The Watch Rotation

The laminated schedule lies on her lap. It is thick and cloudy at the edges, like a school card that has been handled too many times.

BOOTHE - THIRD THURSDAY, it says.

MIDNIGHT TO DAWN.

The neighbor who gave it to her had smiled as if handing over a coupon.

“Everybody takes a turn,” the woman had said.

“What are we watching for?”

The woman’s smile had stayed in place.

“You’ll see.”

Natalie had waited for more. Nothing came.

Now she turns the card over. The back is blank.

A moth bumps against the porch light. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Natalie watches it go around and around.

At 12:07, Todd opens the door again.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You can come in if it gets chilly.”

“It’s not chilly.”

The night is warm, but the chair is hard. Natalie rubs one hand over the other. The porch boards feel rough beneath her shoes.

Todd leans against the doorframe. “Did anyone tell you what you’re supposed to do?”

“Sit here.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Great. We bought a house and got a chair job.”

Natalie smiles because he expects her to. “Go to bed.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Todd nods. “Wake me if the chair attacks.”

He closes the door.

The click of the lock sounds louder than it should.

Natalie looks at the glass. Her own face floats there, pale and small. Behind it, the hall is empty.

She turns back to the street.

Nothing moves.

A car passes on the road beyond Sparrow Hollow. Its headlights slide over the tops of the trees and vanish. Somewhere far away, a dog barks once. Then another dog answers.

Natalie checks her phone.

12:31.

She sends Todd a message.

Still alive.

His reply comes at once.

Chair behaving?

She types, Barely, but deletes it. Instead she sends a chair emoji.

Todd sends back a laughing face.

For a while, that helps.

At 1:10, Natalie hears a soft scrape from the street.

She straightens.

A branch? A squirrel? A plastic bag caught on a bush?

The sound comes again.

Scrape.

She grips the arms of the chair.

At the end of the cul-de-sac, something pale shifts near a mailbox. Natalie leans forward. The porch light reaches only halfway across the lawn. Past that, everything is blue-black.

“Hello?” she calls.

Her voice sounds too small.

The pale thing lifts.

It is a paper grocery bag.

Wind pushes it across the road. It bumps into a curb and folds in on itself.

Natalie lets out the breath she was holding.

“Good work,” she whispers.

The bag does not answer.

At 1:47, she stands to stretch. Her knees crack. She walks to the porch steps and looks down the street.

Every house has a porch.

Every porch has a light.

Most are dark.

The house on the left has a red toy truck beside its steps. The house across from her has a hanging basket full of dead flowers. The house near the greenbelt has a white rocking chair that moves a little in the wind.

Natalie watches the chair.

It moves forward.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

She tells herself it is only the wind.

She tells herself many things tonight.

The front door opens behind her.

Natalie turns quickly.

Todd stands there in pajama pants, his hair sticking up.

“Nothing,” he says.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You looked.”

“I heard something.”

“What?”

“A bag.”

Todd looks toward the street. “A dangerous bag?”

“It was very suspicious.”

He steps onto the porch. The floor creaks beneath him.

For a moment, they stand together.

The neighborhood looks harmless. Almost too harmless. The lawns are smooth. The houses are clean. The trees make a soft roof over the road.

Todd points at the laminated card. “You know, we can say no.”

Natalie looks down at it. “Can we?”

“Of course.”

“The woman said everybody takes a turn.”

“She also gave you a card before we had unpacked the plates.”

“She was being organized.”

“She was being weird.”

Natalie rubs her thumb over the card’s cloudy edge. “If we skip it, they’ll think we’re rude.”

Todd looks at her. “They already think we’re rude. We moved into their circle.”

She almost laughs.

Then a porch light across the street goes out.

Natalie turns.

The house with the dead flowers is dark now.

Todd glances at it. “Bulb.”

“Maybe.”

“Come inside.”

“I’m staying.”

He looks toward the upstairs windows. “Maeve is asleep. The doors are locked. Nothing is happening.”

“I know.”

“Then why stay?”

Natalie looks at the empty road. “Because I said I would.”

Todd sighs. “Fine. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“No. Lock it.”

