Watchers of the Night

By Matthew Keith

From the outside, Paul Bennett appears to be an ordinary high school senior from small-town Kentucky. But Paul has a secret. He possesses an extraordinary gift which allows him to leave his body during the night and go anywhere, see anything—unseen, undetected.

Unbeknownst to Paul, he is not alone in his ability--there are others who can do what he can, and they belong to Astralis, a government agency funded by the United Nations who train people like Paul to become spies. When one of their scouts recognizes Paul for what he is, he is offered a place in the agency.

Paul makes a new life at Astralis, forging new friendships and inadvertently creating new enemies. Through the mentoring of the agency's director, Dr. Abrams, Paul finds a place where he finally feels he belongs.

Unfortunately, Astralis is an organization under siege from within. Not everyone feels Dr. Abrams is a fit director, and some are willing to do anything to make a change of leadership--even murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Keith
• Release date: Apr 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301305520

Matthew Keith

Matthew Keith lives with his wife, two children and jackabee "Elvis" in Kentucky.He loves dogs, good music, and good movies.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The muted glow of street lamps shone down on a main intersection of small-town southern America. It was late, long past midnight. The streets were empty of traffic, which only served to accentuate the oddity of the lone figure sitting on a bench at one of the four corners. He sat with his head bowed and his hands in his lap. It was a bench he visited often, and always at night. On extremely rare occasions, people passed by on foot. Even more seldom, they would stop and sit down next to him. At such times, he treated those passers-by and tourists-to-his-bench with absolute indifference, knowing that any attempt at acknowledgement would be ignored.

But not tonight. Tonight was different. Tonight, he felt like talking.

So when a man sat next to him with a tired sigh, digging in one pocket for God-knows-what, he gathered his thoughts, studying the man with detached curiousity. The man was bleary-eyed, swaying from side to side as if the bench were a gently rocking boat. At this time of night, it seemed likely that the last words the man had heard were, ‘last call.’

He didn’t know the man, but that didn’t matter. Tonight, he would have spoken to anyone who’d stopped.

I don’t know why I’m bothering to talk to you, he began. I know you won’t be any help. I know you won’t answer me.

He stared intently, waiting for some flicker of acknowledgement, something… anything.

Nothing.

So he continued almost helplessly, with long pauses between each sentence. "It’s the same every night. I know this is a dream. Not like one of those dreams you wake from and think, man that was crazy. Not even close. Everything is far too normal."

There wasn’t even a flicker in the man’s eyes. Not even a squint like maybe he’d heard but was trying to ignore this annoying nobody next to him.

Absolutely nothing.

"I know I’m asleep and I know this isn’t real, but knowing doesn’t make any difference. And why should it? It isn’t like knowing changes anything. It’s not like I could make it better."

Sighing, he turned toward the man, tucking one leg up under himself and leaning forward, as if he had a chance to really explain. But then, ‘making it better’, that’s not really a fair way to describe what I’d like to do with this dream. There’s no real way to measure it. He paused, searching for the right words, even though he already knew what he wanted to say. "It’s not a good dream and it’s not a bad dream—it’s just the same dream. Sure, there’s some variation here and there, but more or less it’s always the same dream and it always will be. Nothing I can do will make it any different or stop it from happening."

Sweeping his arms in either direction to encompass the street and the corner where they sat, he said, "Every night, this is where I end up. At this bench. In fact, I’m here so much now that I think of it as My Bench. You know? With a capital ‘M’ and ‘B’? Get what I mean?"

He gave humorless chuckle and stood up. He began pacing back and forth, as if he were lecturing.

"Every night I get out of bed, leave my house, and come into town. For the first few months, back when the dream was still new, I wandered a lot. I kept trying to find someone, somewhere that would talk to me—maybe tell me I was crazy—but no one ever did.

