The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  “What about your car?” I said.

  “It’s not important.”

  “Isaac, what were you doing in the forest?”

  “Trying to prove that this isn’t happening.”

  “What is happening?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at him and saw that he had the same haunted look as Detective Van Gundy back at the hospital. “But the gates of Hell have opened.”

  * * *

  While I waited in the emergency room, I texted Holly to let her know I was back. I didn’t say anything about the forest. She replied with a single letter—K.

  I realized there was no way I was going to make it to work in time, so I called Fred. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and would have to come in later. Other than the accident, I hadn’t taken a sick day since I started there. He knew it and didn’t argue.

  A couple of hours later Isaac came out, wearing a large white adhesive bandage on his forehead. Other than some bruised ribs and a sore neck, he was fine.

  We drove over to the Tip Top Café to get some coffee. This place had become a refuge of mine since I stopped drinking. It was two doors down from the Beehive. Though this created a temptation the AA people wouldn’t approve of, it gave me a strange comfort—knowing I could be so close to that den of pain, yet never allowing myself to set foot in there again.

  The Tip Top was old-school. It had opened in the early sixties, before the British Invasion. The booths were made of red leather. The menus were trifold and laminated. It was a great place to get a burger and shake. A soda fountain featured banana splits and fresh cherry pie. There was a jukebox, and for a quarter you could still hear Bobby Darrin singing “Beyond the Sea.”

  For a long time Isaac and I sat staring out at the world through a plate-glass window. Everything here looked normal. Cars drove by. A mother walked past, holding a child by the hand and laughing. A postal worker delivered mail to the local merchants. A teenage boy kissed his girlfriend leaning against a streetlight. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “That guy in the forest,” I said, “the one I hit. What did you mean, he was already dead?”

  “I mean you didn’t kill anyone—not a person anyway.”

  “And what about Jim Stanley?”

  I already knew the answer. It’s what I suspected. Like everyone else in town, Jim had also been Isaac’s patient. He told me about the autopsy. People were dying, but they weren’t staying dead. He finished his coffee, set the cup on the saucer and wept into his hands. I didn’t know what to do.

  A clueless server came over with a glass coffeepot in each hand, one decaf and the other regular. “Anyone need a refill?” she said.

  I titled my head towards Isaac. She left and said something to one of the other servers.

  “Sorry I almost crashed into you,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I was pretty messed up myself. I saw a bunch of those crazies attack a man near the bridge. What do you think is causing people to act this way?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with all those other people we’ve been seeing?”

  “You mean the ones with the jimmies?”

  “You said they were dead already.”

  “That or their symptoms mimic death,” he said. “If these illnesses are connected, it could be some kind of virus. And it might be mutating. I called the CDC over a week ago. They were supposed to send someone out.”

  “Come on, I’ll take you back to your house.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  I left money on the table, and as we walked out I observed a man in a cheap suit staring at us. He looked feverish. To diffuse the tension, I smiled at him, but he kept staring. I noticed he was drooling.

  * * *

  It was a short ride to Isaac’s house. As I pulled into the driveway, I saw the police cars parked in front of a neighbor’s house. A man, a woman and teenage girl sat outside on the curb. They looked helpless, like they didn’t know what to do.

  “Kate, what happened?” Isaac said.

  The woman looked up at us. “Oh, Dr. Fallow! Patty’s husband was attacked in their backyard. We’re waiting for the ambulance.”

  “Sal is still in the yard,” Patty said. “They won’t let me see him.”

  “Just give me a second.”

  As Isaac got his medical equipment from my truck, the woman named Patty continued on. “It was weird. Some kind of wild group of people. Men and women. They attacked him for no reason. He was watering the lawn.”

  Isaac touched Patty’s shoulder and went over to a police officer who was making some notes.

  “Oh, hey, Dr. Fallow.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “No. Whoever did this is long gone.”

  “Okay, come with me. Dave, you might want to stay here.”

  “No way—I’m coming.”

  We went around the side of the house and entered the backyard through a wooden gate. A policeman patrolled the area with his gun drawn. In the middle of the yard, we saw the victim. He didn’t look that bad. I guessed that something must have scared off the mob.

  Isaac put on latex gloves and knelt next to the man. I watched as he examined the man and took his pulse.

  “Sal, how are you feeling?”

  “Shaken up, I guess.”

  “These are some nasty bites.”

  “Who are you?” one of the police officers said to me.

  “Dave Pulaski. I’m a friend of Isaac’s.”

  “Oh?” I didn’t like his expression.

  By the time the ambulance arrived, Isaac had wrapped the man’s arms and hands. It looked to me as if he’d tried to deflect the attacks and was bit.

  When we got back to the street, another police officer came up to me.

  “I need to see some identification,” the cop said.

  Isaac and I exchanged a look as I handed over my driver’s license.

  “Hey, Norm,” another cop said. “Take a look at this.” He was examining my front bumper.

  “In a minute.”

  My heart sank as he took my license to his vehicle. I knew he was running it through the computer. A couple of minutes later, he came back.

