Witch Water Read Online Free PDF Page A

Fanshawe
strolled around town, first the older, quainter Back Street, then
Main. Most of the shops, buildings, etc., were single-story; he
forced his eyes away from the few that weren’t. I’ve just got to
be careful, I’ve just got to be strong. How much strength must
it take to choose not to be a “peeper?” The arcane question
always baffled him, but then Dr. Tilton never ceased with her
reminders that he was not a typical man; instead he was plagued by
a “deep-seated paraphilic addiction.” Though Fanshawe appreciated
seeing attractive women as much as any natural man, merely
witnessing them did not kindle his strange obsession. It was seeing
them in a forbidden way, seeing them when they didn’t know
it. Somehow, that was the unreckonable key to…
    To my sickness, he confessed.
    But he was here to forget about all that. He
hadn’t peeped in a window for over a year, as difficult as the
resistance had been. That’s strength, isn’t it? he tried to
reassure himself.
    He was often prone to self-condemnation, but
then he felt he deserved it. He’d done outrageous things made even
more outrageous considering his financial and professional status.
It sounded incredulous: a business mogul, a financial genius, and a
small-scale billionaire …who was also a voyeur or, worse, to
use Dr. Tilton’s unwelcome supplement, “a clinical
scoptophile.”
    Jesus…
    “Forget about it all, forget it,” he
whispered to himself, clenching a fist. When a shapely,
sable-haired woman passed him on the sidewalk, her curvaceous body
seemed to slide around within her silk top and shining chiffon
skirt as though her garments were actually some magical liquid that
served to highlight her physique as enticingly as possible. Her
eyes met his and she smiled. “Hi,” he said too quickly, and then
she was gone. But on the street like this, her upper-class beauty
was only generic: she’d only truly be beautiful to Fanshawe if
looked upon unaware through a private window…
    Forget about it! He was supposed to
be “cured” by now; Tilton had said so.
    Instead he let his mind wander. What do
normal people think about when they walk around in a neat little
tourist town? He blankly eyed passing cars, various street
signs, the herringbone-style pattern of the brick sidewalks. When
he stopped before a flower shop, he focused on the colorful
bouquets, then realized he felt insensible about them in spite of
their arresting colors and fascinating scents. Tourists passed this
way and that, mostly elderly couples, but several families with
chattering children; Fanshawe felt unseen, like a ghost, amongst
them. Regular people living regular lives, he thought with
more of that same self-condemnation. Every observation he made—and
as hard as he tried to feel positive—left him barren-minded. Snap out of it. You’re just in a bad mood, and financial tycoons
have NO RIGHT to be in bad moods . Finally he passed one
of the pillories and snorted under his breath, smiling. Back
then? They would’ve put ME in one of those things .
    He crossed the meager intersection, scarcely
aware of what he wanted to do. More tourists milled about here,
eyeing restaurant menus or simply absorbing the town’s impressive
architecture. From the mouth of a curving alley, two women in
polyester shorts and mid-waist T-shirts emerged, hands fisted as
they jogged, talking briskly with their eyes straight ahead. One’s
tight top read YALE, the other’s, HARVARD; both had headbands,
ponytailed hair, and toned, lissome physiques. The Harvard woman
seemed more robustly breasted, while Yale’s nipples jutted like
diminutive teepees beneath the tight fabric. Fanshawe watched them
both as if hypnotized; they bobbed up and down on silent sneakers,
bosoms bobbing as well, in perfect synchronicity. Knowing that they
weren’t aware of his glances left him tingling in some abstract
visual fervor. They jogged on, and when he pulled his eyes off
them, he gave a start because the