by Josh Allen
“Dad,” she called out. But his snoring didn’t change.
She fought to keep her eyes open.
“Dad,” she called again, louder. She waited…
Her vision blurred, and though she tried, the burning in her eyes became too much, and she blinked, and the eye was so close now. Just inches above the tip of her nose.
Just there.
If she blinked once more, what would happen? Would the ceiling smother her? Crush her? Or would the eye swallow her up? Would she get sucked into it and become a part of this sagging house?
Dad, she tried to call, but she couldn’t even speak anymore. She was quaking, shivering, and the eye seemed to be boring into her.
Would she end up just a shape, another eye somewhere on a baseboard or window or wall? What if all the eyes she’d seen had belonged to people once, actual people this house had devoured?
The thought made her breathe short panting breaths.
She strained her eyes, opening them as wide as she could. They burned.
The plaster eye, larger than her head, hung just over her. It peered into her. Her eyes bulged and ached. She fought through the pain that welled up, and tears spilled onto her cheeks. But she was going to blink. She could feel it.
No, she thought. Please, no.
She put all her energy into keeping her eyes open. She couldn’t last forever, she knew, but she needed to try. She looked deep into the plaster eye, and her eyelids quivered.
Her breathing grew short.
She strained with everything she had.
She tried counting her breaths. Ten breaths. Fifteen. Twenty.
But in the end, it was no use.
She blinked.
WHEN he walked into English class, Mason was sweating and his fingers felt hot. Even his shadow at his feet looked nervous.
The problem was his book report.
He hadn’t finished it. More accurately, he hadn’t started it. Though he’d had more than a month to work on it, he hadn’t even chosen a book.
He shook out his hands. He tried to breathe. He had to think. To think, to think, to think.
Five weeks earlier, Mr. Williams had passed out the book-report assignment sheets, copied on bright blue paper. The deadline—April 23—had been printed in a large, bold font at the top.
April 23 is forever away, Mason had thought, and he’d stuffed the sheet into his binder. He’d seen the sheet occasionally since then, its blue edges peeking out from behind white worksheets and graded assignments. But he’d put off the book report. Then he’d put it off some more. And finally he’d forgotten about it completely.
That was, until two minutes ago, when Derek Smithers passed him in the hallway. Derek had been wearing a pirate hat and an eye patch, and he’d been leaning on a crutch. A toy musket hung at his hip.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Mason smirked. Mason would never have dressed up for a school project, not even as a pirate.
“I’m Long John Silver,” Derek said, “from Treasure Island. It’s for the book report.”
Mason’s eyes widened.
“The book report,” Mason repeated slowly. His lungs seemed to drop a few inches in his chest. Oh, no, he thought. No, no, no.
Now Mason settled into his desk and checked the clock. There had to be a way out of this. There just had to be. After all, he’d talked his way out of assignments before. Last month, Mason had forgotten about the science fair, so he’d told Mrs. Watkins his grandmother had broken her hip, and she’d given him a week extension. And last year, at the end of fifth grade, he’d completely spaced on a Social Studies report, so he’d told Ms. Holland his father had been dealing with a bad case of gout. Mason wasn’t even sure what gout was—he’d heard the word on one of those drug commercials—but Ms. Holland had said she was sorry and given Mason three extra days.
So quickly, Mason began filing through the list of excuses in his head.
He could tell Mr. Williams that his dog had just died, that just yesterday, his dog…Shem…a bull terrier, had chased a ball into the street and been hit by…a blue Chevy Impala. Details, Mason knew, were the key to a good lie. Bull terriers, blue Chevy Impalas—these things made a difference.
But Mason had never owned a dog, and some of the kids in class knew this. If the truth about his “bull terrier” got out, then where would he be?
He shook his head and tried again.
He could say that a blue Chevy Impala had hit…him. He could say the car had knocked him down and totaled his bike and that a policeman had come to investigate—a policeman named Officer McCully—and that, luckily, Mason had only sprained his ankle.
