Funhouse

by Michael Bray

  It rained every day that week, but even so I went past the alleyway every day, sometimes three or four times a day to try and catch a glimpse of Benson, but he was never there. Even though I had nothing to go on, and nobody else seemed concerned with him, my curiosity grew into obsession and then into frustration with his constant no shows.

  I had almost given up on ever seeing him again when I decided to have one last ride past the alleyway. The bad weather had cleared, and it was one of those deep orange hued afternoons, where the shadows were long and the first stars are just starting to become visible. I rode towards the alleyway, my shadow elongated and racing ahead in front of me, and when I rounded the corner I drew a sharp breath.

  He was there, timeless as always sitting on his overturned crate and watching the world go by. He had a sly, secretive smile, and as I approached, he flicked his eyes towards me.

  “I understand you've been looking for me, sonny.” He said, the sly smile elongating on his thin lips.

  Excuses raced through my brain along with lies and denials, but I chose to tell the truth instead, because I needed to know what Benson was all about.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Why?” He asked as he watched a couple walk past with their dog.

  “I want to know what you did to Luke and Charlie. I came back, but you were never around.”

  “Oh, I’m always around.” He said with a dry chuckle. “I’m never too far away.”

  It was as if the rest of the world had melted away and it was just me, Benson and the alleyway. I said the words before I had really thought about them. Maybe because I had a feeling there were no secrets from Benson, and suspected that any bluffing would be pointless.

  “I think you killed Luke and Charlie.”

  The words seemed to hang in the air, and I waited for a denial, maybe an outburst or for him to threaten to tell my mother, and in some way that would have been better, because it would have been a normal reaction. Instead, he sighed, and turned his attention to the road. He watched as people walked back and forth and I stood in silence, waiting for whatever came next.

  “It’s not what you think.” He said, squinting up at me. The sun was low now, and the shadows were deep and cast his wrinkled skin into black scars.

  I wanted to ask him more, but quickly realised that real life wasn’t like it was in movies or on TV shows where the star always had a witty retort or comeback. I was too afraid to do anything but stand and stare. He smiled, but it was wistful, and somehow tired.

  “You couldn’t imagine how much of a burden it is.” He said, letting out another deep sigh. “It just has to be done.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” I asked, dreading the answer, but needing to know all the same.

  He looked me up and down, his eyes dark and probing. I felt invaded, and his gaze came to rest on my shadow. He frowned, sniffed the air, and tapped his fingers on his tattered trouser leg.

  “No. No I’m not. You're one of the good ones.”

  “Charlie and Luke…?”

  He looked at me, and whatever darkness that had been in his eyes when he looked at my shadow was gone. He was the same tired old man that everyone else saw.

  “They had to go son. Best to catch them early.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “Bad people. Bad, bad people.” He muttered, and turned his gaze back to the street as everyone else went about their business around them.

  “Luke was my friend, he wasn’t bad.”

  “Bad, bad, bad, bad.” He muttered, scratching at his matted hair, which stuck up at the back like Einstein.

  “I have to tell the police.” I said.

  He looked at me and grimaced, the expression horrific due to his absence of teeth.

  “If I show you why, will you promise not to tell?”

  I could see that he was upset, and that made me curious.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.” He said simply. “As long as you see for yourself.”

  “Then show me.” I said before I could change my mind.

  He nodded, and then he did it.

  He closed his eyes and exhaled, the breath seeming to last for an eternity, then he opened them and breathed in. My shadow, deep and rich as it lay across the ground was drawn up towards his mouth. I was frozen, watching as he sucked it in, and like a glass his eyes started to fill with opaque from bottom to top as he took it in.

  It happened instantly. It wasn’t a flashback, or a series of images, but suddenly I knew. I understood everything. I saw snatches of images which punctuated the stream of knowledge passed to me from Benson.

  I saw Luke as the friend I knew, smiling and perched on his bike, only his shadow was warped and distorted, shimmering on the ground next to my perfectly normal one. I saw him as a man, and what would have become of him. How he would become a prolific and violent serial killer of children and women.

  I saw Charlie, and like Luke, his shadow was distorted and broken, and then I understood. Because as harmless as he was as a child, as a man, Charlie would get into weapons trading with Middle Eastern countries, and supply them with a suitcase nuclear bomb that would go on to be used to devastating effect in the city of Chicago. Or at least it would have if Benson hadn’t stopped him.

  Benson was moaning, and bloody tears rolled down his cheeks. The world went on around me, but it was muted and hollow as if I were underwater. Benson balled his fists and began to tremble, then opened his mouth. My shadow filtered back out and reattached itself to my feet, streaming from him like billowing black smoke. His eyes returned to their normal colour, and as they did, the connection between us was severed, and the world came back to its usual vibrancy.

  He wiped away the bloody tears, and looked at me. He seemed somehow even older, and his efforts had obviously exhausted him.

  “Do you understand now boy?” He whispered, still trying to catch his breath.

  “You can see them can’t you Mr Benson?” I croaked. “The bad people. But you see them before they are bad. You see it in their shadows.”

