all-nighter. As he knifed open the tall cardboard box, the one with the fun stuff—CDs, DVDs, video games—all he could think about was that hole.

And the music continued to play.

Singing to him.

Imploring him.

Surely he could take a peek to see which room the hole peered into. If there was music, perhaps there was a party. He could grab a couple of beers and his best bottle of whiskey, knock on his neighbour’s door, and introduce himself to a whole community of people. And if there was no party, well, he could see how his neighbour had kitted out the place—it might even provide him with some inspiration for furnishing his own pad. Ways to inject a bit of character. He pulled out a fat stack of DVDs. Sleep Tight stared back at him. On the cover, a single eye peeped through a crack in the door as an unclothed woman slept.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Brian shouted to an empty apartment.

He didn’t remember much about the film other than the chap responsible for [Rec], Jaume Balagueró, had directed it,and it featured a creepy apartment caretaker who’d developed an obsession with one of his tenants. He’d liked watching her. He’d enjoyed peeping. The caretaker was far removed from Brian. Brian wasn’t the type of bloke to peep. To prove the point, he wrote a note on a yellow Post-it and affixed it to the fridge so he could address things in the morning: “Call estate agents about hole.” He poured a large measure of bourbon, put on some Roger Waters, and resumed unpacking. And he did not peep.

3

The following day Brian made decent progress transforming his apartment from house to home. When he heard the noise, he was pacing the living room, admiring his hard work, and humming along to Blood Ceremony. DVDs and CDs in racks, framed Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon print hanging in the centre of the living room, incense sticks burning. Truth be told, he felt it before he heard it. The floor started to tremor and Brian wondered if he was experiencing a minor earthquake. There’d been one around a decade ago, down in Kent, when he was an undergrad, so it was possible. He paused the music, cutting short Alia O’Brien’s flute-work.

The sound came from next door. Brian went into the hall where he could hear better. If yesterday was the pre-show, then this right here was the main event. Slow rhythmic drumming, monk-like humming, and female vocals singing in a language he didn’t understand. It sounded as if the drumming and monks were a backing track, but the female voice definitely emanated from the adjacent apartment. Some weird party, perhaps?

His interest piqued, Brian opened the wardrobe and removed the top towel from the heap on the shelf and peeped through the hole.

At first, he didn’t understand. His brain refusing to register what was happening next door. The room was dark, save for two large candles—red wax and black pillar holders—resting on a chest of drawers at the far side of the room. In the foreground was the woman from the car park—Yoga Pants—her body gyrating to the beat of the music as she began to scream what sounded like an incantation. She wasn’t wearing her yoga pants, wasn’t wearing a thing. The candlelight did little to illuminate her features, but none of that mattered. He could see she was in great shape, slim yet muscular. Her skin lit up red, movements too erratic to be alluring, and still … Brian definitely felt something—transfixed as he watched her dance, heard her song, admired the swell of her form and the precision of her movements. He didn’t know who she was or what she was doing, but he found himself unable to look away.

Each time Yoga Pants’ hands moved to the swell of her breasts, Brian swelled too. When Yoga Pants swayed her hips, Brian also swayed. And when she looked directly into the hole, right at him—like it was meant to be—and sang such sweet liquor, only for him, Brian had to clasp his hands over his mouth to keep from screaming.