Shadow People

by Bevill, C. L.

  The foreseeable comparison of the two Penelopes was inevitable to Will and his manner of thinking. One Penelope was virtuous, the stuff of legends. The other was a common thief. The name that she had didn’t jive with what Will perceived as the truth. There were similarities, but the reasons behind the similarities showed the 180? difference. The thief was strong. She was intelligent and able to use the situation to her best advantage. She was also brave, and Will admired that. But she was ultimately a thief. And greed for greed’s sake was not to be admired.

  The street upon which Penelope Quick lived bore the remnants of large houses surrounded by a larger industrial area. The lane was full of older vehicles in all shapes and styles. Parking was limited, and the house itself had clearly been transformed into a boarding house. He did a quick drive-by and found no VW Jetta. Neither did he find anyone else waiting for the same woman to appear.

  An old Dodge sedan with an equally old driver pulled out of a parking place, and Will pulled the Lexus into it, shifting the transmission into park and turning the engine off. He could wait for her to come out. Will scanned the area. Full darkness had arrived, and with the blackness would come the shadow people. The seatco might be leading them, and Will no longer had protection against that evil spirit borne of nightmares.

  Will got out of the Lexus and approached the house. Two men dressed in working class coveralls came out of the front door as he approached and examined him warily. Apparently they decided that he couldn’t be a cop given his appearance and walked by without commenting. There were mailboxes installed on one wall, but they weren’t labeled. There was no way of telling what apartment Penelope lived in, and the number hadn’t been included in the registration of the Jetta. A moment later, he found the landlord’s apartment on the bottom floor.

  A short man with a heavy beer gut answered a full minute later, cursing and whining simultaneously. “You better not be the fucking IRS,” he said irately. “I done paid my taxes up, and I settled for 1999. You bastards got a dime for every buck I owed, and Christ Almighty, that was overpaying you bozos.”

  “I’m not the IRS,” Will informed him politely.

  The man looked him up and down. “No, I guess you ain’t.”

  Will waited a moment. The landlord added, “So who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m looking for my friend, Penelope. Penelope Quick.” Will smiled broadly to show his level of friendliness. The man’s sneering face and cocksure attitude made Will want to grab the older man by his jowl-covered neck and introduce his face to the sagging and squeaking wooden floor.

  “Uh-huh,” the landlord said contemptuously. “That right.”

  The smile vanished off Will’s face. “That’s right. I am her friend. Maybe the last one she’s got left in this world. I’m the only one who can help her now, and if you have any compassion for her, then you’ll tell me if she’s in this building right now. And if she isn’t, then you’ll tell me where she’s at.”

  As he looked at Will’s intense expression, the landlord’s scorn vanished as speedily as Will’s smile. He looked at the much taller man and could tell by the dark fury in his eyes that he wasn’t bound by the conventions of polite society. Nor would the fact that people came and went through this corridor frequently deter him from causing the landlord grievous bodily harm. “Sh-sh-she ain’t here,” the landlord stuttered honestly. He had discovered that fifty bucks a month wasn’t worth getting his ass smeared across the foyer. Then when Will took a half step forward, he added hastily, “She parks down the street in a car park. You can’t miss it. It’s the only one within blocks. If her old VW is there, then she’s around here someplace.”

  Will studied the man’s face and decided he was sincere. When he stepped away the man called, “Hey, she ain’t done nothing illegal has she?”

  Will didn’t bother to answer him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, July 5th

  Moon Curser (slang, origin probably 18th century English) - a thief who uses the moon’s light as cover for his nefarious activities

  Detective Sergeant Alan Harcourt, jokingly called “Dedicated Al” by his coworkers, systematically walked the entire length and width of the house on Durfrene Row, finding nothing to awaken his investigatory interest. Anthony Littlesoldier, with the graciousness of a host who had willingly invited his guest into his domain, courteously guided his visitor through a dozen empty rooms.

