Within the Shadows

by Brandon Massey

  He stiffened. “Can a brother at least get a good-night kiss?”

  She rose off the bed. She wrapped her arms around his waist, stood on her tiptoes.

  He tried to kiss her on the lips. She turned her head and gave him a chaste peck on the cheek.

  “Good night,” she said. She patted his head, as if he were a little boy whom she was sending off to bed.

  “That’s cold, Carmen.”

  “You get up at six, right?” she asked. “I’m gonna set the alarm in here, but please check on me to make sure I’m up. I’ll need to go home to get ready for work.”

  He sighed loudly. She only looked at him, arms crossed over her bosom.

  “All right, I get the point,” he said. He backed up to the doorway. “I’ll check on you at six. Good night.”

  She smiled sweetly and waved.

  In his bedroom, he lay on his bed in the darkness.

  Carmen had made it clear: she wasn’t going to fool around with him any more, not as long as they continued to call themselves just friends. It frustrated him, but he had to respect her hard-line stance. She was doing what was necessary to preserve their friendship. He couldn’t fault her for that—especially at those times when he lacked the willpower to rightfully keep his hands off her.

  Nevertheless, the other side of the mattress was cold as he drifted to sleep.

  Chapter 26

  Night. A roiling charcoal sky and a fine, cold drizzle as abrasive as broken glass.

  In his dream, Raymond stood in front of the mansion again, in the muddy driveway. A child version of Andrew approached the front door.

  He shouted the same command that he’d said in vain, countless times: “Stay outta that house, boy!”

  Ignoring him, Andrew pushed open the big door and disappeared inside.

  Raymond screamed in anguish.

  In the upper room of the house, the strange green light throbbed, with the perfect rhythm of a ticking clock.

  The light was summoning him, for reasons unknown. Promising to help him find his son, maybe. He didn’t know. All he knew for certain was that he needed to get inside the house.

  He ran toward the veranda. Then, before reaching it, he stopped.

  He had done this before, he realized. The door would be locked.

  To have any hope of saving his son, he had to find another way inside.

  He wiped rain out of his eyes with the heel of his hand. Looked around.

  He didn’t see a door, but he would try another side of the house. On an estate of this size, there had to be another entrance.

  He ran around the left corner of the veranda, his shoes squishing through wet grass.

  Over there, a weeping willow drooped, boughs laden with rain. As he moved past the tree, the leaves eeled like slimy tentacles across his shoulders and back.

  Beyond the willow, a wrought iron, arched opening stood. Spanish moss wreathed the archway. Mist obscured the enclosure beyond the entrance.

  What was in there?

  It would lead him away from the mansion, but he was drawn toward it, reeled in by curiosity.

  He stepped underneath the archway.

  “Jesus,” he said in a soft voice.

  Soupy fog thickened the air, but he saw, clearly, that he had entered a graveyard. It contained dozens of graves, each one marked by a foot-high, wooden crucifix.

  Who were the people who lay buried here? Former residents of the estate?

  At the nearest grave, he searched for a headstone, some indication of the deceased’s identity. But there was nothing, and the crucifix that jutted from the earth offered no information, either.

  He went to another plot, and found the same thing. Moved to another, then another, and yet another. He discovered the same at each.

  It was a cemetery of nameless corpses.

  It made no sense. If past residents were buried here, wouldn’t their surviving relatives have wanted to honor them with something more significant than a flimsy crucifix?

  Yes . . . unless the people buried here were not prior residents.

  Fog skirted his legs, slithered along his arms.

  There was something very wrong about this place. His curiosity had faded. Dread had replaced it in full, constricting his lungs.

  He turned to leave.

  His foot slid into a soft depression in the earth. He tried to move, but the ground crumbled away beneath him.

  Shouting, he fell into a pit several feet deep. He landed hard on his side, the impact rattling his teeth.

  Although it was a dream—and he knew it was a dream—the pain felt no less real.

  He lay there for a few moments, panting, letting the pain in his body fade to a dull ache. Then he reached out, touched smooth earthen walls.

  As he’d suspected, he’d fallen into an empty grave.

  It was about six feet deep, four feet wide, and maybe seven feet long. A good fit for him.

  Don’t think about that, Ray.

  The opening above gave him a rectangular view of the turbulent night sky

  He pulled himself upright. Fortunately, the sides of the grave were dry, packed tight. He should have no problem hauling himself out of there.

  He raised his arms and hooked his hands in the turf over the lip of the pit. He started to pull.

  You can do this, Ray, it’s like doing a pull-up, remember those?

  A boot mashed onto the fingers of his right hand.

  He yelped, lost his grip, fell back into the grave.

  His fingers throbbed painfully, but didn’t feel broken. Could you even break a bone in a dream? If you did, would you wake to find your bones shattered in real life, too—like the old saying that if you died in your dream you died for real?

