Shadow
of the
Past
By Thacher E. Cleveland
Copyright 2011 by Thacher E. Cleveland
Second Smashwords Edition
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the support of my friends and family, who are too numerous to list here. I would like to give a special thanks to Jennifer Bennett, Dina Lawrence, Megan Lewis and Meghan White, who were tremendously supportive. Cover artwork by Zane Reichert, design by Thacher E. Cleveland. This, like most everything else I do, is for my daughter Alexandra.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter One
Darren sat on the edge of his bed and he could feel the house across the street, staring back at him through the darkness.
He was 10, and things like a house weren’t supposed to scare him, but that house was different. It was the oldest house in the neighborhood, and no one, at least none of the kids he knew, ever saw the man that lived there. The closest he had ever come was a couple of months ago when he was getting ready for bed and noticed a man in a black overcoat and hat pass through the this mass of hedges in the front. All he could see from his window was the peak of the roof and the two second story windows, shuttered tight like black eyes. Everything else was blocked from view by the hedges and twin oak trees that twisted in front of everything like wooden sentinels. The entire scene made for a house that no one in the neighborhood talked about, looked at, and certainly did not go near.
Until today.
Darren and the rest of his friends from Briarcliff Avenue had been playing stickball in the street all summer in a subway series against the kids from Munson Drive. The Briarcliff kids were the Brooklyn Dodgers and the Munsies were the Yankees. Ralphie DiMartino, the Munsies answer to Yogi Berra, hit a beautiful pop fly that arched back towards Darren, who was playing left field. Darren raced along the street to catch it, but out of the corner of his eye he saw he had passed the outfield boundary and was coming upon that house’s sinister wall of brown-green foliage. His foot caught the curb and he sprawled out on the lane of grass between the street and the sidewalk.
Flat on his stomach, he watched as the ball hit the sidewalk, bounced, and then rolled under the hedge and out of sight.
There were hoots and hollers from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Ralphie rounding second base already. Only Kenny Mitchell turned to yell at Darren. “Get the ball! Hurry!”
Darren scrambled to his feet, all fear vanishing at the prospect of Ralphie the Fink gloating all summer about his miraculous home run. Darren dashed through the thin gap in the branches and into the yard. The ball had rolled through the hedges and was visible in the dense, unmowed lawn. Darren raced over, scooped it up and hurled it over the hedge with a grunt. “Comin’ at ya!” he yelled, praying to God that they caught it and tagged Kenny out.
Once the ball left his hand, he realized that he was standing in the Forbidden Zone. The grass was at least ankle deep and tinged with brown from the heat and it didn’t look like anyone had set foot in it at all this summer. He was standing on what passed for the walk, right between the twin guardian oaks that loomed over him. He saw a couple of other balls laying in the yard that other kids obviously hadn’t bothered to go in after, but he had just waltzed in without a second thought.
He turned and there it was.
The house was smaller than he’d imagined; it had dirty white paint and each of its dozen windows were shuttered tight just like the two he could see from his bedroom. The green trim had faded and cracked into a cancerous black. Even the door had faded that way, except for a small patch of dark green high in the center, where the door-knocker should have been. A screen porch snaked around the left side of the house, although most of the screen was shredded to bits. The only thing sitting on the porch was a rusted patio chair, tipped over like a turtle.
Everything was still. Darren realized he had been holding his breath for so long that his heartbeat was pounding at his temples. He let it out as slowly as he could, careful not to make a sound. He was drawing in his next breath just as slowly when he saw it, lying on the front porch, just past the top step.
It was a brown shoe, just a little smaller than his.
He took a step forward, making sure his eyes weren’t fooling him. It was a girl’s shoe, and the only thing in the entire yard that was new and not rotten, faded or broken.
He shuffled his feet, desperately trying to get them to work, when something else got his attention.
Down at the corner of the house, almost hidden by the tall grass, was a small basement window. In the corner of that window was a tiny white speck.
It was a cloudy blue eye narrowing at him under a thick blonde eyebrow.
That was all Darren’s feet needed to start running.
He raced between the hedges, coming out to find the entire game had stopped and everyone staring at him. He couldn’t tell if they were so slack-jawed over the fact that he had been in that yard or that he had made it back.
Ralphie broke the silence. “What. . .the. . .frick?”
“I was gettin’ your hit, pansy,” Darren said.
Some of the other kids let out low whistles, others just shook their heads. “Balls,” DiMartino said, tipping his cap. “Big frickin’ balls.”
That night at dinner, things were quiet. At first he thought his parents had been fighting, but then he realized that they were glancing over at him every few seconds. Had someone ratted him out? Did they know where he had been? There had been something in the air for weeks, it seemed. They were always asking him where he was, where he had been, if he had seen anything strange. He hadn’t thought anything of it before, but now he knew.