But he wasn’t injured at all. He shook his head. He had no scrapes or bruises, and he didn’t think he could fake a serious injury. Besides, people had already seen him walking around, healthy and strong. He couldn’t suddenly develop a limp.
“Think,” he whispered. He rapped his fingers on his desk. “Come on, Mason. Think.”
In just two minutes, the bell would ring, and Mr. Williams would call Mason’s name first, like he always did. It was the curse of having the last name Adams. Oh, how he envied kids with last names like Saunders or Melton or Nelson, kids who showed up halfway down the roll. He didn’t even like to think about Ruby Zakowski, who’d probably never had to go first at anything in her life.
Mason slumped forward and put his forehead in his hands. What was he going to do? He needed more time. Just then, Derek, the one-legged pirate, tottered into the room on his crutch, and more kids trickled in behind him. Diego Diaz carried a poster map of Narnia. Suzy Penker wore Alice in Wonderland finger puppets. Steve Perkins held a tray of magic wand pretzel sticks.
You’ve had more than a month, Mason told himself. A month! He should have been able to think of something.
The bell rang, and Mason shook his head.
Cursed, he thought. I’m cursed.
Mr. Williams stood up.
“Mason Adams,” he called, just as Mason had expected. “Please stand and deliver your report.” The words sounded fuzzy to Mason, like they were coming at him through a pillow.
“Um,” he said, not standing up. “There’s been a little problem.”
Mr. Williams raised his bushy eyebrows. “A problem?” he said. A few kids snickered.
It was now or never, Mason knew. Tell the right story or go down in flames.
“It was…my mom,” Mason said, scrambling for an idea. The class fell quiet. “She, uh, wanted to read my book because…because I told her how great it was, so she took it into the bathroom with her, and somehow…dropped it in…the toilet.” His classmates snickered some more. “She said she’d get me another copy. But she didn’t. So I didn’t get to finish it.”
Even to Mason, the story sounded pretty lame.
Cursed, he thought.
“Your mom dropped your book in the toilet?” Mr. Williams said.
More laughter.
“Yeah,” Mason said, trying to sound annoyed. “Ker-plop. And she forgot to get me another copy like she said she would.”
Mr. Williams seemed to be thinking. He lifted a pen out of his shirt pocket and clicked it a few times.
“How much of the book did you read before your mother, shall we say, damaged it?”
A red flag went up in Mason’s mind. If he said he hadn’t read much of the book, Mr. Williams would ask why he didn’t just choose another one. But if he said he’d read a lot, Mr. Williams would probably ask him questions about it.
“I read about half,” Mason said, settling on what he thought was the safest answer.
“Well,” said Mr. Williams, tapping his pen on his clipboard. “Please stand and tell us about the first half of this toilet-ruined book.”
There was nothing else to do, so Mason trudged his way to the front of the classroom. The fluor
escent lights above him buzzed, and below him, his squat, dark shadow slid along the carpet. Cursed, he told himself. Mike Truncheon in the front row stretched a leg and tried to trip Mason as he passed, and a few kids giggled.
Mason breathed slowly. He avoided eye contact with anyone in the room, choosing instead to look down at his gloomy shadow.
“My book…” he said in what he hoped was a confident, class-presentation voice, and then a thought flickered in his head. It had something to do with his shadow, just there wavering on the carpet. The thought was just below the surface, but it was rising like a submarine. An idea was coming. He could feel it.
He waited for it. His shadow swayed slowly on the tan carpet below, and the idea came closer…closer. Steve Perkins coughed.
“My book,” he started again, “that my mom destroyed in the most horrifying of ways…was called…The Shadow Curse.”
Mason smiled. The idea had arrived. It was still raw. But there was hope. Mason stood up a little straighter.
“The Shadow Curse,” Mr. Williams repeated from the back of the room with his raised bushy eyebrows. “Never heard of it.”
“Well,” Mason said, “it’s really good.”