  No big fellas. No mysteriously beautiful women. No wrecked Chevy Suburbans. No cute little girl thieves with the goods in her pocket. Nobody in black with glowing red eyes. Harcourt was almost disappointed. Almost. “This is some spread,” he said with a low whistle, thinking of his three bedroom ranch in a seedier neighborhood. “How much to renovate it?”

  “A million,” Anthony answered, looking around the empty kitchen. The pile of moldering dishes had vanished. The floor had been swept clean of footprints. The broken window upstairs had been boarded up, and in case someone showed interest in the basement, then the remnants of the dumbwaiter had been efficiently cleared away. It looked like it was supposed to; it was a big, empty old fright of a house, waiting for a loving hand to fix it up and tend to its needs. “Give or take. It really depends on what kind of problems we run into when we start ripping down walls and such. Termite damage, for example, will set us back hundreds of thousands of dollars if it’s particularly concentrated.”

  “And you’ll get more than that when you sell it,” Harcourt said reflectively.

  “It also depends.” Anthony spread his hands out in a consolatory gesture indicating uncertainty of outcome. “Part of the company deals with old houses such as this. This is a historical home of note, which can be used to our advantage when we market the house. Theodore Roosevelt once spent the night in this house. The owner, I believe, was an old friend of Roosevelt’s from his wilder days in the Dakota territories.”

  Harcourt gave the kitchen another long studious examination as if looking for evidence of the claim. “Teddy Roosevelt in this house. How about that.”

  “Of course, the house has a darker side as well.”

  “Lot of houses in Dallas have a darker side,” Harcourt said grimly. “So you didn’t have a break-in because you don’t have anything to steal. But I’ve seen some nice pieces of Native American art here and there.” Harcourt’s scrutiny returned to Anthony Littlesoldier. Bloodshot, tired gray ones met brown equally.

  “The society in which I was raised has influenced my interest in that culture’s art.” Anthony gestured widely. “Although I pick and choose from many different tribes. From the long-extinct Anasazi to the Navajo to the Klamath and the Klickitat of the Pacific Northwest. I have purchased as many as I can afford. Even though the house isn’t yet habitable, I like to look at the artwork and heritage of my ancestors and forebears.”

  “So there are valuable items here,” Harcourt interpreted. Then he added, “In the midst of renovation? I wouldn’t have artwork around when I was planning on tearing shit down.”

  “But nothing is missing. I’ve checked.” Anthony glanced around again, deliberately not answering the last unspoken question. “No one comes here.”

  Previous to his appearance on the doorstep of Number 26, Harcourt had done a brief informational check on the house. He had found out a little bit of fascinating tidbits as a consequence. The part about Theodore Roosevelt had not been mentioned, but he had learned about the murders in 1944, during the peak of WWII. An oil magnate had lost his mind and methodically eliminated the members of his family to include a baby and the two family dogs. Consequently, the house had since had a series of owners who flitted in and out like bats near the lights of a baseball stadium. Many of the occupants left hurriedly, and others said the place had a distinctly unsettled atmosphere. The old retired cop that Harcourt had talked to on the phone said it more plainly. His gruff, cigar-filled voice played back in Harcourt’s head like a broken record, “Place has got spooks. I know gangbangers who won’t drive by
there at night.”

  “I doubt many people have the cojones to come here,” Harcourt agreed. He had heard many stories about haunted houses in Dallas. Only stories. “But let’s talk about your Suburban instead. You reported it missing around midnight, is that right?”

  “I told the officer all this last night,” Anthony said quietly.

  “I know. But the vehicle was used in a hit and run about 9:30, 10:00 last night and we have to cover our bases.” He smiled winningly at Anthony Littlesoldier and thought that the guy he was talking to was entirely too smooth to be clean. “Then I’d like to take a look at your basement. That is, if you don’t mind?”

  *

  It was almost an hour after Will had arrived at Penelope Quick’s address that she finally revealed herself. He had prowled through the shadows of the car park without finding anything more than a large wad of chewing gum that had mysteriously attached itself to his shoe. He had even paid the attendant twenty bucks to let him park the Lexus for the night. There were dozens of cars in the park, but there wasn’t one single VW Jetta, the thief’s or anyone else’s for that matter. Apparently it wasn’t a popular neighborhood for VW’s.

