The Shadow People

by Joe Clifford

  Instead, I found myself driving by the old Utica Insane Asylum.

  The now-out-of-business hospital held tours. Unfathomable. Who would want to tour a mental hospital, especially one they claimed was haunted? Of course they claimed it was haunted. The macabre sells tickets. Psych wards, like so many of life’s horrors, have been romanticized. Glorified notions of insanity. Last year, I took an art history class. Everyone loved Van Gogh. Guys, girls, both swooned. I didn’t get it. His paintings weren’t good. Just a bunch of goopy paint slathered on canvas, compositions marred by inaccuracies. Nothing looked like it was supposed to, tables and chairs lopsided, shelves uneven, floors slanted, perspective skewed. As if drawn by a third grader with attention deficit disorder, palsy whimsying all over the place. Van Gogh was revered for one reason: because he’d gone crazy, that whole cutting off his ear business, the romance of poverty and wretchedness, the suffering artist, unrequited love, la tristesse durera. Who cares? I could’ve been one of those people, entranced by market-driven presentations of madness, if those closest to me hadn’t been afflicted.

  The stone columns of the Utica Asylum seemed to loom hundreds of feet tall, rendering the large hospital an ancient Greek museum, a structure erected to a forgotten yesteryear, a monument to spectacle, its perverse history proudly stamped. Human torture and confinement. This was part of Utica’s lore, the questionable practices implemented since its inception in the 1800s, lobotomies and patients locked in cages.

  Like a hypochondriac diving down the rabbit hole of WebMD and rare communicable diseases late at night, I used to like to read up on the hospital. Doing so fascinated me. The single most terrifying detail about Utica—the skin-crawling, Slender Man, someone-is-watching-you type—was this cage dubbed the Utica Crib, aka the Covered Bed. Which was like it sounds: an open-air coffin with bars on the sides, top and bottom, where they’d lock the most incorrigible and insolent.

  By the time my mother was supposedly there, they’d nixed the crib, opting for more traditional methods of sedation, tranquilizers, ice picks jabbed in the frontal lobe, frog brains scrambled for science class. For me, the real terror of Utica derived from depths profounder: a subconscious fear I’d end up like her, unhinged and incapable of dictating my own fate. It’s also why I left the Balfours the way I did. I wasn’t comfortable around people with mental illness.

  As I sat in my car, gazing up at the stone monstrosity, reassuring myself I was too strong to ever succumb to being enslaved by my own mind, there was an irrational, twisted part of me that yearned for it, to be lost in the instability of a life in extremis, where nothing could ever be your fault, every transgression explained away. Yeah, sure, he’s a screw up, a loser, a terrible person. But it’s not his fault. He’s sick!

  Turning the engine, I hit the highway and headed home.

  What I couldn’t know then was that I’d picked up an unseen passenger outside the Utica Insane Asylum that morning, and that my unwanted guest would not leave my side for a long, long time.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By the time I pulled into my Cortland apartment complex, dark clouds had rolled in and a steady summer rain fell. I parked in my isolated corner of the covered garage, consumed by a feeling of dread, and climbed out of the damp basement.

  Opening the apartment door, I slid my keys across the counter and, without bothering to turn on the lights, sank in my recliner, bogged down by ennui. Fixing my glasses, I glanced around my tiny living room, taking in my meager possessions—a spattering of textbooks, the chest of drawers that contained all my clothes with plenty of space to spare, the few formal documents I needed to prove I, in fact, existed—I didn’t want to tackle the project. I couldn’t fathom packing up cardboard boxes I wouldn’t bother to label, contents so sparse. When my cell buzzed, I was grateful to see Ledgecrest on the caller ID. In that moment, I couldn’t bear another minute alone.

  The nursing home needed me to cover an afternoon shift. Often, being asked to cover a last-minute shift was a huge inconvenience. Today, I jumped at the chance, eager to exit the darkness that was my own mind.

  Ledgecrest sat a few miles down the road, less than a five-minute drive. Even that much solitude was messing with me. Nothing on the radio except the same overplayed pop songs and AM zealots predicting the apocalypse. A town that had never been my home whizzed by. I ached to be around people, saddled with mindless tasks, sweeping floors and emptying bedpans; anything was better than wrestling with introspection.

