Maria sat on a ring of concrete that formed both a planter for one of the sugar gum trees, and a seating area for students between classes. Her black hair and dark skin were unmistakable. She wore a white, papery dress with matching heeled sandals. Like most girls, she had an unhealthy addiction to shoes. She never wore the same pair twice, as if she rented them by the day.
“What's up, Scott?” She waved. Through the shades, he wondered what those brown eyes were actually watching. Him, or the leaves?
“Had a little scare last night.” He stopped in front of the planter and looked harshly at the cement construction. “Why does everything have to be made of concrete?”
“You okay? You sounded a little weird on the phone.”
“I saw something in my room. I can't get it out of my head.”
“Another panic attack?”
Scott huffed. Sickly Scott Stone. That's what the kids called him in grade school, the ones who bothered to take note of his existence at all. He parked his butt on the bench, maintaining enough space to ensure that they didn't touch, and keeping his scraped hands safely away from the jagged surface. It was the formal thing to do. She had a boyfriend, and he didn't want to appear as more than an acquaintance. People might get the wrong impression, and run off to tell Mike.
Every time she spoke to him, he wondered if there might be some future chance. He knew the outcome of such speculation, but he pondered the possibility anyway. It was in his nature. He didn’t know who he might end up with, so every female in talking distance was a potential. He also knew exactly what his chances were. Girls didn’t talk to him, and it was rare that he mustered up the courage to start a conversation. That alone crippled his chances.
His mind settled back into place. Maria was a special friend, overly extroverted, comfortable, and the fact that she had a boyfriend made her easy to talk to. He didn’t have to worry about saying the right thing, or trying to win her over. There was distance between them, and the barriers to communication crumbled as a result. She was the one girl he could talk to without his tongue seizing up.
“You look more pale than usual,” she said. “Just like Patrick said.”
“I didn’t get any sleep last night. I should be asleep right now, but I can’t turn in. I can’t go back there.”
“Why? It’s not like it was your first nervous tick.”
“It wasn't a panic attack. I finished my philosophy paper and turned around, and there was something in my room.”
“Like a cockroach?”
“No. I don't know what it was. At first I thought it might be a mouse. Something moved in the corner of my eye. I turned to look, and it was gone. You know that feeling? When your eye catches something, you look, and there’s nothing there?”
“Happens to me all the time, when I drink too much coffee.”
“Instead of ignoring it, I kept looking. Something inside forced me to keep looking. It just sort of, appeared. Or disappeared. I'm not sure which.”
Maria's eyebrows wrinkled. Her round face exaggerated every tiny expression. Even behind the dark glasses, he could tell her eyes were squinting as she deciphered what he was trying to say. She was probably wondering if he was nuts.
“It was like, something. The air darkened over my sheets. Like a shadow, but hovering in the middle of the room instead of stuck on the wall where it should be.”
“Trick of light?” she asked.
Scott's head shook with a snappy quiver. “It wasn't a trick of light, or my mind. Something was there. It turned black. The thing. In a second it went from nothing at all to this black shape standing on my bed, or sitting. Maybe floating above it. And those eyes.”
“Eyes?”
“Like tiny red neon lights. Near the top of—I guess it's head. You think I’m nuts don’t you?”
“I don’t think you’re nuts, Scott.”
“Yeah you do.” He stared across the quad. “I sound nuts.”
“Well go on. What else?”
“You really want to hear it?”
“It’s not like I’m doing anything else right now.”
He sighed. “It reached out with like—like tentacles. I couldn't move. Till I dropped my coffee and burned my frickin’ leg. That’s where this stain came from. My leg was frozen for the rest of the morning.” He glanced at the brown spot for a minute. At least it was on the wrong side for someone to assume a bowel accident. “Then I ran. I'm not even sure my door closed, but I don't want to go back up there.”
“That's it? Black shadow thing and red eyes?”
“I wasn't going to hang around long enough to take a picture,” he snapped. “It was after me.”