Now? Now I wander this town from sundown until sun-up, ignored by everyone. Just like you. He squinted reproachfully at the man. I just sit—sit and watch people like you go about your evening the way normal people do. He shook his head. "And it makes sense. Of course I know what normal people do at night, so why would seeing you do those things seem strange?"

The man belched and scratched under his jaw. He got unsteadily to his feet, looking both ways down the street.

"It isn’t strange, he told the man, staring him in the eye, almost whispering. Of course it isn’t. But then again it is. Raising his voice, he yelled directly into the man’s face, Because I shouldn’t be here! Not like this! Not watching people do what I suppose they’d normally do!"

Ignoring him, the man turned and stumbled away, the night swallowing him as he walked away, indifferent and unaware.

Sighing as he watched the man fade from sight, he sank back down on his bench. It was pointless.

The problem wasn’t that things were any different than what he would imagine a normal night in a small Kentucky town to be. It was that he, himself, wasn’t normal—because even though he spent every night among people he’d known his whole life, only on rare occasions did he have the chance to spend an evening with any of them.

Everything seemed so ordinary in his dream, but that just made it seem even more unreal. His only clue that he was dreaming was a slight shade of gray that washed everything out. Just a little. Almost like the world had been doused with dirty dishwater and left to drip-dry.

Of course, the fact that no one ever spoke to him was definitely a red flag too. And really, not being spoken to was the worst part. It was like he wasn’t there. No matter how hard he tried, people just looked right through him. Even in his own head, in a dream of his own making, he couldn’t make himself important enough to be noticed. It wasn’t that he wanted to be important, that wasn’t what mattered. Just being noticed and accepted would have been enough, but he couldn’t even get that far.

Unfortunately, he knew that his lack of remarkability carried right through into the real world as well, because no matter how resolved he was upon waking to make changes that would make him more noticeable, more substantial to the people around him, that resolve always faded. He retreated back to being the anonymous person on the bench, as if his dream was the determining factor in what characterized him as a person. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t break free from his curse of introversion and blandness.

Breathing a deep sigh that no one heard, he punched the wood planking of his bench in frustration and faced east, waiting for the dawn.

Chapter 1

Paul woke from another dream-filled night, having once again slept straight through until sunrise. He blinked and stretched as he rolled diagonally on his bed, trying to find the will to pry himself from his mattress and face another day of high school. Although his body was aching and tired, it was his mind that was most exhausted. He felt as if he’d spent the entire night cramming for a big exam.

How was it that he could sleep for ten, sometimes twelve, hours a night and wake up nearly every morning feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all? He’d tried to find something to fix the problem, but no amount of doctor visits, talks with trained professionals, or pills had ever been able to make any difference—and it had been that way for nearly five years now.

Every night he would begin to nod off around seven o’clock in the evening, as if knowing it would soon be dark created a subconscious trigger in his mind that shut him down. He could be sitting on the couch watching a movie, and even though he fought against it, he would still nod off, waking stiff and sore the next morning.

The worst part was that it happened no matter where he was or what he was doing. The few times that he’d spent the night at a friend’s house were a disaster; particularly the time a couple of summers ago when his best friend Steven decided it would be fun to shave his eyebrows after he fell asleep. Paul had woken up and left Steven’s house without knowing what had been done. It wasn’t until he was in line to pay for his breakfast burrito that he noticed all the stares and snickers from the people around him. It took a week for Paul to get the nerve to leave the house again, and two more months for him to reestablish his friendship with Steven, who’d always been the kind of friend that took every chance he could to pull a prank.

