The House of Long Shadows

by Ambrose Ibsen

  I did some mental math, wondered where the nearest Lowe's was, and even considered haggling with ol' Chip on the price. In the end, because I'm a lazy bastard who hates going to more than one store, I sucked it up and decided to buy it.

  Truthfully, I also wanted to talk to my dad's lookalike some more.

  Returning to the front of the store with the dusty box held at arm's length, I was struck for a second time by his resemblance to my late father. Standing there in front of the guy was surreal. I felt like I'd gone back in time about two years. Even the setting—a dingy hardware store—worked perfectly. It was exactly the sort of place my father would have shopped, and the two of us had spent a lot of time haunting such stores in the years before his death.

  “That'll be ninety-five twenty-two,” said Chip, looking into my glazed eyes expectantly.

  I handed over a few twenties—one too few, as it turned out. I surrendered another and waited for my change.

  He dropped the cash into the drawer and tore the receipt from the feed. Then, nudging the box towards me, he gave a little grunt, as if to say, “Out you go.” I went to leave, but as I did so he suddenly donned that same grin from earlier and asked, “You say you bought a house around these parts. Where at?”

  “It's a house on Morgan Road. You know it?”

  The grin faded, like he thought I was pulling his leg. “Sure, I know it. Why'd you buy a house out there?”

  Even though I knew this guy was a perfect stranger, I still felt like I was being scolded by my dad, and I explained myself to Chip accordingly, seeking to justify my actions. “W-Well, you know, it was dirt cheap. And it's got good bones—very solid. I like a fixer-upper, and this house hit all the marks. Hoping to have the work finished in a month's time.”

  Chip glanced at the other employee—the kid had moved on to sorting different varieties of air fresheners on the counter—then shrugged. “Well, best of luck to ya.”

  I took the box under my arm, but didn't leave right away. “Most of the houses down that way are abandoned,” I said. “On Morgan Road, I mean. Why's that? When did they all empty out? Do you know the area well?” I was genuinely interested in his answer, but at the same time I wanted to prolong my conversation with this fatherly stand-in.

  He scratched at his mustache. “Oh, yeah. Bunch of crack houses and meth labs down there. At least, once upon a time. Hell, I ain't been by that part of town in awhile, but I thought every house along that stretch had fallen to pieces by now. I remember those houses being lived in when I was a boy. Was a decent neighborhood back then, but I'm getting old as shit.” He chuckled. “Surprised you found one worth fixing. And even then, stranger, I've got to level with you—I don't understand why you'd bother. I mean, a house in a shitty neighborhood like that... Someone's just gonna mess it up again. Why spend time fixing up a lemon, anyhow?”

  I could have spent time trying to explain the dynamics of my profession to him—that I was renovating the house as a stunt to grab eyeballs, ad money and a potential nod from television executives—but instead I gave a weak shrug. “Maybe you're right,” I said. The honest truth was that I didn't care one iota for the house. So long as the renovations went smoothly and netted me the kind of success and attention I was looking for, I didn't much care what became of it once I was done. Perhaps I'd put it up for sale, or rent it out. Whatever I did with the finished product, I'd do my best to make sure it wasn't my problem anymore.

  Chip nodded. “Thanks for shopping local,” he offered.

  I returned his nod in kind, but had to stop myself from uttering, “See you, dad,” as I left the store.

  Five

  The chance meeting with my father's doppelganger at the hardware store had my thoughts going all over the place. I was so distracted by that little encounter, in fact, that when I got home—

  No, come to think of it, “home” isn't the right word. Looking back on it now, I don't think I ever once considered the house on Morgan Road to be “home”, exactly. The name on the deed was mine, and I was going to be sleeping at the place, fixing it, but even on that first night I wished for my association with it to end there. From the very start, I'd made some sort of subconscious pledge to hold it at arm's length, not to get too comfortable.

  Anyhow, I was so hung up on thoughts of my dad that the house's remoteness and its penchant for casting extra-lengthy shadows didn't even register in my mind as I pulled into the battered drive. I trudged inside with my new purchase in hand and immediately went rummaging for the tools I'd need to install it.

  The motion-activated light would go in where the old porch light was now situated. The existing fixture was cracked and dirty, and it took the easing out of three rusted screws before I could access the wires underneath. I held a small flashlight between my teeth so that I could see what I was doing. Joining the wires of my new LED to the wires in the light box was easy enough, and when I'd fastened the new fixture so that it was flush against the exterior, I stood back and waved my arms.

  The light flickered on and rendered me blind for a few seconds straight.

  Which, I guess, was exactly what I wanted it to do.

  There'd been a number of switches on the back corresponding to different functions—namely, the brightness and duration of the light every time it was set off. I'd opted for maximum brightness and had selected the one minute option. This way, if anything triggered it, I'd have a full minute to scan the area before the light powered down. The box claimed that the light picked up movement to a distance of thirty feet, which would cover as far as the edge of the street. Blinking away the stars it left in my vision, I felt I'd made a good buy.

  I went into the house, locked the door, and prepared to edit some video. Tired as I was, I much preferred the thought of going to bed, but if I was going to start this challenge the right way I needed to upload some content and get the hype train rolling.

