The Watcher
Maybe it's because I was born on Friday the 13th. Or maybe it's just a coincidence. Either way, I've always believed in ghosts, as far back as I could remember. But until I saw the watcher, I just thought it was an interest in the paranormal. Now, I think it might be more.
I was nine years old, and much to my chagrin, I shared a bunk bed with my older brother. As usual, I'd lost our fight, this time over who had to sleep on the bottom bunk, and so I was curled up in my little dark cave, trying to sleep. I finally drifted off, but kept tossing and turning, until finally I opened my eyes in frustration.
In the corner of the room, where the pantry door sat, was the figure of a man. He was dressed entirely in black, and he was crouched there, his head bowed and a thick brown envelope under his right arm.
I screamed. What could I do? There was an intruder in the house! My mom rushed into the room.
"What happened?" she gasped, expecting the worst.
"I s-s-saw someone," I said, pointing a trembling finger at the pantry door. "A man. Sitting over there."
I saw her nose wrinkle in disbelief, but she pretended to investigate the area anyway. Then she shrugged it off.
"Can I sleep with you?" I asked her.
The next morning, my mother shook me awake and took me downstairs for an interrogation in the kitchen.
"All right. What really happened?" she asked.
I adamantly told her the story again, down to the last detail. This time, there was the faintest crinkle of doubt on my mother's face, and she called my aunty -- a very religious woman, who insisted I go to a temple and see a priest right away.
The priest hummed and fussed over me, and finally admitted to me that he could feel the presence of many people watching me. He wasn't sure why, he said, "but beware," were his final words, before he handed me a thick black cord he had just finished blessing. At the end of it was a 24-ct gold plated medallion with my name on one side and a prayer of protection on the other. His shaking hands tied a triple knot around my neck, and I vowed never to take it off.
Months passed. Then years. Nothing happened, and though my belief in ghosts had not been shaken, I didn't see any and the idea faded into memory.
Then, a week before my twelfth birthday, I was showering when I heard a clattering noise. It made me jump and stare around me, my heart pounding as if it were punching me in the chest. My eyes were drawn to something glittering on the tub floor -- my medallion.
My eyes widened. In the two years I'd had the medallion, it had never fallen off before; the priest's triple-knot had been powerful.
I bent down and picked up the medallion, turning off the shower despite the lingering soap bubbles on my body. I went straight to my mom, still wrapped in my towel.
"You won't believe what just -- "
"The medallion came off." She said it with a straight face; she wasn't joking or giving me crap.
"How do you -- "
"The priest just called," she said, and held up the phone in her left hand. She looked tired, but she was smiling ever so slightly. "He said that everything will be okay, starting today."
I haven't seen a watcher since then.
