Demon Shadows

by Mike Sirota

  Kathy Parrish joined him before he was done. They talked for a few minutes then Paul excused himself and went outside.

  Crossing the asphalt, he glanced at the spot where Sherri’s car had been. He’d thought for sure she would meet him this morning. But Sherri was Sherri, low self-esteem and all. Tonight she would be in bed with another post-adolescent and would continue to run around aimlessly while her wonderful art sold by accident, probably for much less than it was worth.

  Paul shrugged and started back to his cabin. Halfway there, his mind was already filled with other matters of the day.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tomorrow. Gary Marks would have his outline tomorrow. Or at least it would be ready to go by then.

  Paul’s day had been exceptionally productive. Even before lunch was left on the porch, his abundance of notes had begun to make sense. By the middle of the afternoon he felt certain of his storyline, and he liked it. Even at his best it usually took longer.

  Now, at three o’clock, he furiously scribbled the rough draft of the outline. He would type it up that night. By the next day he would be into the novel itself.

  He had taken few breaks all day; his back felt stiff. He got up, stretched, and wandered over to the side window. The nearest pine was alive with squawking jays, most knocking snow to the ground as they flitted from one branch to another. But that wasn’t what caught Paul’s attention.

  Gail Farringer walked along the footpath. She wore a heavy blue ski jacket over her warm-up suit, a brightly colored wool cap, and matching gloves. A sketchpad was tucked under one arm. Already past No. 11 when he saw her, she soon fell from sight because the snowy trail turned.

  Paul went back to work. Ten minutes later he realized he was concentrating more on the enigmatic woman from No. 13 than on what lay in front of him. He put on his jacket and went outside.

  Gail probably had some favorite places, he figured, beyond where he had explored in his brief time at the colony. He was curious and the sun felt good on his face. He retraced his steps of the morning.

  She sat in the middle of the clearing on an old log, sketchpad open but hands folded. Sitting as still as the woods around her, she stared in the direction of Thorburn Lake.

  Paul leaned against one of the sentinel pines. He had no intention of disturbing the woman. In the first place, interacting with a fellow resident was the Thorburn colony’s major offense, a breach of the Rule. Second, he remembered Sherri’s warning and had no desire for a confrontation. He would not remain there long…

  For whatever reason—perhaps he had shifted a foot and crunched the snow—Gail suddenly turned. Seeing him, she stood, her sketchpad falling to the snow. Her startled look became annoyance. She glared at him as she knelt to retrieve the pad.

  Paul felt like an idiot, a voyeur who had been caught in the act. He smiled weakly, held up a hand, and walked off. “Way to go, Fleming,” he muttered. “Jesus!”

  He hurried back to No. 11 and tried to finish the outline but got nowhere. The colony’s official day still had more than a half hour to go. So what? he thought, since he was going to work that night anyway. He stretched out on the bed and opened John Thorburn’s diary.

  From where he lay, Paul could see a portion of the footpath out the front window. By four-thirty it occurred to him that he had glanced over there numerous times. Gail was either still in the clearing or had returned another way, which he doubted. Now nearly dusk, it would soon be getting colder. She would have to pass before long.

  He took the diary and sat outside on the porch step. The book was open, although he hardly looked at it. This time he would say something to Gail Farringer, at least try to apologize for what had happened earlier. However she reacted, at least it would be off his conscience.

  When she came down the path, he stood. She saw him, hesitated then continued on. He stayed on the porch. The trail was narrow and he didn’t want it to seem as if he were accosting her.

  “Hi,” he said when she was closer. “Listen, about before, I wasn’t—”

  She stopped, her face red. “Leave me alone, please!” she snapped then hurried off.

  “I’m doing great with the ladies today,” he mumbled, and went back inside, slamming the door.

  Harriet Thorburn seemed different that night, more animated, personable. She told wonderful stories of colony guests during the flower-child days of the sixties. She hardly rambled at all and seemed tolerant—more so than Walter McClain—when Paul arrived ten minutes late. He’d lost track of time and had been lucky to glance at the clock when he did, or dinner might have been whatever he could beg from Arthur Tyler’s kitchen.