The only time he was able to fight against falling asleep was when he was with Stephanie, another of his best friends. She’d been his across-the-street neighbor in the third grade, and although he and his mother had moved across town by his ninth grade year, the two of them had remained close friends. There was something very safe about his ‘chick friend’—her term, not his—that he knew he could never find in any of his guy friends. He certainly would never find any kind of comfort zone from a joker like Steven. He and Stephanie had fun, of course, like normal friends did, but they also talked about the deeper things in life. He never felt embarrassed when he told her how he was feeling or what he was thinking.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his sandy eyes and trying to get rid of the cottony, morning-brain feeling that accompanied the first hour of every day, he squinted at the clock. Just after seven in the morning–the same time he always woke this time of year. No matter what time his alarm went off, he always opened his eyes just after sunrise. Summer time, winter time – it didn’t matter if daylight savings had just begun or ended; he was waking up when the sun came up, and that was that. This caused him a major problem at school—attendance, or lack of it, in his first hour. He’d served many hours of detention as a result.

Pushing himself up onto his feet and scratching at his tangled mess of hair, he made his way downstairs into the kitchen for something to eat. Breakfast with the Cap’n - hard to beat, he thought.

He lost himself in the sound of his own crunching for the next fifteen minutes.

* * *

It wouldn’t really be fair to say that school was the same every day, but it would be close to the mark. Depending on what time of the year it was, Paul either found himself sneaking in the back of the school through the band room door, starting his day in second period, or beginning it like everyone else, jostling his way in the front door with the rest of the poor unfortunates who were supposed to be his peers, doomed to another seven hours of monotonous classroom diatribe. Although he had a strong dislike for all things high school, he didn’t fight against being there and always arrived as soon as he was able. He recognized the need to earn his diploma and was resigned to sticking it out, even though just about anywhere else would have been a preferable place to spend five days a week.

As far as grades were concerned, he was neither a good student nor a bad student. He had a remarkable gift of memory, but he didn’t advertise it because he didn’t want the attention. He could recall nearly anything he saw or heard, and aced almost every test thrown in front of him as a result. This was balanced out by the fact that he rarely did homework because he resented being given work on things he already knew. At one point in his freshman year, he had tried to explain his perspective to one of his teachers but that had only earned him detention, so he’d learned to keep his mouth shut and simply do what it took to get by.

As far as trouble, he kept out of it for the most part, but didn’t avoid it either. If he found the kind of trouble that looked fun, he joined in.

He really didn’t fit any mold. That was probably why his two best friends were a girl and the school rebel-slash-dork.

Because it was that time of year, today was a sneak-in-the-band-room-door day. He was already late for school by an entire hour, which was normal when daylight savings was on.

On the door, he saw that Stephanie had come through for him yet again. A pink post-it note was stuck on the outside next to the handle, the same signal they’d used since the ninth grade. It let him know that she’d made a change to the attendance roles in first period and he was in the clear. There was almost never a day that she failed him, which was how he was able to get through to his senior year of high school spending only ‘some’ of his time in detention.

Slipping in, he made his way through the maze of bass drums, tympanis, kettle drums, and all the other percussion instruments that always seemed to be in a different place every time he went through the band room. He didn’t notice the grim-faced assistant principal, Mr. Paine, until he was almost on top of him.

Good morning to you, Mr. Bennett, said Mr. Paine drily.

Mr. Paine was a cross between the principal from Back to the Future and Agent Smith from The Matrix; he was always stern and always intense, and as such most students took him very seriously—but he was still an assistant principal and that made it difficult to take him completely serious all the time. He was a tall, skinny man with a mostly bald head and a pair of thick, black-framed glasses that made his eyes look slightly smaller than they really were. It gave them an accusatory squint, as if he were suspicious of every student that crossed his path. You never really knew for sure where you stood with Paine, but the safest bet was to assume that he was displeased. If he wasn’t … it was like a get-out-of-jail-free card for the day.

Good morning, Mr. Paine, Paul said in a carefully neutral tone, meeting the administrator’s squint respectfully.

Paul was neither a rebel nor a butt-kiss. He was somewhere in the middle. He had respect for the job that people like Mr. Paine had to do, but because Paul spent most days in a state of mind-numbing fatigue, he probably came off as indifferent. People like Mr. Paine demanded respect, and wanted that respect to be obvious from those they demanded it from. Undoubtedly, Paul’s neutral tone was being taken the wrong way. The truth was, it wasn’t that Paul didn’t care that he was busted – he just didn’t know how else to react. And he wouldn’t try to fake it even if he did.

