The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  So, while Tommy peels Justin’s ass off the fence so a doctor can prescribe him more pain pills to abuse, I have to work tossing hay bales on the farm. Sucks, but I guess it’s better than being a mindless zombie greeter at Wal-Mart.

  * * * *

  The left turn signal clicked away as I waited for an oncoming car to pass. Fatigue dragged on my eyelids and I felt the cool bumps of the steering wheel as I closed my eyes, forehead down. Just for a second, maybe a minute.

  My cell phone beeped a dying battery warning. Only 9:30 p.m., but I was so damn tired. Talk about earning your money. Farmer Kittleson never runs out of hay bales to stack. Okay, Mike, just a few minutes north and you’re home.

  I jolted upright and raked tired fingers through my shaggy brown hair. “Man I need to cut this mop. Yeah, right, like that’s going to happen anytime soon. No money.”

  At a break in the traffic, I straightened. “Okay, you got this. Let off the brake, gas and clutch. Come on baby, you can make it this time.” The Geo and I had a love-hate relationship. It loved to stall on me, and I hated driving it.

  Car shuddering on release, I tried to let the clutch out slow, applying just enough gas to keep it from dying. An apparition, a small waif in a blue hoodie sweatshirt, appeared directly in the path of my Geo Tracker.

  Shit! Where did she come from?

  Lurching forward, I slammed on the brake to stop a few inches from the punk. Damn Geo stalled. After almost eating the grill of my car, the punk had the audacity to smack a hand down on the hood, stopping dead in front of me for a staring contest.

  “What the hell?”

  She had a disarmingly intense gaze. Golden-hazel eyes with a cat-like slant glared at me. Like I was in the wrong. A wisp of reddish brown hair slid down her forehead from beneath her hoodie. She could have been fourteen or thirty, one of those strange timeless faces.

  She didn’t say a word, but her accusing look said it all. Like I had deliberately tried to run her over.

  I went on the defense. “Watch where you’re going!” I’d only had my license for three months, and the car barely a month. She had me so freaked, my hands were shaking.

  She stood there staring, a flash of challenge in her golden eyes. Then suddenly she was gone, walking off down the highway.

  “Oh that’s just great.” What a brat.

  As she trailed off into the darkness, I glimpsed scrawny legs clad in black skin-tight stretch pants and blue canvas slip-ons without socks. From her clothes, she looked more like fourteen.

  Why the hell was she out on Stratford highway this late at night? She headed in the direction of the Garden Grove. Must be going to the trailer park. There wasn’t much else out Stratford apart from the occasional farm house.

  And then it hit me, I had almost plowed her over. I should be apologizing. I’m such an ass.

  “Bet she could use a ride.”

  I started the Geo, verified the highway was clear, and took off with the intention of pulling onto the shoulder next to her. I passed her, slowed down to pull over, but the car shuddered, sputtered and stalled. I had forgotten to downshift from third to first gear.

  “Not Again!” It was only the hundredth time this month. Anita had been teasing me ruthlessly, “Are we going to First and Third again?”

  Rolling along in neutral, I pumped the gas a few times. I popped into first gear, still rolling. Lurch, sputter, and nothing. Stopped dead.

  After my fourth grind of the ignition, I knew I had a problem. Mr. Good Samaritan was dead on the side of the road. No rides here, the damn car won’t start. The trailer park was two miles north, Farmer Kittelson a mile back to the south.

  “Way to go Michael. Probably get my damn car towed by the highway patrol.” Maybe hoodie girl could walk me home? “Headed straight for loserville … stalled out on loser highway.”

  I popped the hood and tried to find something obviously faulty. No such luck. No wiring harnesses detached, the battery cables secure in place. A good, clean-running little four cylinder. The strong smell of gasoline said it all. Flooded.

  “Why does this shit always happen to me?” I pleaded to an unforgiving carburetor.

  The only thing that would help was time. I slid back behind the wheel, pushed in the clutch and tried the ignition once more. The starter kicked out a healthy grind, chug, chug, chug … and nothing.