  “There’s a wanted notice on you,” the cop said. “I have to take you in.”

  I looked at Isaac. “What for?” he said.

  The cop looked irritated. “There’s a detective wants to ask you some questions.”

  “You’re allowed to have an attorney present, so don’t say anything,” Isaac advised. “Give me your keys. I need to go over to the hospital. I’ll pick you up at the police station later.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I got into the back of the police car and looked down at my feet. Though I wasn’t cuffed, I couldn’t bear to look at the people on the sidewalk staring at me.

  I had never been arrested, not even in my darkest drinking days. Let me tell you, it’s not pleasant. There’s a sense of unreality to it, like it’s a dream and it’s happening to someone else.

  As I waited to be driven off, the first cop—Norm—went over to look at my truck with the other cop. He stared at the front bumper, said “Holy shit!” and looked over at me. I watched as Isaac joined them. I could imagine what they were saying about the blood. When it was over, Isaac walked past the police vehicle and gave me an almost-imperceptible thumbs-up.

  A coward and a murderer, I thought, as the two cops climbed into the car. Holly already hated me. Now she’d for sure be scared of me too.

  “That was some raccoon,” the cop named Norm said to me over his shoulder.

  “What?”

  “The one you ran over. He must’ve been huge.”

  “He was,” I said, realizing the story Isaac had told them.

  “You may want to hose that off later so no other police officers pull you over.”

  “Right,” I said.

  As we got onto the main road, a voice on the police radio announced that
a violent mob had overrun a convenience store. Two employees were dead. The dispatcher said, “All units respond.”

  The cops looked at each other, and Norm said, “Shit, what do we do?”

  “We have to get this guy to the station.”

  “The store’s on the way. Let’s at least check it out.”

  We rode in silence, the dispatcher’s voice droning in the background. Whatever was going on over there, it sounded hellish. I heard the dispatcher use the word mayhem.

  “You thought about quitting?” the other cop said to Norm.

  “Every damn day.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mayhem

  The convenience store was in chaos. Twenty or more police and sheriffs’ vehicles, their lights flashing, surrounded the small wooden building with the peeling green paint and cartoon advertisements for slushies and hot dogs. Behind them, dozens of cops trained their weapons on something. Overhead, the blades of a blue-and-white highway-patrol helicopter beat angrily. On the roof, store employees waved their arms, pleading to be rescued. But from what?

  Then I heard it—that awful screeching that I came to know as a death shriek.

  In the distance I saw an Eyewitness News truck and Evie Champagne pushing through the police barricade with her microphone, trying to cover the scene up close as her pudgy, bearded cameraman shot over-the-shoulder video. One of the cops—I think he was a police captain—blocked their path. It was hard to hear.

  “You need to get out of here.”

  “We have a right to be here.”

  Without another word, he grabbed the camera and threw it on the ground.

  “Hey!” the sidekick said.

  Another cop popped the cameraman in the head with his riot stick as Evie let go a string of obscenities. The man dropped to his knees, cursing and cradling his bleeding head. More cops dragged Evie and the cameraman back to their truck, flung the side door open and forced them inside.

  I thought the cops were trying to protect citizens, but I couldn’t help wondering whether they didn’t want any images broadcast. One of the cops stood guard next to the truck to make sure the two news people didn’t come out again. After the captain and the other cops left, though, I saw Evie through the window of the truck shooting video on her cell phone. I had to give it to her, she had cojones.

  All the other cops stood behind their vehicle doors, their weapons pointed at … I don’t know what they were. They resembled people, but they didn’t act normal. They were like those crazies in the forest, climbing over one another, trying to get to something on the ground behind a parked car. I strained to see what it was.

  A human arm.

  As the cops looked on in disgust, these animals ripped a human body to shreds and ate it with a hellish hunger. Eyes, ears, fingers, belly—anything they could grab and devour.

  No one seemed to know what to do. One of the other cops waved at us. Officer Norm switched off the engine and said to me, “You stay here in the back.”

  “Don’t leave me here!”

  Drawing their weapons, he and his partner got out and joined the others as the horde, still not sated, turned their attention to the cops.

  “Halt!” someone said. But the horde pushed forward, their eyes lifeless, their mouths twitchy and bloody.

  I wanted to run, but I had no way to get out of the vehicle. What if one of them broke in?

  A gunshot pierced the thick, stifling air. One of the horde turned sideways, a gaping, bloody hole in his chest. He shook it off and kept coming. A volley of gunshots riddled him, hardly slowing him down.

  Bullets rained down on the horde. One of the rounds hit a woman in the head. Covered in blood, she went down hard and didn’t get up again.

  “Aim for the head!” someone said.

  I don’t know how many shots were fired, but one by one the creatures hit the ground, half their faces blown off by shotguns and .44 Magnums. What was happening was unreal. The horde seemed to be growing. Some of the cops were bit as they tried to reload. No one could stop to help them as they lay on the ground, screaming.

