Free The Mysteries by Lisa Tuttle

screen door into the familiar living room, and this is what I saw:
    Ray was lying on the couch, stretched out on his back. His eyes were closed, and his chest was rising and falling evenly. I could hear the slow, steady whisper of his breathing. Regina always kept the television on, a constant background to whatever she was doing, but not today. The room was utterly silent except for Ray's breathing. He looked naked, with only a cotton throw draped across his middle.
    I stared, fascinated and repulsed. I'd never seen him without a shirt on, and I guess he didn't often go out bare-chested, because his dark suntan stopped at his neckline. The skin on his chest was as pale as a peeled potato, but heavily sprinkled with coarse, springy hairs. Some were as dark as the hair on his head, others were white. His nipples were reddish brown. There was a curving, puckered scar high on his belly. His legs were very hairy.
    Was he really asleep? What if he opened his eyes and saw me looking at him? I felt a crawling, wormy sensation deep inside, and my heart began to pound.
    I backed away from the door, turned slowly, biting my lip with agony as my school bag creaked and my shoes slapped too loudly against the steps. I launched myself off the bottom step and ran flat out across the springy grass and didn't stop until I was on my own front porch, sweating and fumbling to find the key.
    Even inside my own room, door shut and locked, and the outside door locked and bolted, I couldn't relax. Only as I cuddled Cu did I finally calm down.
    Then I felt like a total idiot.
    What had happened?
    Nothing.
    Ray was probably off work sick. Regina probably went down to the drugstore to get some medicine for him, and she'd left the front door open so Ray could talk to me from the couch, and explain—only he'd fallen asleep. The wrongness was only in my head. I didn't say anything about it to Mom, or to Regina when I finally saw her.
    One week later the same thing happened. I got off the bus from school and once again there was Ray's pickup and no sign of Regina's car.
    My stomach gave a queasy lurch, and I walked slowly around to the side of the Stahlmanns' house, avoiding the front porch with the open front door.
    The two little dogs, Pancho and Cisco, were in the backyard, shut in behind the chain-link fence. They whined with pleasure when they saw me approach and wagged their stumpy little tails. I poked my hand through the fence and let them kiss me. I talked to them for a while, loudly, hoping my voice would carry inside. If Ray was lying on the couch, and he heard me, he might come out. He'd have to put his clothes on to come out.
    The dogs left off licking my hands. Their ears pricked as they stared alertly behind me.
    I turned around and saw a man. For a second I thought it was Ray. Then, with a feeling like a roller-coaster drop, I saw he was a stranger and looked nothing at all like Ray Stahlmann.
    I thought he had to be the best-looking man I'd ever seen in my life. At the same time, although he was a stranger, I was absolutely sure I'd seen him before. Maybe on television? He looked like he ought to be famous: tall and fair and young and strong and handsome, with something about him . . . There's a word older people sometimes use, “vibes.” That's what he had. Powerful vibes. Special vibes.
    Even the dogs knew he was special. They always barked at strangers, and sometimes at people they knew, but they hadn't barked at him. They were just standing quietly, their tails shyly wagging, hoping he would notice them.
    I didn't feel scared or nervous at all. Afterward, I thought this was odd, because I generally do feel at least a little bit wary about strange men, no matter what they look like, because . . . well, because. But that old warning of “don't talk to strangers” didn't even cross my mind.
    “Who are you?” I asked.
    “Don't you remember me?”
    I shook my head. “When did I meet you?”
    “In another country, long ago.”
    I