Someone's Watching Read online

  MARTY ALWAYS SENSED A VIOLENT EVIL IN HIS FATHER AND FEARED THAT SAME EVIL LIVED IN HIM.

  Then his father brought home a woman with a child of her own—Judy, a sensuous young girl on the brink of womanhood. Soon she made Marty her protector against the danger she sensed in the house. And when that danger exploded in bloody rage, the two of them ran for their lives.

  Miraculously, they found an abandoned hotel, and in this strange Eden, Marty and Judy let love surprise them and passion grow between them.

  But all the while, a twisted parody of their desire stalks the young lovers as they reach for each other in the darkness. A breathing presence in the shadows grows bolder. Someone has a dark desire of his own . . .

  SOMEONE’S WATCHING

  EYES

  He knew the boy and the girl would be going into the lobby, so he crawled through the ducts to the grate just above the doors. He pressed his face hard against the thin bars to get the scent of her hair. It was exciting. He moaned softly and inhaled.

  He moved forward, squirming and twisting his body as he slithered through the ducts, his lips dry, his tongue moving spasmodically in between his teeth. The boy and the girl were moving deeper and deeper into the hotel. He felt as if he had dropped the building around them and closed them tightly into his world. . . .

  Books by Andrew Neiderman

  BRAINCHILD

  PIN

  SOMEONE’S WATCHING

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

  Most Pocket Books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums or fund raising. Special books or book excerpts can also be created to fit specific needs.

  For details write the office of the Vice President of Special Markets, Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Another Original publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1983 by Andrew Neiderman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-6650-2 (print)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-45168-224-3 (eBook)

  First Pocket Books printing March, 1983

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster.

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  Contents

  Preface

  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

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ann Patty, an editor with the creative powers of

  a Muse; Pat Capon, for her insight and concern.

  For my mother,

  whose proud gypsy eyes

  filled me with the dream.

  Preface

  Marty stood by his window and stared into the darkness below. He was looking for some movement, some confirmation of the terror and dread he sensed once again. He was afraid to lie back and close his eyes unless he was so heavy with fatigue that he knew he would fall asleep quickly. Being alone and thinking had become terrible. The moment his eyelids closed, all of his childhood nightmares returned.

  As a little boy, he had often been cast into loneliness and darkness. After a while he had learned to subdue the tears by turning his fear into hate: hatred for his mother who had overdosed on heroin and left him at the mercy of an alcoholic father, hatred for the forces that had put him into this position, and hatred for his own genes, which made him resemble the parents he had come to despise. He had reached a point where he rarely cried, where he defied shadows and found nothing threatening in the sounds of the night. Now it had all changed. Once again fear had taken hold, and he had not found a way to defeat it.

  With the moon so full and bright, he could see far into the white birch and maple trees behind the house. The moonlight made the bark of the birch glisten. When he looked to the right, he could see the old country road, its chipped and cracked macadam liquefied by the lunar rays. It seemed to flow past his house like a quiet river with an almost imperceptible movement. All around the house and across the street, the shadows of trees merged and then parted into elongated and distorted night fingers as the wind lifted and dropped the branches with a hypnotizing regularity. Although he could not see it, Marty raised his eyes and looked in the direction of the hotel.

  The thought of it quickened his heartbeat and filled him with a sense of guilt. It was as though the hotel beckoned, drew him to its caverns of dark hallways, its dining room frozen in time, the tables set for imaginary guests. Despite its dangers, the hotel had become another world for him, a place where he could forget who he was.

  He turned from the window and started downstairs. He moved as one in a trance but paused to be sure Judy didn’t hear him. She wouldn’t understand; she couldn’t go back. Satisfied that she was still asleep, he continued on, walking softly down the stairs, avoiding the steps that creaked the loudest, until he was out the door. Once on the porch, he hesitated, and then, no longer in control of himself, he followed the beckoning shadows up the old road toward the hotel.

  Where they lived, so far out of town, there were no streetlights. The closest house was more than a mile the other way toward town. There was always a heavy darkness about the house at night, and once he left the small reach of the single yellow-bulb porch light, he was totally dependent upon the moon. If there were no moon, it was next to impossible to see anyone, even if the person was standing beside him.

  On warm summer nights the bats would dive toward the glow of the porch light and then pull away with miraculous maneuvers. Often he wouldn’t see them; he would just hear them or feel the breeze created by their vampire wings.

  He turned around quickly and headed back toward the house, afraid of the faces that would come out of the night—faces that in his youth had eyes filled with fireflies and mouths that twisted and turned in gleeful smiles, becoming even more distorted until they turned into liquid and poured themselves into the black earth.