“Go on,” Mr. Williams said, and he leaned one shoulder against the back wall. Mason couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like Mr. Williams was smiling, as if he was looking forward to watching Mason squirm.
I guess we’ll see about that, Mason thought, slightly more confident now that the idea was taking shape.
“The Shadow Curse,” Mason said, “is about a boy named Morton.”
“Morton?” Suzy Penker said from the second row. “What kind of name is Morton?”
Mason pointed at Suzy. “Morton is an awesome name,” he said. “The best name ever.” A few of his classmates rolled their eyes. This wasn’t starting like he’d hoped.
He went on. “Morton is just a normal kid living a normal life.”
Mike Truncheon in the front row faked a yawn, but the idea came into clearer focus and Mason spoke faster.
“Which is why Morton’s shadow hates him so much.”
“His shadow?” said Ruby Zakowski.
“Yes, his shadow,” Mason said. He pointed to his own shadow below him. “See, Morton does normal kid things. He goes to school, and he goes shopping with his mom, and he hangs out with his friends, and the shadow thinks all of this is stupid and boring.”
“The shadow’s got a point,” said Mike Truncheon.
“So wherever Morton goes, his shadow has to go, too. Whatever Morton does, his shadow has to do.” Mason walked across the front of the classroom and waved a hand at his own shadow as it followed.
“The shadow might want to go outside and slither over the grass,” Mason went on, “but it can’t because Morton goes to Math class. Or the shadow might want to keep watching baseball, but Morton will change the channel to some old movie instead. Eventually the shadow gets really mad. He feels like Morton is his personal little prison.”
A few kids leaned sideways in their desks and looked down at their own shadows. Mason kept going.
“Actually,” said Mason, “that’s one of the chapter titles in the book—‘Morton Is a Prison.’ It’s chapter 4, I think. So one day the shadow decides to get rid of Morton.”
“Get rid of him?” said Suzy Penker.
Mason paused. Then he lowered his voice.
“By killing him,” he said. He drew a finger across his neck.
“Whoa,” said Billy Lewis in the back. “That’s dark.”
“But then won’t the shadow die, too?” This came from Suzy Penker.
“Well, it might,” Mason said. “But the shadow doesn’t think so. It’s a risk the shadow is willing to take. Once Morton’s out of the way, the shadow thinks it’ll be able to fly wherever it wants.”
Mason paused for a few seconds. He let the story sink in.
“How?” said Billy Lewis. “How’s the shadow going to kill Morton?”
Mason needed another few seconds to think, so he waited. He looked at his own shadow below. It swayed from side to side, and Mason realized he was swaying, too. He stopped.
“The shadow decides to smother Morton’s heart,” Mason finally said. “The shadow’s connected to Morton’s body at his feet, so the shadow decides to invade Morton’s body and work its way up his legs and chest to his heart, where the shadow plans to crush it and stop it beating forever.”
“Evil,” said Mike Truncheon. “I like it.”
“The problem,” Mason went on, “is that whenever the shadow starts to invade Morton’s body, Morton gets all tingly—like, he gets a pins-and-needles feeling in his feet and legs where the shadow is moving in.”
“I’ve felt that,” said Suzy Penker. “In my feet. All the time.”
“Yeah,” said Mason. “But when Morton feels this, like when he’s watching TV or sitting at a desk, he jumps up or wiggles his feet or stomps, and the shadow has to retreat.”
The class grew quiet. Mr. Williams cocked his head to one side. This is good, Mason thought. This is really good. Mason straightened his posture. His shadow shifted under the fluorescent classroom lights.
He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Well, one night, when Morton gets in bed, Morton’s shadow is just lying there like always, and it can hear Morton’s heart beating away—thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump.” Mason patted a heartbeat rhythm on his chest with one hand. “So the shadow creeps up Morton’s body, and Morton’s toes and feet start to tingle.”
Mason kept the heartbeat pats going on his chest. He let the class listen. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.
“Morton thinks his feet are falling asleep, so he just lies there. Then his legs begin to tingle, all the way up to his knees.”