  I dropped down into my chair and leaned over my laptop, getting to it at once. When I'd transferred the day's footage from my SD card into iMovie, I began sifting through it all, cringing at the corniness of my monologues. I trimmed away the false starts, the stutters, and in time I'd managed to whip up a semi-passable video. It began with my peppy introduction on the lawn and various shots of the exterior set to catchy royalty-free music. Then came my tour of the inside, detailing just how much work lay ahead. To the very front end I added the same animated intro that I used on all of my videos, and then I waited for iMovie to export the finished product.

  All told, it took nearly an hour for me to dig through the day's footage, select the usable bits, and assemble a five minute video. Back when I'd first started and hadn't known the software, it had sometimes taken me two, even three hours to make something halfway decent. Now, so long as the sound and picture quality in my recordings was solid, it was a relatively quick and painless process. The one thing I never got used to was watching myself on the screen, though.

  I rather disliked the sound of my voice, and I couldn't help but flinch at my own jokes and hijinks on camera. The viewers lapped it up without fail, but watching my own cheery put-ons was kind of grating, and I was always relieved when the job was done. I never watched my videos after they hit VideoTube—couldn't stand it.

  While waiting for iMovie to spit out my finalized video, I decided to check my email. As expected, my inbox was bursting. There was the usual crap—spam, messages from various online retailers informing me of “incredible” new sales—along with a few dozen messages from viewers. Now and then viewers would email me to let me know they enjoyed my videos—that they'd managed to fix some longstanding problem in their homes thanks to my guidance. I always appreciated comments like those, though I seldom replied to them. There was a second variety of fan mail—more common that I liked, and which I never replied to as a rule—which contained requests for help. Dear FlipperKevin, how do I replace my sliding door? or, Dear FlipperKevin, I'm a big fan. I was wondering if you could tell me which brand of nail gun you like
best. I'm at Home Depot and would really appreciate it if you could answer quickly! or sometimes, FlipperKevin, I want to be a successful VideoTuber like you. I just bought thousands of dollars in camera gear, and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to collaborate on some videos. Hit me up if you're ever in...

  It should have been flattering to get so many messages from perfect strangers, and at the start of my success, it had been. Lately, though, it had gotten old. I hated having people email me out of the blue, acting like I was their personal resource. It reminded me of how my dad, a carpenter with decades of experience, had always gotten questions from people all around town...

  Thoughts of my father rushed in like a wave for the second time that evening. Bitterness crept into me. Anger and melancholy, too.

  “Delete. Delete. Delete,” I muttered as I cleared out all the junk in my inbox. There was something cathartic about deleting so many emails, in watching the inbox gradually empty out. I focused on that, rather than on memories of my dad and his lookalike at the store.

  It was getting late. Tomorrow the real work was going to start. I needed rest if I was going to make a dent in my mile-long to-do list. There was so much on my plate, and trying to decide where to begin, or what time to start working, was a little overwhelming. While trying to come up with an action plan for the coming day, I caught myself thinking, Dad always suggested getting up just before dawn. He liked to start early in the day. He'd always drag my ass out of bed at five...

  I stopped short, kneading angrily at my temples. The old man was being persistent tonight; try as I might I couldn't get him out of my head.

  I carried the laptop over to the bed and eased myself down, trying to steer my mind towards more pleasant things. Finally, I got a notification from iMovie that my video was done baking, and I immediately pulled up my VideoTube account and uploaded it for mass consumption. On the mediocre signal I was getting from my cellphone tether, the video took its sweet time uploading to the site. Once uploaded, I was informed that it would take roughly ten minutes to process and go live.

  I don't remember what I did while waiting for the video to premiere. I know I finished clearing out my inbox, and I recall tucking a pillow under my chin. Before I realized it, though, I'd drifted off in front of the computer.

  And when I finally awoke about an hour later, I noticed something was wrong.

  Six

  The dining room window was open.

  It'd been the cold reaching through that window that had awoken me—a cold that somehow didn't mesh with the warm spring night I'd known only an hour previous.

  Though the breeze had been a rude shock to my body, my mind was very much concerned with other things as I eyed the open window groggily.

  And then not so groggily.

  I was sure—reasonably sure—that I hadn't left it open. Earlier in the day, before setting off to the hardware store, I'd shut and locked them all. It was possible that I'd forgotten this one, the one in the dining room just a few feet from the front door, but I couldn't see how. I set my computer aside, pushed off of the air mattress, and craned my neck towards the next room. The motion-activated light on the porch wasn't on, and for a moment I was comforted by that fact.

  The light only stays on for a minute, remember? That's more than enough time for someone to sneak in...

  My mind was on a roll that night, clinging chiefly to bad memories and worst-case scenarios.

  Taking stock of my immediate surroundings, I peered into the kitchen. Empty. I then crossed the room on the balls of my feet and approached the open window. Trying to sneak through the house was futile; the groaning floorboards announced me before I even passed by the front door.

