Haunting the Night

by Mara Purnhagen

  “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she told us. “Your mother is stable right now.”

  Right now. Did that mean she wouldn’t be stable later?

  “Thank you,” Mills said. “We’ll wait here.”

  The nurse left. I didn’t want to sit down again. Instead, I paced the tiny waiting room.

  “We’ll know something soon,” Mills reassured me. “She pulled out of it. That’s positive.”

  “Yeah.”

  I stared out the row of windows lining the wall, even though the only view it offered was of another wing of the hospital.

  “I wish we had a sign,” I said, letting my forehead rest against the glass. “I wish I knew how all of this ended.”

  I wasn’t sure that Mills had heard me. Another minute passed before he spoke. “Did I ever tell you about my mom?”

  I turned around. “No.” He had told me a few stories about his dad, who had taught him chess, and I knew he had five cousins, all girls. But he had never mentioned his mother.

  “She was killed in a car accident when I was ten.”

  I moved away from the windows. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not something I really talk about. But I’m bringing it up now for a reason.”

  Mills waited until I returned to my chair before he began speaking again. “It was hard. We all struggled after she died. It didn’t even seem real to me until right before my eleventh birthday. It hit me that she wouldn’t be there to bake the cake or sing to me or decorate my doorway.” He smiled. “It was this thing she did every year. She always strung streamers around my bedroom door and taped balloons to the wall. It was something I loved, especially the balloons.”

  Mills awoke on his birthday, sad but hopeful. He opened his bedroom door, wanting more than anything to see the familiar streamers curled with care, and the bunches of balloons taped to the frame. There was nothing.

  His dad tried, he said. There was a chocolate cake served after his favorite dinner and a new bike wrapped in newspaper waiting for him on the back porch. But without his mom, Mill’s birthday was an unhappy one. He went to bed early, desperately wanting the day to be over. It was summer, and the sun hadn’t set yet. Mills sat on his bed, thinking about his mom and wishing that she could be there.

  “I wanted a sign,” he said. “Just one thing to help me know that she was okay, that she still loved me and remembered my birthday.” He shook his head. “I know it sounds stupid, but I was eleven, and it meant so much.”

  “It doesn’t sound stupid at all,” I said, and I meant it. How can it be stupid to miss someone, to want more than anything to know that they are still around in some way?

  “I wanted a sign,” Mills repeated. “I asked for a sign. And I got it.”

  He pulled out his wallet. It was made of soft brown leather, worn at the corners where he folded it in half. He opened it as if he was going to retrieve a dollar bill, but instead of pulling out money, he showed me a piece of what looked like a slip of silver foil.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I was staring out my window.” Mills looked at the thing in his hand. “There was a tree outside, so close that its branches used to scrape against the glass.”

  It was still light out, he said, but beginning to get dark. His window was open to let in the summer air. He got up and went down the hall to brush his teeth. And when he returned, it was there. Stuck in the branches of the tree was a single balloon.

  It was a big, silver Mylar balloon emblazoned with the words Happy Birthday in a rainbow of colors.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Mills said. “It was right there, so close that I could touch it.”

  He punched out the window screen and pulled the balloon inside. “I asked for a sign, and I received it. And this—” here he held out the piece of shiny silver “—this is what I keep with me every day, no matter what.”

  He let me hold the shard of balloon that he had saved. One side was silver, but the other was printed with a red “B.”

  “I keep that with me. The B is to remind me to believe.” He smiled. “I haven’t had even half the experiences with the paranormal that you have, Charlotte. This was my only encounter with something unusual before I met your sister. But I know this is real. I know that my request was answered. And if it can happen for me, it can happen for you, too.”

  “But my mother isn’t dead,” I murmured, feeling the slippery surface of the balloon between my fingers.

  Mills put his hand over mine. I looked up at him, at his kind eyes sheltered behind thick glasses. “Doesn’t matter. If you need a sign that she’s okay, then you should ask for it.”

  I gave him back the piece of balloon and watched as he placed it carefully within the folds of his wallet.

  I wanted a sign so badly, an assurance that in the end, everything would be fine. But I didn’t know how to ask for it. Would I even recognize a sign if it was right outside my window? I winced, remembering that the only thing sitting outside my window at night was a dark shadow creature. And it wasn’t giving off positive vibes. Maybe it was a warning that things would not be okay. Maybe it was waiting for me to accept that.

  Fast footsteps came down the hallway and we stood, ready for the doctor’s prognosis. I reached for Mill’s hand, glad that he was with me. Perhaps I didn’t need a sign when I had the support of a good friend.

  But it would be nice.

  Chapter Three

  It was the medication. The doctor told me and Mills that they had tried—with Dad’s approval—a new kind of medication and that Mom had experienced “an adverse reaction” to the concoction. She was fine, the doctor assured us, and they would return her to the original drugs. I was relieved and anxious to see her. Minutes later, when Shane and Dad arrived, the diagnosis was repeated. Shane got angry, but Dad was surprisingly calm. “It’s my fault,” he told Shane, and I hung my head because I knew that, in the end, it was really my fault Mom was lying in the hard hospital bed. That guilt hung around my neck like an albatross, weighing me down with every step I took.