  He nodded. “The shadow and the soul are connected. People think that they are born into this world with a clean slate, but it’s not like that. Bad people are born bad.”

  “Are you some kind of angel?” I asked him, and despite his exhaustion, he found it in himself to chuckle.

  “No, not exactly. I was born in Boston actually.”

  “Then how?” I trailed off, and stared down at my shadow which just a few minutes ago had been ingested by the withered old man in front of me.

  “I don’t know the how’s or why's.” He said with a shrug. “I didn’t get the power until I was in my early forties. Fell off a ladder when I was painting the house and banged my head on the concrete. Knocked myself out cold. When I woke up, I saw my neighbour who had come to help me and see if I was okay. His shadow was tainted, all fuzzy and jittery. Course, I didn’t know what it meant at the time. I thought it was just a concussion, and didn’t give it much thought. A couple of years later he was all over the news. Serial killer. But by then I was starting to suspect what had happened to me.”

  I nodded, letting him go back and remember and tell his story.

  “First time I took a shadow was nineteen sixty six. I don’t know how I knew to do it, I just did. I knew how and I knew why. But whatever it was that showed me what to do, didn’t tell me how to live with the guilt. And you better believe it boy, it’s hard to sit down to eat dinner with your family when you have just condemned a soul to death.”

  “But it’s only bad people, isn’t it?” I whispered.

  “Good or bad they are still people. And even bad people might still have good qualities.”

  “How many…” I muttered, as he looked off into the distance.

  “I don’t know. Thousands I expect. One thing I can tell you is that the guilt doesn’t get any easier to live with. When a man can’t look his family in the eye, it’s time to stop b
urdening them.”

  “That’s why you moved out of your house, isn’t it?” I said.

  He nodded, and I noticed that his hands were shaking.

  “Are you okay Mr Benson?”

  “I will be. It takes a lot out of me these days. Every shadow I take eats a little bit of me. That’s the way it is. That’s the rules. Sugar helps. That’s why I asked you to go for lemonade, for after I took your friends shadow.”

  I had half a bar of chocolate in my jacket, and I offered it to Benson. He took it gratefully, and broke off a piece. He popped it in its mouth and we were silent. He watched the people, looking for the bad ones. Even though I couldn’t see what he did, I looked anyway.

  “Does it hurt them, when they go I mean?”

  Benson shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope not. I know they don’t feel me taking the shadow, and they never die right away. It’s always later. I like to tell myself that there is no pain, but I’m only guessing.”

  “The papers said Luke went in his sleep and wouldn’t have felt a thing. Same with Charlie.”

  Benson nodded, popping another piece of chocolate into his mouth.

  “Well, that’s something I guess.” He muttered, taking a long hard look at a young woman’s shadow as she walked across the other side of the street.

  “Bad one?” I asked, partly dreading the answer.

  “No.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s why you only ever come out at this time isn’t it Mr. Benson? When it’s sunny and the shadows are easy to see.”

  He nodded.

  “Makes my work easier. The older I get, the harder it is to function. I don’t suppose I’m long for this world son. Even though people here see me as some crazy bum, I've worked hard at trying to make the world a better place. Only thing is, there are too many bad ones now. Way more bad than good. There is only so much I can do.”

  “Are there others like you, Mr Benson?”

  “I don’t know son.” He sighed. “I hope so. I hope there is an entire army of them, because if not, the world is in trouble. I’m working as hard as I can, but this old body of mine is running out of steam.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked him.

  “That’s up to you. If you want to go to the police or repeat what I have told you, I can’t stop you. But I know your shadow, and I believe what it tells me.”

  “That I’m one of the good ones?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  The orange of the sunset had turned to red, and day was starting to become night.

  “I won’t tell anyone.” I said, watching as he finished the last of the chocolate. “I think you're doing a good thing Mr Benson. I think you're one of the good ones too.”

  “Thank you, I only hope you're right.”

  I turned my bike around, and readied to set off.

  “Will I see you again Mr Benson?”

  “I don’t know.” He said with a shrug. “You know where I’ll be, for as long as I’m able. As soon as I know it’s the end, I’ll go someplace quiet and end it my own way.”

  I nodded, and we shared a look that was a bond greater than any friendship or relationship that I have experienced since.

  “Good luck Mr Benson.”

  “Thank you for understanding. And for the chocolate.” He said quietly. I started to ride away when he called after me. I turned on my bike, and once again he was just a withered, broken old man.

  “Keep being one of the good ones.” He said, and then turned back to the road and the people.

  I never spoke to Benson again after that day, although I did see him a few times, always on that overturned crate, always at that same time of day when the shadows were strong and easy to spot. I think it was around six months later when he stopped showing up. I guessed he had made good on his promise, and found himself a nice quiet place to finally get his peace. I hope he went to a better place, and that his service to our species was well served. I remember my conversation with him, and our hope that there were others out there like him, and that they were doing all they could to protect the rest of us. But the more horror I see in the news, the more terrible things that I see happen, the more certain I am, that Benson was one of a kind. There is one thing for sure though, without him, the world is a much worse place.