  I’d changed into my white jacket, stuffing my wallet and lunch into the little locker, when my cell phone vibrated. Mrs. Balfour. My immediate wish, of course, was that Jacob had been found. The police had retrieved him from the water tower again, or discovered him meandering the outskirts of town, whatever, he was okay, and my life could return to normal. Mrs. Balfour put those hopes to bed.

  “No word,” she reported, before adding, “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you off this morning. There was a backup at the hospital. Wreck on the highway.”

  I assured her it was okay.

  “Thank you again for coming so fast. It was sweet of you.”

  It wasn’t sweet of me. It was the least I could do. But I didn’t say that, letting my silence act as acceptance of the compliment.

  Mrs. Balfour said she was going to the police this morning. I agreed that was a good idea.

  Before she hung up, I remembered her mysterious visitor.

  “When I was leaving,” I said, “an old man stopped by. Said his name was Francis.”

  The line went dead. I figured the call had dropped. Which often happened within the thick concrete walls of the convalescent home. When I looked at the screen, however, I saw the call still active.

  “Mrs. Balfour?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

  Then she hung up. If she said goodbye, I missed it.

  Despite hopes for a distraction, my fill-in shift was hardly the cure for what ailed. The hospital, full of the infirm and unattended, only reminded me that we are born alone, and we damn sure die that way too.

  Ledgecrest was small but clean, the staff, doctors, and nurses all pleasant. No Utica cribs. No holes drilled into skulls. The building wasn’t crawling with rats. But it was still a place for the unwell, and it’s hard to be around that climate and not feel disquiet.

  The hospital featured sixteen rooms, eight on each side. Not the sharpest décor, a lot of the furniture donated, which spelled paisley prints and mismatched earth tones from the 1970s, television models several generations behind. But it was affordable, with a waiting list to get in the door; we always had a full house. The clientele experienced frequent turnover. Like working at a wildlife sanctuary, you had to remind yourself not to get too attached. Yet, that wasn’t the hardest part about working there.

  It was the smell.

  Warmed-over pouches of gruel reheated in microwaves, balmy salves and menthol ointments. Disinfectant bleach masked some of it, but nothing could douse what that smell really was: death. You couldn’t escape it. It reminded me of that old Lynyrd Skynrd song. Because you can sense when the angel of darkness surrounds you. Death arrives with a distinct odor, sour and musky, erosion so overpowering you can taste it. Sinks into your clothes, your skin, your very being. The scent travels beyond BO and sponge-bathed hygiene, mutating fungi in the blood. It’s the departure, a crossing over, the liminal moments between worlds. Humans are not designed to last, motors give, tickers stop, our bodies but temporary vessels. Smoke, don’t smoke, eat beef by the bucket, go vegan, run, walk, or sit on your butt. In the end, doesn’t matter. You, me, that guy over there, we’re all going to die. We’re born into this world dying. Only a matter of how long we last. And when the end comes, it’s never pretty. Some of these people had survived almost a hundred years, and here they were little more than decaying cells and disintegrating tissues, hunks of meat that had to be rotated to avoid clotting and bedsores.

  Ledgecr
est was a human Goodwill where families dumped parents and other relatives who had lived long past usefulness. They were burdens unloaded. And I hated thinking of it like that, so callous, jaded, and cynical. Maybe a psychiatrist examines a case study like mine, dissects how I grew up, and sees a man with fear of commitment, unwilling to risk getting attached because he’s scared of getting hurt. That would make Ledgecrest the perfect job. But I wasn’t like that. I did care. Too much. It’s human nature to want to comfort the hurt, lost, and lonely. My childhood had been rough; I knew what abandonment felt like. And I refused to let my unstable inception condemn me to a life devoid of compassion or empathy.

  Like every shift, I began by reading notes. Orderlies and nurses charted interactions with patients, regardless of how banal or mundane. Many guests grappled with dementia. The slightest discomfort weighed heavier on their psyche, affecting mood. It was important to note who was agitated that day so we could keep them calm, even if that meant lying to them.