  It wasn’t the only thing I felt guilty about. More and more, my thoughts returned to Marcus. I hated that I knew so little about him. He had died in front of me when an evil spirit had crossed over to our world—and into Marcus’s body, which was used like a puppet to punish me. Shouldn’t I at least know his last name? I wondered if the shadow creature was directly related to that guilt. Maybe it was urging me to discover more about Marcus. Maybe it was preparing to hurt me for my part in his death. The two were connected, but I didn’t know how.

  I spent that night curled in a chair by Mom’s bedside. Dad was there, too. Shane had tried to convince me to come back home with him, but after my third firm “no,” he let it go. I needed to be near my mom, but I also had a selfish reason for wanting to stay: it meant I would not have to see the shadow creature for at least one evening. Surrounded by family and nurses and avoiding the window, I was able to evade any glimpse outside.

  Mills returned to Charleston and Annalise, but not before reassuring me that he was there if I needed him. “Annalise needs you more right now,” I said.

  “Yeah, you’re way too strong to need someone like me.” He smiled. “But I can still kick your butt at chess.”

  “And I can kick your butt at checkers.”

  “I’m going to get you next time, Charlotte.” He hugged me. “That’s a promise.”

  After he left, I realized that I had been hugged more in the past month than I had during my entire life leading up to Mom’s assault.

  It was difficult to concentrate at school on Monday. Mom was fine—or as fine as someone could be when they were lying in a coma—but her medical scare had rattled me. Avery and Noah could sense my change in demeanor, but it was subtle enough that no one else seemed to notice. I went to class, ate lunch and generally walked through my daily routine like a zombie.

  The only change in my schedule was that I now spent study hal
l in the library. I was committed to finding more about the person Marcus had been, as well as researching the history of shadow creatures. Both were difficult tasks, especially since the school computers blocked so many sites that would have been helpful to me. But the work wasn’t something I wanted to do at home, where Dad or even Shane might wonder what I was up to.

  Sitting behind a computer in the quiet library, I was able to search the local newspaper database for articles about the attack. I had purposely avoided reading the official account of what had happened in our house that night, mainly because so much of the information was flat-out wrong. We had lied, and the proof was clear in the very first headline I saw: Obsessed Fan Attacks Local Celebrity.

  Marcus had not been an obsessed fan. He had been a possessed man, but that wasn’t the kind of story we could give to the authorities. We told as much of the truth as we could. The rest was our secret to carry.

  The article was helpful. It stated Marcus’s full name in the first paragraph as Marcus A. Archer. But a search through the newspaper’s obituaries over the past month turned up nothing. It made sense, in a way. Marcus had not been from our town. But I had no idea where he was from. At least I had one piece of solid information. It was a starting point, but I had a lot more work to do, especially when it came to researching the shadow creature.

  My knowledge of shadow beings was limited to the handful of cases my family had investigated over the years. We looked into reports of shadow people and even shadow animals, but never caught anything on camera. Dad theorized that people had witnessed random shadows caused by nature, and their startled minds filled in the blanks and made the assumption that the shadows were actually human in form. It made sense: alone in a dark room, one might see a shape caused by light hitting a mirror at a strange angle. It might be the person’s own shadow that scared them.

  But what I was seeing was definitely not my imagination. Nor did it fall under the category of strange-yet-natural phenomenon. It was something I needed to research and define on my own. I started by typing “shadow creatures” into the search engine. There were thousands of hits, and I scrolled down, trying to find a site that looked at least a little respectable, with articles rather than simply personal anecdotes. I found a few that provided historical examples of shadow people, and the descriptions matched what I had seen: a dark figure with a humanlike outline. But nothing I read mentioned a creature that grew with each visit. Most agreed that the creatures were manifestations of evil or negative energy, and most articles mentioned people seeing them in doorways, for some reason.

  The bell was about to ring and my eyes hurt from staring at the computer screen. I needed to get ready for my next class. But first, I wanted to check out one more link that looked promising. A psychiatrist had written an essay about the meaning of dreams. Shadow people were mentioned as a recurring theme. The psychiatrist theorized that the shadow people were often a representation of guilt.

  I sat back in my chair and rubbed my weary eyes. If the shadow thing was actually a form of my guilt, the best way to get rid of it would be to not feel guilty. Simple solution—impossible task.

  I was still thinking about it that night when Annalise called to confirm our plans for the following week. “It will be so much fun! We can stay up late and watch bad movies,” she said. “It’s just going to be us.”

  It was exactly what I wanted: a long weekend away from all the stress. We could spend time at the beach or walking around downtown. There would be no schedules, no homework, no doctor updates. And hopefully, no visits from my shadow stalker.

  As I chatted with my sister, I kept my eyes focused on the mute TV in front of me. I didn’t want to glance toward the window. Even with the curtains closed, I knew it was out there, and I did not want to see how it had grown or changed. But I was afraid to not look at it, as well. What would happen if I refused to acknowledge it? Would it try to get my attention in another way? Would it cross the invisible boundary between us, leave its spot across the street and appear at my window? I couldn’t take that chance.

