Stone's Shadow

by Martin McConnell

  “Put it on the table,” said Richard, before disappearing into another room.

  He placed the laptop bag neatly on a round wooden table. Four chairs were spaced perfectly, as if they hadn't been touched in months. The kitchen area was exceptionally clean. Every metal surface polished and shining, every countertop spotless. Knife rack, cutting board, and hanging spoons were arranged as they would be in a magazine. Everything had a place. The floor looked as if it were cleaned daily. There wasn’t a hint of dust anywhere. Wet footprints stood out in the polished vista like craters in a flat desert. A water purifier hung from the spout of the kitchen faucet over an empty sink, beside an empty dish rack, which was also spotless.

  Richard returned and took a seat at the table. He scratched at his right arm through the thin sweater before flipping the laptop bag open.

  “Sit,” he said. “I hope the stupid thing didn't follow you here. That's trouble I don't need.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sit.” His eyes were unrelenting. He froze in place until Scott pulled a chair back, when he removed his laptop from the bag.

  Scott huffed and planted himself in the chair.

  “You be completely honest with me, otherwise I’m not telling you anything. And you never speak of this conversation to anyone. Understand?”

  Scott nodded.

  “Black thing, red eyes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And let me guess, you spotted something out of the corner of your eye, and you kept looking.”

  “I thought I had a mouse.”

  “Poor bastard. That was your first mistake. Is it talking to you yet?”

  “Yeah, it—I can't be sure. I hear my voice, but it's not my—I don't know how to put it.”

  “And what drugs are you taking? Don't lie.”

  “I have some pain killers from my doctor, but I can’t remember the last time I took one. Sleeping pills. Antidepressants. Benadryl in the spring. That kind of thing. Nothing illegal.”

  “No meth?”

  “No!”

  “Don't raise your voice at me.”

  “What the hell does meth have to do with anything?”

  “Because,” said Richard, “that's how it starts. My addiction kept me alive. The fact that I didn't just keel over caught its attention. There's something in the drugs that stops them from, you know, doing what they do. Doing what it does. But they're persistent little buggers, like dogs with tennis balls. Once you’re marked, there’s no escape. Well, almost no escape. They keep coming until you’re dead.”

  “So you're saying if I take drugs, it can't get me.”

  “Oh, it'll get you eventually. It'll find a way. The one that was following me killed everyone else on the first offense. As soon as they spotted it. I thought at first that I had some kind of immunity. See? The drugs keep it from taking you, but they have this side effect. They actually attract the creatures. Not at first, but the creatures are going to get what they want.” His stare drifted toward the sink, then down at the water spots on the floor. He eyebrows twisted.

  “What do they want?”

  “How the hell should I know? All I know is that they don't stop.” He connected eyes again. “They'll kill every—It'll take everyone around you if it can't get to you. You got its attention, and that kind of attention doesn't turn off. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re immune, or that more drugs will help. They won’t. At the end, I realized that my drug use was amusing the creatures. They enjoyed tormenting me, and that scratching. It never stopped.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “I died.”

  Richard's eyes broke contact after the remark, and aimed at his warming laptop. He grabbed a power cable from the bag, and plugged it somewhere behind the table.

  “What are you doing? Something you need to show me?”

  “No. I'm checking my messages.”

  Scott's eyes sharpened. “This is important.”

  Richard sighed. “So is this. Look. I told you before. The best thing you can do is crawl in your little hole and die. I know it was mean, but it’s the best advice there is. That thing is going to wreak havoc on the neighborhood. People will start dying of what looks like natural causes. Brain aneurysm here, heart attack there. No methodology to it, they just drop dead all around you. And eventually the thing will get you too, unless God intervenes. But praying is hardly going to save you.”

  “So that's it. After all that, you're telling me you were saved by God?”

