Shadow's Night

by Bryan James

  She climbed the front stairs of the porch and crossed to the door where she knocked and rang the doorbell but no one responded. She moved to a window and tried to peek inside by shielding her eyes but it was no better. She looked to the trees and the yard that felt bigger than they had a moment before. Her courage was waning. She began to walk down the porch when she heard a noise at the door. It opened but caught on a chain.

  “Hello,” Simon said.

  “Hi,” Heather responded. She walked back down the porch to where he stood on the other side of the door with one hand on the handle nervously fidgeting with something. Was it the lock?

  “My name is Heather,” she said, “you were in my coffee shop the other night with your friend. He’s new to town.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I just, my friend and I, he... I was... my friend is writing a report about the town and we were talking about how this is one of the oldest houses. He’s kind of shy but I said I’d stop by and ask about it.”

  “Really? What did you want to ask?”

  I’ve gotten past hello, she thought. She rubbed her hands on her pants and then put them in her pockets.

  “I was... can we talk inside? This sun,” she said.

  “Sure,” Simon replied.

  He opened the door and invited her inside. She followed his direction. And he closed the door behind her. She looked to his hands that he clasped in front of himself and the awkward way he stood.

  “Can I get a glass of water?” she asked.

  He squinted at her for close examination and decided that she looked harmless.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. He walked away, down the long hall to the kitchen.

  Each element of the house was larger than she had expected. Just the distance from floor to ceiling, one corner of hallway to another. She had grown up in houses, all of her friends had lived in places similar to her own. Some were larger but not like this. This wasn’t just about being rich. The place was ornate with woodwork and style. This was space, the type of space you could find away from the city where people turned hayfields into estates.

  Maybe the place was part of the slave trade, she said to herself. No, not directly, this was the North. This is where the processing happened. Maybe slaves came here to work but this isn’t the South. This was the town founder’s house. He probably came from old money, brought it with him across the ocean.

  All of the furniture she could see was old, antique, and preserved better than the outside of the house. The end table looked as if it had been polished just that morning. That’s where she saw the squirrel and for a moment she held her breath until she realized it wasn’t moving. It was dead. It had been stuffed.

  Taxidermy, she thought, I didn’t think anyone still did that. Maybe they don’t, maybe it’s old just like everything else. She smiled and stepped to the squirrel, held out her finger to touch it but wary it might move or she might break something.

  “Don’t touch that,” Simon commanded from beside the stairs.

  He had scared her. She felt on edge just by the frustration in his voice. She looked to the source, saw a thin figure there in the sunlight, a young man not much older than herself. He looked frail but she knew size didn’t always coincide with strength. She had been surprised by people like him before, no there was something else there, a willingness, a force.

  “You’re an explorer,” he said.

  “A what?”

  “You like to go to new places you haven’t been,” he said.

  “I’ve hardly been anywhere,” she replied.

  “But you like to go,” he said.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  His hair was combed and held in place with pomade. He had a mustache. Maybe he wanted to look older, she thought, but he looked creepy, not scary but creepy.

  “Maybe, I don’t know. I bet this isn’t very new to you.”

  “I see it everyday.”

  “Right,” she said. “Uh, maybe I should introduce myself. My name is Heather.”

  He moved to her, stopped a foot away and held out his hand.

  “My name is Simon,” he said.

  They shook hands and he handed her the glass of water. She took it and sipped from it, thanked him. She wanted to find the right words, impress him, show him she was interested in more than just the local rumors and gossip. She cleared her throat and looked back to the squirrel who sat unmoving. There was a noise from upstairs, a creak of boards. She thought for a moment someone would appear at the top of the steps, maybe Conrad.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s an old house.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “He’s out,” Simon answered. “So your friend wanted to ask about this old house? Maybe I can show you around and you can tell him if it’s something worth investigating.”

  “That would be great,” she said. “Are you on social media?”

  “No,” Simon said. “You?”

  “I had an account, well have an account or two, but I haven’t checked them in months. The ones with the people I know are kind of depressing.”

  “Yeah,” Simon said.

  He showed her into the parlor but stopped just inside the room. All around them were more stuffed animals, on the walls were collections of butterflies and moths. Life, natural life, was frozen, preserved, for decoration. She stepped past him to where she saw a collection of butterflies on the wall. She tilted her head and bit at her lip as she stared at them.

  “Fascinating aren’t they?”

  “They’re gorgeous,” she said.

  “It’s strange because we close our eyes and the world goes away. We think if we die we go somewhere but we don’t. Our bodies stay right here. They continue to exist without us, strange remnants of the life we lived.”

  “Are all of these yours?”

  He shook his head.

  “No, most of these I inherited from a friend or collected after they had already been preserved, from estate sales and things. Most people just have deer though and I don’t want them. I have a few in storage but they’re kind of weird to just have standing around in a house.”