They were afraid.
“Darren,” his father began, and Darren felt his rear-end clench at the thought of how many swats they would give him for trespassing.
“Yeah, Pop?”
“Have you seen Suzie Morris around lately?”
“What?”
“Doesn’t she go to your school?” his mother piped in, tapping at her plate with the tip of her fork.
“Yeah, she’s a grade behind me.”
“Have you seen her?” his father asked again.
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“Well…” his father started, but then gazed across the table. His mother stopped tapping her fork. “She was supposed to spend the weekend with her aunt on Maple Street while her folks were out of town. She didn’t make it, and no one noticed until yesterday. Her aunt thought the parents had taken her with them, but her folks had sent Suzie to walk to Maple Street herself. So you’re sure you haven’t seen her?”
“I’m sure.” Darren replied, putting his silverware down.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Darren pushed his plate forward. “I’m not hungry. Can I be excused?”
His parents looked at each other, and then his Mother nodded. “Sure thing. Do you want to watch Sullivan? Rosemary Clooney is going to be on.”
Darren made a face and shook his head, carrying his plate into the kitchen. “I’m gonna go upstairs.”
He stayed up there, door closed, watching the house across the street for the rest of the night. He could hear his parents arguing over Rosemary Clooney’s warbling. His Mo
m blamed his Dad for upsetting him and his Dad saying this was serious and that they needed to know. Later, his Mother poked her head in and told him it was time for bed so he went through the motions of getting ready and saying goodnight.
Instead of sleeping, Darren just sat in bed watching the house across the street as dusk turned into night. After a few hours, the streetlight out front clicked on and began its night-long hum. His eyelids began to droop, and he realized that trying to maintain a vigil through the night was pointless.
With a giant yawn, he got out of bed and went over to the window. It was hot and muggy, like most New Jersey summers, but there was no way he was going sleep with the window open tonight. He shut it as quietly as he could, not wanting his parents to hear and wonder what he was still doing up.
Just as he turned to head back into bed, the streetlight flickered. He turned, pressing up against the glass, scanning the entire street. For a second there was something dark moving out of the circle of light and heading towards the driveway. He stood there for at least five minutes, mashing his face against the glass, trying to see down into the driveway. There was nothing but darkness.
It was stupid, he realized. If there was anything out there, Mom and Dad would have seen or heard it. Darren turned and crawled back into bed, but once there, he found that sleep had left him. He tossed and turned, and after a couple of minutes he realized he’d been humming that stupid Rosemary Clooney song from the show.
Irritated, he kicked the sheet off and rolled over, still trying to get comfortable.
“Come on-a my house, my house-a come on . . .”
Darren snapped up in bed, eyes scouring the room. The voice had been faint, but he had definitely heard the deep rumble of a voice that wasn’t his father’s. He couldn’t see a thing, the lamp from the outside not even making a dent into the oppressive darkness of his room. Not even the light from the hallway was coming under his bedroom door.
He trained to listen but the only noise was the faint whisper of the curtains as they brushed together in the breeze. His eyes passed over them at first, but then darted back.
The window was open.
He should have screamed then, he realized, but his eyes still darted from side to side, trying to make out anything in the darkness.
“Come on-a my house, my house, I’m gonna give you ca-andy . . .”
It was so faint that he almost thought he was imagining, but he knew that even in his darkest dreams he wouldn’t have been able to imagine the rumbling, cracked voice that was whispering to him in the dark.
He drew in a breath to scream, knowing that getting his parents attention was his only chance. Before he could even make a sound, the darkness on the far side of the room exploded towards him. There was a rustle of fabric and then a gloved hand clamped down on his throat.
“Shhhhh,” the harsh whisper came from all around him.
“You wanted to see, didn’t you? You came and you wanted to see, isn’t that right?”
Darren tried to shake his head but the grip on his throat was too tight. His chest burned with the trapped air in his lungs and he could barely make out the face in front of him.
“Don’t you lie to me, boy!” The face was wrapped in a black scarf with a black, wide-brimmed hat pulled down as far as it could go. Between them, he could make out the blue eyes that had stared at him from the basement window. “You want to see Him? I can make you see.”
Darren’s chest thought his swollen lungs were going to crush his heart. Before that could happen there was a flash of silver that slammed into his temple.
Around the blue eyes everything fell into a haze.
He felt himself being effortlessly hauled over the man’s shoulder, and the last he heard before the darkness completely overtook him was his whispered singing.
“Come on-a my house, my house, I’m gonna give you everything. . .”
Chapter Two
Mark Watson liked to watch people, but watching a couple of senior girls in short-skirted field hockey uniforms instead of where he was going was what almost got his face smashed in.