  Will was beginning to think that the thief wasn’t one and the same as the aforementioned Penelope Quick. He damned himself for not ascertaining her identity with the landlord and made a note to return to speak with the man once he was sure that she wasn’t coming back to this place. He could verify the young woman’s appearance.

  But suddenly and without expectation, there was the rippling rumble of a diesel engine that signaled the approach of another vehicle. It echoed up from the bottom of the building and resonated against the bare cement walls of the structure. Parking was full on the lowest level and half blocked by some kind of construction on the second level. The only place for the VW to come was to the third floor, full of gloom and shadows. Only one light worked here, and it cast a forbidding smear of light from its dirty bulb that almost pushed an individual away instead of beckoning one to its relative safety.

  The pale green Volkswagen putt-putted up the ramp from the second story and slowly proceeded down the row. She passed the various luxury cars and deliberately pulled under the solitary light. Her head went around as she inspected the area as if she were looking for the trouble that she thought might be waiting on her.

  Will couldn’t much blame her. A nonbeliever, she had come across components of the supernatural, things that did not, could not, possibly belong in her world. Doubtless she was already conceiving some justifiable story to explain their presence and the skin-tingling sensation that crawled across the back of her neck. She might be able to live through this after all, he thought. If she’ll just give the Tears of the Spirit to me, then it might be all right. It might be. But there was the sobering thought that followed that caused Will a moment of guilty concern. The seatco has her blood scent. It knows her flesh. Unless Anthony has other things to think about, then he’ll never forget the thief who trespassed against him, against what he considered rightfully his. He will have the seatco tear her to shreds.

  However, guilty concern could not eliminate the larger threat that Anthony presented. Will did not know this woman who called herself Penelope Quick. He knew certain things about her that did not make him more compassionate toward her. She was a thief. That was all. She was merely a woman who stole from others so that she could have an easier life.

  The thief got out of the Jetta and locked the door. She paused for a moment to look inside and decided that all was well. Then she backed into Will’s immovable body and made a noise that sounded like a frightened mouse squealing once it had realized the cat was very near.

  *

  Penelope hoped that it wasn’t the big guy in the mask. Let it be anyone but that thing, and maybe the woman with the waist-length blue-black hair. She felt sure that the guys with the red eyes could be taken out or outrun, but the other two, she didn’t know about and she didn’t really want to know. Her stomach dropped about a million miles to a point where she thought she would lose what she had just joyfully consumed. Maybe vomiting on them would deter them.

  “Your name is Penelope Quick,” a deep voice said.

  Unhurriedly, Penelope turned her head. The man who stood there was instantly recognizable. She’d seen him parked several car lengths behind her Jetta on Young Street. At the time, she’d dismissed him as a tourist. Certainly he wasn’t a cop. Not someone from the Durfrene Row house with the Lexus he had been sitting in and drinking something from Starbucks. She’d watched the house long enough to know that only Chevy Suburbans came and went from that place. It did occur fleetingly to her that she hadn’t seen all the occupants of the house up close and personal, so she could have missed this man, and she might have even missed the Lexus, except that her professional eye already told her it had been a rental.

  So Penelope gauged the man who stood close enough to her to reach out and grasp her neck with strong hands. He was about five ten, not much taller than she was, but he seemed huge at the moment. In his middle thirties, his façade was a graven image in the diffused dirty light. His skin was a golden brown and his cheekbones cut a ruthless line down the sides of his face. A slightly hawked nose was prominently displayed over full lips. His shoulders were wide enough to indicate that he wasn’t the kind to sit behind a desk, and he was dressed in a dark shirt and faded blue jeans. Strong and lean, he had power rippling through him, and it wasn’t the kind of power to lift a weight or throw a punch. Energy crackled around him and was revealed through eyes the color of chocolate. Finally, there was the long black hair. It was lengthy and straight enough that it spilled to mid-chest and blue enough that it reflected like remnants of lighting in a midnight storm.

