Stone's Shadow

by Martin McConnell

  He tried to hold back the irrational stream, but failed, and the ensuing flood rushed from his eyes as he dragged himself to the apartment building on autopilot. He scraped his feet on the carpet as he crossed the lobby and stomped up the stairs. Each step taken with the fear that fatigue would collapse the next, and he’d tumble to the bottom. The hallway was a march to his torture chamber of solitude. If Hell was real, his vacancy was in that apartment.

  The unholy room lay in shambles, and his inner thoughts were headed straight for the same. His blanket dangled from the corner of the bed. As he overturned the computer chair, laptop guy's words rang through his head again.

  Scott pictured him clearly, wondering what kind of prank the guy was up to. If he was jealous about Maria, that would be something to take up with Mike. What kind of sick human being tells someone they’ve never met to crawl in a hole and die? Maybe that was a normal thing. Maybe that’s how normal people thought, and every face he passed from that moment forward would leave him wondering. Did anyone care if he lived or died?

  “Fuck him,” he shouted. “Fuck everyone.”

  He seized the blankets, arcing them through the air onto the bed with a force that shook the apartment. His knee knocked the mattress back into place.

  “Maria and her stupid loud mouth.”

  He kicked the corner bedpost, snapping it into a shower of splinters that followed a broken chunk across the room. Amazed by his sudden strength, his mind returned from the angry burst of energy. He analyzed himself at a distance, being upset, and now making his problems worse by breaking expensive furniture.

  He stalked across the apartment, and hammered at the keys to his laptop. As his empty email box opened, the pointer skipped, and highlighted half of the page.

  “Stupid mouse!” He chucked the plastic rodent, shattering it against the wall behind his desk. “Great. Now I have to buy one of those, too.”

  He exhaled through clenched teeth, expecting to see flames, or at least smoke. His hand slammed on top of the philosophy book that lay innocently on a stack of others. Pill bottles on the opposite side scattered and rolled free from the tremor that shot across the desk. His thumb wrapped around the top three volumes in the pile, and he ripped them away, spilling the rest in a scattered mess of paper that covered the pile of napkins atop the stain left from haunted coffee.

  Another brief thought revealed that he had two emotional modes to choose from at the moment. Pissed off, or sulking. Pissed felt better, but sulking didn’t cost as much. Perhaps he could force his mind to choose between the two on command.

  He took two furious steps toward the door and stopped. He turned to the window and shouted, “Leave me alone.” His words fired across the room like shots from a rifle. An inch further to the right, and they might have shattered the window. He stormed through the door, slamming it hard enough to latch it shut.

  11

  Scott burst out of the building. The heat on his skin tempered by crisp air. It was that kind of year, and it wasn't getting any warmer. His skin chilled while fire raged in his stomach. He was no longer tossing glances, but throwing fury toward anyone or anything that caught his gaze, and the blonde just happened to be sitting in the firing line.

  The second his eyes fixed on her, that gorgeous head dropped right back into a book. She stayed outside despite the brisk temperatures, with a colorful scarf wrapped around her neck and a beanie cap over her scalp. If ever he had a shot with her, it was gone now. He screwed it up in a moment of fury.

  His lungs worked overtime, taking short breaks after each exhale. A momentary stop, followed by another fast and heavy breath, and the sequence repeated. He stomped toward the quad, marching to the tempo of his heartbeat. He scanned the pavement carefully for cracks, or anything else that might trip him up. He contemplated his sudden focus and drive, and how they were enhanced by the flames of anger licking his skin from inside.

  The priest would probably contact him later, and drone on about how we all have a purpose. He knew what his purpose was, even if it was cliché. He was the butt of the cosmic joke. If that was God's plan for him, then God could shut the hell up and stay out of his way. It was a stupid concept to think about in the first place. He considered religious people goofs. But then, he was the one seeing things.

  Lucky for him, there were no assignments to turn in. He stomped past the library and straight to the cafeteria for a couple of microwaved tacos. He wandered toward the lecture hall. The class before epistemology was still in session, and he waited outside the door for it to let out. The hallways looked empty, even for a Thursday. Nobody was in a hurry to get to Landers' class.

  Scott struggled to settle his tantrum logically, stabilizing his emotional state by staring blankly at a corkboard, and manually forcing his breathing to slow and deepen. Even if he was a nervous wreck on medication, he spent a lot of time in his own head.

  He recalled long ago thinking he could manipulate emotional states like some kind of superpower. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t.

  The corkboard was a healthy distraction. Why such things still existed in this world of social media was a mystery, but perhaps they persisted for just this reason. Fliers advertised social events around campus. Maybe the coordinators hung them there for people like himself: lonely or bored kids with nothing to do but stare at an otherwise blank wall filled with promises of entertainment and smiles, while robbing their wallets for donations and overpriced drinks.

  Why is this bugging me so much? The corkboard vanished in lieu of images supplied by his own mind. Laptop guy’s face. What was he so angry about, and moreover, why did he care? He contemplated Maria’s betrayal, telling his otherwise private story to everyone in town.