“Did it move toward you or something?”
“No. Maybe. It was about to. I know it was trying to kill me, though. I know it.”
“How long were you up?”
“This isn't an insomnia thing.” His nasally voice sounded like a plea for sanity rather than the intended bark of anger.
“Okay. Just calm down.”
Every time he had a problem, or got sick, or appeared to be overreacting, someone would tell him to calm down. As if he could magically control his heart rate and mood. Trying to calm down only caused more stress, and being calm would not solve the problem at hand. He took a deep breath, and forced it out before continuing. “You don't believe me, do you?”
Her dark glasses followed her face from side to side, and her hand landed on his shoulder. “I believe you, Scott. You saw something. But I can't—I believe you. What do you think it was?”
“I don't know. A ghost?”
“Thought ghosts were supposed to be white.”
“Don’t make this a racial thing.” He had been saving that line for a while, and finally got a chance to use it. The spell of seriousness broke, and Maria let out a clutch of laughter that resonated against his lips, coaxing them into an uneasy smile.
Scratching noises clawed at the concrete behind him, and he spun to look. Nothing there.
“What is it?”
“Did you hear that scratching?”
“Probably leaves.”
“Maybe.” The sun baked day-old sweat into a grainy skin crust, and the chilly breeze felt like ice on the shaded side of his body.
“When’s the last time you slept?”
“This morning. At the doctor's office. He thinks I'm nuts, too.”
“I'm sure he doesn't think you're nuts. It's hard not to suspect delusions from an insomniac. That doesn't mean you're nuts.”
“I've been without sleep before, long enough that I can tell the difference between dozing off and what's real.”
“What's the difference?” She removed her glasses, and with them, any suspicion of not having her undivided attention.
“Hallucinations from being tired almost always happen when your mind plays with what you see. If you see something against an plain background, then it doesn't move. Sometimes I see animated things, but it's always against a busy background like marble, or when I'm walking or riding in a car.”
“So this wasn't a hallucination because it moved while the stuff behind it stayed still?”
“Exactly.”
“Wasn't there a thunderstorm last night?”
“Yeah. So?”
“What if the flashes from outside made it look like it was moving.”
“I don't think so.” He shook his head. “This was different. I can't explain it. I just know.”
“Okay, Scott. If you say it was real, I'll humor you. Do you think it's still there?”
“I don't know. I don't want to go up.”
“You don't want to go up? You have to change your clothes and get some sleep sooner or later. It looks like you've been digging in the mud. Plus if we snap a picture, you can probably sell it to a tabloid for lots of money. Enough to pay for your books next semester at least.”
He stared at the brown stain across his pant leg, the same kind that Maria typically wore on her smock at work. “That's never g
oing to wash out.”
“What if I went with you?”
Scott frowned, then nodded, but refused to look her in the eye. “Maybe. At least then if it attacks me, I'll have a witness.”
His heart thumped lightly against the sternum. He'd never had a visitor in his apartment before, much less one so beautiful. He didn't need anything from her. Company was enough. He scolded himself for considering the thought that they would be anything but friends. There was no point thinking about it, and at best, if he made any kind of move, he would only lose her friendship, not gain a lover.
It was comforting that she actually wanted to spend time with him. Fake friends never come over unless you throw a party. Their relationship was cemented in place, and if he would have answered her request to hang out, none of this would have happened. Friends. To normal humans the thought seemed silly, but when you don’t have any, buddies are a very special thing.
The consideration frequently clouded his thoughts about any girl he met, like a giant squid stalking a schooner on the open ocean. He wished offending thoughts would vanish completely, and he could free himself from the obsession of trying to find a girlfriend. He wasn’t any good at dating or meeting people. Try as he might, the loneliness persisted. Even more in the quad, surrounded by couples holding hands as they walked to and from classes. Cupid was the one baby he wouldn't mind punching in the face.
