There’s so much I could say about this book, but it’s best served cold. Here’s the description from the back cover:

Alex hears a voice out his window…

He believes it’s his neighbors spying on him. Harassing him.

He struggles to catch them, but they burrow deeper under his skin until he’s convinced his tormentors are controlling him from within.

Alex has no idea how right he is.

Based on the author’s personal experience with auditory hallucinations, I Hear You Watching is a relentlessly interior psychological suspense novel about the abyss gazing back.

It’s my most vulnerable writing. It’s grotesque and beautiful, horrifying and hilarious—sometimes all at once.

Read it on Kindle Unlimited, or purchase the ebook or paperback!

Sisters, I have an idea for a trick I’d like us to play.

What is the trick you have in mind, sister?

We find a mark and follow him, learn his comings and goings. Then on the day of the trick, we all wear the same dress—the powder-blue one.

Oh, that’s a very pretty dress.

I prefer the avocado-green. But if it helps us play the trick, sisters, I’ll wear the blue.

Wonderful, yes, it will help enormously. Then I’ll follow the mark onto the subway and make sure he sees me. I can bring along a book or a handkerchief to drop on the ground to get his attention.

You could make eyes at him. That’s my favorite way to hook a mark.

We have such deep, dark eyes, they can never look away.

Maybe you can strike up a conversation.

Perhaps, but only pleasantries. We must keep a certain distance from the mark, or the rest of the trick won’t work.

So then you follow him to his destination?

Yes, but I don’t leave the train. I let him go, and wave good-bye as the doors close.

Then he sees you whisked away into the tunnel. Gone.

Yes, which is why he’ll never suspect to see you on the street, exiting a coffee shop, in powder-blue with your dark eyes just like mine!

Delicious! He’ll think I’m you!

Oh, what a surprise!

Do I speak to him?

You mustn’t speak to him; you mustn’t imply that you know him. But you must pretend to be surprised too, so much so that you spill your coffee on him. And you must scream!

Scream?

Scream bloody murder! Claw at yourself, tumble over a fire hydrant as you back away from him in terror!

He’ll be so overwhelmed!

And then you run away, sister, as fast as you can!

What a marvelous trick that will be.

That is only the beginning. For you, sister, must be lying in wait at his place of work.

Which we’ll have learned from observing him before.

Yes, and you’ll conceal yourself in the women’s restroom.

But if there are multiple such restrooms?

You will put yourself in the one nearest to the entrance, for he will seek out the first available men’s room to clean the coffee from his suit.

And I’ll leave the women’s room just as he approaches, and scream bloody murder at him!

No, you mustn’t scream.

Oh, but I’d like to be a sister who screams.

No, you must remain silent and treat him as a perfect stranger. He may start with fright, or he may scream, or he may attempt to engage you in conversation, sister, but you must resist, pretend you’ve never seen him before. Should he speak to you or reach out to you, you must pull away and react unfavorably to the encroachment.

This is a complex part to play, I’ll relish it!

Yes, it is subtle but no less important. And then you leave, and we allow him to settle, confused, into his workday.

Aha! Then as soon as he leaves for lunch, there I’ll be to greet him!

No, sister, the final trick will be much tastier if we wait. He will have seen the same woman three times already, in impossible places relative to each other. Left to his own devices, this will puzzle him for the rest of the day.

But we must strike at maximum confusion!

Patience, sister. If we allow him to rejoin his routine, his confusion will multiply with our next intervention. You, sister, will frame yourself in a window visible from his office, across the street. At some point during the afternoon, he will pause to ponder and stare out his own window. That is when you wave to him.

With a frozen smile on my face? Slow and creepy?

No, sister, with a look of genuine joy. You should be pleased to see him.

Oh, I will be, anticipating the rest of this trick.

Yes, I suspect it will be good.

So do I.

He will not believe you’re real, and he may leave his office to fetch a coworker back to see you.

But I’ll hide from view!

Right. You mustn’t be seen by anyone but the mark.

So when the coworker leaves and he settles back into work—

With increased confusion…

Indeed, I reappear and wave again?

Yes, and beckon to him. He will think himself insane, but with a bit of luck, he’ll slip away and come to your building.

Do I wait for him there?

Yes, but it must be a building with a glass entrance, so he’ll see you and know which door to enter. You must wait far back enough that you can slip into the stairwell before he catches up to you.

A chase! Do I take the stairs up or down?

You’ll take them up, sister, but only one flight, and then crouch low. That’s when a sister on a lower level will start running downward.

I’d like to be that sister! I can run very fast.

Brilliant! So he’ll follow her!

Just a glimpse of my powder-blue will suffice to lure him down after me!

Indeed, and you’ll be far enough in advance of him to reach the bottom and pass through a door into a dark room. Most likely a storage space of some kind.

He’ll follow me through the door, naturally.

And you’ll wait for him to do so, positioned behind the door so that as soon as he’s entered, you’ll close it definitively behind him.

And turn the lights on?