  It wasn’t her fault. It was in her nature. The only reason they were friends was because she sometimes didn’t know when to shut up and mind her own business. It was one thing to suspect the world could care less if you lived or died. It was something else entirely if someone told you to crawl in a hole and die. Laptop guy reinforced everything Scott thought about other people, that they were better off without him. The church guys thought he was a nutcase, and even Maria would be better without worrying over his mental health.

  His legs weakened. He leaned against the wall as his hollow body slid toward the ground.

  The preceding class let out, and a river of students flooded the hallway. Incomprehensible chatter spewed from them, carrying a positive outlook on life, perhaps for the weekend, or one of those events advertised on the wall. Once the traffic moved on, he let himself in, and took a seat at the back of the auditorium, still stirring the boiling pot of his own thoughts.

  The professor lagged behind his students, stuffing a mass of paper into his briefcase beside the podium. Once loaded, he climbed the steps, pausing for a moment to stare at Scott. An eyebrow raised, but not a single word dared escape his lips. He was a looker. He had other things to worry about. He didn't really want to care, but probably thought about saying something when he noticed the festering wound. People chose what they noticed and didn’t about their own realities. Sometimes it was easier to ignore someone than investing precious seconds trying to help.

  Oddly enough, Scott didn't notice Landers walk in until his voice broke a blank stare at the hanging wall lights.

  “What in the name of God happened to you?”

  “Long story. I saw the thing again.”

  “And it did that?” he asked, pointing.

  “No. I did that, actually. I was running for the door with my eyes closed. Okay, so it wasn't that long of a story.”

  “You look upset.”

  “What do you mean?” Compared to how he felt leaving the apartment, his mood had already calmed. Only his thoughts remained wayward.

  “Your face is all flushed. Tears. Sweat. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I was a little pissed off. I’m not pissed off anymore. It’s no big deal.” />
  “Well, my friend said that she wanted to hear about your encounter, if you’re still up for that.”

  “She wants me to tell her about the ghost? Another interrogation then?”

  “What do you mean? No. She wants to meet with you, and maybe she can help.”

  “So far everyone wants to help by making me repeat the story, so they can tell their friends about the nut job kid with the delusions.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Landers stammered. “Did I?”

  Scott’s focus returned to the reality before him. As he looked into Landers’ eyes, he could see that his words inflicted the same kind of pain as those that told him to crawl in a hole and die. “Not you. I—I’m sorry.” Maybe it was that kind of pain, those deep emotional cuts, that hardened the people around him, and gave them the ability to deal with reality through wit and malice. He felt the new creature growing in his heart. Not a kind, soft skinned Scott Stone, but a viscous beast that could be trained like a fighting pitbull, and released on command to stop the torment from others.

  “Who then?”

  Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He adjusted his glasses, and dumped the story. “I met with a priest earlier. Some kind of ghost expert or something. The guy was more curious about my medications than he was about actually helping me. Then he said something about being positive because negative vibes attract negative entities. Not sure how I'm supposed to stay positive when there's a monster living in my apartment.”

  “He might be right about the negativity thing. But you're right, too. There isn't really an easy way to force yourself to be positive. Not in your situation. Not unless you want to be.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Two students filed in saying, “hi, professor,” as they passed.

  “Positivity is a self assertion. You wake up, celebrate the good things, and downplay the bad. You put everything into that perspective, and your outlook will improve.”

  “Sounds silly.”

  “I'll give you Serena's information, and you can decide if you want to talk to her or not. I think you should. She's a nice lady. And she doesn’t have any of your information, so if you decide not to call, then I won’t press you any further.”

  Dr. Landers took a card from his shirt pocket and placed it on the foldout desk attached to Scott’s chair. Scanning it revealed something too insane to be legitimate. It was a business card for a place called Crystal Cavern. Psychic, tarot and palm reading, herbs and incense. Serena Skygoddess; what a name. Some people thought they had fortune-telling gifts, even in the age of cell phones and space probes. Maybe they did, and science simply couldn't explain it, but it was hard to believe that if someone could see the future, they'd need a day job. Especially something as silly as reading palms.

  He looked up at the professor, who must have noticed the twist in his eyebrows while reading the card. Then again, maybe she already won on her lotto numbers and didn't need to work. Maybe she did the palm-reading thing for the L-O-Ls.

  “I know what you're thinking,” said Landers. “But she knows what she’s doing, and I think she might be able to help.”

  “How much does she cost?”

  “She isn't going to charge you anything. The business pays her bills. Despite the monetary remuneration for most of her services, she tries to help anyone in need of spiritual healing without asking for payment. Good lady.”

  “I’m confused by this positivity thing. You’re saying that I can just make myself be positive?” If he could cool his fits long enough to open a childproof pill bottle, maybe he could unlock other powers, like transforming into one of those upbeat weirdos like Maria. Maybe that was her trick. Pretend to be happy and outgoing long enough that it actually happens.

  “Try this. Think about one good thing that you did, or one positive thing that happened today. Focus on it. Pat yourself on the back. Give yourself a break for any mistakes you might have made. Look for the little wins, and forget about the losses.”