His introspection turned into a daydream, and when he snapped out of it, Maria had already packed her books. She was standing before him.
“C'mon. If I'm going to go with you, then we need to do it now. I have class soon, and I want to grab a coffee.”
Maria had to push him through the building entrance. He trudged up the steps cautiously, and dragged his feet down the hall toward the still open door. The building was old, as were the doors. Slamming them shut was a trick that rarely worked. It must have rested open against the bolt all night. Maria pushed her way inside.
“Anyone here?” she called.
He watched through the doorway as she disappeared into the tiny apartment. Some would call it cozy, but any sane person would see it for the slum it was. She’d probably be telling her friends about the dumpy apartment that bubble-boy lived in later that night.
“No ghosts here. C'mon, Scott. Come in. Whatever it was, I think it's gone.”
His heart quickened as she reappeared and grabbed his hand to tug him inside. He scanned the apartment, hunting for anything out of the ordinary. Something brushed against his toe. He glanced down, and jumped at the sight of his wrinkled jacket laying on the ground.
“Little paranoid?”
It was jet black, just like the creature. Every shadow in the room taunted him. His eyes wandered toward the brown stain under his overturned office chair that appeared as a painting of the creature. Cappuccino radiated in tentacles from what looked like a blast center, some of the lines a few feet long. Bubbles of cream-colored foam blistered atop the otherwise white carpet.
“Look, just lay down for a while, okay? Humor me.”
He crawled onto the bed and stuffed the side of his head into the cotton-clad pillow that grew softer, warmer, and more inviting with each passing second, causing his eyelids to droop. When he went long enough without sleep, his body needed no coaxing to start a rest cycle. A soft blanket was often catalyst enough to take care of any wavering thoughts, and Maria tossed one over him.
She walked to the closet, and his eyes followed her dress. The draped fabric hugged the top of her legs with every step. She stood at the closet, staring back at him.
“I really think it's gone, Scotty. Do me a favor, and try to get some sleep. I'll check on you later, okay?”
He nodded. The short hairs on his cheek scratched against the smooth pillowcase.
“Okay,” she said.
She walked out, closing the door gently. Scott's stare fixed on the leather jacket. It lay against the carpeted backdrop bordered by plain white walls. In the dark, fabric took on fantastic shapes. Most of them grotesque and creepy, but it was only a jacket, and no amount of dreamy brain manipulation could shake that reality. He couldn't close his eyes. The monster might appear at any moment, and he was ready to run.
His mind played with the gentle folds of leather, the subtle contrast of shading between them enhanced, taking on the shape of a man’s face. It melted as the image aged into a wrinkled old witch cackling at him. Like looking into the clouds, his brain constructed shapes and patterns out of the jacket seams and variances of light and shadow.
He slammed his eyes shut, and lay there waiting for fatigue to take over. His knee throbbed. His hands burned, and his glasses pressed against his temples uncomfortably. Without looking, he pulled them off, and placed them on the wooden nightstand. Behind closed eyelids, the red dot eyes appeared again. A memory that refused to release him. Perfectly round circles, colored evenly, like glowing neon lights. The shape of the monster became clear, or maybe his brain was filling in the details on its own. The head securely attached to the body without need of a neck, like the shadow of of 20's gangster in a short brimmed hat and trench coat. A perfectly innocent shape, if not for those eyes.
He drifted off, and another terror waited for him in the realm of dreams.
4
Sometimes, during a traumatic experience, human beings forget things they had planned.
The alarm on his phone screamed, as loudly as he had tried to in the dream. He couldn't remember why, only that no sound came out, no matter how much wind he put behind the pipe.
His eyes opened to buzzing and wailing from his pocket, the alarm blared with the emergency siren of an ambulance. His palm burned against the belt loop on his jeans as he fingered his phone and slid it out. A tap of the thumb shut it up, and it became obvious that the short nap was hardly beneficial. His tongue turned to sandpaper, and the room spun, forcing an unsettled feeling into his stomach, much like being hungover. If you drink enough, coffee can have the same morning effects as alcohol.
