The Watchers by Mark Andrew Olsen

had turned into far more. It had blossomed into a truly voluntary, vibrant core of her character. At the same time, her father had angrily rejected Christianity, managing to remain grudgingly tolerant of his daughter’s faith. The most he would offer was a continual complaint that on Sunday mornings, one of his most available times in a hectic professional schedule, it would have been nice to spend quality time together. Instead, she had to rush off to that place. . . .
    That was why this offer was indeed a concession.
    â€œNo, Dad. I want you to tell me why. Come on—I’m the one who’s, who’s . . .”
    â€œDon’t say it.”
    â€œBut I am. And that’s why you owe me an explanation. This is too important; I can see it in your eyes.”
    He sat down quickly, with the suddenness of someone whose knees had abruptly lost all their strength. Not a man who racked up a dozen treadmill hours a week.
    â€œI always thought I’d go to my grave without ever telling you about these things. But now . . .” He raised his eyebrows as if to finish by saying, Now with you about to go before me, it’s all changed .
    â€œTell me, Daddy. You’re scaring me.”
    â€œIt’s about your mother.”
    Abigail felt a hard wall of inevitability rise within her. Of course , she told herself. What other topic would push him so close to the edge?
    â€œGo ahead.”
    He sighed and blew out loudly. “Right before the end, right before she disappeared, your mother started complaining of all sorts of strange sights. It started with these strangely real dreams. They seemed to involve folks who lived in ancient times. Biblical characters. She seemed to think these were more than your average dreams, but actually some kind of invasion, a possession almost. Except not like the normal possession. In these dreams, she was the one possessing the body of these historical people.”
    Abigail inhaled slowly, self-consciously. It felt like her life depended on gathering that next breath. She felt an actual swimming sensation in her head and knew that she was in danger of fainting. She could hardly believe the words buzzing about her tympanic membrane.
    â€œAnyway, that’s not the most important part,” he continued. “But see, right around that time, she started talking about seeing things. About all of a sudden experiencing some kind of, what she called ‘spiritual vision.’ She started really freaking out, talking about seeing things swimming around in front of her. Just like what you said. I’m sorry. But it was so pronounced . . . the similarity. The words you chose—they could have come out of her mouth. Some of the last words she ever spoke to me.”
    â€œSo, is that what you think drove her to abandon us?”
    He paused and turned to Teresa, whose eyes seemed to have recently gone cold. As abruptly as the flicking of a switch.
    â€œHoney, I have something to confess to you.”
    Teresa exhaled angrily and stormed off toward the door. Her father watched her go, then turned back to Abigail with a weary expression.
    â€œYour mother didn’t exactly abandon us the way I’ve always told you,” he said in a low voice, as though someone was eavesdropping on the conversation.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYour mother didn’t just leave. She disappeared under suspicious circumstances. If you were to track down her case with the FBI, you’d find that her file states her as presumed dead. Murdered , to put a finer point on it.”
    â€œSo you thought it would be better,” Abigail said, her voice rising, “to let me grow up thinking that my mom was a tramp who never loved me and thought it would be more fun to run off with a cult of dope-smoking hippies than stay and raise me?”
    â€œYes,” he answered, his lips stretched tight. “I thought that would be easier to live with than knowing your mother had