  “Loser.” I should just get an ‘L’ tattooed on my forehead.

  The hoodie girl walked past the passenger window. Wonderful, a live witness to my supreme lameness and inadequacy. To make matters worse, she flowed around to the front of the car and disappeared under the opened hood. How embarrassing is that?

  “Hey, you, girl! Don’t touch anything!” I heard her messing around under the hood, click-snap-pop. Fabulous. I can’t even get a teenage girl to listen to me.

  She called out, “Try it now!” She had a strange accent, faint, but still noticeable.

  “Ain’t gonna work. It’s flooded.”

  “Try it!” The brat actually growled at me.

  Shaking my head, I turned it over and it started up right away.

  I yelled over the top of the revving motor, “What did you do?”

  Without answering, she closed the hood and smiled. Her face lit up, transforming from a girl to an enchanting pixie on the verge of becoming a woman. She had graduated to a petite twenty-something and all it took was a smile.

  I opened the door and stepped out. “Thanks, I really appreciate your help. Hey, ah, can I give you a ride? I’m going the same direction …”

  Her smile morphed into a vision of panic, like she was going to bolt. Her hand shot out to point at something behind me.

  That’s when I heard the noise and saw the flash of headlights hitting the Geo. From that point forward everything flipped into slow motion. I turned around agonizingly slow, as though mired in molasses. There it was, right there, seconds from smashing into me and tearing off the open door of my car.

  I dived back into the car and tried to pull the door closed. It was too little, too late, and I knew it. The vehicle laid into its horn, blaring right in my face as I hopelessly watched the oncoming headlights reaching for me.

  Then she was there, shoving me back into the car with amazing force. I had a split-second nose to nose with the hoodie girl before she slammed the door shut in my face. A car horn screamed hysterically, headlights raked the interior of my car with blinding light as it rocketed by.

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  I heard brakes squeal and the sickening thud as a ton of vehicle smacked into her hundred pounds of flesh. Then she vanished. With my car still rocking from the backwash of the passing vehicle, I peered through the windshield. A flash of blue hoodie and pale white skin flew through the air and landed in a crumple on the gravel.

  “Oh my god! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” I scrambled out the door, racing to get to the little body in a heap on the roadside.

  I couldn’t really see her in the dark, just an outline of her still form, crumpled face down on the gravel. The vehicle skidded to a stop up ahead. I thought it would reverse, but it peeled out at full speed.

  Hit and run.

  I rolled her over and a frantic storm of dread washed over me. Dead. She’d traded her life for mine. The oppressive weight of guilt squeezed my throat till I couldn’t breathe.

  It was all my fault.

  My guts wrenched. My stomach twisted in fear of the consequences. Was I liable? Could they blame me for hitting her with my car! No witnesses to prove otherwise.

  Then I realized what a selfish jerk I was. How could I think of myself when the real victim was dead on the ground? The burden of guilt sagged down around my shoulders, choking up a sob. If only I’d been a little more cautious, she’d still be alive and smiling.

  Her eyelashes fluttered. I noticed the slight rise and fall of her chest. Breathing? She was still breathing. She groaned in pain. YES! ALIVE! SHE WAS ALIVE! I wanted to sing and dance in circles in the middle of
the highway.

  But what now?

  “911.”

  That was it, call 911, they would handle everything. I raced back to my car to snatch my cell phone from the ash tray. It was dead. “SHIT!”

  Just once, can’t something function the way it’s supposed to? My car, cell phone, something?

  “What the hell do I do now?”

  My mind raced through the possibilities: Take her back to Kittelson’s to call 911, or the other way to my trailer to make the call, or just wait on the highway to flag down some passerby with a cell phone.

  “I can’t leave her here.” That made no sense. Home was only a mile away.

  Just load her in the car and drive home to call for help. The phone company had threatened to disconnect the landline, but it was probably still on, and I could always call from one of the neighbors.

  Having decided, I worked up the nerve to reach down and touch her arm. “I’m going to move you, I’ll try to be careful, but it’s probably gonna hurt.”