Mr. Paine spoke slowly and articulately, enunciating every word so as to accentuate the importance of his message.

"I’ve been watching you, Mr. Bennett. I’ve been watching you for quite some time now. I’ve watched you stroll in this back door—late—every single day for the past nine days. And although the fact that you’re late every day doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, given your history here, there are two things that truly amaze me. He stared intently into Paul’s eyes as he spoke, dragging out the last three words. The first is that I can count on you to show up every day, like clockwork, within a few minutes of the day before. Astounding. Usually my chronically tardy students show up whenever the mood strikes them, if at all. But not you. And the second thing, the second thing is even more amazing. Somehow, your first period teacher has forgotten to record the fact that you are not present for class almost every single day." Paine once again spoke the last three words very slowly and very distinctly.

Paul stood mute, waiting for Mr. Paine to finish his speech. He didn’t hang his head. He tiredly looked Mr. Paine in the eye and took the verbal lashing without flinching. It didn’t matter that Paul couldn’t help that he was unable wake until dawn; he knew anything he said would be seen as belligerent, and only further add to whatever punishment Mr. Paine chose to mete out. Isn’t that what the criminals in gangster movies always said? If you get pinched and the cops start in on you, don’t say anything. Just keep your mouth closed. Maybe he wasn’t quite to criminal status yet, but right then, at that moment, he felt like quite the rule-breaker and kept his mouth shut. The guys from Goodfellas would’ve been damn proud.

And so, Mr. Bennett, this leads me to two conclusions. One: that because you show up at the same time every day, you have something you feel is more important than school to attend to. Are you on drugs? Asked so quickly, it was a rhetorical question and Paul knew it, so he continued to keep his silence. And two: you have found a way to doctor the attendance records, which is an even worse offense than tardiness.

Paine stood, arms folded, waiting for a reply. Maybe he was even hoping for one, but he didn’t get it because Paul didn’t have one that Paine would believe. The two of them stood like that for a solid sixty seconds without speaking a word. Paul didn’t look down, shuffle his feet, or even swallow. He just stared back as Paine stared at him.

This was Paul’s strength, his zone. Steven called it ‘creeper eyes’ when Paul looked back, clear-eyed, without speaking, and it unnerved Stephanie to the point that she felt there was ‘something wrong with him’ when he did it. But Paul never spoke just for the sake of speaking, because he disliked those who did. He didn’t see anything wrong with spaces of silence—in fact, he enjoyed sharing time more with people when they didn’t constantly blabber.

Finally, the awkwardness must have been too much for Paine. He narrowed his eyes, shook his head, and told Paul to follow him to his office.

* * *

As usual, the main office was crowded, loud, and bustling with people. For a place that represented the epicenter of an institution that put discipline as one of the cornerstones of its values, it always amazed Paul how loud and chaotic it was.

Following in the wake of Mr. Paine, Paul listened as the man continued to berate him about his ‘chronic’ tardiness. What a perfect word—chronic—to describe Paul’s inability to wake up before dawn. He’d always felt like his disorder was some sort of disease. It certainly had never helped him in any way except to increase his feelings of isolation.

How is it, Paine went on, that a student such as yourself—one that almost never shows up on our radar—can allow himself to be late every single day of class. Average grades, no extra-curricular activities, you’re never seen with ‘the bad crowd.’ In fact, you’re never seen with much of anyone.

As Mr. Paine’s monologue continued, Paul couldn’t help noticing a dark-haired girl at the front desk. She stared at him with the biggest, most beautiful brown eyes he’d ever seen. He’d never noticed her before, and with eyes like that he was sure he would have. She had a slightly olive skin tone, jet black hair, and full, lush lips. From the looks of it, she had just finished enrolling with the secretary.

