Out of the Shadows

by Timothy Boyd

  * * *

  Even though I knew it would be risky to show my face in public for too long, I found a nearby gas station. Going into the filthy restroom, I washed most of the blood away from my face in the grimy sink. The wound didn’t look too awful, and I hoped it wouldn’t open up again. Having a huge, gauze bandage on the side of my head would be just as conspicuous as a gaping wound.

  I felt terrible for doing it, but I also snuck into the attached convenience store, and while the cashier was busy with a paying customer, I swiped a local map from the rack by the door, quickly leaving again. Later, after things settled down, I swore to myself I would come back and pay the store.

  Sneaking around the side of the building, I stopped when I saw the old payphone attached to the brick wall. I wondered if I should call Dr. Abner; things seemed to be spiraling out of control, but I sincerely felt that I would never get better if I didn’t see this thing through. I was definitely out of my league, though, so some advice would be welcome.

  I picked up the phone receiver and dialed. As it rang, I waited, keenly aware that a nearby security camera could spot me at any moment.

  “Hello?” he greeted.

  I stiffened. The sound of his voice immediately filled me with a sense of dread, and I couldn’t pinpoint why. What would he really be able to tell me that could make things better? My hands began to tremble with unease, and before he had the chance to say anything else, I hung up.

  I was alone in this, just like I had been for over three hundred fifty days. There was nothing anyone could do to help me through this. But still, something pulled me to the phone, and my hand found itself in my pocket, wrapped around the plain white business card that I’d placed there earlier.

  I dialed the number.

  “Detective Bailey,” came the no-nonsense greeting.

  I stood there with my mouth open, unsure of what to say.

  “Hello?” the cop greeted again, curiosity in her tone.

  I finally uttered, “It’s me.”

  A long spread of silence passed between us until Bailey quietly said, “Melissa… right? Melissa Perdition?”

  My eyes began to well with tears again. Something about this woman was disarming to me; I felt that I could tell her everything, and she would listen without judgment. “Yes,” I confirmed.

  “Hell of a name,” Bailey joked.

  I smiled and wiped the wetness from my face, but I didn’t say anything.

  After a quiet beat lingered between us, the detective decided to cut to the chase. “Where are you, Melissa?”

  I honestly didn’t know, so instead I offered, “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Ok,” she responded, waiting for more to be said.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t.”

  “I believe you,” she said. And she sounded so sincere to me. “But there ain’t a soul alive that’s going to take my word on it. Let me help you. Tell me what’s going on,” she pleaded quietly.

  I took a deep breath to calm myself. Despite wanting to talk to this woman, doing so would mean divulging my secret. My curse. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” she encouraged.

  “Please stop chasing me.”

  Bailey sighed. “I can’t.”

  “Yes…” I reasoned. “You can.”

  And I hung up.

  The adrenaline had long worn off, and I felt exhaustion beginning to creep into my body. But I still had work to do, so I set off with my map and plotted the course to my next destination.

  * * *

  Well after noontime now, the sky filled with grayer clouds, and the crisp air enveloped me, preparing to release the snow flurries that had been forecasted for the day. I stood on another suburban street in front of a quaint, two-story house with white aluminum siding and a wooden front porch. I looked one last time at the permission slip I’d swiped from the school records. The student’s name was Daniel Martinez, and the address listed on the sheet of paper matched the black numbers on the side of the nearby mailbox.

  I wasn’t totally sure what I was doing. All I knew was that Daniel had played basketball with the dead boy last year, and he was my only chance at answers for the time being.

  I watched the house for a few minutes and saw no movement. Cautiously, I walked up the empty driveway and onto the creaky planks of the porch. Glancing through the windows, it seemed that no one was home. The lights were all off, and no sound came from within.

  How would I explain to the boy, much less his parents, why it was so important that I talk to him about his dead teammate? I could create an elaborate lie that I was a journalist and had questions regarding the death of the boy, but chances would be that my haggard appearance would make me seem suspicious, assuming they hadn’t already seen my face on the news.

  I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. I readied myself mentally, attempting to prepare for every possible scenario that could transpire within the Martinez House. When a minute passed, and no one answered, I knocked again.

  The dead boy manifested, looking up at me, almost smiling, like he approved of my current actions and whereabouts. Truth-be-told, his appearance was beginning to madden me. I had no explanation for my intense need to know his identity. I just knew that once I did, everything would change.

  As I raised my hand to knock one last time, he walked through the door and into the house. I blinked, startled by his boldness, but then I remembered that no one else could see him. He stared at me expectantly through the window. If he could talk, I imagined him saying, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  I felt uncomfortable with the implications of his gaze, but it seemed that I was at his mercy, emotionally if not physically. Although I knew it would be folly, I tried the doorknob. It was, indeed, locked. I hesitated before moving over to the window. Before this moment, I never would have thought about breaking and entering, but today I found myself doing many things that were uncharacteristic of me. I grasped the bottom of the window and yanked upward.

  It slid open.

  Shocked that it could possibly be so simple, I crawled into the house, stepped down onto the Berber carpet, and closed the window behind me.