His foot stopped the stairwell door just before he completely collided with it, but when he tried to twist out of the way his feet went haywire and he toppled to the ground.
“Oh, God,” a girl’s voice said. “I’m so sorry!”
Whatever mumbled, irritated remark he was going to make was swallowed when he looked up and saw her in the doorway. She had long red hair loosely tied back and her pale skin was lightly dotted with freckles. It was the kind of relaxed, “oh, this old thing?” beauty that you were born with or spent your whole life trying to emulate.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, offering her hand. After a second he took it and pulled himself up.
“Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat and failing to shake the sad and unpopular off of his clothes.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m new and--” she was interrupted by the sudden shrill ringing of the late bell. “And now I’m late.”
“Well,” Mark said, running a hand through his shoulder length hair. “If you, ah, let me know where you’re going, I might be able to help you get there.”
“Well,” she said. “If I remember my schedule right, I’ve got Chemistry in 213. I’m just trying to figure out which way the numbers go.”
“With Reynolds?” Be careful, jackass. This could be using up whatever small quota of luck you’ve been allotted.
“Yeah.”
Well now you don’t have to worry about playing the lottery. Way to go.
“Well, I was heading that way myself. Would you care to, ah . . . walk with me?”
She smiled, and he realized he was too. “Don’t worry,” he said, “Renny rarely cares if you’re late.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m Christine.”
“Mark.” His hand twitched at his side. Handshake? Wave? Salute? For fuck’s sake stop fidgeting! “This way,” he finally waved down the hallway. Maybe you can pretend you have epilepsy.
Mark found himself falling behind as they walked, taking in how she confidently moved down the hall, a total opposite to his hunched, drawn-in shuffle. He was drawn to everything about her. This was the kind of instant crush he’d have every once and a while; a magnetic snap that would grab him by the senses and lead him around like a dog. It’d be great if it didn’t make him feel like a pathetic loser who never did anything about it.
His junior year at Cedar Ridge High had started a month ago and until now it looked like it was going to be the same as every year. He’d spend time in his room, Steve and Clara would try to get him out of his shell, and he’d do just enough homework to keep up his straight C average. He’d thought that after getting some wheels this summer he’d be able to turn over a new leaf, but it’d dawned on him this morning that he was simply incapable of changing and that clung to him like a lead shroud.
And then he realized the field hockey team had a game today, and they’d be in uniform all day. That made things a little better.
The dream last night didn’t help any either. He’d been having it or one like it for the past few weeks. They just jumbled images of a 50s neighborhood, a swirling darkness that filled him with dread and the sound of metal scraping against metal. There was a low, whistling tune that was irritatingly familiar and then it was shattered by an explosion of pain in his head, and he’d find himself rolling or falling out of bed with the smell of ashes so strong he’d be gagging.
“Is it over here?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him.
“Yeah,” he said, widening his strides to walk at her side. “Last door on the left.” Easy, Casanova. This is directions, not progress. You’re still the boy who broke down in elementary school when his aunt died; who Mr. Wallace humiliated at the blackboard in seventh grade for not understanding fraction addition; the kid who got hit in the face with a basketball and cried as the whole class watched in disapproving silence.
Talking to a new girl meant none of
that stuff had to have happened. It could just be dead and buried, never to be reanimated in an awkward moment of lulled conversation. Last year when he was about to ask his lab partner Stephanie Murphy out she filled the awkward moment of silence by asking if he’d been that “boy who cried that time.”
Christine pointed at the door on the left, and he nodded. Mark sat in his usual seat near the back and stifled an incredulous laugh when she took the seat next to him. She gave him another little smile as she got a crisp new notebook out. He smiled back, now fumbling with his bag, putting every fiber of his being into doing it without dropping something.
“So,” he said as they were packing things up after class, “where are you heading now?” Forty minutes of not studying chemistry had gone into coming up with that. It beat out “You’re a goddess” and “I want to have your babies,” but not by much.
“Lunch.”
“Really,” he said. “Me too.” This was torture.
“Great,” she smiled.
“Would you like to . . .” Mark started, and then seized. Asking her to eat lunch with him caught in his throat, the very notion of doing so contrary to everything inside him. He had to say something, he realized, not just stand there gaping like a fish.
“Do you think you could show me where the cafeteria is?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “That’s . . . well, it’s something.”
Cedar Ridge High might have a fancy brick and glass exterior that showed the quiet dignity of age with the fresh breath of the modern, but beneath its comforting exterior lay a place that dignity and freshness had mutually agreed was beneath them. There’d been places like this before. Sodom, Dresden, Fallujah, and now, CRH cafeteria. Jocks, goths, thugs, emo kids; all mixed together in a horrific mash-up of cliquish teen disharmony.
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