  He had been seated at the third table again, between Allan Kroll and David Van Ness. The composer was drunk, worse than he’d been on Paul’s first night.

  Van Ness, an obnoxious man, did not have a good word to say about anyone when there was nothing in it for him. While Harriet Thorburn spoke, Paul was spared having to listen to him. But there were lulls when the tables were on their own. Paul’s had his restraint tested severely.

  “So we saw Summit of Fear, my friend Russell and me,” Van Ness said. “It’s not the kind of thing we usually see, but hell, everyone and their sister was talking about it, so we decided to check it out. Well, Russell thought it was a piece of shit. That’s exactly what he said, ‘Jesus, what a piece of shit!’ Now that isn’t how I felt. I like that actor, you know, the one with all the muscles who mumbles his lines. But it was not good, really.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be film-noir or anything like that,” Paul said patiently. Lord, get me the hell out of here! “A movie like Summit of Fear is supposed to entertain people and make money. It did both.”

  “Seems like it’s prostituting oneself,” Van Ness said, and shrugged. “But then I suppose prostitutes make good money.”

  Thea Douglas, who sat across the table from them, had been listening. “Paul, just because you’re new doesn’t mean you have to be polite, not to him. Here, read my lips: ‘David, fuck off.’ We all say it at one time or another.”

  “Love your makeup, Thea,” Van Ness said. “Who does it, Sherwin Williams?”

  Paul shook his head and tried to hold back a grin. Luckily, Harriet Thorburn began talking again.

  It had been strangely calm in the clearing that day, Gail thought, back in her cabin after dinner. During her nearly three weeks at the colony, she had always been able to rekindle the motivation depleted by too many hours at the canvas without a break. An hour there, or less, stirred her in a dark way, prodded her with fear, sometimes made her want to run.

  But for her kind of work it was appropriate stimulus.

  That afternoon, however, she’d felt nothing there. The only disturbing moment was when he had been watching her. He hadn’t meant anything by it; she knew that. Maybe she should have spoken to him. . .

  No, she couldn’t. Not ever, not to anyone.

  Maybe she would never feel it again. No matter. She had regenerated the creative flow on her own and could do it anytime she wanted. So much pain to draw from; it was easy.

  Just like now.

  She had put the brush down for a minute to rest her eyes. She picked it up again.

  Tuesday, December 3

  Paul finished his work after midnight, then forgot to set his alarm—or maybe not—and didn’t make it to Big House until eight-thirty. Half a dozen assorted delivery vehicles were parked near the service entrance. More than yesterday, which undoubtedly had something to do with the time.

  Walter McClain showed him where the copy machine was but told him that they had no fax. “I suppose we’ll come out of the dark ages someday,” McClain said. “Why don’t you go into town later and mail it? Dan Fry’s the postmaster. He or Jenny can get it off for you, overnight if you need it.”

  Paul copied his outline then called his agent in Los Angeles. Gary kvelled—his word—to hear the news.

  “That is great!” he exclaimed. “I’ll call Ann right now. When will I
see it?”

  “I’m taking it to the post office this afternoon. Forget tomorrow, but you should have it there on Thursday.”

  “Are you hearing me okay, Paul?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Lousy connection or something. Jesus, sounds like you’re in Uzbekistan! So, it’s going good for you up there, huh?”

  “Fine. I’m starting the book today.”

  “What?” Gary shouted.

  “Never mind. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Paul hung up, thought about calling Jason and Bree, then remembered it was Tuesday and they were in school. Back outside again, into a gray morning, cold and windy with a threat of snow or rain. Instead of going back to his cabin, Paul walked around to the front of Big House. From the circular driveway he gazed across the shimmering expanse of Thorburn Lake, mist-enshrouded and less blue in the overcast. No cars drove along the colony road.