Maybe two hours of sleep. Maybe three. The apartment was dark, and the creepy black silhouette of his jacket remained. No monster. Nothing crazy.
He rolled out of bed, and staggered toward the sink. It was one of those moments when it was prudent to skip the cup and stuff his head directly under the tap. His socks were soaked with sweat, as were the rest of his clothes.
There was a limit to the amount of liquid he could imbibe at once, even when thirsty after four days of subsisting on caffeine. He continued drinking until his stomach protested, threatening to open the dump valve, and then paced to the bathroom. He’d grown accustomed to waking up covered in sweat. Something about the mixture of caffeine, prescription drugs, and lack of hydration made for moist rest periods. He had to wash his sheets once a week to keep them fresh.
Once in the shower, he braced against the wall to hold himself upright as hot water fell over his bare skin in a penetrating stream. Slowly, he reanimated from his previous mummified state. At least enough to attend class.
He padded across the apartment in search of fresh clothes, treading through the frozen coffee stain soaking deeper into the carpet by the minute. There was no time to clean up. He dragged his damp foot, wiping off the dross on the way to the dresser.
He patted his jeans to ensure his pocket possessions were where they needed to be, “Books, pencils, wallet, phone.” He snatched his books off the desk that held his laptop, passing eyes right over the top of it. He never took it with him. The rest of his classmates may as well have been surgically attached to their electronic devices, but it was of no real use, just extra weight. He couldn’t type and pay attention at the same time, so pens and paper still had a purpose. He balked at how the other kids treated their gadgets, wearing them out before the semester was over by constantly dropping and otherwise abusing them. Maybe if the spoiled brats had to buy their own stuff, like him, they might treat it with more respect.
He checked the clock on his phone. “One hour.”
/> His normal routine was to start each day with a cup of coffee. His breathing labored as worries about the lack of sleep stirred paranoia about his ability to get to class without passing out in the street. He dug frantically through the pill drawer, shifting empty bottles around before finding the right prescription.
One was enough to quell the rising blood pressure, but reminded him that coffee was a necessity today, not just a habit. He'd know when the pill kicked in, as the irritation of every prying thought eating away at his mood would fade to apathy. He grabbed the jacket, and dragged his feet all the way to the coffee shop. By the time he received his fresh tall cap, most of the anxiety had melted away. He could almost handle class like a normal kid.
The chairs in the library were plain, crafted from wood, and almost as comfortable as a boulder. Every time he sat, blood pooled to the point of leaving bedsores on his rump. The silver lining was that being so uncomfortable zeroed his focus, forcing him to work quickly, so that he could release himself from the torturous seat sooner. Procrastination equaled pain.
He opened his email and downloaded the file to the crude library machine, which was likely older than him, and clicked the print button. Across the room, the giant office machine came to life with a subtle hum. It was just loud enough for a user to know their document was on the way out, but not so annoying as to break anyone else's concentration. His gaze passed to a student librarian standing behind the counter, staring directly at him. She looked down at her screen the moment they made eye contact.
“She must think I'm sick.”
“What?” asked the kid in the next chair.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Despite the danger of a butt-flattening, he opened a search engine and entered the phrase “shadow ghost.” There were millions of online entries, thirty-five million to be precise. He scrolled and clicked through random pages, seeing everything from “ghost expert” opinions to theories about aliens and parallel dimensions. Most of the sites hosted gibberish, and required clicking through several pages of ads before seeing any explanation, which usually ended up being a copy of some other article he had already read, sprinkled with fake pictures of creatures who looked like blacked-out bodies. A silhouette of a fat man in a fedora. Another of some cloaked figure. All of them looked edited. None accurately described what he saw in the apartment. The ones with red eyes shot a chill down his arms, but still failed to describe the entity.
Stone's Shadow Page 3