Mason’s hand kept moving, tapping out the heartbeat rhythm on his chest. Thu-thump. Suzy Penker began tapping her foot to it.
“But Morton ignores the tingling and falls asleep. The tingling moves up past his waist and into his ribs, and the shadow is so excited because if it can just creep up a few more inches, it’ll reach Morton’s beating heart.” Mason took a half step forward. His shadow followed. His hand continued to thump on his chest.
He lowered his voice to a near whisper and spoke barely loud enough to be heard. “The shadow is just three inches from Morton’s heart. Then two inches. Then one.”
Mason patted. Thu-thump. The wall clock ticked.
“Finally the shadow touches Morton’s heart, and it starts to squeeze.”
Mason stopped patting his chest. He stopped speaking.
“So what happens next?” asked Derek Smithers, the pirate.
The students sat perfectly still, and Mr. Williams in the back leaned forward slightly.
Mason had them. He had them all.
So it was time to stop.
“Well, that’s just it,” Mason said. “That’s as far as I got when my mom…well…ker-plop.”
The class groaned.
“So you had to stop reading where Morton was being killed?” said Suzy Penker.
“By his own shadow?” said Mike Truncheon.
“And you can’t even tell us if he survives?” said Derek Smithers. “You didn’t skip ahead to check?”
“Hey,” Mason said. “How do you think I feel? Besides, The Shadow Curse was a library book, and my mom’s going to make me pay for it.”
As soon as he’d said this last part, he knew he’d gone too far, but no one questioned him. None of them even tilted their heads. They were sitting at their desks, thinking. Mike Truncheon in the front row stamped his left foot three times and flexed his toes. Ruby Zakowski looked down at the shadow by her desk.
“Well,” said Mr. Williams. He was scratching something onto his clipboard. “That was interesting, Mason. Quite interesting.”
�
�Yeah, I’m sorry I can’t tell you how it ended,” Mason said as he walked back to his seat. “I really am.”
No one spoke.
Mason settled calmly into his desk.
“How much of this book did you say you read?” Mr. Williams asked, fidgeting with his pen.
“About half,” Mason answered.
Mr. Williams tapped his pen on his clipboard. “Well,” he said. “I’ll give you half credit now, and when you finish the book I’ll give you the rest of the points.”
“Thank you,” Mason said. “That’s really fair, Mr. Williams. Thanks a lot.”
Mason’s chest puffed out. He couldn’t believe it. He’d pulled it off! He’d received points without even cracking a book. He opened his notebook and started doodling while he fought the urge to smile. If he looked too proud, too smug, he’d give everything away. Suzy Penker and Derek the Pirate were still looking at him, and so was Mr. Williams, so he kept his mouth in an even, unsmiling line. Inside, though, he was practically dancing.
But he shouldn’t have been.
Below him, his own shadow darkened.
It had been listening to Mason’s story. And it had heard everything.
On the floor, its murky shape pulsed. It moved as if it were made of heavy, dark chains that were connected to Mason—always connected to Mason—at his feet.
And the shadow felt something. A steady, confident heartbeat. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. It was coming from Mason’s chest.
With that, the shadow made its choice.
Mason’s toes began to tingle.
I must thank, first and forever, my wife, Suzy—who always believed in this book—and my four children, whose words, hopes, and fears run all across these pages. And I must thank my mother, who taught me to love books, and my father, who showed me The Twilight Zone before I was quite ready, sparking a lifelong fascination with the weird and the creepy.
I am grateful to a host of friends who read early drafts of this book. They include Steve Stewart, Jason Williams, Jack Harrell, Suzette Kunz, Paula Soper, Avery Baker, Rachel Scoresby, Amber Brubaker, and Brindy McLean. And I’m grateful to my colleagues at BYU-Idaho for their comradery and unfailing support. I’m grateful to former writing teachers, specifically Margaret Blair Young, Janet Peery, and Sheri Reynolds, for their patience and wisdom.