  A man in dirty blue coveralls was polishing the wooden friezes beneath the portico. Paul wanted to have a closer look at the carved figures, which had been commissioned by John Thorburn over a century ago. The handyman, thin and stooped, stood on the second rung of a stepladder, his back to Paul. Not wanting to startle him, Paul crunched some gravel under his Adidas as he neared the first of the columns. The man turned, looked down.

  “How’s it going?” Paul said.

  The handyman’s face was gaunt, covered with stubble. He had black, oily hair, haphazardly combed. A scowl seemed natural to him.

  His cold gaze made Paul uncomfortable, but Paul held it for a couple of seconds until the man, with a brusque nod, stepped down. He folded the ladder and pushed his way through the huge oak doors.

  Shaking off the encounter, Paul studied the friezes. The people, horses, and wagons were finely detailed and well cared for, considering how many decades they had been exposed to the harsh Sierra winter. It was an impressive welcome for visitors to Big House—assuming anyone ever went in that way.

  At midmorning Paul finally started working. Even knowing the story in his head, even having an outline, it was hard to put the first words down. A cartoon in a frame hung over his desk at home: Snoopy sitting cocksure with his typewriter on top of the doghouse, Linus reading what had just been written and saying, “Your new novel has a great beginning…Good luck with the second sentence!” That was Paul, and that was why it hung there.

  But he did have a page done by the time lunch came. Starved, he threw the door open when he heard someone outside. Nora Hardman nearly fell off the porch.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “Here, you don’t even have to put it in the box.”

  The stocky, fortyish woman in the red coat handed him the carryall. She smiled but seemed reluctant to say anything.

  “It’s okay,” Paul told her, “you can talk.”

  “Just followin’ the rules, ya know,” she said in a deep, friendly voice. “Uh, Arthur stuck in an extra piece of chocolate cake. An’ I put in a Diet Coke, like you wanted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah. Gotta go now.”

  Nora started back, probably hoping she would not be censured for this offense. Paul went inside, consumed his lunch too quickly, and kept working.

  By three-thirty he’d forgotten his earlier anxiety. Paul was satisfied with the quantity of work, pleased with how it read. He stopped, put a copy of the outline in an envelope, and carried it to the car in his briefcase to protect it from a light but cold rain.

  Again the Cutlass groaned to life. He couldn’t warm up the interior fast enough. Finally he set off for town. Even without McClain to navigate, he avoided most of the potholes on S. Lakeshore Drive. The rain slackened, and by the time he turned onto Washo Street it had stopped.

  Jenny Fry was talking to some women when Paul walked into the store. She excused herself and met him in the first aisle. “Are you looking for candy again?” she asked. “It’s not over here, you know.”

  “Hi, no, I just need to mail something.” He held up the envelope.

  “Go and see my mother, then.” She thought for a moment. “No, she’s dead. My father will help you.”

  Jenny went back to her customers. Paul followed a dry, racking cough to the checkstand. Dan Fry was a short jowly man with a thick head of pure white hair. He appeared as pale as his daughter and between spasms would dab at his mouth with a handkerchief. Paul noticed dark spots on the cloth.

  “Help you?” Fry wheezed.

  “I’d like this to go out in next-day delivery,” Paul said.

  “You just missed a pickup. Next one’s early tomorrow morning. It goes to Truckee then they take it over to Reno. Won’t get where you want till Thursday. That okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine.”

  He addressed the label as Fry, coughing again, slid the envelope into an express mailer.

  “Anything else?” Fry asked, tossing it into a bin behind the counter.

  “I can use some antifreeze.”

  “Don’t have none. Try Dooley’s Garage, up the street.”

  Paul paid for the postage and a newspaper and left Dan Fry in a bad fit of coughing. He walked past the Mule Deer Cafe and across Alpine Street to Dooley’s Garage, Wayne Dooley, Proprietor, with its one service bay and twin Texaco pumps that probably had been there when gasoline cost a quarter a gallon. The owner was a personable man, tall and thin, in his forties. His clothes and hands were covered with grease. Paul told him what he wanted.