  Richard glared back at Scott as he coughed. “I was given a second chance. A chance to straighten my life out. Call it God or Allah or Buddha, or just dumb luck if you want. The shrinks at the rehab clinic were told me the whole thing was a delusion. Then I overheard you talking. I never really accepted the clinical diagnosis anyway, but they almost had me convinced. Until I heard your story.”

  “So how did you get away?”

  “I told you, I died.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “I got hit by a car, revived and arrested at the hospital, and stuck in a rehab clinic for six months. It didn't follow me, but when I got out, everyone I cared about was dead. Blessing? Curse? Call it whatever you want. Just leave me the hell out of it.”

  “So it can't be beat, but maybe I can outrun it?”

  “I guess so. Maybe if you move to Canada, and you're lucky enough that it doesn't follow you.”

  “Do you know how it kills?”

  “No idea, but the heart attacks weren’t a coincidence. I’m guessing they died of fright. I assumed that the meth deadened my senses enough to make me immune. Maybe they just like scaring us to death, I don’t know. So instead, it decided to haunt me. Maybe it gave up when the car hit me, and assumed that I wouldn’t survive the wreck. Technically, I didn’t survive the wreck. If there hadn’t been an ambulance cruising by on a side street and a hundred witnesses. . . . My heart stopped in the ambulance, and I was revived twenty-two minutes later.” He paused, and his eyes squeezed shut for a moment before they reopened, releasing a tear from the shimmering glass balls. “It went after my wife instead.”

  His eyes fell, lower than the laptop, toward the edge of the table. His mouth forged itself into a frown.

  “So wait, it was after you, tormenting you?”

  “Every night when I went to bed. Sometimes it would pass by, but I’d either fall asleep with clenched teeth and cinched eyes, or I’d wake up screaming in the night. It stalked me, killed those around me. It laughed about their deaths, like it was some kind of game. It—tasted me. Kept telling me to keep looking, even though I never did. The more scared I got, the more it enjoyed itself, like it was feeding off of my fear or something.”

  “And then?”

  “I raced out of the house one night, baby screaming and wife chasing behind me, right into the path of a drunk speeding home from the bar. I woke up in the hospital, handcuffed to a bed. When the police went through my house they found a bunch of drugs and my—they.” A tear ran down his cheek. “My wife was—they called it an overdose leading to a heart attack, but that wasn’t it. I checked the report. She had shot up earlier, but that was hours before we went to bed. The thing unlatched from me and took her. The state took my son.”

  “And then you never saw it again?”

  He shook his head. “The end of one nightmare and the start of another. My kid died while I was in rehab. Some sort of baby sickness that nobody has ever been able to explain to me. I know what really happened though. I know what he saw before he died, and so do you. I never saw the creature again.”

  “That’s why you yelled at me. You’re worried about it finding you again.”

  “That's everything I know. Satisfied?”

  “I don't think satisfied is the right word.”

  “Well, it's going to have to do. Cause that's all I know. I can't help you. Nobody can.” He wiped the tears from his face and went to work on the computer. After hammering a few dozen keystrokes, he scratc
hed at his arm again. “Now get the hell out of my house, and don't talk to me again.”

  “How do I get home?”

  “You got legs?”

  Scott stood, tried to push the chair back as neatly as he found it, and left the house. Even though the rain had stopped for the moment, damp clothing wrapped him from the earlier drizzle, and the gentle wind turned it into a blanket of refrigeration. The streets were covered with subtle rainbows of grease welling through cracks in the asphalt.

  A shriek, like something from another world, erupted behind him, and it was over in an instant. He swore that it came from the duplex. His heart was getting its exercise today, and his legs would follow. Another instinct commanded him, and every muscle in his body obeyed the order: Run.

  17

  A little word of advice to all you monster hunters out there. You know who you are. You love your little thrills. That chill down your spine. You want to visit haunted places. You want to jump when an inanimate object skids gently across a table under some kind of telekinetic force. Be careful of the demons you hunt. Some things, once seen, can’t be unseen. There are some creatures that will consume the rest of your shortened existence. You see them, they see you, and they never forget.

