Shadow of the Past

by Thacher Cleveland

  Chapter Five

  Mark was rooted to the V, holding his helmet in a death grip. With the lights of Manhattan shimmering to life behind it Christine’s house managed to look even more elegant and formidable than it did almost 24 hours ago. Tiny lights lit the crooked walk up to the front door and then twinkled off the panoramic windows that curved around the side of the house.

  He knew nerves were stupid, as the conversation with Christine was amazing last night. While they didn’t have much in common interest-wise (he wrangled out the secret of her young love affairs with various boy-bands of mediocre talent), he laid back and listened with wonder as she regaled him with tales of the various places she had lived. Almost every story began with “We were hanging out” or “We were at this party.” Mark had spent almost a decade in Cedar Ridge and had yet to see a single party. The closest he came to hanging out was when Steve dragged him to one of his Theater Club things, where Mark just ended up practicing for a spot on the Olympic Wallflowering Team.

  When they finally had to get off the phone she said that she “was really looking forward to the party.” Mark found himself playing that, and the rest of their conversation over and over again when he went to bed.

  It was easy to say over breakfast that nerves were stupid, but walking up the path to the world’s prettiest house of horrors he remembered all the things he’d left out and avoided on the phone last night - like his lack of wealth and parents. Nerves were the only things that existed in his body. As he walked up the path he could see the driveway curve around the back of the house and down, nestling under the porch and providing the perfect resting place for the pair of nearly matching sports cars.

  He jabbed the doorbell quickly, expecting it to shock him with some kind of poor kid detector. The chime was as perfect and inviting as the rest of the house had led him to believe it would be and it did nothing to put him at ease.

  The door opened and an older, shorter-haired Christine smiled at him. “Well hello,” she said. “You must be Christine’s date.”

  Date? She called this a date? Maybe someone else is coming by when you’re done. “Ah, yes ma’am. I’m Mark Watson. Pleased to meet you.” He wiped a hand on his jeans and offered it to her, and she shook it warmly.

  “Won’t you come in, Mark? I’ve got a roast in the oven, but Christine will be right down,” she said, heading back into the house and gesturing at the stairway in the front hall that curved up the wall and up to a second floor balcony.

  “Sure thing,” he called after her, walking into the living room wondering if “roast in the oven” was a euphemism or if people actually did that. The living room was a fancy “not for watching TV” one like Steve’s, and the windows he’d seen from outside swept along the back wall and offered a breathtaking view of Manhattan in the distance.

  If Mark hadn’t known better he’d have thought the Bakers had lived here for years. The furniture, all sleek, modern and stylish, was meticulously placed. The only hint of the nasty act of unpacking was the couple of boxes tucked away in a corner. There was an array of pictures hanging on the wall above a black leather sofa that looked like it cost more than Joe’s car. Mark leaned in to take a look at them, mindful not to touch anything.

  The pictures looked like they had been beamed in from some distant universe where everyone was cheery and visited exotic places like lighthouses, mountains, and what may or may not be Japan. There was an older boy in the pictures with Christine and her parents; a perfect, handsome clean-cut male specimen to go with their fantastic daughter.

  “Hey,” Christine said, tapping Mark on the shoulder. “Ready to go?”

  He turned and his bitter envy melted away. She was at least twice as lovely as she’d been yesterday, hair down and face slightly more made up. Everything about her look pushed his jeans and t-shirt down from “casual” to “sketchy hobo.”

  “Yeah, totally,” he said. “I was just looking at some pictures of you and your family. They’re all . . . man, you guys get around.”

  Christine shrugged. “Yeah. My mom loves taking pictures and stuff, so it’s always posing and smiling.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Speaking of which, we should roll out before the inquisition starts.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Mark said as they headed for the door. “I’ve got the spare helmet, and it should fit you just fine.”

  “Excuse me,” Christine’s mother said, stepping into the foyer. “Did you say ‘helmet?’”

