Shifter

by John Sharp

  ****

  “That was fun,” my shadow says, blending into the various shades of darkness around me as I exit the asylum. I smile but don’t respond. Although annoying, my shadow can be helpful if it suits him, or if he’s bored. Only partially existing on this plane of reality, like myself, he can manipulate a few small objects before tiring. More often than not he will just ignore me and do whatever he wants.

  I really wish I could drive, but despite being seventeen and passing every test they throw at me, the state simply won’t allow a person with my mental condition to drive. They are probably afraid that I’ll see a large bug or something and swerve into an oncoming car. A valid concern. Well, at least there is plenty of entertainment as I walk home.

  As I continue a terrified orange and white puff ball zooms past me as my shadow chases a cat up a large willow tree. Bad choice there, kitty. A rough patch of bark rapidly moves on the trunk, intercepting the cat. With the speed of a mongoose the cat is sucked into the tree, leaving only enough time for a quick yowl of pain and a single tuft of orange fur floating in the wind. My shadow finds the cat’s death hilarious, laughing as the tree belches. I give the tree a wide birth.

  A rumbling fills the street as a horde of creatures pursue a large stick like man who stands nearly ten feet tall, yet is skinnier than I am. Naked with strangely long limbs and no outward signs of gender, it races down the street with long frantic strides, trying to escape its pursuers. The creatures chasing him are ones I’ve seen before, lots in times in fact. They seem to be prodigious hunters in one of the other worlds. Moving more swiftly than most natural land animals, they have four strong legs, allowing incredible bursts of speed as they weave in and out of obstacles in the other world, cutting off the stick man’s escape routes. They have a large upraised hump of tan, hairless flesh on their backs like an immense shark fin that wobbles slightly as they run. It appears to be more cartilage than bone, with hundreds of gold rimmed eyes along its surface. This must give them a complete field of vision and from the speed that those eyes dart around they must be excellent at tracking prey. Covered in soft gray fur, except the ridge on their backs they have no eyes on their bony heads, but who needs them when your back is covered in them? But they do have large mouths filled with several rows of sharp, hook-like teeth, more for seizing prey than scissoring flesh. These vicious traits are offset by the long, fluffy gray squirrel tail each of them have. I call them watchers.

  I watch as they speed past me, moving through cars and trees like they aren’t even there. Luckily for me they don’t exist on my plane of reality but somewhere else altogether, in a secret place I can see partially into. They do avoid the willow tree though, it must exist both here and there.

  Having closed the distance between them and the stick man, the nearest one leaps in a single great bound, its neck and head snaps out and clamps onto the man’s leg. With a guttural cry of pain the stick man falls to his knees and is quickly covered in watchers. Vicious sounds of tearing flesh and splashes of crimson blood dominate the scene. The stick man is dead within seconds. Only the feasting remains, their tails swishing in excitement. I just keep on walking and try not to think about it. I’ve seen the show before.

  As I start to move away something new happens as one of the Watchers pauses, looking directly at me. I can sense a change as a vast intelligence fills its features, like a vicious dog spontaneously developing Einstein’s IQ. I freeze …Can it see me?

  I’m usually invisible to creatures so far removed from my reality. They shouldn’t be aware of me at all. It takes a single step toward me and I feel real fear for the first time. What is going on?

  My shadow suddenly rears up behind the looming watcher, smothering it like an inky blanket woven from the darkness of the void. A few frantic struggles and then my shadow stands upright. The watcher is simply gone, as if it had never been there. Growling, the other watchers regard my shadow warily, and back away slowly, their eyes darting around as if unsure of what to do. With a lunge my shadow covers two more watchers in his darkness and the others flee. Well, that was new. I’ve never seen my shadow kill before. I’ll have to ask him about it later.

  I make it home by six and my mom is still out; getting wasted, no doubt. I walk in the door and am immediately bombarded by a rancid odor. It smells like the aftermath of an all-night kegger. House cleaning has never been high on my mother’s to-do list, but this is bad even for her. The entire place, minus my bedroom, looks like a dumping ground. Empty pizza boxes and crumpled beer cans litter the floor and I have a hard time not stepping in anything sticky. The only thing not covered in garbage is the worn cloth couch and that has other unmentionables on it. Stains of various bodily fluids decorate the entire surface like a Jackson Pollack painting.

  My stomach grumbling, I carefully wade through the debris to the refrigerator hoping to find something edible. Small chance of that, but miracles do happen. A large, freshly-dried puddle of vomit is in front of the stove. Chunks of partially digested food could be seen and it reminded me of spilled split pea soup. Strangely it looks like someone had dug through it to collect certain pieces. Was it Whisper?

  At that moment Whisper comes trotting up to me, a large struggling cockroach clamped in his mouth. Whisper is a pure white ferret, sleek and beautiful. He’s the size of a large cat and has startling deep blue eyes. Crunching down on the bug Whisper drops it at my feet, his long whiskers twitching as he pushes the bug toward me with his small pink nose and then rubs against my leg.

  “Welcome home, Shifter. I have tried to keep the vermin at bay in your absence,” Whisper says in a soft, purring tone. He’s always called me that, ever since I rescued him.