  Peering around stacks of boxes, I found there was nothing out of place in the dining room. Just that damn window and a brisk wind kicking dust into the air. I pushed the window shut and fastened the lock until the mechanism creaked, but the chill persisted. So much so that I considered digging one of my sweatshirts out of the boxes.

  Looking outside, I was stunned at the darkness. Except for a dull suggestion of moonlight that got lost somewhere in the clouds, there was no light to see by. The scenery all bled together into a single ribbon of black.

  I'd been ready to let it all go, to limp back to bed and go into hibernation, but something kept my eye riveted to the window. I stared through the glass expectantly, but the night was dark and still as the inside of an inkwell. The glass. On the outside of the windowpane, barely visible in the weak light coming from the dining room, I could make out something.

  A handprint.

  My first thought—a hopeful one—was that I'd left it there myself; that I'd touched the window earlier without realizing it.

  A quick comparison of the print against my own hand convinced me otherwise. It was smaller than mine.

  Maybe it had been there awhile, I told myself. The house had sat abandoned for years, after all. But then, had it been there earlier in the day? Had I noticed it before, when opening and closing the windows? I couldn't say that I had. So small a detail as that would probably have escaped my notice. I'd been busy then, a little frazzled. The only reason I was fixating on it now was because the window had been left open and I had no recollection of opening it.

  I brought a hand to my tightening chest and kneaded at my heart like a lump of brioche dough. Was there someone in the house? I doubted I'd been asleep so soundly that someone could have slipped in without my noticing it, and yet the possibility remained. For a long while I stood and listened.

  The shifting of my own weight prompted a lengthy creak, but the house was otherwise silent.

  I wanted to call out, to ask if anyone was there, but couldn't find the words. And anyway, the very idea of asking such a question struck me as idiotic. If someone had entered the house, they weren't likely to just come on out with a toss of their shoulders, hands on top of their heads.

  I focused on the silence, tried to parse something from it. The downstairs was clear. If there was an intruder, he was in the upstairs. And he was quiet as a mouse. I pictured the empty bedrooms in the upper level—pictured, with a shudder, a figure standing in one of those shadowed rooms, stock-still. Waiting. The house settled against the breeze with a light groan as if to say it was so.

  It's probably nothing, I told myself, looking back to the air mattress. And I wanted to believe it. But all desire for sleep was gone now and had been replaced by a trenchant unease that somewhere, just outside of my view, an intruder was lurking.

  I saw no alternative but to check each room. Only when I'd managed to verify my solitude would I be able to relax.

  Stopping in the dining room, I pulled a hefty adjustable wrench from my toolbox and wielded it like a club before turning the corner and starting towards the stairs. Shuffling from room to room with the wrench in my fist, I must have looked like a Neanderthal trying to sneak up on a saber-toothed cat.

  What could someone possibly want in the upstairs? I wondered, mostly in a futile attempt to convince myself that the matter required no further investigation. The three bedrooms and bathroom located on the second story offered nothing. I hadn't even brought any of my supplies up there. The bathroom was hardly functional and the rooms were filthy as the day I'd bought the place. Approaching the stairs, I couldn't shake the image from my head of someone standing silently in one of those bedrooms, though. Someone in the middle of a dark room, the door closed, simply waiting to be discovered.

  I hadn't so much as touched the bannister when I halted at the foot of the stairs. A jolt of terror left me limp, and the wrench suddenly became too heavy for my noodle arm to bear. From what should have been that quiet and unoccupied second level, I heard a noise—a slow and even creak as of a man-sized load shifting on the tired floors. But what I heard did not frighten me half as much as what I saw.

  I'd noticed in the dusk the house's strange tendency to warp—to lengthen—shadows to a curious degree. From the bottom of the stairs, perfectly timed so as to c
orrespond to the aforementioned creaking, I watched a long, vaguely man-shaped shadow shift upon the wall opposite the bannister. It remained there only for an instant, receding soundlessly, almost as though its caster had grown aware of my surveillance.

  If the intruder made a sound then, I didn't hear it for the bass beat of my heart in my ears.

  “Who's there?” My voice lacked the steadiness to make demands, but I did my best to mask my fear. I clutched hard at the wrench, gave it a shake like I meant to bean someone at the slightest incentive.

  There was no reply.

  Taking the first few steps hurriedly, loudly, in the hopes of spooking the trespasser into revealing himself, I shouted the question again. “Who's there, damn it? I'm calling the police.”

  Recalling that my phone was back in the living room, I lamented at what was in truth an idle threat. Calling the cops would have been a smart thing to do under the circumstances, but doing so now would require me to turn my back on whoever was lurking upstairs. Having made it nearly half-way up, I couldn't afford to risk it. I pressed on.

  The shadow did not return, and the intruder made no sound. It was possible he'd taken refuge in one of the rooms, or had his back pressed to a wall. When I had only four steps to go, I mounted them in a single jump, bursting into the upstairs hall and waving around the wrench with an animalistic cry. Somewhere in this chaotic surprise attack, I found the wherewithal to switch on the hall light, too.

  The hallway was empty. I looked to the dim-glowing window at the end of the hall, which was likely responsible for the shadow-play, and then to the four doorways. All of them were ajar, as I'd left them.