  Mrs. Simmons had been complaining about the heat because Mrs. Simmons always complained about the heat. If it wasn’t the sun, it was the radiator or the blankets, or the seasoning on bland, low-sodium meals. Plain yogurt was too spicy for her. And Mrs. Calloway had been asking what time her son was coming. Which was heartbreaking. Mrs. Calloway’s son, Lucas, lived in Seattle, three thousand miles away. He hadn’t visited once since I’d worked there.

  Then I turned the page and saw Mr. Johnson had had another episode.

  Galen Johnson had been at Ledgecrest almost as long as I had. As a healthcare professional, you’re not supposed to have favorites. Of course, that is impossible. You spend so much time with these people, getting to know them, their hopes, their dreams, their final wishes. I had a soft spot for Mr. Johnson. Despite being eighty-nine, he retained a razor-sharp wit and keen sense of humor. He always made me laugh. He was also in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, and the lines between fantasy and reality had become blurred.

  I read his nurse Mary’s notes. The shapeshifters were back. This started about six months ago and had been growing worse. Lately, whenever nurses arrived to change Mr. Johnson’s linens or empty his urine bottle—the same nurses who’d been caring for him day in and day out—they would be wearing different skins. It wasn’t Mary. It was a shapeshifter wearing Mary’s skin. It wasn’t Dorian or Sandy. It was a shapeshifter masquerading as Dorian or Sandy. Strange as it was, besides that one odd detail, the guy was lucid. Even the shapeshifting was brought up in a matter-of-fact tone, voice never rising above ragged whisper.

  I headed down to 5C to talk to Mr. Johnson, whose eyes crinkled with fondness when he saw me. Part of that was because I didn’t patronize him, didn’t belittle his intelligence by agreeing with the nonsense. I talked to him like a regular human being, and if that included correcting erroneous assumptions, then so be it. This approach was in direct conflict with the nursing home’s protocol, which stated, in no uncertain terms, that staff should never challenge patient delusions.

  “Hey, Mr. Johnson,” I said, stepping in his room. One of the perks residents at Ledgecrest enjoyed: each patient had his or her own room. “How goes it?”

  “I’ve seen better, Brandon.”

  “How do you know it’s really me?” I grinned.

  He waved me off. “I know you, Brandon.” For whatever reason, thus far I’d proven impervious to doppelgänger accusations.

  Lifting his chart off the footboard, I ran down his meds, which included Donepezil, other cholinesterase inhibitors prescribed to delay the inevitable. Same medications and dosages he’d been on for a while. Couldn’t blame a spike or chemical imbalance. According to the morning’s report, Mr. Johnson had been “hysterical.” Which did not sound like him.

  I took the plastic chair beside his bed.

  “This morning,” I started. “Different skin? Imposters?”

  “I know what you think. That I’m an old man losing it.”

  “Hold up. I don’t believe anyone is wearing a different skin or trying to trick you. But I don’t think you’re crazy. I think your brain plays tricks. Happens to the best of us.”

  I didn’t see the benefit of pandering into false narratives, confirming the impossible because it was the path of least resistance. These weren’t little kids with imaginary friends. These were grown men and women who had lived long, rich lives. They deserved respect. They deserved dignity.

  Mr. Johnson pointed at his tray. “You mind handing me that water?”

  I retrieved the paper cup and tried to position the straw to his lips. He wrestled it free with surprising grip for a man that age.

  Outside, strong winds scraped long branches against the glass. A powerful sense of déjà vu washed over me. I knew what was going to happen, what he planned to say, what my reaction would be. Like a clock running a little fast. What good was it to see a few seconds into the future? There wasn’t enough time to appreciate or reflect or do anything with this information.

  Most of his breakfast, dry toast and low-salt oatmeal, remanded untouched. I had half a bagel in my white coat pocket. I’d stopped off at Bleecker Street Deli on my way in, scarfing a mouthful. I was saving the rest of the egg and sea salt melt for a midmorning snack. When I offered, Mr. Johnson snatched the bagel. I remembered giving him this same half bagel, the way he plucked it from my fingers, like in my dreams, reactions trapped in an echo chamber.