  I never told anyone about Benson, not until now, but I did heed his advice. I have tried to be one of the good ones. I have a beautiful wife and three amazing children who I’m trying to bring up as best I can. As I write this, I’m watching them playing outside in the garden. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m incredibly grateful for what I have. My children’s shadows dance in tandem with them, and I can only hope that they are pure and untainted, and that they will grow up to be one of the good ones, just like Benson was.

  SICK DAY

  The cat was on the kitchen counter, and even from across the room, Mannering knew it was dead. He stared at it, quite unable to fathom why it was there, but the cat offered no answers, and its glassy green eyes only stared back at him. Beside the dead cat were the blue marigolds that Alice used when she washed the dishes. They were pocked with marks and scratches, just like the ones a struggling cat might make if someone were trying to kill it.

  He realised that he was holding his breath, and exhaled, unable to tear his eyes away from the dead animal, which was the only blemish in the otherwise pristine kitchen where just a couple of hours ago he had eaten breakfast and headed off to work.

  The house was quiet, and he listened to the silence, which weighed like a physical thing as he tried to make sense of what was going on. He could just about hear the constant metronome ticking of the grandfather clock in the sitting room and the dull hum of the fridge freezer, but other than that, the house was completely devoid of sound.

  It was then that he asked himself a new question.

  Where was his wife?

  He had been married to Alice for twenty one years, and their union had been happy. The house had been long since bought and paid for, and the two of them were content to live a quiet life ruled by routine and very defined roles. He went out to work, whilst Alice looked after the house. That was the way it had always been.

  It was only now as he stood in his kitchen, that he started to ask himself what his wife actually did all day when he went out to work.

  “Alice?” He said, his throat dry as he croaked his wife’s name.

  Silence.

  He wondered where she could be. She didn’t drive, and even if she did, he had taken the car to work that morning anyway. He supposed she could have been over at Betsy’s, had he not known that she was visiting her sister for the next two weeks.

  “Alice?” He repeated, this time finding the courage to say it just a little louder.

  Still without reply, he walked into the sitting room, his heart fluttering as wildly as his mind raced with ideas, speculation and possibilities, none of which explained the dead cat in the kitchen. It was then that his curiosity morphed into fear.

  The room was perfectly normal, perfectly clean and tidy and as it had been that morning, apart from the string of dead blackbirds on the wall. There were three of them strung across the chimney breast. They had been threaded through the neck and hung in the same way that they hung their Christmas cards, the scrawny bodies hanging limp and broken as Mannering stared at them.

  He opened his mouth and then snapped it closed. He had intended to call out to his wife again, but then had decided against it, because now in light of everything, he wasn’t so sure he wanted her to know he was here. He felt almost like an intruder, like he had transgressed on some secret ritual meant for her eyes only. He thought about how long this could have been happening. How many of those Monday to Friday eight to six shifts had been consumed by this…whatever it was.

  As he considered that idea, other things started to fall into place, things which up until then, hadn’t registered. The way she always insisted he call before he left the office. He had always assumed it was just
something she did to know that he was coming home, but now he wondered if it was to give her time to hide away her… displays. The more he considered it, the more he thought it could be a valid point. It was only just after eleven in the morning, and he should be at work. It was her time, time which he shouldn’t be encroaching on. If only the office hadn’t had a power outage and sent everyone home, then he would still be there and not a witness to the disturbing happenings in his house. Because it had been both sudden and a situation out of the ordinary, he hadn’t called home and now he had discovered… whatever it was that he had discovered. The disturbing display had also made him consider the fact that – as ashamed as he was to admit it - he knew nothing about what his wife did with her spare time. Nothing at all. As far he knew she had no hobbies, no real friends. Her entire life, as he knew it, was spent within these four walls keeping their home clean and tidy and running smoothly.

  Could that be it? Could the years of isolation and loneliness have broken something in Alice’s mind to make her believe that such repulsive things as killing animals was acceptable? He couldn’t bear to think about it anymore, and pushed the idea to the back of his mind, knowing that he needed everything to rationalise and deal with the unique and frightening situation at hand. Once again, he asked himself just where Alice was, and in the same instant, the floodgates opened and the answer popped into his mind.

  He didn’t rush, as part of him didn’t want to prove his suspicions right. Instead, he walked back to the kitchen, giving the dead cat a wide berth as he walked to the window and looked out into the garden.

  Alice’s greenhouse.

  He had built it for her when she expressed an interest in growing their own vegetables, something which she had done for a while and then seemed to lose all enthusiasm for. The greenhouse had remained unused since, its windows grimy and fogged. Ghosts of overgrown plants pressed against the glass, and Mannering was filled with such an intense dread that he had to cling to the edge of the sink.

  He had never set foot in that greenhouse, and knew that if he was to find Alice, then that is where she would be. How he knew that, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it came with the absolute knowledge you could have for a person over time, although he hadn’t seen this particular situation coming, so all bets were off