  He continued to study the darkness from his bedroom window, moving his gaze back from the road, along the edge of the forest, and to the yard. The feeling was stronger than ever. It was so strong that he turned to look at Judy to see if she had sensed it too and risen from her sleep. But she hadn’t. He was happy about that. Since they had returned from the hotel, she had trouble sleeping. Now all he would have to do is tell her about the dark shadows out there and what he thought it meant. She would have endless nightmares.

  Maybe death is a punishment after all, he thought, and when evil people die, their spirits lin
ger here on earth in torment.

  He thought again about the hotel. They had only gone in a few rooms, but at night, behind a hundred or so closed doors, perhaps the evil ones were left to their own nightmares, forced to relive their terrible actions. He shivered with the thought that someday his spirit would be locked in one of those rooms.

  He had been left alone so much in his life that he had come to believe that there was always something there beside himself. It protected him only as long as he did what he knew in his heart was right. Now he felt as though he had lost the protection. So much of what had just happened remained confusing for him. Judy had once implied that they were committing one of the worst sins of all by violating someone else’s dreams. At the time he had hoped she was wrong, but he was no longer very sure.

  It was that fear that woke him at night, that brought him to the window to stand and search the darkness. It wasn’t over; it hadn’t ended yet, and what lingered draped his house with a tension that both he and Judy felt. At times they would stop talking and look at each other as though both had heard the same creak in the wood or felt the same breeze between them. Had they brought the spirits of the hotel back with them?

  They were tied to each other by more than a growing affection. They shared the same primeval fear that made ancient men and women huddle beside one another in the darkest recesses of their sanctuaries. They tried not to speak about it, terrified that they might break the fragile shell protecting them from the past.

  But each time Marty stood by his window at night, he remained longer and longer. There was something out there, someone watching the house, looking up at the windows. He was sure of it. Only the morning sun would bring him any relief. He longed for it.

  1

  Frank never exactly told him that he was going to remarry. Their conversations were rarely long or involved. For as long as Marty could remember, he was fending for himself. When he was very little, after his mother died, his mother’s sister came to live with them for a while. She cooked and cleaned, but it got so she couldn’t get along with Frank. While she was there, he felt some security, even more than he had felt with his mother. His aunt didn’t drink or take drugs and she made him aware of cleanliness and nutrition. Much of what he was able to do for himself afterward was directly related to what she had taught him.

  He never forgot the day she left, because after she had, he was struck with the realization that it was just going to be him and Frank. He was quickly initiated to what their lifestyle would be. Frank was fired from Mendy’s Body Shop that afternoon. It had been his fourth job in three months. He had gone to work late, had been fired, and had headed to a bar immediately afterward. When he finally came home, he was in no condition to prepare supper or clean up.

  They lived in an old two-story farmhouse that Marty’s grandfather had originally left to Marty’s Uncle Harry because Uncle Harry was older and a lot more reliable than Frank. Frank got the house when Harry’s 30-30 rifle accidentally went off while he was hunting deer two weeks before the season had even begun. The bullet went up through his chin and entered his brain. The bullet didn’t emerge, and some of the old-timers used to laugh and say, “I knew Harry had a whole lotta shit between his ears.” Marty heard his father tell that story dozens of times, laughing hysterically each time.

  “Your aunt left?” his father had demanded when he came home that day. She had announced that she was going at breakfast, but Frank had ignored her.

  “Yes,” Marty said. Whenever he remembered the scene, he recalled his voice sounding tiny.

  His father had flopped into the worn easy chair, practically snapping the spindly wooden legs. Marty was afraid of him. He had seen him drunk many times before, and each time he turned belligerent and often violent. Marty stared at the old Emerson black-and-white television set, its picture snowy because all they had was a partial roof antenna. They lived in the resort area of the Catskill Mountains near a village called Woodridge, almost a hundred miles from New York City and the major networks. He was lucky to get three channels.

  “Son of a bitch,” his father had muttered, his eyes closed. Then he opened them quickly and sat up, his face raw and red from the alcohol he had consumed. “She leave anything to eat, ’fore she went?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You don’t know? What the hell you been doin’ since you got back from school, watchin’ television the whole time?”

  “No,” Marty had said, practically swallowing his tongue. Frank had stretched, then savagely kicked the Emerson on its side. Marty had winced and sat back, folding his arms across his stomach. He tried to prepare himself for Frank’s approaching rage.

  His father had always appeared giantlike to him; even now, eighteen years old, standing six feet one and weighing a solid one eighty, he felt small beside Frank. Marty knew he was powerful with his long hands and thick forearms. He handled the six-pound short-handle sledgehammer the way most men handled an ordinary hammer.

