Lurker

looked through her closet to make sure no one broke in while she was in the kitchen. Finding the room empty, she dropped onto her bed, exhausted but still buzzing from fear.

Her eyes were just closing when a tone from her computer announced new mail in her e-mail folder. She didn’t care. It would still be there after her nap.

But you never signed on, a tiny voice reminded.

Mandy’s eyes shot open and she leaped from the bed. Her Internet homepage covered the screen, and an instant message window was open in the corner.

Kylenevers: It’s L8R now.

Panicked, Mandy closed the window and clicked on the pull down menu. She signed off of the Internet service. The pages vanished, leaving nothing but the open picture file in the middle of her monitor.

It had changed again.

She couldn’t tell if the photo of the Witchman was fully realized or not, because he was gone, and so was the room he’d been standing in. Instead, Mandy looked at the image of a brightly lit lawn. Sprinklers soaked the grass in a gemlike cascade. The image shook, and she realized it was no longer a photo at all, but rather a movie playing in the picture box.

Whoever held the camera taking this film had shaky hands. The edges of the scene blurred and trembled in a disquieting tremor. The camera panned up and Mandy saw a white fence and a stretch of sidewalk.

It looked so familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

Then the image progressed, down the walk past the house. She saw rows of nice houses. The houses of her neighbors! Oh no, she thought. A police car slowly pulled into the frame, eased its way down the street. Her street!

Oh God, she thought. He’s coming.

The movie progressed faster and the cameraman stood in her driveway, aiming the camera up at her window.

But the police are out there. They had to see him. This can’t be today. Can’t be now.

The cameraman walked forward and pushed open the front door of her house. The image swept across her living room, back to the stairs, to the den, back to the stairs. Whoever held the camera began to climb toward her room.

“No!” Mandy cried, running to the hall, looking at the stairs.

Only to find them empty.

“Mom. Dad!” she cried, but her throat was so tight with dread, hardly any sound escaped. She ran back through her room to look out the window.

The police car was still retreating down the block. Another car pulled up. A silver Audi. It turned into her driveway.

Thank God, Dale.

He climbed out of his car. Dale looked up at the window, saw Mandy, waved.

“He’s a good kid,” a raspy voice said at her back. “I should drop him a note sometime.”

Mandy spun toward the voice, her heart tripping hard. Her throat clenched with fear.

The Witchman stood by her door, wearing a black coat and a vicious smile. Mandy screamed, and this time the sound was piercing, dreadful. Below, her parents called out for her, and she heard their steps pounding up the staircase. The Witchman slammed her bedroom door, turned the lock.

“Think you might want to kiss me?” he asked.

Mandy remembered the knife under her pillow and dashed to the bed, grabbing the handle and stepping back, brandishing it before her. The Witchman didn’t seem to notice a thunder of fists on the door at his back. Her parents’ concerned voices, calling her name, demanding she let them in.

“Open the door,” Mandy said, jabbing the knife forward, stepping to the end of the bed. “He’s in here,” she screamed.

None of this seemed to affect the Witchman in the least. He stepped away from the door toward the desk.

Now, not even the bed separated them. The only obstacle between him and her was the blade of her knife.

He looked at her computer screen and laughed his terrible staccato laugh before turning his attention back to Mandy. She cast a quick glance at the monitor, saw herself brandishing a long knife.

“Why don’t you stupid brats just delete the file?” he asked. “You leave the gate wide open.”

“You came through the computer? It…it isn’t possible.”

“I’ve been doing the impossible for many, many years, Mandy. People see only what I want them to see. For generations I’ve been called warlock and sorcerer and bogeyman. But the world changes. So, I’ve gone high tech.”

“Get out of here!” Mandy screamed.

“I’m afraid I can’t. The fuel I need is inside you.”

From the other side of the door, she heard Dale call her name. A heavy thud pounded against wood. Both of her parents were screaming with tears in their voices.

Something in Mandy snapped. She could no longer take the smug, evil amusement on the Witchman’s face. She ran forward, drawing the knife down to deliver an upward slice. But he stepped to the side and grabbed her, holding her tight to his body, her arms pinned at her sides.

Up close, his face was even more horrible. Like old leather, cracked and dusty, his skin stretched over bumpy, pointed bones. His eyes were the charcoal gray of a dead computer screen. His grip was like iron.

“Time to go,” he said.

No. Please no.

Suddenly, Mandy felt herself falling, as if the floor had just dropped out from beneath her. The pounding on the door, the screaming of Dale and her mom and her dad, faded and grew thick as if heard from beneath water. Her body began to tingle and then burn as she felt herself coming apart, every cell letting loose of those around it. She tried to scream, but all she heard was static, like the crumpling of a paper bag.

Then Mandy’s room was empty. Against the wall stood her desk. On the desk, her computer monitor glowed. A picture box in the middle of the screen still played a movie, showing a police car parked next to a curb. The doors opened and two burly men in blue uniforms ran forward as if right through the camera, leaving the image of a pleasant neighborhood. A terrified face appeared for a moment and was then pushed aside by a pale, old hand, dotted with liver spots. It appeared again, eyes wide, mouth open and screaming. The girl in the movie was struggling, slapping at the camera, crying for her parents, crying for a boy named Dale.

Dale threw his shoulder against the door and the jamb splintered, snapped and exploded inward. He didn’t see Mandy. He ran to the closet, threw it open, but it was empty. Her parents were already at the window, looking out.

“It’s locked,” her father said.

Dale crouched low and looked under the bed, but saw nothing except long plastic containers, where Mandy kept her sweaters. Standing up, he noticed the open picture window on Mandy’s monitor. Two police officers burst into the room, their guns drawn.

“Where are they?” one shouted.

“I don’t know,” Mandy’s father said, his voice tearful and trembling.

“Where’s my daughter!” Mrs. Collins screamed.

At the computer, Dale leaned down to get a better vantage on the picture window. When he saw the image there, his stomach knotted and he felt like he was going to be sick.

“Oh, Mandy,” he cried.

There is a picture on the screen. It is just a simple picture, harmless in and of itself, but it carries a dreadful power. The image is of the corner of a blond brick building. Next to the building is a field of tall dead grass; beyond that, a stand of trees, dark and impenetrable despite the glow of bright afternoon sun.