Stone's Shadow

by Martin McConnell

He waited for the noise to cut off, and switched to his inside voice. “I don't know. I'm not really tired.”

  “I thought you were always tired.”

  “Well, yeah. But there's two kinds of tired. There's dragging ass because you didn't get enough sleep tired. And there's actually able to lay down and pass out tired. I'm still in dragging ass mode.”

  See, you’re talking to this guy. Just do the same thing when you go outside. Just open your mouth, and talk to her.

  The barista handed the cup across the counter. “How long do you end up sleeping when you finally go down? You stay up for three or four days at a time, that's twenty-four to thirty-two hours of sleep you're missing out on, right?”

  “After three days, I sleep about sixteen hours. A little more after four days.”

  The barista's head shook back and forth, wagging his ponytail behind it. Or was the ponytail wagging him? “I couldn't do it, man. No wonder you look like a zombie.”

  “Zombie?”

  “Bags under your eyes. If I didn't know you, I'd swear you were a ghost.”

  Scott grunted. There were few things worse than someone who didn't understand poking their comments where they weren't wanted. He nodded and left the shop with coffee in hand, searching again through his thoughts for something to say to the beauty queen. It didn't matter. She was standing at the curb facing the other direction. Her sweater draped long enough to make it look like a short dress that hung over black tights clinging to the legs of an athlete. And those boots. Way out of your league, Scotty.

  Clouds steamed from his lips, and followed the contours of his face as he paced forward through the frozen mist that continued to flash blue from above. Tiny droplets drifted through the air without falling, following invisible eddies and miniature whirlwinds. Thunder and lightning waged war in the sky, accenting the dark street lit otherwise only by yellow mercury lamps long past their retirement age. Mist turned to drizzle, and rain began to fall as he reached the doorway. A glance back caught the gorgeous blonde flicking a smoldering ember into the street, while darting toward the door of the coffee house.

  The elevator had been out for weeks, or at least unreliable enough to make trying it risky. Even when it was running right, it would often stop at night, and he didn't feel like being trapped inside the next time it broke. Old wooden stairs may have creaked under his feet, but they hadn’t failed yet.

  The unpolished brass knob adorning his door resembled a tiny planet of golden seas and patina continents. The lock wore a film of rust on the outside that frequently caused the key to stick. It was a fitting habitat for budget-minded college students paying their own way through life. He jiggled and jingled until the cylinder cracked free, and forced the door open with his shoulder.

  Climbing the steps at this stage of fatigue made his heartbeat audible, like the drum of his ego reminding him of the short span of human life, and that at some point he would need to make a choice between being alone forever, or working up the nerve to open his mouth.

  “All you have to do is say ‘Hi’ to her. Why is that so hard?”

  He ripped the key free from the lock, and pushed the door hard to close it, metering out a bit of frustration.

  Nothing stirred in the dark room. He worked his jacket free without spilling coffee, and hung it over the door handle before again planting himself in front of the computer. He stared at the tiny clock. “Almost sixty-four hours without sleep.” He stretched and wriggled in the chair, hunting for the perfect position. The scratching started again, and his body torqued toward the sound.

  “What is that?”

  A blur of movement, this time dead center in his field of view, just over the bed, like heat rising off a barbecue grill.

  Just a bit longer.

  Was the voice in his head his own? Or did it belong to something else? The drumming of his heart quickened with the sense of another presence. The steamy vapors turned dark, like a thick smoke frozen in time. The outline looked like the shadow of a short man wearing a fedora. Tendrils rose from it. This isn’t a hallucination.

  Scott’s body became stone, his eyes unblinking as the thing drifted closer, pulsing forward in perfect tempo with his circulatory system. Two red dots appeared near the top, first as a faint glow, then brightening to burning lasers.

  Keep looking. Just a bit longer. A splash of scalding fluid burned his leg, breaking the trance, and he shot toward the door like a bullet, leaving a toppled chair in his wake behind a shower of frothy espresso. He fell through the doorway to his hands and knees. He pushed off the ground, and sprinted through the hall. The first stair triggered a tumble all the way down. He caught his feet and ran, and kept running. Out the door, over slippery concrete, and on until his legs gave out.