  “See what there is to eat,” Frank had commanded. Marty had obediently slipped off the couch and gone into the kitchen. He found a plate of cold chicken in the refrigerator and a pot of stringbeans beside it. When he told Frank, Frank told him to warm up all of it. At the age of eight, Marty had prepared his first meal. From then on it was catch as catch can. At times Frank brought in a woman to live with him. Sometimes they would cook and clean; sometimes they wouldn’t do much more than Frank.

  In school and in the community Marty and Frank were classified as “Scoopers” or “Stump-jumpers,” terms used to describe low-class uneducated white stock who usually got by on handyman’s wages or very menial laborer’s pay. The first time another boy called him a Scooper, Marty got into a fight. He fought so hard and so frantically that even though the boy was much bigger than he was, Marty beat him down. Afterward, when he got off the school bus and walked the half mile down the side road to home, he cried, not because of the pain from the bruises and scrapes, but because of a deeper pain within.

  For a long time he didn’t understand the reason for such pain. He had little to be proud of, working barely up to average in school. He sensed there was little expectation that he would do much more and he knew that was because of Frank and the way they lived. He was quickly relegated to that clump of nonentities every school system endures, either because there is little interest in motivating them or priorities in budgets and teacher efforts demand that they be sacrificed.

  But the deeper pain he felt came from a discovery about himself. While it was true that many of his friends fit the mold teachers and the system put them in, he began to feel that it wasn’t the right mold for him. It took almost no effort at all for him to do the bare minimum of schoolwork, and he had questions, questions very few others seemed to have. He hid his intellectual curiosity from his friends because he was afraid of appearing different. Being a so-called Scooper was isolation enough. So when Frank decided he should quit school at sixteen to help him run their own body shop by the house, he didn’t offer much resistance. And no one at school made any great effort to keep him there.

  They got by with the shop. Sometimes Marty left to be a busboy or waiter in the area hotels and sometimes Frank took on part-time employment at one of the bigger garages. The heavy muscular labor built Marty into a broad-shouldered, firm young man. On a few occasions Frank tried to get him to join him on drinking sprees, but Marty refused. Of course, Frank would become more antagonistic because of that, but Marty tried to ignore it. He kept to himself as much as he could and their relationship became more and more strained. When Frank told him that Elaine Collins and her daughter, Judy, would be moving in, he had mixed feelings.

  He was surprised to learn that Frank was going to marry Elaine. That kind of thing never mattered very much to Frank. Apparently it mattered to Elaine. Marty was encouraged by that. He had seen her only a few times before and didn’t see anything special about her, except that she was more attractive than Frank’s usual women. He had never seen Judy, s
o he was very curious about her when Frank brought them both over to look at the house. Frank told him that she was only about fifteen. “But she don’t look like no fifteen-year-old,” he added. Marty should have sensed something from that remark and from the look in Frank’s eyes.

  He was working on Bill Stanley’s pickup truck when Frank drove up with them. The truck was battered badly when Stanley’s kid rolled it failing to negotiate a turn. Marty stood up and waited while they all got out of Frank’s car.

  “Shoulda had that fender beat out by now,” was Frank’s opening remark. He headed directly for the house, leaving the introductions to Elaine.

  At first he thought Judy was homely-looking. Her shoulder-length hair was a shade darker than light brown, but it hung loose and looked unbrushed. She wore an oversized, faded, blue cotton blouse that bunched up around the waist of her dark blue skirt and ballooned a little under her arms. He couldn’t understand why Frank had made that remark about her. Later, when he saw her in more form-fitting clothes and her hair washed and brushed, he would see Frank’s point. She had the full figure of a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old.

  He wiped his hands on a rag and walked toward them. Judy looked at him and then quickly averted her gaze. He sensed her shyness and withdrawal and figured that along with her looks, she added up to a zero.

  “Meet Marty,” Elaine said. Judy looked up, but she didn’t say anything. She just stood there playing with the collar of her blouse.

  “Hi,” he said. He caught something interesting in her eyes that made him look at her a little more intently.

  “She’s shy,” Elaine said and then turned on her with a much harsher tone of voice. “I want you to get to know your stepbrother good, honey. He can tell you all about the school and the kids . . .”

  “I haven’t been in school for two years,” he began, but Elaine wasn’t interested. He looked more closely at the two women. Judy had inherited Elaine’s slight facial features: a small, slightly upturned nose; soft, light blue eyes; and a gentle mouth with an almost imperceptible, but cute, puffed upper lip. They both had high cheekbones, but Elaine’s face was swollen and rounded from the excess weight she carried. Although her figure was starting to get away from her, it was easy to see that she had always had a nice one. He noticed that she had poor teeth, but all of Frank’s women had poor teeth.