  Two years ago I was walking home from school and I stumbled across a ghastly sight. A massive white ferret, easily the size of a fully loaded semi truck was being swarmed by a group of watchers. Its bright, snow white fur was stained with crimson in at least a dozen different spots as it continued to fend off the pack. Curling in on himself the ferret lashed out with lighting quick strikes to any watcher that was too slow to evade. Yet for every watcher killed another one took its place, taking bites out of the ferret. Chewing on their bits of stolen flesh, blood soaking into the gray fur around their mouths they circled around the ferret looking for another tasty bite.

  Even as I watched, the ferret’s movements became slower as it grew weaker from blood loss and pain. My shadow was content to watch, laughing and clapping at every new splash of blood and growl of pain. Saddened by this beautiful creature’s impending demise, I strode through the watchers, who didn’t even feel my passage, laying my hand on the ferret’s bloody flank. The act was instinctive with no real thought on my part. At first I was surprised that my hand didn’t just pass through the ferret since he was so far into that other world, but I could feel his soft fur beneath my palm. As the watchers closed in for the kill, I tried something I’ve never attempted before. Getting an iron grip on his fur, I pulled him. I didn’t physically pull him like pulling a child out of harm’s way, instead I dragged him across realities. It took less than a second for me to drag the ferret from his reality into mine and as I did so he changed. Instead of a dying massive white ferret that easily outweighed me by several tons, I held a small cat size ferret dying in my arms. The watchers snarled and snapped at each other, confused about where the big ass dying ferret went.

  I took him to a nearby vet, which refused to help until I reminded them who I was. They rightly decided that treating a ferret was better than dealing with the local nut job. All patched up they told me to take my rodent and get the hell out. Over the next few weeks I nursed him back to health and named him Whisper. My shadow wanted to flush him down the toilet or stick in him in the microwave, but I decided to keep him as a pet. After several weeks of nonstop chitterling from Whisper, I thought he might be trying to communicate, but I had completely pulled him into h
uman reality so his abilities were limited, like my shadow. Experimenting I pushed him slightly out of sync with the human world, more to my level of reality. To my surprise he really could talk! He was still close enough to the human world for everyone to see but only I could hear him. Everyone thought he was just a dumb animal instead of becoming my only friend.

  The encounter with Whisper taught me much about the other world and mine. I envision the world of humans as the surface of a vast, endless ocean. The other worlds are distinct, yet intertwined levels going all the way down to the sea floor. I stand ankle deep in the water while the rest of mankind walks on the surface without even getting their shoes wet. Those on the surface have no idea that there are hidden depths just below their feet. Those below are just as oblivious to the existence of humans, except for a few that exist across multiple worlds like that murderous willow tree. Some can even shift through the worlds, staying for a brief time in different realities like the face that ate my neighbor. I seem to be able to permanently bring others across like Whisper, and stabilize them in any level of reality I wish. I’m guessing that’s why Whisper calls me Shifter.

  “How nice,” says my shadow, melding into the dark areas around us so even I can’t locate him. “Tell me rat, did you chase down that fearsome beast before or after you spent all day licking your balls?”

  “Silence, corrupt shade of a horse’s ass! I need no lecture form the likes of you!” Whisper hisses back.

  I smile. My shadow and Whisper often get into some really amusing slang matches. My smile fades as I look down at the puddle of vomit again.

  “Whisper, did you eat something from this?” I ask, gesturing toward the puddle. Although intelligent, he still retains some animal behavior, and he looks malnourished.

  My shadow cackles, “Yes rat, perhaps as an after afternoon snack? Did all those bugs make you thirsty? Did you drink from the toilet as well?”

  We both ignore my shadow. “No Shifter, it was your mother.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “More annoying men came about the dead man and you. So she rushed in here and took a bag full of round bugs and swallowed them all. After they left she brought them back up and collected them,” Whisper says, obviously confused by this strange behavior. No doubt the “bugs” he is referring to were some type of drug. She has been taking some hard-core street drugs for a while now. I really need to leave this place.

  Scooping up Whisper I place him on my shoulder. He curls around my neck nuzzling his face against mine, his soft fur giving me comfort. Grabbing a jar of pickles and some sandwich meat I head to my room, locking the door behind me. My shadow follows us in, sliding under the door like insubstantial nothingness. My room, unlike the rest of the apartment, is spotlessly clean. Perhaps in some strange type of rebellion I feel the need to keep my living area pristine since I spend so much time in here. The walls are covered in posters from all my favorite bands ranging from Metallica to the Beatles. I love all music. The only spot with nothing on it is the white ceiling, and even then, model airplanes and a reconstruction of the solar system dangle above me. I have a small, single bed in the corner and a computer desk with an old but functional laptop on it. Connected to the computer is an equally old stereo system to play my music. Besides the enjoyment I get from it, it also helps to drown out my mother’s less savory activities. A single worn dresser near the door along with a closet filled with various trinkets comprises my worldly belongings.

  Flopping down on the bed I open the package of meat, giving the first slice to Whisper. No doubt this is the best meal he has had since I was taken. Tomorrow is Saturday it might be nice to take him to the park. That thought reminds me of the walk home. What about those watchers? And more importantly, what about my shadow?

  Looking for him I find him on the ceiling, hiding in the shadow of the planets above. I am about to ask him about the watchers, when a loud bang interrupts my thought process. “Jerry! Get out here you crazy little shit!”

  Oh great, Mother is home.