  She didn’t respond. I’d read somewhere that paramedics assume silence is permission. I scooped her up into my arms and her cries of pain broke the dead quiet of the empty highway.

  “It’s gonna be okay. I got you. You’re gonna make it.” I placed her as gently as possible into the front passenger seat of my car. She moaned and whimpered, but didn’t seem conscious. As an afterthought, I leaned the seat back all the way, so she could lie down.

  The urgency of the moment finally set in. A hit and run victim. A girl who was probably dying right now. I was taking her to my house and calling the police. Adrenaline spiked hard as I scrambled around to the driver’s side and leapt behind the wheel. No time for seat belts, no time for second thoughts. I floored the accelerator and popped the clutch, spitting gravel everywhere as I peeled out, fishtailing onto the pavement of the highway. I pushed that four cylinder for all it was worth, slamming through the gears, jamming the pedals to the floor. A NASCAR driver couldn’t have finagled a better performance out of that little Japanese motor in the three minutes it took to get home. I slid into the driveway, peppering the side of the trailer with a spray of gravel.

  I scrambled around to the passenger side so fast that I slipped in the gravel trying to jerk the car door open. I had to steady myself for a moment. My hands shook, my heart pounded hard and fast.

  Then I noticed the blood on my hands.

  Her blood.

  At fifty plus miles an hour, the colliding car made her right thigh an oozing mess of torn flesh. Her leggings were torn open enough to expose the raw wound. Her blood coated the front passenger seat but the vinyl upholstery cleaned easily. My stomach turned at the thought of scrubbing her blood off the seat. I began to realize I’d bitten off much more than I could chew.

  “Oh God, what the hell am I doing?” My breath came in short pants, I couldn’t suck in enough air.

  I backed away from the bloody wreck of a girl and breathed in and out, trying to calm down, trying to focus on what was important. She needed me. She needed me to do the right thing. She needed me to do what was necessary no matter how disgusting it may seem. I got control of my breathing and wiped my shaking hands off on my jeans.

  Okay, get the girl and do what needs done.

  I scooped her out of the front seat and carried her up the rickety old warped steps to my front door without any real effort. She was so damn light. I could feel the contour of her bony shoulder blades and skinny legs, like an injured little bird. The brief recollection of her shoving me back into my car and slamming the door in my face puzzled me. How could this tiny little slip of a girl muster the strength? How she could do so much for me and yet weigh almost nothing?

  Inside the house, it finally occurred to me that Dad could help. I’d been so panicked earlier I hadn’t thought of Dad. He would know how to deal with the police, and paramedics, and … yeah right. Whatever. Dad wasn’t there. I yelled, “Daaaad! Daaaad!” But I already knew Richard Evans was gone for the evening.

  His silver Ford F-250 pickup wasn’t in the driveway. My father was never around when I needed him most. On my own, as usual.

  I debated laying her on the couch, but then remembered all the blood on the car seat. Better not ruin the couch. It was the only one we had. I took her to my room and laid her gently on the bed, stripping away the blanket. Blood was everywhere, my hands and arms, the sheets, my shirt and pants. The sheets were getting sacrificed on this one. I couldn’t stop thinking about the blood. It stained everything. I would never forget how a moment of stupidity might have killed this delicate little girl.

  I jogged out to the living room and snatched the cordless phone off the charging base. I hit the on button, no dial tone. “Shit! Come on!” Then I remembered, suspended lines are supposed to work for emergencies.

  I punched in 911. The phone rang three times. “Yes!”

  “Your call has been forwarded to the Qwest service center. Please wait for a Qwest customer service representative. If you’d prefer to arrange payment on your delinquent account through the automated system using a debit or credit card please press one. If you’d like to make arrangements with a Qwest customer service representative …”

  “Son of a bitch!” I screamed into the phone. “You ASSHOLES!” I slammed the useless plastic back into its charging base. “What are the odds I don’t have a single working phone at a time like this? That’s gotta be a friggin’ million to one!”