  After I hung up with Annalise, I went to the window and slowly drew back the curtain. Immediately, my eyes went to the streetlight. And there it was, slightly bigger and a shade darker than it had been the day before. My heartbeat quickened. I counted to three, but before I could release the curtain, something happened. The creature moved.

  It was just one step forward, but the motion scared me so much that I gasped and let go of the curtain. It had never moved toward me before. I took a deep breath and waited, knowing I needed to make sure the thing was gone but terrified that the moment I pulled back the curtain again I would see it on my porch. My hands shaking, I gripped the side of the curtain and pushed it back quickly, as if I was ripping off a bandage.

  There was nothing there. Nothing that I could see, anyway. My heart began to slow down, but my resolve to get rid of this thing strengthened. Its behavior had altered, even if it was only a subtle difference. I had to figure out why before anything else changed.

  School helped keep me sane. The next day I fell into my usual habits. I smiled and nodded at people in the hallways, took notes as best as I could during class and sat at the same lunch table, surrounded by my friends and Noah. It was bearable, and knowing that I would get a chance to do more research helped me to keep going.

  The only thing that bothered me at school was the growing excitement over Prom. Posters advertising the upcoming event bombarded me in every hallway, but I was sticking with my decision: the dance was not for me.

  Prom wasn’t for Noah, either. “It’s totally up to you,” he reassured me for the tenth time. “But it’s fine if you don’t want to go, as long as you don’t feel like you’ll be missing something.”

  It was just before study hall. I kissed him lightly on the lips. “The only thing I’ll be missing is a chance to see you in a tux.”

  He returned my kiss. “Say the word and I’ll go out and get one right now.”

  The image of Noah wearing a tux thrilled me. He looked good in jeans and a basic T-shirt. He would look amazing in a solid black suit. I could almost picture myself on his arm, walking into the Prom together. We would dance under the moving lights, eat the bland chicken dinner and then pose beside the fake palm tree for pictures.

  Maybe it would be a good time, a nice memory. But I knew myself. I knew that the moment I began to lose myself in the moment, everything that had happened to my family would come rushing back, and a good moment would sour into a terrible one. I couldn’t do that—to myself, my friends, or Noah. What if I melted into a panic attack on the dance floor? Prom would be remembered as the night they needed to haul Charlotte Silver away in an ambulance. I couldn’t take that chance.

  I went to the library and sat at my usual computer desk, ready to uncover more information about shadow beings. I read through articles about sightings and experiences, but none of them really matched mine. After a while, I turned my attention to a new search. I leaned forward and typed in the name that I couldn’t get out of my head. The screen filled with hits, but none matched the person I was trying to find. Finally, after wading through five pages of sports scores and genealogy links, I found it: a national obituary archive. Again, I typed in the name. This time, I found what I was looking for.

  Marcus Albert Archer, 23, passed away on April 13. He was born in Portage, Michigan, and attended college in New Mexico, followed by graduate work in South Carolina. He is preceded in death by his mother, Rachel Lynn Bennett, and is survived by his father and brother. A private memorial service was held at the Hilton Head estate of Dr. Leonard Zelden on April 18.

  Strange, I thought. The brief obit mentioned states but not the actual schools. And only his mother was given a name. His mother and Dr. Zelden, I mentally corrected. I wondered if it was Zelden who had paid for the obituary. The mention of Hilton Head was interesting to me, too. The island was located only two hours from Charleston. Not that I had any intention of paying a visit to Dr
. Zelden. But it seemed likely that he would know where Marcus was buried.

  My cell phone sat tucked inside my backpack. Zelden had called me several times, so his number was logged in my history. I slipped the phone in my pocket and asked the librarian for a bathroom pass.

  Once outside the library, I headed for the AV hallway. I knew it was basically deserted at this time of day and got good reception. After making sure that Mr. Morley was nowhere around, I ducked inside his classroom.

  I hesitated before dialing Zelden’s number. He was someone I wanted to forget, someone I wanted nothing to do with. We had not spoken since his final phone call to me a month earlier, in which he had tried to communicate a secret message to me, words that were meant to warn my mother that something bad was headed our way. I didn’t pass on the message, and because of that, Mom had been injured. So had Zelden, but unlike my mother, he had recovered completely.

  Don’t over think it, I told myself. Call him, ask if he knows where Marcus is buried and then delete his number from the phone. I pressed the button, listened to the sound of electronic numbers going through and held my breath. I wasn’t even sure if the number still worked, but after a second I heard it ringing.

  Zelden’s voice delivered a standard instruction to leave a message after the beep. I was relieved—a big part of me was not ready to speak to him. But when the beep arrived, I didn’t know what to say. I hung up, deciding to try again another time. Then I thought of the shadow creature. I dialed the number again, but this time, I left a message.

  Chapter Four

  When I didn’t hear back from Zelden by the end of the day, I figured he was on vacation and wasn’t checking his messages. Then another day passed without word. And another. I tried not to think about it too much. Still, I was constantly checking my phone. And every time I looked at the blank screen I felt a strange twinge of disappointment.