  It was a beautiful little home. Polished wood molding. Hardwood-floored hallways. Clean plush carpeting. Matching loveseats and couches. So charming. I envied the Martinez family and their comfortable lives. I approached the first carpeted step of the stairway leading to the bedrooms upstairs when I halted, thinking perhaps it would be best to finish searching the first floor before turning my back to it.

  If I was alone, then I could search the shelves for a school yearbook, and if I found none, I would check the boy’s room.

  I treaded carefully down the hallway toward the kitchen, expecting a creak or two to give away my position. But the flooring was impeccable. I walked through the spacious, warm kitchen and into the living room. Flanking either side of the brick fireplace hearth were two dark, walnut bookshelves that stretched floor to ceiling.

  Seeing the book titles in the darkened room would be a challenge, so I walked over to an end table next to a robust, brown recliner, and I switched on the golden lamp, casting a warm glow through the cozy family room.

  It wasn’t until the space had been illuminated that I noticed the old man sitting on the couch against the wall. As our gazes locked and his eyes trained on me suspiciously, my breath caught in my throat, and it felt as though my heart stopped. A blanket covered his legs, and he raised his frail hands to cinch his gray cardigan more tightly around his torso. His gray hair was wispy, his white moustache full. Loose, olive skin hung around his jowls and under his neck, giving the impression of recent weight loss.

  He continued to watch me, his eyebrows crinkling with disgust. However, when he realized that I was staring back at him, his antagonistic expression morphed into one of confusion and then of piqued interest. But I had known the old man’s secret the moment our eyes had connected:

  He was dead.

&
nbsp; Perdition’s Path

  IV

  The old man slowly rose to his feet, appearing to struggle, as if he still felt joint pain even though he had died. His mouth opened and closed and opened again, wanting to speak out but not able. He looked at me, his dull eyes wide with surprise. He glanced back over his shoulder, perhaps hoping to find a person in the curtained window at who I might have been looking, puzzled that I would be able to see him. With his gaze now trained back in my direction, he slowly raised his hand and pointed at me.

  I nodded slowly. “I can see you,” I said quietly, my heart fluttering nervously at this deliberate interaction. “I can’t explain why. It’s just something I can do.”

  The man shuffled toward me, slowly reaching forward, his frail hand nearing my arm.

  When his finger went through me, I shivered, goose bumps erupting over my skin. It seemed that the dead could not physically interact with the living after all, but the inanimate looked to be fair game for supernatural hocus-pocus.

  Upon realizing he could not touch me, he backed away, a severe melancholy devouring his expression. For the first time, I thought about what it must be like for the dead still stuck in this world. Not able to speak. Not able to touch. Not able to experience the comfort of something simple, like a hug.

  My heart broke for this man. I watched him sulk away toward the fireplace mantle where he now stood, back hunched, staring at the framed family photos.

  I owed him an explanation for my presence. Slowly walking toward him, wishing I could place a hand on his shoulder for comfort, I said, “I’m not here to steal anything.”

  The man didn’t acknowledge.

  “There’s a kid that I’m trying to help,” I continued. “He’s dead, and I don’t know who he is. I’m here because he went to school with a boy who lives in this house: Daniel Martinez.”

  The elderly man turned toward me at the mention of Daniel’s name. His face contorted in a way that appeared distraught with emotion, but no tears flowed from his empty eyes. He pointed to a photo on the mantle of a beautiful family – a smiling mother with her arms around a young black-haired boy, the proud father standing to the side of them both, his hands resting on their shoulders.

  “Is that Daniel?” I asked of the boy in the picture frame.

  The old man lowered his head, placing his hand over his heart. He seemed distressed by the photos before him, and I had grown to assume over the past year that the dead only linger in this world when their hearts are burdened with unfinished business.

  “They didn’t get to say goodbye,” I half-asked, half-knew.

  The man pointed upward toward the ceiling. I saw nothing, but my gut flickered with understanding: the second floor contained what I was looking for.

  The hairs on the back of my neck perked up, and I turned to find the shaggy-haired ghost boy having reappeared, lingering at the entrance to the family room. Despite my sadness for the old man next to me, the appearance of my young, dead stalker invoked agitation within me. He had an expression of worry on his face, looking up at the house’s top floor.

  “Here he is!” I said with excitement to the Martinez grandfather. “This is the kid! Do you know who he is?”

  The old man examined the boy and shook his head, again pointing toward the ceiling.

  “I should go upstairs?” I asked, looking for something definitive within the vague communication from the spirits.

  The boy appeared anxious, not for himself but for me.

  I started out of the family room toward the hallway leading to the steps, my heart pounding with anticipation. The answers to my questions must lay upstairs, and now was my time to get them!

  “Mamá, is that you?” came a quiet voice followed by a cough from the hallway. Around the corner shuffled a young boy, dressed in fleece pajamas, his short black hair disheveled from sleeping, skin pale with illness: Daniel Martinez.

  We both froze at the sight of each other.

  Daniel’s brown eyes were huge with fright, his body trembling.

  I held out my hands to calm him. “It’s ok. I’m not here to hurt—.”

  “You’re that woman on the news!”