  I ran back to my bedroom, to my cellular plug-in wall charger. The screen on my cell glowed with the cascading bar graph pattern. It was charging. I was about to turn on my cell, but the hoodie girl groaned and mumbled something.

  Her eyes were open and glazed with pain. She had rolled over on her left side, and her shredded blood-soaked stretch pants revealed a gaping wound on her thigh. She looked right at me, but it seemed like she looked past me, like she saw someone else, not me.

  She called to me, “Mikhail.” Kinda sounded like Michael, but not exactly, and spoken with a slight accent.

  I never told her my name, did I? A chill crept down my spine. The little hairs on the back of my neck and arms stood up straight with goose bumps.

  I looked at my cell again. I tried to turn it on.

  The power cord jiggled loose as I pressed the on button, and the phone powered down as quickly as it had begun to power up. “Oh you cannot do this! Fuck!” I’d been having problems with it lately, the charger plug-in was sketchy. It would disconnect at times, leaving me with a dead battery when I expected it to be fully charged.

  I needed to get my ass over to the neighbor’s and call 911. NOW. No more screwing around with my personal telecommunications disaster. Hoodie girl murmured something again. I couldn’t understand her, so I leaned down close, inches from her face.

  She said something in a foreign language, it sounded Slavic, maybe Russian, “Izvinite Mikhail požalujsta, ja teb’a l’ubl’u, izvinite požalujsta minya.” I couldn’t understand a word of it, but it sounded like she was pleading for help or something. And she’d used my name again, or what sounded like my name. It came out Mee-Kile.

  I tried to hold her gaze, but her eyes wandered randomly, out of focus. “I have to leave to call an ambulance, I’ll be right back. I’ll only be a couple minutes … okay?”

  As I pulled away, she reached up to grab me with both hands on my face. She pegged me directly with her gaze, fully focused now. The intensity overwhelmed me. She held me rapt, I couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away.

  She spoke low and even, quiet, but each word resonated through my soul, “No. You will not leave me. You will not call 911. I need you here. Now.”

  I nodded up and down. I couldn’t imagine disagreeing with this poor girl who needed my help so badly. Of course I should stay there at her side. It was indisputably the right thing to do. Why would I ever leave her?

  * * * *

  Chapter 3

  Thursday, September 9th, 10:00 p.m.

  Hoodie Girl let me go after
a moment of intense, awkward eye contact. She looked down at herself, assessing the damage. The girl was all there now, all business. I had the strange sensation of dealing with a very mature person in a fourteen year old package. She had the no-nonsense demeanor I’d noticed adults have when shit gets serious.

  She tried to pull down the waistband of her pants to see her injuries, but her left hand was mangled. She groaned with the failed attempt. She hooked me with a pain-filled gaze that demanded all my attention and obedience.

  Through gritted teeth she whispered, “Help me.”

  I delicately pulled down the elastic waist band of her leggings, trying to peel it back rather than drag it over her wounds. She grimaced and hissed as she lifted her hips slightly to accommodate me. The heat of my embarrassment flushed across my face. I tried to look every anywhere but directly at this skinny girl wearing nothing but blood-soaked underwear. No matter how hard I tried to respect her situation, my eyes reverted to staring unabashedly at her mangled right hip.

  She looked down at herself and back up to me, eyes full of expectation. “I need to take them off. Please help me. I can’t do it by myself.”

  With an audible gulp, I nodded.

  It was awkward going, not at all the way I’d imagined taking off a girl’s underwear for the first time. She was so … petite. I had a deep sense of the impropriety of the moment, but she didn’t seem to care. A little nudity was the least of her worries. Her severity helped to calm my nerves somewhat. Once again I had the feeling she was in control, I just needed to be there for her.

  With her pants and underwear off, the full extent of her injuries was revealed. Her knees were skinned, but that was nothing compared to the bloody pulp of her right thigh. In the mess, I couldn’t distinguish anything but raw bleeding flesh, almost like hamburger. My stomach did a tuck and roll. I thought I was gonna hurl for sure this time. Our eyes met. She seemed to understand.