  “Um, yeah,” Mark said, stopped dead in his tracks by Mrs. Baker’s almost magical appearance.

  “You didn’t tell me he was picking you up in a motorcycle, Chrissy,” Mrs. Baker said.

  “Mom,” Christine moaned. “It’s not a motorcycle, it’s just a scooter. Totally harmless. Helmets and everything!”

  “I don’t know Chrissy maybe I should drive the two of you.”

  “Please!” Christine said, with a wave of her hand. “Mark’s a safe driver, and we’re going to be late. It’s perfectly fine, okay?” Christine opened the door, waving for Mark to take the lead out but he just stood there, eyes going from Christine to her mom and back again.

  “Fine,” Mrs. Baker said with a sigh, “As long as you’re safe. And remember, you’re supposed to be home by midnight. No later.”

  “Yeah, sure, thanks Mom,” Christine said, grabbing Mark’s hand and almost dragging him out the door.

  “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble,” Mark said, handing her a helmet.

  “No, it’s just been 24 hours and she hasn’t found something to bitch about so she had to latch on to something. With my Dad settling in at the new office and my brother away at college, it’s gonna be me.”

  “Well,” he grinned, “I’m sure she’s just worried about her little Chrissy.”

  She punched him on the shoulder with a smile. “Please! They’ve been calling me that since I was a little girl and it’s so fucking Nick at Night. Don’t you start!”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, starting up the V.

  “A beverage for madam?” Steve asked Christine, laying a bottle of soda across his forearm for her like a maitre d’.

  “Thanks,” she smiled.

  “Raging party, huh?”

  “Very . . . intimate.” This was an apt description of the guest list and the store itself. Nestled between an appliance store and a Chinese take-out place on one of the main drags through town, it was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. The books themselves ranged from science fiction and horror to books on mysticism and the occult and there was a small case next to the register with crystals and tarot cards. Towards the back of the store there was a small sitting area, where Clara had set up a card table and wheeled out a TV/VCR.

  “This place is cool,” Steve said, “but there’s always something here that I can’t figure out. A couple of months ago she had coffin nails, and I so didn’t want to know what that was about.”

  “I think she said they were for protection spells or something,” Mark said, wandering over from the new releases.

  “All I know is that I don’t wanna meet who she gets ‘em from, y’know?” Steve smirked.

  The three stood there, sodas in hand, the only noise drifting in from the street. After a few seconds, Steve cocked a thumb towards the back of the store and said, “Hey, speaking of, I’m gonna go upstairs and see what’s up with that cake.” With that, he strolled to the back and vanished behind the curtain labeled “Employees Only.”

  The two stood there in the near silence, Mark rocking back and forth on his heels. “This is nice,” Christine said a couple seconds later.

  “Yeah,” Mark nodded. “I mean, I know you’ve done way cooler stuff in Boston and wherever, but I’m glad you like it.”

  “Mark,” she said, stepping closer and putting a hand on his shoulder before he wore a hole in the carpet. “That stuff’s not important. You helping me out at school and being, maybe, the best conversationalist in the past decade is way more impressive.”

&nb
sp; “Really?” he said, eyes focusing on the hand on his shoulder. Talking on the phone had been one thing, but being in front of her put him right back in the hallway, flat on his ass and staring up in stupid, mute awe.

  “Totally,” she smiled. “I just don’t want you to be all stressed out and nervous or anything just because I’m here, okay? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off as Steve brushed back the curtain and Clara came in with a candle topped cake. Clara began to sing, and Steve and Christine joined in. Christine linked arms with Mark, who was flushed with embarrassment, to drag him towards the table in the back.

  “You didn’t have to go to any trouble,” he said when they were finished.

  “Trouble?” Clara said, waving her hands and rolling her eyes. “It’s your birthday and we love you! Of course we have to make a fuss.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said with a wide grin, throwing an arm around Mark and squeezing him close and pulling him away from Christine. “Happy sweet sixteen, baby. Now let’s get at that cake!”

