Read Online The Watchers by Mark Andrew Olsen - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Andrew Olsen
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her into an unusually deep understanding of what it meant to live out her faith.
Yet whenever her gaze was directed away from the little girl, Abbyâs mother had transformed into a frightened, jittery woman. Abby retained a vivid memory of her motherâs voice, sharp and panicky, ringing out through the house. There were the sounds of doors slamming at odd hours. Her parentsâ voices rose in anger, the echoes muffled only by closed doors and sheltering walls.
The night of her motherâs disappearance had come only a month or two later. Abby had little memory of that fateful nightâat least until the worst was over. She awakened to being shaken by her father, his face white and his voice brittle with an edge she had never heard before. He must have told her then, but her sleep-fogged mind had not absorbed the words. It had taken several days, and several repeatings, for the fact to penetrate her mind.
Mommy is gone. Theyâre looking for her, but we donât know if sheâll ever come back. Ever . . .
It had taken years for the gloomy tentacles of that grief to dissipate from her life. And still they had a persistent way of returning sometimes, wrought by the most random of provocations, late at night or abroad in her daytime pursuits, sparked by a television commercial or an overheard remark or the sight of a young girl hand in hand with her mommy.
And now, all these years later, to discover that her distant grief, her motherâs disappearance, might also be tied to this present business. The thought stole her breath away and set her thoughts tumbling with a fury she felt powerless to stop.
She had an idea of how to calm herself. Her laptop . She leaned over to the hospital side table and pulled the computer closer. Ever since her injury she hadnât had the heart to glance at the document sheâd been typing right before falling asleep on that fateful night. Her retelling of the strange dream she had lived through.
Her account of exactly what her father had described. A dream where sheâd possessed the body of an ancient old woman. A blog entry sheâd never found the courage to upload to her MyCorner site. A document whose final paragraph included the words . . . visitor, you tell me. If youâve ever had a dream remotely like this, would you e-mail me and let me know?
Making up her mind, she moved the cursor over a small rectangular box outlining the word Upload .
Up to now, she hadnât been sure if it was worth the trouble of posting this latest blog to her site, let alone an announcement of what had happened since: Narbeliâs murder and her own mysterious illness. But now, after her fatherâs explosive revelation, everything had changed. Suddenly that final question throbbed with more urgency and meaning than any question she could ever have imagined. She needed to know. She had to know. She couldnât leave this world without some closure on this curse that had claimed her mother and now seemed poised to claim her as well.
She clicked to begin the upload of her dream.
Abruptly, she was overwhelmed by a feeling that sheâd just set off an atom bomb.
Reply to: Abby Sherman, [email protected] Message received at Server, marked UNREAD
Girl, Iâm gonna try my best and get around to what Iâve e-mailed you about. But give me a second. Right now, all I can do is try and catch my breath. I can hardly keep enough air in my lungs to stay consciousâforget trying to type.
This is crazy. Itâs not possible.
Iâm sure I donât know you. I live in Detroit. No one I know has ever met you. No one Iâve ever talked to. But even that doesnât matter, âcause I havenât talked to anyone about this.
YOU DESCRIBED, WORD FOR WORD, A DREAM I HAD LAST WEEK!
Rochelle at MyCorner
P.S. Yeah, Iâm as freaked out by it as you are. But no, I donât know anything more about what it means than you seem to. If you
Yet whenever her gaze was directed away from the little girl, Abbyâs mother had transformed into a frightened, jittery woman. Abby retained a vivid memory of her motherâs voice, sharp and panicky, ringing out through the house. There were the sounds of doors slamming at odd hours. Her parentsâ voices rose in anger, the echoes muffled only by closed doors and sheltering walls.
The night of her motherâs disappearance had come only a month or two later. Abby had little memory of that fateful nightâat least until the worst was over. She awakened to being shaken by her father, his face white and his voice brittle with an edge she had never heard before. He must have told her then, but her sleep-fogged mind had not absorbed the words. It had taken several days, and several repeatings, for the fact to penetrate her mind.
Mommy is gone. Theyâre looking for her, but we donât know if sheâll ever come back. Ever . . .
It had taken years for the gloomy tentacles of that grief to dissipate from her life. And still they had a persistent way of returning sometimes, wrought by the most random of provocations, late at night or abroad in her daytime pursuits, sparked by a television commercial or an overheard remark or the sight of a young girl hand in hand with her mommy.
And now, all these years later, to discover that her distant grief, her motherâs disappearance, might also be tied to this present business. The thought stole her breath away and set her thoughts tumbling with a fury she felt powerless to stop.
She had an idea of how to calm herself. Her laptop . She leaned over to the hospital side table and pulled the computer closer. Ever since her injury she hadnât had the heart to glance at the document sheâd been typing right before falling asleep on that fateful night. Her retelling of the strange dream she had lived through.
Her account of exactly what her father had described. A dream where sheâd possessed the body of an ancient old woman. A blog entry sheâd never found the courage to upload to her MyCorner site. A document whose final paragraph included the words . . . visitor, you tell me. If youâve ever had a dream remotely like this, would you e-mail me and let me know?
Making up her mind, she moved the cursor over a small rectangular box outlining the word Upload .
Up to now, she hadnât been sure if it was worth the trouble of posting this latest blog to her site, let alone an announcement of what had happened since: Narbeliâs murder and her own mysterious illness. But now, after her fatherâs explosive revelation, everything had changed. Suddenly that final question throbbed with more urgency and meaning than any question she could ever have imagined. She needed to know. She had to know. She couldnât leave this world without some closure on this curse that had claimed her mother and now seemed poised to claim her as well.
She clicked to begin the upload of her dream.
Abruptly, she was overwhelmed by a feeling that sheâd just set off an atom bomb.
Reply to: Abby Sherman, [email protected] Message received at Server, marked UNREAD
Girl, Iâm gonna try my best and get around to what Iâve e-mailed you about. But give me a second. Right now, all I can do is try and catch my breath. I can hardly keep enough air in my lungs to stay consciousâforget trying to type.
This is crazy. Itâs not possible.
Iâm sure I donât know you. I live in Detroit. No one I know has ever met you. No one Iâve ever talked to. But even that doesnât matter, âcause I havenât talked to anyone about this.
YOU DESCRIBED, WORD FOR WORD, A DREAM I HAD LAST WEEK!
Rochelle at MyCorner
P.S. Yeah, Iâm as freaked out by it as you are. But no, I donât know anything more about what it means than you seem to. If you
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