Broken Shadows

by Tim Waggoner

  Carl combed his hair so it would dry in place, then brushed his teeth. When he was finished, he took his electric razor from the medicine cabinet and began shaving. After all, he had to look good for his dinner meeting tonight.

  Carl had never told anyone that he had seen smoke rising from the neighbors’ house that day—not his parents, not his sister, not even his wife. For a few years after the fire, he had felt guilty for not having done anything to help, but he had long ago made his peace with the incident. After all, he had only been a confused boy of ten. Yes, it was horrible what had happened to Jane and Kenny, but he hadn’t started the fire, he hadn’t told his neighbors not to install smoke alarms, he hadn’t forced them to stay in a smoke-filled house when they should’ve gotten the hell out. All he had done was what his father had told him to do.

  Carl finished shaving, smeared some aftershave on his face, then went into the master bedroom to get dressed. A T-shirt and sweats would have been good enough for him to bum around in until it was time to leave for dinner, but he decided to put on a flannel shirt and jeans. Since he had to work on his presentation today, he didn’t want to be too relaxed.

  Carl had minded his own business ever since the fire, over twenty years now, and with each passing year, he became more convinced of the wisdom of his father’s words. Meddling in other people’s affairs just led to mix-ups and resentments at best, and violent confrontations and lawsuits at worst. If a person wanted to help his fellow man, better to do it his way, by working for a company that provided a service that helped people help themselves. Pro-Tech’s security systems were some of the best in the industry. If Kenny and Jane had been customers (not that such a sophisticated system existed back then, but just suppose), an alarm would’ve gone off at the first hint of smoke and the system’s computer would’ve automatically alerted the fire department.

  Maybe Carl hadn’t done anything to help his neighbors twenty years ago, but he’d helped hundreds of people since through his job, and he figured that had to balance the scales somewhat.

  Right?

  * * *

  Breath furnace-hot in his ear, the air around him twisted into shimmering waves by the heat. The sharp-rank smell of his hair beginning to smolder as he mulls over his answer.

  Truth or dare? Truth…or…dare?

  * * *

  The support materials for the new security system he needed to go over lay on the dining table, stacked neatly, right where he’d left them last night. All he needed to do now was sit down and start going over them.

  But he hesitated. Was the door of the house across the street still open? He glanced at his watch. It had been forty-five minutes since he stepped into the shower. Surely the door was closed by now. Whoever lived there had probably just left it open for a couple minutes; maybe they’d been on their way out, realized they’d forgotten something, and dashed back inside to get it. Carl hadn’t watched long enough to see them come back out and close the door, that’s all.

  There was no car in the driveway and none parked in the front of the house. You’ve never seen anyone enter or leave the place, remember? Besides, who’d leave their door open in February?

  Then maybe whoever lived there (and someone did live there: there were lights on at night sometimes, and the lawn was kept mowed) had forgotten to shut the door tight when they left his morning, and the wind blew it open.

  Blew it open just a couple inches?

  Besides, it didn’t matter why the damn door had been opened, because by now another of his neighbors had doubtless noticed it, maybe while they were leaving their own houses or shoveling snow off their driveways. They’d either gone over and closed the door themselves or, if they’d didn’t feel comfortable trespassing, even in a good cause, they’d phoned the police to have them come take a look. It wouldn’t have been long before a cruiser came by, a few minutes at most, and parked in front of the house. Two officers would’ve gotten out of their vehicle and approached the house cautiously (maybe even with guns drawn if they were extra-cautious), and gone in to check out the situation. Finding nothing (Carl presumed), they’d have departed, locking the door from the inside and closing it behind them.

  However the hell it had happened, he was confident of one thing: the door was closed.

  So go take a look.

  Carl turned in the direction of the living room, but he didn’t take a step toward it—and the picture window that provided such a good view (too damn good a view!) of the house across the street.

  Go look, dammit. You know you won’t be able to concentrate on your work until you do.

  But…that wouldn’t be minding his own business. His business was getting ready for tonight’s meeting with Anderson, and that was all.

  Still, he didn’t sit down, didn’t pick up the first technical manual, didn’t start to read. He kept looking toward the living room.

  “Screw it.”

  A dozen steps later, he was standing at the picture window, looking out. The sun was shining more brightly than the last time he’d looked, but not hot enough it seemed to do anything about the snow on his driveway. Across the street at Barefoot Smoker’s house, the driveway was clear, though. He wondered if she’d suffered the indignity of putting on footwear to do the driveway or if she’d made one of her kids do the work.

  Quit stalling. LOOK.

  He looked.

  The door was still open, maybe even wider than before by a couple inches. But not wide enough for him to make out any details of what was inside. All that he could see between the edge of the door and the jamb was darkness.

  He shivered then, but told himself that it was due to the cold radiating through the window glass. He’d been meaning to put in storm windows, but he’d never gotten around to it. Next week for sure.

  So…the door was still open. Big deal. His curiosity had been satisfied, now he should be able to get to work. But he didn’t leave the window.