He felt himself blushing to his roots and tried to stop staring, but he couldn’t. She stared back just as directly, her brown eyes holding his, and he was unable to hold back a very foolish-looking, sloppy smile. She didn’t smile back, but she didn’t stop looking either, which made Paul get that warm, dizzy, and not altogether unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach, making his sloppy grin sloppy to the point of dopey.

That is, until he ran into the back of Mr. Paine. They’d reached his office door.

Looking down at Paul’s grinning face, Paine narrowed his eyes, Bennett, is everything I’ve said to you in some way amusing? Do you find the fact that you’re about to enter into my office under very serious circumstances funny? Understand, sir, this is not a matter that will be taken lightly.

As Paine opened his door and motioned Paul inside, Paul took one last look toward the front desk, but the girl with the big brown eyes was already gone. Heaving yet another sigh, he followed Mr. Paine through the door to receive whatever punishment the man deemed to be justice.

Chapter 2

Justice, as it turned out, came in the form of a tall, rail-skinny man named Jeff.

The man, Jeff Justice, (but you can just call me Jeff), was one of the school counselors that Paul had never had the pleasure nor the desire to meet. Paul would be spending every Tuesday and Thursday’s lunch period with Jeff, until such time as it was deemed that Paul didn’t need intervention any longer.

Like many people living in Radcliff, Jeff was retired military. He had chosen to spend his time and the government’s money wisely while he was in the Army, and had obtained his master’s in psychology. The work he did at the school was more of a hobby for him than a job, and he enjoyed it as if it were. His heart was as big as he was tall and although Paul didn’t spend two lunches a week in Jeff’s company by choice, after a couple of conversations Paul could honestly admit that there were much worse ways to pass two hours a week at North Hardin High.

The first few meetings were spent in small-talk. Jeff didn’t jump right into the reason that Paul was forced to make these regular appearances. Instead, he focused more on simply getting to know him. Jeff’s forthright manner and earnest ways quickly made Paul comfortable. He began to believe that if he shared his problems with Jeff, the counselor might actually want to help, and more importantly, may even be able to help. It was in their third week and fifth meeting that Paul brought up the issue of his tardiness without Jeff ever having to ask.

I’m not on drugs, you know, was how Paul began the meeting.

I know that, Paul. I knew that after our second meeting.

And I don’t intentionally miss class. I can’t say that if I were able to miss it without getting busted I wouldn’t take advantage of it, but in this case it really is out of my hands. And I’d like to tell you why.

Ok. Well, let’s have it.

Paul took a deep breath and steeled himself for the reaction he was sure he would get. Even his parents, at first, had refused to believe he wasn’t just ‘acting out.’

I have a sleep disorder, he began simply, and it is very intense.

He watched Jeff’s face for any trace of judgment or negative reaction. He only found attentiveness, which gave him the courage to forge onward and completely unload the truth.

Every evening at dusk, I get so tired that I literally can’t keep my eyes open. No matter how hard I try, no matter what I’m doing or where I am, I just can’t stay awake and I slip off into unconsciousness until dawn, the next morning. I’m late for class because whenever it is daylight savings time, like right now, it’s still dark and I can’t wake up. And I don’t mean I’m just a heavy sleeper. That doesn’t anywhere near describe it. My mom has shook me, turned on all the lights, made all kinds of noise, even doused me with cold water. None of it works. It’s like I’m in a coma and can’t come out of it. But as soon as the sun comes up, I wake up on my own.

Jeff remained quiet, his left thumb under his chin and a forefinger resting on his upper lip.

Great, Paul thought, here we go. He doesn’t believe me.

Jeff’s worn out desk chair squeaked in protest as he leaned back. Have your folks ever taken you to see a physician for your disorder? It sounds fairly serious to me.

Paul didn’t know what to say. It was such a simple reply to Paul’s statement of his condition, and yet no one—ever—in his life had accepted him at his word. Certainly, no one ever offered to discuss it in such a forthright manner. Even people like Steven, who’d seen it first-hand, still didn’t think it was something that warranted much attention.