  When they finished the cake and the Chinese food, Steve and Clara gave Mark their presents. Steve gave Mark a copy of an imported Kung Fu movie and Clara gave him a large hardback collection of Lovecraft stories. “Thanks, you guys,” he said, grinning from ear to ear at the two of them. “You knew I wanted this, didn’t you?” he asked Clara.

  “Well you’ve only picked it up and put it down a dozen times, kiddo. How could I not?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything,” Christine said, “But I’m sure Clara can point something out to me later.”

  “Oh, hey,” Mark said, pushing the book aside. “Don’t worry about it. I mean, we just met and all, it’s no big deal.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said, rapping out a beat on the table with his knuckles. “You’re like the little drummer girl, but, y’know, without the drumming.”

  “Exactly,” Mark smiled, but then stopped. “You don’t drum, do you?”

  “Not a musical bone in my body,” she laughed.

  “Annnnnnyway,” Steve said. “We were gonna watch The Thing, but now I vote kung fu kick-ass action, what say you?”

  “Totally,” Mark grinned, and then looking back over to Christine, the smile again giving way to concern. “Unless you hate kung fu. But this looks really good.”

  “No,” she smiled, patting him on the arm. “I’m really not down with the scary movies. I saw ‘The Ring’ with my brother nearly had a panic attack. Kung fu is fine.”

  The movie was just as good as Mark had hoped it would be, but most importantly in the dark he was able to steal glances at Christine. He loved watching her watch the movie, her eyes lighting up when she laughed or growing wide during some outrageous fight.

  During a slow point, Mark excused himself and stepped behind the curtain marked “Employees Only”. Behind it was a small hallway with stairs along the far right wall that led up to Clara’s apartment and a narrow hallway to the left that led to the bathroom.

  When he finished in the bathroom he was about to turn and head back into the store when he heard a creak from the upstairs door. He paused, cocking his head to see if he heard it again. After a few seconds he did, and it sounded like a footstep. Mark walked up to the foot of the steps and squinted up at the darkness above.

  He could barely see the top, but it looked like the door was closed, which was unusual. There shouldn’t be anyone up there, but there were fire stairs leading down from the small patio at the back of Clara’s apartment and into the lot below where Mark had parked the V. They weren’t in a bad neighborhood per se, but it was as close to urban as Cedar Ridge got.

  Mark took a couple of steps backwards, trying to keep the door in sight. When he reached the curtain he turned to ask someone if they heard something as well, but he realized that another massive kung fu fight. Christine laughed out-loud, and the light from the TV sparkled in her eyes.

  This is stupid, go sit with her.

  Mark was about to go back in when he heard a definite creak above him. He looked from Christine to back up the door, and then turned and crept up the steps.

  The stairway was dark and Mark tread softly as he could. He hadn’t turned on the light downstairs, and if the door upstairs wasn’t closed, Clara hadn’t left a single light on upstairs.

  What are you going to do? Sneak up on a burglar, wrestle him to the ground and be a hero for your new “girlfriend?”

  Mark stopped at the second to last step, one hand on the wall to his left, the other reaching out to feel for the door. He looked back down the steps behind him. The muted light through the curtain of the TV was still flickering, but everything else was as black as pitch.

  He turned back and reached out for the door. His fingertips brushed against wood, and he realized that the door had been closed. He listened for anything out of the ordinary, which was easier further away from the kicks and chops, but this time there was nothing. He felt around until he found the doorknob, and gently pushed the door open.

  “Hello?” he called, and then winced at his own stupidity. Oh, that’s a great way to sneak up on a burglar. Why don’t you take up yodeling?

  The door opened into the living room. To the left was a wide archway that led to the kitchen and through there, the patio. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the narrow windows that faced the buildings next door. Everything looked normal, although it was odd that Clara hadn’t left a single light on.