  “You should put them on the front lawn during Christmas,” she said.

  “I thought about it but no one would ever see them.”

  It was true. Few people would ever see them, only if they had been dared, and even then the deer might be vandalized, at the very least ruined by the snow. She felt bad about her own joke and decided to change the subject.

  “Butterflies fly thousands of miles in their lifetime,” she said.

  “I know. It’s kind of a shame these ones ended up here but they could have died out there just the same and been forgotten, eaten and turned into so much dust.”

  “Maybe these ones were at the end of their life,” she said.

  “Maybe,” he replied.

  She looked to him as he stared at her patiently with his hands crossed behind his back like a butler. She was suddenly worried that she wasn’t interested in the house enough, that she had let something slip but she stopped herself from thinking the irrational thoughts to a conclusion. No one knows anything, she told herself, no one knows anything ever. She had been distracted, it was as easy as that.

  “So, what else can you tell me about the house?” she asked.

  “Well, I only know a few things I’ve been told. The owner was my great grandfather on my father’s side of the family, Herald Winters. He was involved in lumber and owned a tannery but made his real money in bootlegging. That’s how he came up with the money to build this house.” He ushered her from the room and down the foyer, past the other rooms and to the kitchen as he spoke. “Since he was in an illegal business and he stored a lot of product here he had secret compartments and passageways built into the place. I know about most of them. I’d be surprised if there was one I didn’t know about.”

  He took hold of a preparation table and slid it out from the wall, stepped into the open area and grab
bed hold of what looked like framing on the bottom of the wall. He pulled at it forcefully making it pop open to expose a hidden stairway. The landing wasn’t very big and most people would have to duck to step inside, the stairs were narrow and the steps short. There were cobwebs around the entrance and hanging from the ceiling. Heather stepped to look inside but she couldn’t see much without an additional light.

  “Pretty cool,” she said.

  “It leads to a hidden part of the basement. They used to have to load and unload things here through the kitchen, mostly booze but it could have been anything else, guns, people, anything of value that was illegal or they didn’t want to pay taxes on.”

  “And there are more?”

  “A few,” he said.

  “Watch out,” he said and she stepped away. He closed up the secret stairway by shoving the hatch back in place and wheeling the table in front of it.

  “Come on,” he said.

  She followed close behind him as he led her out of the house to the back porch where he stopped and crossed his arms.

  “Every week there would be deliveries and pick ups right here. Cars would pull in, open up, and people would load or unload whatever they had or wanted. A lot of cars would have their own compartments but it wasn’t to hide the booze. No, there was too much and it was too obvious. It was to make sure every last space in the car was being used, that’s how valuable the stuff was back then. And this place used to be a party town. There used to be brothels, hotels, and bars all throughout the place.”

  “I heard something about that but it never seemed real.”

  “It was real,” Simon said. “My grandfather is buried right out there.”

  He pointed out into the yard towards some trees and Heather looked to the spot. At first she thought it was some direction, a town cemetery located on the other side but then remembered many people had been buried on their own farmlands long ago. She adjusted her thought, adjusted her sight and she could make them out there, several gray slabs that signified not just one man but a family was buried there.

  The past was there, or at least some remnants of the past. She put her hands in her pockets and shifted her feet on the wooden porch that let out a moan. The past was here, she thought, under her feet, over her head. She had walked through it. The man who had owned the house was a criminal, was buried out there along with his family.

  Had he ever been caught and did he bribe the police? Were they all criminals? Could her town have been that corrupt? How does that happen? How does one path get picked over the others? Were any of them really options?

  Chapter 08 - Happiness

  Happiness was a rare feeling for Simon so when it happened he tried to maintain a certain amount of calm, downplay his true feelings, and never smile, but for once he had something good to say as he sat on the back porch with Conrad drinking beer.

  “Do you remember that girl from the coffee shop, the one who worked there?”

  “Yeah sure. Why?”

  “Her name was Heather. She stopped by today and we talked for a while. She said her friend was interested in researching the house because it was so old.”

  “Did she say who the friend was?”

  “No, not really,” Simon said. “Why?”

  “Well, I hope it’s her cute friend who was with her at the coffee shop. You should introduce us, if it is him.”

  “You don’t even know if he’s gay.”

  “Oh, he’s gay,” Conrad replied. “And if he’s not I can make him.”

  Simon groaned at the implication, especially as it triggered his own memory of the night Conrad and him had their own misunderstanding. They had been sleeping in the same room for several nights at that point. Simon had learned to mostly ignore the sounds coming from his roommate’s bed before they fell asleep and in the early morning but for some reason on that night it couldn’t be ignored.

  “Would you stop that?” Simon asked him.

  “Fuck off,” Conrad said.

  “You fuck off,” Simon replied.

  “I’ll fuck off all I want.”