  Richard thought he got away. This time, he was weak. He was just like the others. The satisfaction was sucked right out of the kill.

  Scott's legs had worn out. He lay there on the wet sidewalk, giving him time to contemplate the events of the night while soaking in the early morning mist. A monster in his room was only the beginning. Richard’s scream echoed through his brain, clinging to every wrinkle. How could he go home? How could he go anywhere? It hurt more to move than to lie there and freeze. Death seemed less like an enemy to be feared, and more like a friend offering a warm blanket on a cold night.

  He hoped that the sound was merely a television cranked too loud with a horror flick playing, but he knew it couldn’t be anything but the creature.

  The side of his head scraped against the concrete as tears rolled across his temples. He was going to die, and he only wished that it would be quick. He debated going back to Serena's shop, but surely she didn't live there and it was way past closing time. His fingers scratched at the outside of his pocket, feeling her business card printing against the soaked denim. Maybe Father What's-his-name was still up. Or he could wait for the creature to take him. Maybe he could mimic Richard’s getaway and roll in front of a set of the moving headlights zipping past. Scratching noises rustled all around him.

  The sky opened up. Raindrops pummeled from above. Another car drove by, casting shadows against the buildings across the street. Some of them came from posts, some from bushes. Some appeared to come from nowhere. He slammed his eyes shut.

  An ambulance screamed by, breaking the trance. He shivered, and pushed himself off the frozen concrete, soaked to the skin. Maybe the creature was watching from a distance, laughing. He hauled to his feet and looked around, suddenly realizing that he had no idea where he was. He picked a direction and walked.

  “Sorry, death. I’m going to take the painful route a bit longer. We’ll meet soon enough.”

  Hypothermia might still knock him down before he found a place to dry off. Each step sent shock waves through his frozen muscles; one foot, then the other one, for nearly half an hour, before spotting the church in the distance. Finally, a landmark to guide him home. The conversation with Richard ran through his head again as he turned toward the apartment. His fingers were long since frozen. He stuffed clenched fists inside his jacket pockets in an attempt to thaw them.

  This entity, this being, whatever it was, wasn't going away on its own. His eyes played tricks on him. Every shadow danced unnaturally. Everywhere he turned, he saw dark figures. Around every corner where the light hit a branch or a bush just right, another tormentor appeared. They were gone just as fast. The corners of his vision crawled with moving blurs he refused to look at. The freezing wind cut through his clothes, and beads of prismatic rainbows materialized on his glasses.

  When he reached the coffee shop, the sky had begun to brighten in the east. That deep shade of blue before sunrise, a sight he'd become very familiar with while working morning shifts. He dragged up the steps to the apartment. He stripped as soon as the door latched shut, and dropped his soaked clothes. Each garment slopped against the carpet, leaving a trail of wet rags littering his path to the bathroom.

  He cranked the shower as hot as he could tolerate, and stepped inside. Against his numb skin, the temperature was hard to judge. He was an iced slab of meat, thawing under a faucet. His stomach growled. His muscles cried out in pain. As his fingers warmed back to life, an ache emerged that grew stronger with each second. Maybe his cells had frozen to the point of bursting.

  He hung from the steel pipe running to the shower head, warming like a lizard on a hot rock. He turned the cold nob down further. Steam rose all around, but the inner trembling refused to stop. His phone rang from the other room. Probably his boss calling to find out where he was. He cut off the shower, and found a towel and fresh clothes, after which he dug the phone out of his soaking jeans, and called back.

  “Bob. I'm sorry I'm late. I'm on my way right now.”

  His foreign voice sounded like an attack, “Overslept? That’s first time for you.”

  “I know. I'm really sorry. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Okay, I see you in a while.”