  Whoever had shoveled Barefoot Smoker’s driveway had to have noticed the open door of the house next to them. There was no way they couldn’t have! But the door was still open, wasn’t it, even more than before, if only by a few inches.

  Maybe no one else has noticed the door’s open because no one else sees it. Only you.

  “Bullshit.” But he shivered again, more violently than before. Then, though it was far harder than he ever could have imagined, he tore himself away from the window and walked back to the dining room and the work that awaited him there.

  * * *

  An hour later, Carl was standing in his driveway, shoveling snow. No matter how hard he’d tried, he’d been unable to concentrate on the technical manuals and sales material he’d brought home from work. Frustrated, he’d eventually given up and started making lunch, but halfway through preparing a grilled-cheese sandwich, he’d realized he didn’t have an appetite, so he’d switched off the stove and dumped the half-cooked mass of bread and cheese into the disposal.

  Now he was outside, wearing a thick fleece coat, gloves, and boots against the cold. The temperature wasn’t too bad, but his ears were starting to sting, and he wished he’d gotten a hat out of the front closet. But he didn’t go back inside to fetch one, opting instead to tough it out.

  He started at the garage, using the shovel like a plow to push the snow to one side of the driveway. Only a couple of inches had fallen overnight, and the snow was light and powdery, easily moved. He made good progress, and soon he was halfway down the driveway, then three quarters, then he was almost finished. The entire time he worked, he didn’t so much as glance at the house across the street, but he didn’t need to. He could feel the open doorway, feel the sliver of darkness, almost as if it were alive and watching him work…watching and waiting to see what he’d do next.

  One last push of snow, and he was done. He stopped and leaned on the shovel handle, resting for a moment, though he wasn’t really tired. Then, with a deliberate casualness that wouldn’t have fooled anyone, he turned to look at the house.
>
  His breath caught in his throat.

  The house across the street, like most in this neighborhood, including Carl’s, was a Cape Cod: A-frame, orange brick, gray trim, gray shutters. At least, that’s what it was supposed to look like, what it had looked like when he’d stood in his living room, staring at it through the picture window.

  But now…now it was a ranch-style house, red brick, white shutters, green roof. He hadn’t seen that house for over twenty years, but he knew it instantly. It was Kenny and Jane’s, his next-door neighbors when he was a kid. Though the house had changed its appearance, one very important thing remained the same—the front door was still open, more than halfway now, the darkness inside just as impenetrable as before.

  It wasn’t possible, of course. He knew he was most likely hallucinating, that the stress of his job had finally taken its toll on him. Wasn’t Kate always telling him he needed to slow down, work less, rest more? He should go inside, lie down, call Kate at her mother’s, or better yet, call a doctor. Or maybe he should just get in his car, drive straight to the nearest emergency room and let them inject him with a vein full of Thorazine.

  But he didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he put down his shovel and started walking across the street toward a ranch house that only an hour earlier had been a Cape Cod—because now the house, the door, and whatever lay inside was very much his business.

  He reached the sidewalk, stepped up onto it, and continued into the yard, leaving boot prints in the snow behind him. Halfway across the lawn, he detected the faint odor of ashes and burnt wood, and by the time he reached the porch, the smell had become overpowering. It was so bad his eyes began to water, his sinuses ached, and his throat felt like it was swelling shut. But he didn’t stop.

  He stepped onto the porch and walked up to the door. He hesitated there for what seemed a long, long time before finally pushing the door all the way open with a single gloved hand and going inside.

  * * *

  “You have only to answer one question.” Her voice pops and hisses like burning wood. “Did you keep silent out of fear or out of spite?”

  Carl doesn’t say anything. Sweat beads ooze from the skin on his forehead, but they evaporate before they can trickle down his face. He’s surrounded by charred ruins, blackened objects that might once have been furniture—chairs, coffee table, couch, along with pieces of wall, fallen ceiling beams, scorched carpet…and of course, Them.

  It’s so hard to think. So very hard.

  “Truth or dare, Carl.” Her whisper is hissing steam. “Truth-or-dare.”

  In the end, he cannot answer, and their laughter crackles around him like flame.

  * * *

  “Mom-mee, I have to go!”

  Michael sneered at his sister. “You should’ve gone before we left McDonald’s.”

  “That was over an hour ago! I didn’t have to go then!”

  “We’ll be inside in just a minute, sweetie.” Kate struggled to keep the irritation she felt out of her voice. Michael and Jennifer usually got along well enough, but after several hours on the highway, they were bickering just to have something to do. She unlocked the front door and the kids pushed past her and hurried inside.

  There was a sudden silence, and then Michael said, “Mom?”

  Something about the tone of his voice sent a chill rippling along her spine. She stepped inside quickly and closed the door behind her.

  Carl sat on the living room couch, staring at a blank TV screen. He looked like he had just come from outside: he had on his winter coat, boots, and gloves. His face was slightly sunken, eyes bloodshot, the skin beneath puffy and discolored. She wondered if he had slept at all last night. But his haggard appearance wasn’t the worst of it. His clothes were covered with blackened spots, as if they’d been singed, and he smelled of smoke.