  “Sure, that’s easy,” Dooley said. “Want me to put it in for you?”

  Paul glanced at his watch. “It’s not necessary, but—”

  “Hey, no problem. Won’t take long. Go on, run your car in. Just finishing up one other thing.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  He drove the Cutlass into the service bay. “You can wait inside if you want,” Dooley said. “There’s some magazines.”

  “I think I’ll take a walk.”

  He bought a shredded beef taco at Salazar’s, a four-table restaurant next door to the garage. Back at Alpine Street, where Stillwell’s sole traffic light flashed endlessly, he turned right and began studying the façades of the old buildings. By wiping off layers of dirt from long-untended storefronts, he was able to read signs and look inside windows. One, a coffee shop, had its entire menu carved into the wooden door, prices included. However long these stores had been closed, it looked as if no one had bothered emptying them of either fixtures or furniture. Their value as antiques would probably be staggering. But that didn’t seem to matter in Stillwell, a place that had been largely ignored by time.

  On the other side of the street, next to the Tin Shop, stood Idlewood Livery. Its weathered sign above a stone front was easy to read. The only window was a small one on the front door. Paul rubbed some thick dirt off and peered inside. As with the other buildings, he found it difficult to see anything clearly, especially with the daylight beginning to fade. He could make out bales of hay both on racks and in bays along the base of one wall. The bales were probably so old they would crumble to dust if someone touched them. There were skeletons of a buckboard and what must have been an elaborate sleigh. Wood shavings still littered the floor.

  And in the farthest corner was something he could barely see. It was in one of the stalls, mostly concealed by a tattered burlap cover.

  Something purple.

  He strained for a better look, but it didn’t help. Even with more light there wasn’t enough showing of whatever it was to matter. He tried the knob, but the heavy door was locked.

  Purple. A crazy thought filled his head. No, there wouldn’t be any reason for it. But whatever the thing was, it seemed out of place in the old stable. He decided to look for a way inside.

  Jenny Fry appeared from an alley across the street. She was looking up at the fluffy white clouds and didn’t notice him. He moved away from the door of Idlewood Livery. She saw him now and walked across the street.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t talk before,” she said. “You know
how busy you can get sometimes.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sightseeing. My car’s in the garage.”

  “Oh, let me show you around! Among other things I’m on the board of the Historical Society.”

  “Well, it’ll be ready right away—”

  “Our population is about three hundred and fifty people,” she began, apparently not having heard him. “That’s not impressive, is it? Would you believe there used to be over four thousand people in Stillwell? But that was a long time ago, before they shut down the logging camp and the Liberty Mill. You heard about the foreman saying the jobs are going and not coming back.”

  Paul looked at Jenny curiously. “What?”

  “That’s Bruce Springsteen, didn’t you know?”

  “Oh, right. Where do the people live?”

  “Some up on Whiskey Hill. See?” She pointed west up Alpine. “That A-frame near the top is Walter McClain’s home. Others live on Trout Lane, just down the street from here. Oh, and there are a few houses overlooking the west end of the lake.”

  They began walking as Jenny continued to talk. She seemed excited about leading the tour. And she knew her town, no question about it. But Paul hadn’t planned on driving back to the colony in the dark. Fortunately, after ten minutes, they wound up back on Washo Street, where Dooley saw them and waved.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Jenny said. “Wayne closes early tonight. You’d better get your car. We can finish another time.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Jenny left. Paul paid Dooley and drove up Washo Street. Rain fell again. He slowed at the flashing light, glanced down Alpine, thought about stopping then drove on.

  A few days of isolation can do strange things, Paul decided. Returning to the colony, walking out to No. 11, he had the feeling of being cut off from the world in a way that was more than physical. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d picked up the previous day’s Sacramento Bee. While day-old news was still news to him, it hardly overcame the remoteness.