  It was the first time he saw us, and it should have been the last.

  2

  “Seventy hours without sleep.”

  Scott paced in front of the clinic, refusing to look in any particular direction for more than an instant. Scratching noises surrounded him, and they stopped every time he glanced up. His gaze danced in flickers, from the rough curb to the tiny yellow flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk, to the brick facade of the doctor's office, terrified that he would see those glowing eyes if he stared too long in any particular direction.

  “You're imagining things,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Scotty,” came the voice of Dr. Jennings. “You're here awfully early this morning. What is it this time?”

  “I think I'm losing it, Doc.” His focus continued to shift; to the doctor's eyes for an instant, to the street, to an empty beer can, and back to Dr. Jennings. “I can't sleep, and I'm seeing things.”

  The doctor reached out with an open hand to feel his neck. “Thirsty?”

  “Very.”

  “You need to lay off the caffeine, kid. It's just as bad as amphetamines.” The doctor walked to the door, fumbling with his keys. “How many pills have you popped in the last two days?”

  “Nothing. Just coffee. And maybe a couple of energy drinks.”

  “How many energy drinks?”

  Scott’s eyelids closed over the fire warming his face. His eyes rubbed back and forth against the coarse flaps of dehydrated skin covering them. This isn't about the coffee.

  “Too many,” continued Dr. Jennings. “Step inside.”

  Key in the lock, a couple clicks, and Scott’s eyes popped open in sync with the door. He followed Dr. Jennings inside and took his usual spot on the couch.

  Natural tears disappeared after three days without sleep. His eyes grew dry and itchy from a combination of diuretics and lack of rest.

  Dr. Jennings returned with a large plastic cup of water. “Drink this, and lay down for a while. I'll come back and check on you in a bit, okay?”

  Scott took the glass, glaring at Jennings as he disappeared into his office without a look back. His cold skin shivered in the warmth of the room, frozen like permafrost in the arctic tundra on an unusually hot and sunny day. He didn’t really think the doctor could help, but this waiting room was a safe place away from the outside world, where nobody could smell his fear, and no taunts would be called. Only silent smugness from the staff who knew him too well.

  He chugged the cold, tasteless liquid, and placed the cup on a coffee table beside a stack of magazines. He laid on the stiff, matted fibers of the office couches. His heart pounded from behind the rib cage, which was normal for three days without sleep, but especially painful that morning.

  If his eyes closed, he saw those red eyes in the darkness. They were burned into his retinas, or perhaps into his subconscious mind. He had thought of nothing but the sighting all night, despite trying to convince his brain to change the subject. The logical part of his mind struggled to convince his heart that it was all an illusion, but some part of him knew it wasn’t. He’d seen a lot of things while experimenting with longer wake times, but never an image so bright or vivid.

  He stretched and turned the the left
and right, digging a compression pattern into the cushions. As his eyes closed again, he allowed the dots to persist. The two laser circles turned to retinal flares, and a kaleidoscope of color patterns replaced the otherwise black image. His body went numb, and he drifted into the realm of sleep, where the fires of a burning town filled his view. He was running with a pack of wild dogs who followed close, and attacked anyone trying to escape the destruction.

  “Bah!”

  He shook himself awake on the sofa. His throat was dry, forcing an annoying hack. His breathing labored as he propped himself up on the couch. He rubbed the sweat from his face without the care or finesse needed to keep his glasses from coming free and bouncing across the carpet. Other patients stared at him like he was a circus attraction. He pulled the phone from his pocket.

  “Zero hours at ten o'clock,” he whispered.

  He stretched, sensing the thin film covering his whole body. His shirt was damp with it, as was common when waking from such dreams. The cup on the table had disappeared. The plain white walls and accent furniture were sterile and uncaring, like the two guests reading magazines while pretending not to stare from the corners of their eyes. He heaved off the couch, scooping up his specs on the way. By the time they adjusted, he was staring through a plastic window at the receptionist.