  As he gingerly massaged his fingers, Walter, the tall caretaker, appeared above him.

  Standing at the edge of the hole, he looked down at Raymond with disgust. He balanced an enormous shovel on his shoulder, like a fishing rod. Patches of dirt smudged his somber black suit.

  He’s not a caretaker. He’s a goddamned undertaker is what he is.

  “You don’t belong here,” Walter said in his baritone voice. “But we’ll let you stay here with the rest of them.”

  “To hell with that.” Raymond scrambled to his feet. He jumped and snagged a tuft of grass with his good hand. He struggled to lift himself out of the hole.

  Walter hefted the shovel in both hands, like a lumberjack preparing to split a log with an axe.

  “No!” Raymond shouted. He was almost out.

  Grinning, Walter raised the shovel high and brought it down on Raymond’s head . . .

  Raymond burst out of the dream, shouting.

  But he was in his bed. At home. Safe.

  He dropped back onto the mattress.

  His head ached, as if he’d been whacked upside his skull with the caretaker’s shovel—struck precisely in the same area as his bruise. He rubbed his head, a moan slipping out of him.

  Beside him, June stirred.

  “Ray? Are you okay?”

  “Another dream. Saw a graveyard this time.”

  “A what?” She sat up.

  “There’s a graveyard at that house.” His mouth was dry; he snatched the bottle of water from the nightstand and took a sloppy gulp. “Lots of graves . . . but no names, not a name on a damned one of them.”

  She found his hand, squeezed it. He needed the reassuring contact as much as she did.

  “Ray, what in the hell is that place?” she asked.

  Chapter 27

  Carmen awoke thirsty. The bedside clock read 3:34 A.M. She’d have to rise for work in less than three hours. It felt as if she’d barely slept at all. Sleeping in an unfamiliar bed often had that effect on her.

  But her mouth was cotton-dry. She needed a drink of water before she could return to sleep.

  The house was hear-a-pin-drop silent. She wondered, not for the first time, how Andrew could live alone in this huge place. She loved her cozy, two-bedroom town
home. But this place, with all of these vacant rooms and quiet, open spaces, felt more like a museum than a house.

  What Andrew needed was a wife and kids to liven up things.

  Smiling at the thought, she pushed off the mattress and padded into the hallway. Dim copper light came from a street lamp outside, filtered through the arched window set above the two-story entry hall, softening the shadows around her.

  The door to Andrew’s bedroom was half open. She heard him inside, snoring softly.

  She went to the door; she needed to go there anyway, to deactivate the security system so she could walk downstairs. But her gaze lingered on him: he lay on his side, pillow clutched to his stomach, somehow managing to look both innocent and virile all at once. A soapy scent emanated from his body, mingled with the faint, primal odor of masculine musk.

  What would he think if she climbed into bed with him and kissed him awake?

  The thought made her tingly. But she would never, ever act on it. Not while they occupied the just-friends zone. She’d rebuked herself for letting down her guard once before with him, allowing things to progress farther than they should have without a discussion about what they wanted to do with this friendship of theirs.

  Years of dating and heartbreak had taught her a painful lesson: never assume anything with a man. Don’t think that because he called you every day, as if you were his woman, that you really were his woman. Don’t believe that if he showered you with attention as if you were the most special woman on earth meant that he viewed you as any more special than the woman he’d seen the night before. Don’t presume that making love to a man meant that he had any love for you.

  She’d made all of those mistakes before with men. She had the scars on her heart to prove it.

  A smart woman assumed nothing. She’d demand that a guy state exactly what he felt for her and expected from her. Men hated to be pinned down like that—most of them would prefer taking an enema to disclosing their feelings and expectations—but it was the only way that she would deal with men these days. Andrew included. Especially Andrew. Their friendship was too valuable to risk losing over some ill-considered and spontaneous sexual adventure.

  He had to tell her, in clear terms, that he wanted them to take their friendship to the next level. Although she was currently dating a guy, it wasn’t serious at all; it was one of those superficial, enjoy-the-moment relationships that had no real future.

  But Andrew . . . she believed they would be as great as lovers as they were as friends. He had to initiate it, though. She didn’t believe in chasing men. In her experience, when you chased a man, he’d feel cornered, and he’d either run—or tell you what he thought you wanted to hear, which could be completely at odds with what he genuinely felt.

  The challenging part was that she knew they could really get down in the bedroom. That heavy-petting episode made it obvious to her that they shared a rare physical chemistry. Making love to him would send her scaling the walls.

  Andrew shifted, his hand sliding down the pillow protectively.

  It was easy to imagine her body in the place of that pillow he held so closely.

  Sometimes—like now—she wished she could throw her principles to the wind and give in to what her body craved. Damn the consequences.

  But she was twenty-eight. She’d left behind that reckless style of living years ago. It had made for some lonely nights in an empty bed, but she was holding out for something real and lasting. In spite of articles in magazines such as Essence that made it seem as if finding a good black man who wanted a monogamous commitment was as improbable as discovering a five-carat diamond in a garbage dump.

