“Nerdy,” I supplied. It was true that VUFOS—the Volunteer UFO Society—was packed with nerds. I stuck out at meetings and conventions, just as I stuck out in Zimmer’s living room. Not fitting in was a chronic condition of my life.
Zimmer had shrugged, as if people like me rarely figured in his philosophy. “I suppose you’re popular with the lonely housewives making reports.”
“Most of the reports we get come from men,” I replied. “Statistically. Like you, for example.”
Zimmer’s expression had soured, but the remark shut him up. “Let me show you around and we’ll get this over with.”
I read the next page of my notes.
Points of entry: Three doors (front, garage, back)
Time of encounters: Night (all)
Communication from entities: None
Physical encounters with entities: None (recalled)
Missing time: 30 to 60 minutes each time
Injuries from encounters: None
Other manifestations: Electronic disturbances, most often the clock radio
In the bedroom, where Zimmer said most of the encounters had happened, I took out my camera and shot pictures while Zimmer watched. He was starting to look uncomfortable now.
“Do you see lights?” I asked as I circled the room.
“Yes. They’re blinding, right in my eyes.”
I felt a physical shudder of revulsion at that, but I suppressed it. This wasn’t about me. “And then the figures looking down at you?”
“Yes. Four or five of them.” It was some kind of catharsis for him to admit this out loud. He’d likely wondered if he was losing his mind for the last fifteen years. “Have you seen this before? Tell me. What’s going on?”
“Yes, I’ve seen this before.” I paused at the bedroom window, looking down over the backyard. There was a pool there. “They’re studying you.”
“What the hell for?”
“There are a number of theories.” The pool was empty of swimmers, baking in the merciless California sun. A faint breeze rippled the surface, then stilled again.
I stared at the pool too long, and Zimmer said, “You used to be an Olympic diver.” When I looked at him in surprise, he added, “I researched you before I let you into my house, Mr. Esmie. Of course I did.”
I looked back at the pool. “Your research has errors. I never got as far as the Olympics.”
“Why did you quit?” Zimmer asked.
I ignored him and walked toward the bed, looking up at the ceiling. “You have a skylight.”
“Yes.” He was nervous again.
“I will never understand the architectural fascination with skylights. To me, their popularity is inexplicable. How long have you lived in this house?”
“Four years.” Zimmer paused. “The last house—it had a skylight, too. But I’ve already thought of that. I had someone come and check it. It hasn’t been tampered with. They aren’t getting in through there.”
Of course it wouldn’t appear tampered with. They were too clever for that, but I didn’t say it out loud. Zimmer was already frightened enough.
“What is it?” Zimmer asked when I was silent for too long. “Do you think it’s a problem? What are you saying?”
I stared up through the pane of glass at the square of sky beyond. I imagined whatever hovered above being able to look down at you while you slept, taking in your slumbering figure with its large, eerily slanted pitch-black eyes. Watching. Until its long gray fingers reached out to touch the glass.