  “It’s okay,” Mr. Johnson said, noshing a bite. “I know you don’t see it. It all happens at once. Everything. One world stacked atop the other.” He pantomimed with his hands, as though laying brick. “Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.”

  I didn’t have any disorders. I was normal. Perfectly normal. But in that instant, I feared I’d contracted misophonia. Each time he bit into the salted egg, I could hear the crunch, churn, teeth grinding, tongue repositioning masticated meats and proteins, the sound loud enough to induce madness.

  “Are you all right, Brandon?”

  “Fine,” I said, readjusting the pillows and blankets, swatting away crumbs, hastening my exit. I gave him a big forced fake grin. “I have to start my rounds. You need anything, beep me.”

  He kept chewing, slurping sounds hitting my gag reflex.

  He darted out a bony arm, snaring my wrist, clutching it. I stared at the long, yellow fingernails that needed to be trimmed.

  “Do me a favor, boy.”

  “Sure,” I said. At that point, I would’ve agreed to anything to get out of there.

  “Be ready,” he said.

  “For…?”

  “You might not see the Shadow People now.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “But trust me, boy, you will.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  For the rest of my shift, I didn’t avoid Mr. Johnson. I also didn’t find too many excuses to spend time on his half of the ward. I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that term he’d used. Shadow People. No need to make it into more than it was.

  On my lunch break, I pulled up a search engine, out of curiosity, relieved to learn neither Jacob nor Mr. Johnson invented the term. It had always been there, folks using it all the time. Conspiracy wingnuts. Shadow People were boogeymen, spooks, ghouls. According to Wikipedia, methamphetamine addicts, up for days, were the main culprits. I didn’t see the need to go further than that, comforted the phrase had simply entered my consciousness. Happened a lot with words. Take verisimilitude for instance. I’d never encountered that word before college. Almost twenty years of living, not once. Then after starting at SUNY, everyone was using it. Professors. Lecturers. Visiting writers. I’d read it in the papers. Hear it on the news, TV, comedians, movie stars, sportscasters, the average Joe on the street, everybody dropping it into casual conversations at the coffee shop. Of course, it had existed before my awareness. It hadn’t been real to me. After I’d read about the Shadow People in Jacob’s lunatic periodical, these creatures had entered my psyche, maki
ng the construct tangible, verifiable. Before that, the Shadow People dwelled in the ether, floating around with all the other things I didn’t have room for in my brain. Mineral classification. Vichyssoise recipes. Funk bands.

  Still, when Mr. Johnson said “Shadow People,” my bones went cold. I could feel the base of my spine tingling, silver freezing marrow. No matter how much I tried to convince myself that the expression was random, luck of the draw, I could not do it.

  Following my shift, I stopped at Elmer’s on the way to my apartment. I seldom drank. Tonight, I could use a beer. If only to steady rattled nerves.

  Elmer’s was a college bar, this hole in the wall that would’ve been a sad and pathetic place for alcoholics if not for its proximity to campus. It was closer than Thee Parkside. I seldom went to either. They were such college bars. All day, you’d hear students talk about getting wasted, like alcohol was a much-needed remedy to counteract grueling days. I was young but not so young I didn’t know life got harder, and that the problems confronting most college students were field days compared to the soul-crushing responsibilities we’d soon be saddled with.

  The bar’s storefront presented like an old barbershop, too-bright lights hawking all the worst beers for bottom-barrel prices. I may not have drunk beer often, but I still knew Coors Light was watered-down swill. Honestly, once I stepped inside and heard all the forced exuberance of drunk girls getting excited for “Brown Eyed Girl,” I almost turned around and headed home. I didn’t need a beer that bad.

  Then I saw her.

  Only one night had passed since I’d asked out Samantha Holahan, but it felt like months, this protracted, drawn-out separation keeping us apart and breaking us in two. By the way she returned my gaze, I could tell she felt it too. Like a couple old friends reconnecting, a chance meeting in a supermarket on Christmas Eve. Our disproportionate reactions left us reeling, embarrassed in the afterglow. Strange, the way life and circumstance can affect our relationships to time.