  Her first thought was that there had been some sort of accident, a fire, maybe. She wanted to go to him, sit on the couch beside him, ask him what was wrong, but there was something about the blank expression on his face, his cold stare, that made her step forward and put her hands on her children’s shoulders and pull them close to her.

  Carl turned to look at them and blinked several times, as if he’d just become aware of their presence.

  “I couldn’t answer them.” His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “I wanted to, but I…I couldn’t.” A tear fell from his eye, tracing a wet, clean line on his soot-smeared cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  He stood and Tina saw that in his right gloved hand he held a butcher knife.

  Carl gave his family a sorrowful look as he started toward them.

  “I had to take the dare.”

  * * *

  Across the street, the door of the Cape Cod slowly swung closed and locked with a final, satisfied snick!

  EXTERN

  Inspired by Alan M. Clark’s painting,

  The Pain Doctors of Suture Self General

  “Mr. Dermot, your pancreas, please.” Doctor Feculent held out his discolored hand with its cracked, elongated nails and scowled impatiently.

  Dermot was uncomfortably aware of all the other externs looking at him, more than a few grinning at his predicament. They all stood around a bed of rusty razor blades upon which rested the moaning, writhing form of something which might once have been human, but then again, might not.

  It was the moaning that had tripped Dermot up. Doctor Feculent had asked him whether the patient was crying out in pleasure or pain. Dermot, unable to tell, had taken a wild guess and said pain. Obviously the wrong answer, or Doctor Feculent wouldn’t be demanding his pancreas.

  Dermot had no choice. Burning with shame and anger, but determined not to show it, he reached toward the moist, quivering mass of organs which hung from the gaping, bloodless cavity which had once been his chest and abdomen, slid his hand past his liver, under his stomach and grasped the slippery prize that Doctor Feculent demanded as the price of Dermot’s ignorance. He took a firm grip and pulled.

  His pancreas came free with a wet tearing sound like overcooked chicken meat falling off the bone. He held the organ out to Doctor Feculent. The doctor, a tiny, gnarled gray troll of a man with wisps of shadow where his legs should have been, snatched the pancreas away from Dermot. He popped the organ into his mouth—needing to unhinge his small jaw in order to accomplish this task—and swallowed. His jaw clicked back into place and, without so much as a last look at Dermot (let alone any comment on the flavor of his pancreas, Dermot thought sourly), he turned to another extern.

  “Ms. Lavinia, can you tell us whether this patient—” One of Doctor Feculent’s shadow-wisps solidified long enough for him to kick the bed, the motion setting the bloody, shredded creature upon it to moaning even louder— “is expressing pleasure or pain?”

  Lavinia smiled, displaying an enticing array of yellowed teeth jammed into sore, bleeding gums. “Pleasure, of course. But pleasure so intense that it might as well be pain.”

  Doctor Feculent nodded, pleased. “Precisely right, my dear.”

  Lavinia shrugged, the motion setting her exposed organs to bobbling. “Nothing to it, Doctor.” She gave Dermot a sideways glance with her delectably bloodshot eyes. “All one has to do is listen.”

  * * *

  Dermot made it through the rest of rounds without losing any more organs, which was good, because after several weeks of training under the meticulous and exacting Doctor Feculent, he didn’t have many to spare.

  When he’d first been accepted to study at the facility, he’d been thrilled and determined to work as long and hard as it took to become a doctor. And he’d passed his first test as an extern—conducting his own evisceration, sans anesthetic and instruments—with ease. He had no trouble with the mechanics of the rather specialized form of medicine practiced at the facility. But the subtleties continually eluded him. And it was the subtleties, Doctor Feculent had pointed out to him on more than one occasion after polishing off one of Dermot’s soft parts, that made a
n ordinary doctor a great doctor.

  And Dermot was determined to be a great doctor. No matter what the cost.

  When Doctor Feculent had gone on to his other duties, and Dermot’s fellow externs—including that maddening bitch, Lavinia—were off to their disparate assignments, he returned to the scene of his humiliation.

  The room was empty, save for the rickety bed upon which the bleeding, scarred and scabbed mound of flesh wiggled. Dermot could hear the sound of its thick skin parting and peeling away as it writhed against the dulled, red-brown flaking metal of the rusty razor blades. He could smell the coppery tang of fresh blood overlaying the flat, rank stench of old blood. Much old blood. He heard the soft keening sounds that drifted forth from what was left of the patient’s mouth and throat.

  He had no trouble detecting these details. They were completely objective: they existed, his senses perceived them, and that was that. But to tell what the patient was actually feeling…

  He heard Lavinia’s smug voice. All one has to do is listen.

  He wished she were here so he could tear out her vocal chords with his teeth. But instead of swallowing her flesh, he swallowed his pride, and did as she had suggested. He closed his eyes, bent all his considerable intelligence and will to the task, and listened.