  “That sounds dumb.”

  “Maybe, but that’s how it works. Sorry I can’t give you more details. But just give it a shot, and see what you come up with.”

  Scott glanced down at the card again, and when he looked up, Landers had moved to the podium. Other students filed in, and prepared for the day's lecture. He glanced around, wondering if he could forgive himself for the broken bed. It was laptop guy’s fault. Maybe he could hire someone big to beat him up. He did manage to make it to work that morning. He supposed that was a win, but it didn’t feel very victorious.

  During class, Dr. Landers passed several concerned looks Scott's way. Normally, he would bury himself in a notebook, scribbling as fast as possible, but the notebook sat on the tiny foldout desk arm unopened, with Serena's card on top. Landers talked about an old story where a Chinese guy dreamed about being a butterfly, and woke wondering if he was dreaming of butterflies, or if he was the butterfly dreaming about being a Chinese dude. Something like that. Cool concept, but he didn’t feel like committing the details to memory. Luckily, passing this class didn’t depend on learning names and dates.

  Everything near campus was in walking distance, and he was glad for that. The only person he knew with a car was Maria, and she rarely drove.

  The sun had set on another day, and the sky was pissing. Not heavy rain, just enough to make his hair uncooperative and sprinkle his shirt with liquid frost. First stop would be the apartment to drop off books. Then he'd have to figure out what to do with his night. He didn't want to spend it at home.

  He walked in and flicked on the lights in deep thought. Maybe he wanted it all to be over with. Maybe he was sick of feeling like a helpless victim. Whatever the case, his certainty about a killer monster in the apartment, coupled with a bout of depressing thoughts, left him yearning for the fight of his life. If nothing else, it would prove he wasn't crazy, at least to himself, and the living nightmare would come to an end. Maybe he'd wake up in another reality. Maybe he'd wake up as a butterfly.

  “Where are you? Stupid monster.” he called out.

  No response, not from inside his own paranoid thoughts or the shadows on the wall. He dropped the books on the corner of the bed, staring toward the window, and waiting for the shadow to appear. If it wanted to fight, he was ready. He brushed the excess water from his hair, and found a kitchen towel to dry his jacket.

  “Where are you?”

  No luck. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe the evil found someone else to torment. Maybe it found laptop guy. Wouldn't that be fitting? Just being in the apartment brought his blood to a boil. Terror disappeared in the wake of a tempest of raw bitterness. Rage overtook him, granting courage to face the demon. To face anything. The corner of Serena's card dug at his leg from inside his pants pocket. He plucked it out and looked it over.

  “Let this little palm reader do her thing. Anything is better than sitting around here.”

  Maybe she would have a trick for keeping the demon at bay. He pulled out his phone and started to dial the number, then stopped. He was certain now that whatever the shadow was, it had something to do with fate, and if fate was going to be an indicator, and this lady was really some kind of psychic, then he didn’t need a phone.

  The apartment was empty for the moment, and the rain started to let up outside. He'd walk to the magic crystal shop and see what happened.

  Releasing control and navigating on autopilot seemed to free him of inhibition. A tiny chunk of burden vanished, as if his grief were a bag of rocks. One stone had worked its way free. Perhaps deciding to visit the crystal lady was his win. It was an action. It wasn’t sitting around waiting to be tortured.

  Human beings take long walks. Long walks lead to long thoughts. If they were put on this earth as food for what they called supernatural entities, then by now there was no danger of those creatures ever going hungry. Six billion people on the planet, or was it seven? Plenty of people, and the number of monsters and ghosts seemed to be on the decline over the la
st century. Technology and modern society snuffed out supernatural occurrences and reports. Or maybe it was all bullshit to begin with. Very few human beings would discover anything about the supernatural until it was too late.

  He didn't realize it at the time, but something was in his apartment. It stalked him through the dimly lit streets, waiting for the opportune moment to take him, but the present flavor of his mood was far too bitter. Just a bit longer.

  12

  After walking for half an hour, he found the building. It looked more like a squatter’s cottage than a crystal cavern, but sure enough, a sign on the roof marked the location. The front porch was adorned with windows on either side that glowed with candlelight from inside. The building itself was painted a goofy shade of purple. And this lady expects people to take her business seriously? Maybe that was a requirement. If a psychic looked too professional it might turn off the women coming to ask if their boyfriends were cheating on them.

  The driveway was a gigantic gravel square, and similar cabin shops lined about half of the perimeter. It was a strip mall of tiny shacks, each painted a different color with a hand painted billboard standing from the roof crown. A bead store stood to the left of Crystal Cavern, and a place called Leather and Lapidary to the right. Scott wondered about the type of people who frequented the lot. All of the stores fit a theme, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  The closed sign on the window caught his attention as he climbed the stairs. He walked all the way over here. He wasn't going home without at least knocking, and felt no reservation about pounding on the glass loud enough to stir anyone inside. Maybe all of Maria’s prompting was having an effect. As his hand raised, a shadow moved across the curtain. A bolt clicked, and the door opened.

  “Scott Stone?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”