Well... Paul struggled for a reply, not because he didn’t have an answer, but because he was so taken by surprise. "Yes, as a matter of fact my mom has taken me to doctors. She took me to a sleep therapist who ran all kinds of tests. They weren’t that bad. I was asleep for most of them, so the majority of the poking and prodding was done while I was unconscious.

They monitored levels of a chemical called adenosine and a hormone called melatonin. I don’t understand the science of it, but the sleep therapist told me that melatonin causes you to get tired and adenosine is what keeps you asleep. I don’t know. I probably should have paid more attention, but the final result of the tests showed that every night when the sun sets, the gland in my body that produces melatonin goes nuts and pumps out some serious stuff. With so much of it pumping into my body, it makes me so tired that I can’t stay awake and... that’s it. I’m out. Until the sun comes up again, I’m filled with the stuff and can’t wake up no matter what happens.

There was no tone of disbelief in Jeff’s voice as he responded.

So you’re telling me that the reason you show up an hour late for school almost every day is because you have a medical condition? Is that what you’re saying? When Paul didn’t answer, Jeff continued, I have to believe that the school would make an exception for your tardiness, especially if a doctor would back your story.

Paul blanched, becoming very nervous. Yes, he said. "That is what I’m saying. But I already have enough trouble making friends in this school, Jeff. Really. The last thing I want is for people to think I’m even more of a freak than they already do. I don’t want to use my problem as an excuse for not being able to get to school and then Mr. Paine has to say ‘Well, it’s okay for Paul Bennett to show up late because he’s got a disease, so everyone just mind your own business and if anything, feel sorry for the poor guy – because he has a condition.’ No. I would rather do detention every single day for the entire school year than give people any more reason to think I’m messed up."

By the time he’d finished speaking, Paul’s voice had gone up an octave. He knew how so many do-gooders could end up causing harm, all with the best of intentions. Paul didn’t want to be the guy on the receiving end of good intentions that went wrong. He may not have as many friends as he’d like, but the ones he had he wanted to keep. He liked his life simple and uncomplicated.

I didn’t mean that I would get out the bullhorn and try and clear a path for you, Jeff assured him. I can see that you value your social life. Paul opted not to ask ‘what social life?’ and kept quiet. All I’m saying is that it sounds like you have a serious problem, and although I’m sure your parents have gone to great lengths to try and help you, maybe there is something I can do that they haven’t tried yet. I know of a place that specializes in sleep disorders. It is supposed to be the best in the country, maybe even in the world.

More tests. Paul hadn’t liked being stuck with so many needles last time, and he was sure he wouldn’t like it again. I don’t know, Jeff, he replied reluctantly. Like I said, I’ve already been to see doctors. All they ever did was send us bills we couldn’t afford.

Jeff held up a giant palm. Look, I admit, this isn’t my specialty, he replied. The only knowledge I have of this facility is what I’ve been told and what I’ve read, I’ve never been there. But I do know this—they are on the forefront of sleep research. They aren’t the kind of place that you go to for appointments. They’re the kind of place that you check in and stay until your problem is solved.

Paul sat back in his chair, considering Jeff’s offer. His instinct was to immediately reject it, but he had really begun to trust the man. There was nothing Jeff had said or done since the day they’d met that made Paul believe Jeff was anything but sincere. The more he thought about, the more Paul realized that he needed someone like Jeff to help him.

When his sleep issues had first begun, his mom—and to a lesser degree his dad—had gone from casual worry, to interrogations about drugs, to outright concern, and then finally to attempts at finding answers through the medical community.

The truth was that although both his mom and dad had the best of intentions, neither of them had any idea what to do about his problem and had found themselves floundering in the issue, helpless to do anything for him. As they’d ran into more and more dead ends and realized they didn’t have it within their emotional or financial power to find a solution, Paul’s dad stopped coming around to visit as often. His mother, when she wasn’t at work, sunk her energy into local civic groups that hung banners and did fundraising, keeping her mind occupied and away from home. When she wasn’t doing that, she went out on ‘girls nights’ with friends from work, staying out well past the time that Paul fell asleep.