  “You’re sick. I’m going to report you tomorrow to the counselors and the guards,” Simon said before rolling away onto his side.

  That was his first mistake. His second was not rolling back over when he heard Conrad pull off his bed covers. His third was not trying to get away as he heard him cross the few feet between their beds. He felt a fist come down on his side and he tried to push back but the covers were stuck letting Conrad hit him several more times until he could work himself free, but the covers had almost protected him and as he pulled free Conrad continued to swing, blow upon blow like he was swinging a hammer. Simon managed to get his head away and his feet back towards Conrad where he kicked him and sent him back across the room and into the other bed. Simon got to his feet and readied himself. Conrad charged at him from the floor and rammed him with his shoulder making them fall against Simon’s bed.

  Simon swung and Conrad swung back. They pushed and kicked at each other but the most effective was when they got to their knees and began to wail on each other. Both of them expected to be interrupted from the sounds they had made but no guards came. They continued to swing until their arms got tired and they fell against each other weak from the fight. Finally they pushed away from each other so that they landed on their butts and stared back to see the other was too tired to fight.

  “Are you still going to tell on me?” Conrad asked.

  “No, just go back to sleep,” Simon said.

  The next morning they both awoke feeling sore and looking bruised but they managed to conceal their pain from the guards and counselors throughout the day. It was a strange feeling but each began to think of the other with more respect until that night when they shook hands and called a truce. Conrad attempted to be quieter and sometimes Simon ignored the sounds but they never challenged each other again. They had learned something about the other person that night.

  “So you like this chick?” Conrad asked.

  “I like her,” Simon said.

  “And if it’s her friend from the coffee shop you’re going to introduce us right?”

  “Maybe,” Simon said.

  “No, definitely,” Conrad said.

  “Fine,” Simon replied.

  “I went to the library, like you said it’s pretty nice, quiet. I definitely felt like an outsider though, no one knew who I was and they kept staring at me. I felt like that wherever I went. I got lunch at some place nearby. It was cheap but not very good. Hey, maybe I should go see Heather.”

  “Maybe her friend will be around,” Simon said before finishing his beer.

  “I’d love to jump into bed with him. I’d teach him a few things. I bet he’s a virgin.”

  “Probably,” Simon replied.

  “Not much gay dick around here I’m guessing. Probably too dangerous to cruise a guy, might get your head bashed in if he figures it out. I’m so fucking horny. I need something to do, someone to do.”

  Simon picked up another beer, used the opener and tossed it back on the table between them. He took a deep drink from the bottle. Part of him worried that Conrad might try something but then he remembered that night when they beat on each other. No, he told himself, he wouldn’t try it again, besides I’m ready for him.

  “I’d go to a bar around here but they’re probably all for locals. Aren’t they?”

  Simon nodded.

  “I thought so. Although drinking in a bar never did it for me. Do you know anyone around here looking to score?”

  Simon shook his head. Drugs? Was he talking about drugs? Did he have them or wanted to get some?

  “There’s got to be people around here looking to score. Do you have any friends around here?”

  Simon shook his head before he drank some more.

  “I thought so.”

  “That’s what happens when you stab someone everyone likes and they don’t like you. No one wants to talk with you afterwards. I mean I can g
o to stores and things but friends... no one wants to be friends.”

  “You should come to the city. No one cares down there. No one knows anything about anyone else. My friend Marcus and his friends have stabbed all kinds of people. Probably didn’t kill very many of them but it’s like, I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. In fact it’s kind of a badge or something. They’d like you, you’re stone cold. Remember that kid from English class. You took it to him pretty good.”

  Simon looked to Conrad who sat with a smile on his face but kind of oblivious, partially drunk, maybe high. He watched as Conrad scratched at himself, rubbed at his crotch, and drank some more. He thought about the boy in class. He hated those memories. He wanted them to go away. He wished it had never happened.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Simon said.

  “What?” Conrad asked. “Oh, right, yeah, it’s all good.”

  “I mean it. Don’t tell anyone about my past. Don’t tell anyone about my life. It’s over and I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

  They looked each other in the eye and for a moment Simon thought he saw some moment of recognition and awareness.

  “I’m sorry,” Conrad said. “Still cool?”

  Conrad held up his bottle and Simon smiled as he clinked his own bottle to Conrad’s bottle before they both drank deeply. They didn’t talk much after that. They finished the six-pack and Simon made his way up to his bedroom where he closed the door behind himself and stuck a wedge in the bottom to secure it.

  Between his mother and Conrad he had some fear that either of them might try something in the middle of the night. His mother didn’t like drinking and he worried she might attack him, try to discipline him. It had been years since she corrected him last and he had told himself then that it would be the last time. She could be severe but he promised himself he would take it a step further. If she hit him then he would hit her back. If she got a knife... no, he didn’t like to think about it.