  A crash.

  What used to be a man, teeth dripping with gore, was reaching for me through the shattered side window. I screamed and moved as far away as I could—still it almost touched me.

  “Help!”

  Because I was inside the car, no one could hear me over the gunfire. Pushing against the door, I tried kicking the dark thing’s arms away. But it grabbed one of my feet and, with incredible strength, pulled me towards it.

  “Help! For God’s sake!”

  As my leg went through the window, the creature’s head exploded. Officer Norm peered through the shattered window, still holding his .44.

  I got my leg back inside, and he leaned in. “You okay?”

  * * *

  The ordeal lasted only a few minutes. The cops who were bit turned on their brethren and had to be put down. I thought about what Isaac said about the virus mutating. Victims were turning faster.

  “Cease fire!” the captain said.

  Then all was quiet. Every bit of the horde was dead—including the infected cops. The helicopter was gone. The employees who were still on the roof stared down at the carnage. The pungent smell of gunpowder hung in the air. One of the cops picked up the head of one of his comrades and puked on his shoes.

  As we drove in silence, I lay on the backseat, numb from cold and shock. The police dispatcher had called it right—mayhem.

  * * *

  Norm and his partner brought me into a small office where Detective Van Gundy was already waiting. A dark green file folder lay on the desk. He closed the door, went behind the desk and motioned for me to have a seat.

  “Want something to drink?”

  I couldn’t answer. My head felt feverish, my legs detached. I vomited on the floor.

  “Sorry.”

  The detective stepped over the sick and flung the door open. “Can I get a mop and a bucket in here?” He touched my shoulder and helped me up. “Come on, we’ll use another office.”

  I sat in a metal-and-vinyl chair, a cup of room-temperature water in my hand, as Detective Van Gundy flipped through a pile of papers inside the folder.

  “Sorry about what happened,” he said. “Those cops should have never put you in danger like that. The way things have been going, not everyone is thinking right. What happened anyway?”

  I was about to say something when Isaac walked in.

  “Can I help you?” Detective Van Gundy said. “Oh, Dr. Fallow. What can I do for you?”

  “I came to see if I could be of help.”

  “Sure.” The detective looked resigned as Isaac took a seat next to me and patted my knee.

  “I was about to tell Mr. Pulaski that we found Ms. Soldado’s cell phone and—”

  “I knew her, okay?” I said.

  Isaac frowned. “You should get yourself a lawyer, son.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Her last text was to your cell number,” the detective said. “Want to explain why you didn’t tell me the truth before?”

  “Dave, I strongly advise—”

  “Because I was cheating on my wife with Melyssa Soldado, okay? I didn’t want anybody to know.”

  “I see.” Detective Van Gundy made a note in the file. “And your friend? How does he fit into all this?”

  I gave him as much of the truth as I was going to. “I don’t know, he might’ve been jealous.”

  “Jealous,” the detective said. “Her last text to you was …” He referred to a handwritten page. “‘You shouldn’t have done that, Dave.’ Shouldn’t have done what?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Right.”

  “Have you located her yet?”

  “No. Someone reported seeing a woman fitting her description wandering in the forest near where Ms. Soldado lives. The description also says that she was covered in blood. We don’t have any other leads.”

  I looked at Isaac, then at De
tective Van Gundy. “So are we done?”

  The detective considered the question, looked at the file again and then back at me. I knew he didn’t have shit to go on. If he was hoping for a confession, he could forget it. I was saving that for the priest.

  “Yeah,” he said, “for now. Don’t leave town. I know that sounds cheesy, but seriously. I’ll have more questions later.”

  I looked at him and smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. I have to work.”

  As we left the office, Detective Van Gundy said, “Mr. Pulaski? I understand your wife is not currently living at home.”

  “That’s right. When Jim died I told my wife what I’d done. She doesn’t want to see me anymore.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I’d still like to interview her.” I tried not to let the shock show on my face as he slid over a pen and paper. “Please write down her address and phone number.”

  “Sure,” I said. When I’d finished, I slid the paper back over to him.

  “Maybe she’ll forgive you,” he said as he read what I’d written. “In time.”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  All I wanted was to get home and shower, but Isaac insisted we talk. So we went to the Tip Top for coffee and pie.

  “Dave,” he said, olallieberry juice dripping down his chin, “you need an attorney. I’m happy to recommend one.”

  “Why?”

  “Son, in addition to bringing babies like you into the world, I’ve been investigating homicides for thirty-five years. Looking at the medical evidence. Trying to guess what was going through the killer’s mind. I’m not saying you killed anyone, but what I see is a man with a big secret.”

  I stirred my coffee and avoided eye contact. “I’m not a bad person.”

  “Course not. But sometimes we make mistakes—bad ones. And people wind up dead.”

  “Like Jim.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Missy’s not dead.”

  “You sure?”

  “Jim was way dead before he ever showed up in the forest.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I was there, trying to talk sense into Missy. Jim showed up out of nowhere, and he wasn’t right.”