  Before I could say anything more, he turned and ran back down the hallway, charging up the steps to the second floor. I pursued, calling out to him, saying anything I could think of to calm him. Up the stairs I barreled, running down a dark, carpeted hallway toward the sound of the door that had just slammed.

  Trying the doorknob, I found it to be locked. “Daniel!” I hollered, pounding on the door. “Daniel, open the door! I’m not going to hurt you!”

  From the other side, I heard him talking. “Papá!” he cried. “That woman on the news is in the house!”

  Shit! He’d just called his parents.

  “Mom let me stay home sick, and I found the woman downstairs! She’s right outside my room!” he sobbed.

  “Daniel!” I pounded again. “Please, I just need to talk with you!”

  “I don’t want to die. Hurry!” And then he went silent.

  “Please open the door!” I screamed, near hysterics. “I have to talk with you!”

  “Go away!”

  “You went to school with a boy that died last year. You were on the basketball team together. Do you remember him?!”

  “Please,” he sputtered in fear. “Leave me alone!”

  “I need this boy’s name, Daniel. Tell me his name, and I’ll go!”

  “Please don’t hurt me!” he blubbered.

  My mind raced, and before I had realized what words I’d spoken, I said, “Your grandpa loves you and misses you very much!”

  Silence.

  No sound was heard, save for the occasional gasp for air from a sobbing child.

  “Daniel?” I said, more calmly now. “Are you still there?”

  He did not respond.

  “I can’t explain how, but I talked with your grandpa. He misses you so much, and he’s very sorry that you didn’t get to say goodbye to him.”

  To my right, I noticed that the dead boy and the grandfather had joined me. The old man clutched both of his hands to his heart, and he was smiling. His encouragement filled me with a renewed sense of hope.

  “Daniel?” I tried once more.

  I heard the lock unhinge, and the door opened slightly, revealing a young boy with red, puffy eyes. “Who are you?” he asked, almost angrily.

  I took a breath, about to reveal my greatest secret to a living person for the first time. “I have a gift… or a curse… or something… And I was able to talk to your grandpa.”

  Daniel attempted to slam the door in my face, but my hand flew up and pressed against it.

  “Please, listen!”

  “You’re a liar!”

  “I’m not! He’s lingering here, in our world, trying to find a way to let you all know that it’s ok you couldn’t be there.”

  Daniel considered me, still hesitant of my intentions. “Where is he then?”

  I looked over at the old man; he was still grinning, his eyes begging for tears that would never come. “He’s here.”

  Daniel’s expression of fright turned into sorrow. “I miss him so much.”

  “You don’t have to miss him. He’ll always be with you.”

  The grieving boy took a deep breath. “Can he hear me right now?”

  I glanced back at the grandfather, and he shuffled past me, kneeling in front of the crying boy. “Yes,” I said.

  Streams of anguish poured from Daniel’s eyes, as if a lifetime of the words he never got to say came pouring forth. “I miss you, abuelito,” he whimpered through his runny nose. “I love you.”

  The old man reached forward, desperately wanting to hug the boy, but then he remembered he would be unable. He looked back at me, and I could see a twinge in his eyes that begged me to help him.

  “He’s… right in front of you,” I stumbled for the right words to say. “He wishes he could give you a hug. He wants you to know everything’s ok.�
��

  As the old man raised his hand and placed it over Daniel’s heart, the boy gasped, and then all of the tension released from his shoulders, like a peace had come over him.

  Rising to his feet, the grandfather turned and smiled at me, eternally grateful to finally receive the help he’d needed to say goodbye.

  And then he faded from this world.

  I was awestruck by what had just taken place, my own breath lumped in my throat. For the first time, I had finally been able to make good use of the curse bestowed upon me. I looked over at the dead hazel-eyed boy now, feeling a stronger urge than ever before to find out who he was and what he wanted from me.

  “What’s happening?” Daniel asked of his grandfather, wiping his face on his pajama sleeve.

  “He’s gone now. I’m sorry.”

  He looked up at me, his eyes dry and red, his lip quivering. “Thank you.”

  I would have smiled at him, but the front door below blasted open, and a man’s voice bellowed, “Daniel!” Mr. Martinez charged up the steps frantically, probably taking two at a time.

  Before my mind could register what had happened, Daniel pulled me into his room, slammed the door, and locked it behind him, leaning against it with all of his twelve-year-old might.

  “Daniel!” his father pounded from the other side of the door. “Are you all right? Where is she?!”

  The kid panicked, his mind searching for what to say. He waved his hand at me wildly and whispered, “Go!”

  I spun around and saw my only escape: the window. I hurriedly ran to it and flung it open. There was a small bit of roof below, probably covering the backyard patio underneath. But I was still unsure how I would fair jumping a whole story to the frozen ground. I grew angry with the dead boy once more, being forced into the many unpleasant situations of the day.

  Again, the father pounded, the panic evident in his voice. “Daniel!”

  “One minute!” he called out, trying to sound calm but failing.

  “Daniel, open the door! Is she in there? Is she hurting you?!”

  The father began throwing himself against the door, trying to bust it down. I heard police sirens screech through the late-afternoon air as the squad cars sped down the suburban street, coming to rest in front of the Martinez House.