  He took a few cautious steps around the living room, straining his eyes to peer into the inky depths of the shadows around him. He stopped, trying to hear whatever it was that had been moving around up here but there was nothing. Not even the kung fu mayhem was making its way up the steps.

  “Hello?” he called again, his voice bouncing around him.

  There was a flutter out of the corner of his eye, near the kitchen. As he turned to look a breath of air washed over him, carrying a thick odor of smoke as if it had just blown out a thousand candles. He wrinkled his nose as he peered around in the dark, not wanting to leave the little island of light from downstairs.

  There it was again, a flutter of something in the deep blackness of the kitchen. He stepped forward, and then the dark exploded towards him like black smoke. He stepped back, trying to get into the light, but the shape was on him in a second, enveloping him and filling his nostrils with the scent of ash and fire. His stumbled back, waving one arm behind him to find the wall and the other in front of his face. The darkness was so absolute that he couldn’t even see his own flailing limb in front of him.

  All he could see were two lights flickering in the distance. They bobbed slightly, getting bigger, and then he realized they were eyes.

  He turned to run but then realized he was inches away from the top of the stairs. He pinwheeled his arms, frantically trying keep from toppling forward. Stretched out, trying to keep his balance, he realized the stairway had changed, become old and wooden. This wasn’t Clara’s anymore, and the light from downstairs didn’t come from a kung fu movie, but flickered like an open flame. Smoke wafted up at him, carrying with it a heavier smell of something burning like a rancid barbecue.

  Mark heard the low whistle of a familiar tune and when he turned the flaming pair of eyes towered over him.

  “Come on-a my house, my house . . .” a voice whispered through the darkness.

  There was a flash of silver, a brilliant contrast to the darkness, and then he was tumbling backwards down the stairs.

  Chapter Six

  “What the hell was that?” Christine said, jumping to her feet. Steve and Clara raced behind the curtain where the racket had come from and when she squeezed past them she could see Mark sprawled out at the base of the stairs, staring up at them in bewildered panic.

  “What, are you taking up stair-sledding?” Steve asked.

  “Are you okay?” Clara said, elbowing Steve out of the way.

  “Yeah, I just remembe
r--” Mark scrambled to his feet. “Upstairs! There was . . . something. Someone, I think.”

  “What?” Clara said, reaching over and turning on the stairwell light.

  “But . . .” Mark said, taking a hesitant step up the empty, well-lit, non-life threatening stairway. “I heard something. I went up there and it was totally dark, and then--” Mark eyes met Christine’s, and he could see the “He is strange and not one of us” look everyone eventually caught around him. Now she’s getting a taste of the real Mark Watson.

  “It was nothing,” he said, giving the stairs a second glance. “I must have . . . I dunno, slipped. No big deal.

  “And here I thought we weren’t gonna watch The Thing,” Steve said.

  “Are you sure?” Clara said, elbowing Steve.

  “Yeah,” Mark said, his color coming back. “Sure. It was probably the wind or a curtain or something, and I just lost my footing coming down the steps. I’m fine, really.”

  “We should check, just to be sure.”

  “Clara, it’s nothing,” Mark said.

  “If it’s nothing then nothing is what we’ll see,” Clara said, heading up the steps. Mark darted after her as fast as he could, Steve and Christine trailing behind them.

  The upstairs door was open and all four of them crowded into the doorway, peering into the living room. “Mark?” Clara asked, but he just opened his mouth and then closed it.

  One of the small lamps on the sofa end-table was lit, and down the hall there was a dim light coming from the back of the apartment. The kitchen was dim but not impenetrably black, lit by streetlight coming through the windows and back patio door.

  “Where was it?” Clara asked.

  “The kitchen,” he said, feeling his old friend humiliation creeping up on him. “I guess I thought I saw someone on the patio.”

  Clara walked over and pressed her face against the glass of the back door. “I don’t see anything.” She gave the door a tug and the doorknob a rattle. “Still locked. Are you sure that’s all?”