  “I need to pee,” he said.

  The nurse knew him. They all knew him. She didn’t say a word, just tapped the buzzer and held it until he cracked the handle to open the side door leading deeper into the building. No instructions needed, he knew the way. He walked past the exam rooms, and straight to the tiny bathroom for urine samples.

  After washing his hands, he cupped them into a bucket and bailed water into his stomach. The mirror reflected his pale complexion and bloodshot eyes, topped with a mop of sandy brown hair that refused to lay flat on his scalp. Beads of water dripped from his broad chin. The glasses sat crooked on his face above hollow cheeks, and the semi-liquid coating on his skin shined in the dim overhead lights. He needed to shower. He toweled off with rough brown paper from the dispenser, and emerged into the hallway.

  Dr. Jennings stood staring at a clip board and addressed Scott without looking up. “You know it was just a dream, right? Your mind is playing tricks on you. Even if you don't want to sleep, your mind is already in that mode. It’s falling asleep without you.”

  “This wasn't a hallucination, Doc. I've seen enough of those. Never anything like this.” He rubbed at his eye behind the glasses. A burning sensation started at the tear duct, and rubbing made it itch. “It was in the middle of thin air—it changed. No broken background for my brain to confuse with something else. It was moving—it wasn't—a dream. And those eyes.”

  Dr. Jennings passed a quick smile, the kind of expression he would show a patient who wouldn't listen to reason, no matter how silly their idea was.

  “Stay hydrated. Call me later and let me know how you’re doing. Are you still having nightmares?”

  Scott nodded, and glanced at a staring nurse behind the counter. He was well known as the wimp that was allergic to everything and hopped up on anxiety and depression medication.

  “We might need to change your prescription,” said the doctor. “I scheduled you an appointment on Friday. Is nine o'clock okay?”

  He nodded again while staring into the doctor's unconcerned eyes.

  “All right then. Try to get some more sleep. You need to get on a regular cycle. If the nightmares are still happening that often, then we'll try another drug.”

  Thanks, Doc. As always, no help. But what did he expect? Doctors prescribed pills. They didn't take care of ghosts. He followed his feet to the front door on autopilot, wondering how much the bill would be for this visit. He never had to pay out of pocket, but it still surprised him that Doc could charge the insurance company a hundred bucks even if he never saw an exam room.

  Outside, nobody was around to judge his ramblings, so he let them flow. “Maybe he thinks it's my fault that I'm allergic to everything. Maybe coming down with the flu is my fault too. Broken arm? Yep, my fault.”

  He continued chirping until his toe caught a seam in the concrete, tossing him sideways. His body dipped and swayed, righting itself a few steps later. He scoffed and continued on.

  “Tripping on the concrete is my fault too,” he said sarcastically, and with the next step, he caught a second crack. Down he went, bracing his hands against the sandpapery concrete.

  “Stupid sidewalk,” he screamed. There was only so much he could laugh off. Lying there, he glared at the seemingly smooth surface hiding billions of jagged crystals which formed tiny caverns and sharp outcroppings across the vista of sparkling flecks, each glistening in the sunlight. Everything else in nature dulled after repeated exposure to the elements, but somehow sidewalks sharpened over time. New edges appeared behind any grains that washed away, waiting to scratch careless palms. It had the magical ability to stay cold and damp even as the sunlight warmed the rest of the world. Wet or dry, it retained the capacity to dig just as deep into bare flesh.

  The scrapes on his palms burned as he pushed off the ground. A sigh followed heavy breathing. It was going to be one of those days, and he knew it. Three hours wouldn't make up for three days without rest. He entered zombie-mode, and treaded toward the coffee shop, carefully sidestepping every crack.

  When he walked in, laptop guy was sitting in his usual spot, hammering away at the keys. He looked up, and something cold appeared behind the man's eyes. His forehead relaxed, almost as if he were staring at a past memory. The look cut right into Scott’s thoughts. For an instant, he saw his own future. Sitting in a café, scribbling out notes about his insanity. He shrugged it off, and turned toward the counter.