  He receded into the misery of normal life. Even the beauty of a sunrise couldn’t offer him a way out of the dark pit he found himself in. Every step was a chore, his toes and fingers hurt more than the series of cuts and bruises all over the rest of his body. He limped on quick steps toward the gas station, despite not caring if he would arrive at all. The world never exactly glistened, but his new perspective struck a layer of distance between the rest of the universe and himself. Everything turned gray.

  He was detached. Cut off. Just like when Landers spoke of parallel dimensions and close possible worlds. The universe Scott knew remained, but he had stepped outside of it, and onto another plane. The clear sky made him wonder if the falling rain earlier that morning was a dream. Perhaps it was a sprinkler system. The clouds had long since vanished.

  As soon as he was through the door, he played the employee game, and layered a thousand apologies on his boss. It didn’t matter. He would be worm food soon enough, and nothing he did would have meaning. Bob told him not to worry about it, but he insisted on apologizing again. Because that’s what you do, right? You make apologies. You pretend to care even when you don’t. That’s how we play the game. The more Bob insisted that it was forgiven, the more Scott apologized.

  Bob’s voice always sounded harsh, even when he was being nice. Something about that pacific accent made every word sound like a shout, or maybe it was the volume. Bob disappeared into the office, and Scott began another shift in hell.

  He waded through the morning rush in a trance. Working in front of a cash register year after year, things became routine. Buttons pressed themselves, customer complaints didn’t matter, even if he was showered in their spit and appeared happily apologetic to them. He was the Zen master, capable of escaping his own body, able to burn alive without making a sound. The real world became a staged play, reality filled with monsters that only he could see. This was hell. Complete and utter isolation from everyone and every thing, even when they were standing right in front of him. Entry back to the physical realm had closed. His body was there, still attached somehow to his consciousness, but it was an empty husk he watched from a neighboring dimension.

  The first chance he got, he darted for the restroom to pop a handful of painkillers. He was out of tears, and even cleaning fountain drink spills couldn’t take his mind off of the fate which lay ahead. He wanted to feel numb. He cupped his hand under the sink, and slurped the nasty city water to lubricate his throat for the dry capsules. He stretched, and stood as erect as possible, waiting for a pop. A fire burned from his
left shoulder to the middle of his back, and his full-blown migraine was getting worse. He scooped more water from sink to face. Bags had grown under his eyes, and the whites held feathered wisps of crimson coloring, complemented with the dark red cheeks of dried tears, and a spreading acne infection.

  He jumped at a shriek that came from somewhere else in the store. He leaned back, supported by the bathroom door, and knocked his head gently against it. Loud, obnoxious laughter followed.

  “God. Damn. Customers.”

  He slammed the lever on the faucet closed and stormed out. More work, there was now a mess of sticky soda all over the floor by the machines, mixed with a coffee spill he must have missed earlier. The other clerk stood behind his register, chuckling with two large ladies. Scott stormed into the back hallway and found a mop behind the cooler. He pushed the rolling bucket toward the mess, and his phone rang on the way.

  “Scott,” said Dr. Jennings. “I thought we had an appointment this morning.”

  “I had to work. I must have forgot.”

  “Have you gotten any sleep? How are the hallucinations?”

  Hallucinations. What an ass. My doctor doesn’t understand anything. He doesn’t care about actually helping, just prescribing more pills. How much money could he make if the demon simply went away?

  His voice perked up dishonestly. “Been sleeping better! It wasn’t easy, but I’ve been forcing myself to go to bed at eleven. No more hallucinations. I’m actually feeling pretty awesome today.” Careful, Scott. Don’t overdo it.

  “Great. Stop by on Monday if you can, and check in with me.”

  “Sure will, doc.”

  He stuffed the phone in his pocket, and mumbled, “Asshat.”

  It was a Friday. That meant an avalanche of classes after he finished work, followed by a weekend of studying and homework mixed with an afternoon shift on Saturday. Sundays were for a crash after two back-to-back seventy-two hour days. At least, that's what he'd come to know as normal. By now, there was no telling what would come next in his trashed circadian cycle.