Paul found himself alone more and more of the time. At first he’d felt abandoned by his parents, especially his mom, but after a while he realized it was the only way she got through the day. If she didn’t have to be there when he woke up or fell asleep, she could forget that she wasn’t able to help him. And as time went on, Paul realized that he preferred to be alone. He hated the look of pity when his mother looked him in the eyes, always trying not to focus on his deep, dark circles but never quite accomplishing it.

He’d been alone with his issue for almost five years now, dealing with it the only way he knew how. Until Jeff made his simple offer to help, Paul hadn’t realized how desperately he’d been waiting for someone to extend a hand.

Yes, Paul said simply. I would very much appreciate your help, Jeff.

* * *

"So you think that shrink dude’s going to be able to figure out your issues. Really? My ass. You’re reaching, dude. Reaching. He’s a high school counselor, man. That’s, like, a substance abuse group leader calling himself a psychologist."

With his usual eloquence, Steven expressed his opinion of Jeff’s offer. Steven was a short guy, a born-and-bred Kentucky redneck and proud of it. His parents were both working class, with chemical dependencies that Steven didn’t apologize for or deny. He was loud, somehow always in a great mood, and had big blue Chihuahua eyes that landed him more dates than he deserved. Other than the bond he shared with Paul and Stephanie, Steven never forged any long-term relationships with anyone. He spent very little time at home. As far as he was concerned, the three of them were his family.

Paul, Stephanie and Steven were seated at their usual table in the cafeteria.

Yeah, well, you’d know all about the qualifications of a substance abuse counselor, wouldn’t you, Steven? Paul quipped.

Steven’s shrug was his only answer to the gibe. It was pretty much true. He began to hum the lines to the song Sober.

I don’t know, guys, Paul said, "From the sounds of it,

Reviews for Watchers of the Night

[sdramsey-298717 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

My actual rating would be 3.5 stars, adding the extra .5 mainly because despite a few problems I had with the book, the writing is very good. The author has an engaging narrative style and there were no problems with style or mechanics of writing. (This is always particularly notable with self-published books.) And as always, my ratings reflect the actual Goodreads definitions--three stars meaning I liked it.

I'll be honest--I'm not sure how I came to have this book on my e-reader. I must have seen it somewhere as a deal and picked it up because the premise sounded interesting. The book did deliver on its promise of an interesting situation--a young man who, when he sleeps, has his "consciousness" disconnected from his physical body and can travel in that state. There are a lot of places the writer could go with that idea, and a secret group of individuals with that ability who use their power for good makes for an intriguing story.

However, I found that the book dragged somewhat in the middle, as the main character learns about his ability and the group he joins. I kept waiting for him to start going on exciting missions, but it turned out that this book was mostly about internal strife among the "Walkers"--as they call themselves. Which was interesting once it finally got rolling, but was not what I expected going into the book.

Now, this may be entirely the fault of my own expectations, and writers have only limited control over what potential readers expect from their work. I'm running into the same difficulty with the book I'm currently reading...but more about that later, in that review.

Also, I found this book ran into problems from time to time with characters making bad decisions--for example, knowing something important but not taking all steps necessary to get that information to the proper person. This is a relatively common problem in YA fiction--and while I understand that sometimes young characters *can't* take their problems to adults because it would remove some of their agency in the story, I think they must have believable reasons for their actions and decisions within the context of the story. In other words, give the characters real obstacles.

The ending was also just too abrupt for my liking, but I believe there's a second book, so perhaps it just leads into the next one.

All in all, though, I did like this book; it kept me reading and engaged, and I think that YA readers will find it interesting and enjoyable, with some fun characters and a very thought-provoking premise.