  “Tall cap.”

  The barista's mouth opened with a smile. Without looking, the guy grabbed a paper cup, scribbled on it, and passed it down the line.

  “Two bucks.”

  As the barista poked the cash register keys, his lips closed over a fixed grin. His head shook in a gentle rhythm. A chime from the register opened the cash drawer. He looked up and snatched the four bills from Scott's hand.

  “You going on four days?”

  “Might as well.”

  “You are one crazy little dude.”

  The machine hissed and growled as the cup filled with foaming milk. Scott scanned the shop filled with the usual daytime customers. Everyone studied or chatted among their groups of three or four, wearing business attire and flipping through the morning paper, or staring at their phones while waiting on their name to be called. Scott didn't have a group. He didn't have a place. The only ones who knew him were the baristas, and most of them didn't know his first name. As he panned across the room, his gaze stopped on laptop guy, who stared back at him. An uncomfortable wince created pressure between his nose and the grip of the glasses.

  “One tall cap.”

  He spun around, grabbed the coffee, and headed to the exit opposite of laptop guy. On the patio sidewalk, he stood staring up at the building. At least the morning sun killed the bout of cold weather. The air was more inviting than the shivering he endured through a long night on the steps of the clinic. He bathed in the warm rays as they fought a war against the cooler breeze. His eyes opened on the second-story window of his apartment. That place wasn't safe.

  Tuesdays were supposed to be for resting after the long weekend awake. He kept to a schedule, even if it wasn’t the same as anyone else’s. He should have been in bed, suffering from night terrors. Instead he was standing here, only feet away from the entrance to his building, debating the sanity and safety of heading up. He was one staircase and a short hallway away from a bright-eyed demon that chose to make a home in his apartment.

  “Screw the jacket. Screw the shower.” He sipped at the hole in the lid, singing his tongue on the over-roasted bean serum.

  He needed a friend, and aside from the doctor and his mother, there was only one person he could call. He jerked the phone
free from his pocket, and with a shaky finger extending from his coffee hand, he wiped his passcode across the screen. The contact list was short.

  He blew at the steam rising from the cup as the soft ringtone purred in his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Maria, it's Scott. From the café.”

  “Hi. I was wondering if you were okay. I stopped by for my check this morning, and Patrick said you looked more pale than usual last night. Everything all right?”

  “Can we talk?” It was worth a shot.

  “Oh, so now you want to be social. It’s a little early for shots.”

  “No, I mean, just talk. Something happened to me last night.”

  “Told you that you should have come out.”

  “Maybe. Can we meet somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I have about an hour before my next class. I'm in the quad.”

  Scott glanced up again, squinting at a bright reflection of sunlight that chose that moment to bounce off his window in an attempt to blind him. He sipped carefully. “Okay. I'll be there in a couple minutes.”

  “Okay great.”

  The phone beeped, and dropped back in his pocket. He spotted the blonde approaching down the sidewalk, looking particularly nice in her high boots and purple dress. The pleated fabric bounced against her bare legs, and her free hand pulled a lit cigarette to the side for a flick. She would cross his path in about six seconds.

  A glance into her eyes was enough to send his body into shock, and his mind into a stream of thoughts impeding his buried desire to force any kind of greeting. A wave of the hand, an utterance of simple acknowledgement, or anything. Not now. You have somewhere you need to be. Maybe next time. She looks busy anyway.

  A passing car gave him something to fixate on so she wouldn’t catch him staring. He let out a short sigh as she passed. Silly Scott Stone.

  3

  The sun hung high in the sky. Maybe daylight meant he was safe from the darkness. The interlocking bricks covering the ground were littered with spiny seedpods this time of year, and the air was filled with colorful flying star-shaped leaves. Occasional gusts stirred the piles that collected in low areas, or beside buildings, resurrecting them with a final fluttering of life as whirls that resembled dust devils. They came alive for a moment or two, before neatly reverting to the lumpy auburn beds.