  His hair was like the woman that gave Penelope serious goose bumps. And tonight wasn’t the night for coincidences. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes cut left and right.

  “I know your name,” he said softly, as if he were speaking with a child. “And I’ll tell you mine. So you won’t feel like you’re threatened by me. I’m William. Will to you. I’m not with the ones you’re afraid of. The seatco and the shadow people who chased you last night. But you should know they haven’t given up.”

  “Seatco,” she hissed under her breath. “What the hell is that?”

  “A seatco is an evil spirit that sometimes takes the form of humans. Sometimes it does more than that. It dug its way out of the basement where you stole the gemstone.” Will didn’t move. Even the muscles in his flexed arms didn’t twitch. He merely waited for her and for her mind to work out the details he was giving her.

  “And the woman,” she said, so lowly that Will had to strain to hear her words. “The woman with the black hair, so similar to yours, what about her?”

  “Merri,” he said. “She’s something else.”

  “And you’re just here to warn me,” Penelope said and almost laughed. They’d sent in the badasses, now they followed up with the velvet tongue. Perhaps she would merely hand over what she had stolen and they would put a gun to her head and that would be that.

  His eyes assessed Penelope as she stood there and trembled, unsure of her next move. Her brown hair was curling into flimsy ringlets in the humidity. Her brown eyes were almost black in the dimness, showing like the eyes of a frightened doe. But the shadows didn’t detract from her beauty. Her face was angular enough to be a shade past attractive, but it was the whole package that had perked Will’s interest. She was petite and delicate, seemingly unable to dive through two windows and over a bridge to escape what must seem like demons to her. There was pure steel under the soft flesh.

  He determined that previously she had found or stolen a change of clothing and now wore a clean T-shirt and jeans that were too big for her. A belt secured the jeans and a pair of tennis shoes fit loosely on her small feet. Perhaps the items had even been borrowed.

  “No,” he confirmed for her. “I’m not here just to warn you. I want the gemstone. You can have w
hatever else you’ve stolen. There’s no reason for you not to give it up. It won’t do any good. And until it’s out of your possession, the beasts will continue to hound you. They won’t give up, and they won’t be merciful.” His mouth flattened into an unsavory expression. “It has your scent. You left your blood there. It can follow you anywhere. Anywhere.”

  Penelope blinked. One hand went up to brush a lock of errant hair away from her face. “The beasts. You talk like they’re not…”

  “Not human,” he said. “You’ve seen them. You don’t know what you’ve seen though. You don’t understand, and it’s vital to your existence that you do and soon.”

  Penelope’s eyes widened impossibly. “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “I’m the man who can help you. Perhaps the only one who can aid you now.” Will allowed a grim smile to cross his lips. “All you have to do is trust me.”

  “Trust you,” Penelope repeated. “You’re out of your ever-freaking mind.” The fingers of the upraised hand rubbed the spot between her eyes, and Will’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  His right hand shot out and firmly grasped her wrist, turning it toward the weak light of the car park. “Your cut,” he said forbiddingly. “How did it happen? When did it happen?” He damned himself for forgetting that fact. Her blood had been on the dumbwaiter’s doors. It was the reason that the seatco would be tracking her, even now while he tried to convince her of his sincerity. In fact, he had just mentioned it to her, but it hadn’t occurred to him that it could have been so close to her hand. But a wretched thought occurred that would change everything.

  Penelope tried to wrench her wrist back and found Will’s grip like steel.

  “Did you bleed near the gemstone?” he persisted harshly. “Did you bleed on the Tears of the Spirit?”

  He means, did I drop bits of my blood on the jewel I stole? Penelope figured it out with a dumb look on her face. Increasingly frantic and panicked by the incarceration of her wrist by someone who was spooking her, she spat, “Yes, I bled on the goddamned thing, and I wiped the fucker clean, too.” She stepped back and kicked Will in the middle of his stomach.