He pauses.

Natalie hears the lock turn after he goes inside.

2:15.

2:52.

3:18.

The night grows deeper, but nothing changes. The moth disappears. The trees stop moving. Even the dogs are quiet.

Natalie’s tea turns cold.

She checks the time again.

3:39.

Her mouth feels dry.

The schedule rests on her lap. The letters seem darker than before.

She looks from house to house.

The street is empty.

The windows are dark.

The white rocking chair has stopped moving.

Natalie hears the refrigerator humming through the front door. She hears her own breathing. She hears a tiny click from the porch light above her.

She looks up.

The bulb is still on.

3:40.

Every porch light in Sparrow Hollow turns on.

All at once.

The change is so quick that Natalie blinks. One moment, the street is dark. The next, nine yellow lights shine around the circle.

The houses seem to wake.

The red toy truck glows bright red. The dead flowers make sharp little shadows on the wall. The white rocking chair stands in the middle of its light.

Natalie does not move.

No doors open.

No one steps outside.

There is no car. No bird. No sound except the low buzz of the lights.

She looks toward the greenbelt.

The trees are lit at their edges. The spaces between them stay dark.

Her hand closes around the laminated card.

Then, as quickly as they came on, the lights go out.

All at once.

The street is dark again.

Natalie stares.

She waits for one light to return.

None does.

The porch light above her remains on.

Her own light is the only one burning.

A floorboard creaks inside the house.

Natalie turns toward the door.

“Todd?”

No answer.

She stands. The chair scrapes behind her. Her knees feel loose, as if they belong to someone who has been running.

She reaches for the doorknob.

Before she touches it, the lock clicks.

Natalie freezes.

The door opens a few inches.

Todd peers out. His eyes are sleepy.

“What happened?” he asks.

She points at the street. “The lights.”

Todd looks over her shoulder.

“They came on,” Natalie says. “All of them. At the same time.”

Todd steps onto the porch. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“And then they went off.”

“Yes.”

He studies the dark houses. “Maybe a timer.”

“They were all on the same timer?”

“Could be.”

“Why at 3:40?”

Todd shrugs. “Old neighborhood. Old wiring.”

Natalie looks at the houses. Their porches are dark again. Nothing has moved. Nothing has changed.

But the street feels different.

Todd touches her shoulder. “Come inside.”

She wants to.

She wants the warm hall, the locked door, Maeve’s small sleeping breaths upstairs. She wants to pull the blankets over her head and be done with the chair job.

Instead, she looks at the last dark porch, the one nearest the greenbelt.

“I have to finish,” she says.

Todd’s hand drops.

“Finish what?”

“The night.”

“You saw a light show.”

“I don’t know what I saw.”

“That’s the same thing.”

Natalie picks up the schedule. Her fingers shake, and the card slips. It lands on the porch with a flat slap.

Todd bends to get it.

For one second, the porch light flickers.

Natalie looks toward the street.

At the house nearest the trees, something pale seems to stand beside the steps.

She blinks.

There is nothing there.

Only the white rocking chair.

Only the dark yard.

Todd hands her the card. “Come in when you’re ready.”

He goes inside.

This time, the door closes softly.

Natalie sits again.

The sky above the roofs is beginning to turn gray, though dawn is still far away. She keeps the schedule in both hands. The card is cold from the porch boards.

She watches the dark houses.

She watches the greenbelt.

She watches the place where the pale shape might have been.

At 4:02, a cricket begins to chirp.

At 4:11, a car passes beyond the circle.

At 4:20, Natalie checks the street again.

Nothing happens.

That should make her feel better.

It does not.

When the first thin light reaches the rooftops, Natalie stands. Her legs wobble. She steadies herself on the doorframe.

Behind the glass, Todd is asleep on the sofa, one arm over his face. Upstairs, Maeve turns in her bed. The house is safe. The doors are locked. Morning is coming.

Natalie looks at the other porches one last time.

Their lights are dark.

Still, she cannot shake the feeling that she has missed something.

Not seen something.

Missed it.

She opens the door and steps inside, carrying the laminated schedule with her.

End of chapter one. 39 more chapters in the full book.