Yes. And there he will see all of us, sisters. Some of us perched atop shelves, others standing on boxes stacked at various heights, collected in groups here and there, but most gathered in a crowd around him at the door, all two hundred of us, sisters, all in our powder-blue dresses, staring with our dark eyes.

Oh, the look on his face!

I didn’t want him to think I was staring, so I looked away, which means I don’t know how long he kept looking at me. He could’ve watched my entire walk down the street and seen me turn to check that my gate had closed, maybe he sensed my desire to look again and see if he was still there.

Now I could be calmly reading my book while I wait for the train. I was looking forward to that. I’d double-checked everything before I left—all the windows were closed, I locked the door and pulled the knob a couple times to make sure, I’d packed my rolling bag with everything I need—plane ticket, changes of clothes for three days, toothbrush, swimsuit, towel, sunscreen—and I left early to avoid rushing, because this was all about calm and relaxation.

The guy wasn’t my neighbor; I’d never seen him before. His clothes were dirty, but I can’t remember if they were light stains of house paint and concrete (from the construction a few doors down) or dark stains, possibly from homelessness.

His hair was longish and tousled. Maybe his clothes weren’t dirty, but his messy hair makes me think I saw stains.

I wish I could remember his face, but he spent half of the moment I looked at him tilting his head to spit, so in my memory his hair sort of becomes his face.

He was wearing a green shirt with an orange-brown jacket. Or it could’ve been an orange shirt with a green jacket. All I remember is that they were baggy on his body. But sitting on the ground bunches up a person’s shape—I don’t know if his clothes fit, if he was tall or short, or even whether he was wearing jeans or pants.

This isn’t enough information to ask anyone at the train station if they’ve seen him around.

The next train is in a half-hour. I could walk the ten minutes back home to see if he’s still there—get a better look at him if he is—and still make my plane.

*

None of the men at the work site look like him—not even my vague, subconscious memory of him. I try not to look too long, to avoid their suspicion.

And past the bend of the street there’s the neighbor’s driveway. He’s not there.

I check the fence at the corner of my lot, the one open space between the bushes. Some of the branches are dry and broken, but I’d squeezed through here myself last week to test whether someone could jump this part of the fence. My test proved that someone could, and now I can’t tell if these branches were broken by him or me.

I open my gate, eyeing the length of the fence to make sure nobody hops it as I step through, listen for swishing leaves or crunching gravel. Close the gate behind me. Listen again. Check my watch. I can make one sweep and still make the train.

If I leave my suitcase here and he comes this way, he could snatch my passport and phone before he jumps the fence. But the roller bag is noisy on the gravel, so I might not hear him leave.

Ultimately, I decide I’d prefer to keep my things and chase him off.

I drag the bag over long grass threaded with thin young brambles, to the more overgrown side of the house—where he’s most likely hidden. I don’t see him there, but he could’ve slipped to the back yard, so I push through tall nettles that bite my arms and face, which makes me even more confident he went this way. He probably assumed I wouldn’t brave it myself.

The back yard is empty. If he was here, he could’ve hopped the fence to either neighbor’s yard, or continued to the other side of the house. I listen. The neighbor behind me has her window open, sounds like she’s on the phone.

I cross, pulling the bag as quietly as I can across the grass to the other side of the house, where the path to the front is empty. The other neighbor’s yard is silent except for wind and birds.

I pull the bag to the front yard. Still nobody here. I check my watch—I’ve missed the next train. The next-next one is in twenty-five minutes. Plenty of time to catch it, but I’ll have to rush at the airport.

A layer of clouds uncovers the sun, and it’s warm.

If he’s still here, he expects me to give up and leave now. I turn around and walk quickly down the path, circling the house the other way to catch him off-guard. I hear nothing but my own footsteps on dirt and then grass, the bag rumbling behind me, swishing back through the nettles and re-emerging in the front yard.

Now he’ll stay hidden, because he thinks I’ve seen something that proves he’s here. I take the opportunity to go up the front steps and check the front door. Still closed, still locked, no sign of damage. Continue around, the kitchen window is also intact. As are the living room and dining room windows. I successfully dodge the nettles this time.

In the front yard I crouch and look for feet under the bushes. Then I take the path around the house, doing the same whenever new bushes come into view. I drop and scan the bushes around the back perimeter, see some fleshy trunks that could be legs, but no feet or shoes. No body lying in the space between the nettles and the fence. No one perched in the willow tree in the front yard.

The train is in seven minutes. I can’t make it even if I run. I’ll miss the plane.

But this is good—he thought I’d leave. He’ll try to escape at some point.

The sun is hot. I watch light and shadow flicker between the leaves as I pull the sunscreen from my bag and apply it to my forehead. Then I walk to the side path and apply some to my nose. In the back yard I put it on my cheeks and chin. Among the nettles I cover my neck and chest.

I unlock the front door and put my bag—now covered with dirt, pollen, and patches of clinging seeds—inside and lock the door.

Without the bag I can move easier, make quicker circles.

I jog.

I run.

I feint and switch back. He’s probably circling too, opposite me.

If only this goddamn house wasn’t blocking my view!