  Sighing, she looked away from Andrew. She punched in the code to disarm the security system. She was one of the handful of people who knew the access code to his house; he knew the code to hers, as well.

  After five years of friendship, she and Andrew had shared so much of their lives, probably the only things left for them to share were their bodies.

  Damn him for being so confused right now.

  Don’t be selfish and impatient, girl, she scolded herself. He needs you now, as a friend. Be a friend for him, and be open to whatever blessings the future may bring.

  Although the disengaged system sounded a quick beep, Andrew continued to slumber. She pulled the door half shut behind her.

  She went inside the office. The white computer screen glowed in the darkness. A glance confirmed that the ghost hadn’t answered Andrew’s question about why he was in trouble.

  A ghost and a psycho chick. What a weird combination. But there had to be a link, and she was determined to help Andrew discover it.

  She quietly walked downstairs, to the kitchen. She switched on the ceiling light.

  The kitchen sparkled, like the rest of the house. But as clean and stylish as it was, it had an austere air that begged for a woman’s touch.

  She’d given him some decorating tips before, and he’d followed them. The live plants, decorative throw pillows, and colorful vases in various areas of the house were her idea, and she’d bought him other accessories as housewarming gifts. It amused her to think that she’d been staking out her territory here, months ago. But, the things she could do to this house if they ever got married . . .

  Slow your roll, girl.

  She removed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Unscrewing the cap, she bumped the door shut with her hip.

  A large cat stood on the edge of the kitchen. Watching her.

  Cold sweat dampened her brow.

  This was one of the mean-assed cats she’d seen sitting on her car earlier that evening.

  Movement past the doorway, on her left.

  A second feline was walking through the dining room.

  What was going on? How had they gotten inside?

  A hissing, above her.

  She looked up.

  A third cat sat atop the refrigerator, glaring at her with dilated pupils.

  Too terrified to breathe, she instinctively raised her arms, dropping the water bottle to the floor.

  The cat pounced.

  A scream snatched Andrew out of sleep.

  Oh, God, that was Carmen. Had to be her. What was going on?

  He rolled over and yanked the drawer of the nightstand so hard that it crashed to the floor. Normally, he kept the gun case therein locked; tonight, he’d left it unlatched, so that he could open it at a moment’s notice.

  He closed his hand over the cool handle of the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. The gun was already loaded.

  He’d never fired the .38 in a real-world situation, but he was more than willing to use it to protect her. This was one of those times when he didn’t need to ask Mark Justice for advice. His response was automatic.

  He leapt out of bed, flung open the door, and raced down the hallway, calling her name.

  Like an uncoiling cobra, the cat sprang onto Carmen’s head. Claws and teeth tore into her upraised arms and ripped through her hair.

  She screamed.

  The animal’s furry tail swung in her face, like a noose.

  Terror gripped her heart in a stranglehold. She staggered, stumbled. Trying to fling the cat off her, trying to keep it from gouging her eyes out with its wicked claws.

  She felt another cat attack her calf. Teeth sank into her flesh. She kicked, wildly. But the feline held fast.

  Another cat leapt onto her back and attached itself to her T-shirt. It pawed at her neck.

  Jesus, they were going to kill her.

  Tears flooded her eyes. Each claw and tooth opened a searing wound. She felt warm blood streaming down her skin.

  Gotta get them off me, dammit!

  She finally got ahold of the tail of the feline crawling on her head. She whipped it around and flung it across the kitchen. The cat landed nimbly on the counter. It flashed its teeth at her.

  Through her tears, she saw the knife block, and yanked a blade out of there. She swung it at the cat mauling her leg. The blade lopped off
the animal’s ear. Howling, the cat fell away.

  The feline clinging to her back raked its razor-sharp claws down her spine.

  She drove into the refrigerator backwards, crushing the cat against the door. Bones crunched. Wailing, the feline fell off her, slumped to the floor.

  She was dizzy with pain, felt blackness tugging at her, trying to drown her. But she didn’t dare lose consciousness.

  The feline on the counter hissed, muscles bunched.

  God, this wasn’t over yet.

  The cat launched itself at her again.

  She thrust with the knife and swiped the cat’s throat. The cat dropped like a stuffed animal.

  She backpedaled to the far counter.

  The injured felines clustered together and faced her. Their eerily intelligent eyes burned with malice.

  She waved the blood-spattered knife in front of her. She bled from multiple bites and scratches, and her body was a throbbing pulse of agony, but she’d be damned if she let some cats get the best of her.

  “Bring it on!” she said.

  The cats hissed in unison, their fur standing on end.

  These weren’t normal cats. No way. They were too synchronized in their movements, too purposeful in their violence. These animals behaved as if they were under the influence of a single, malevolent mind.

  Andrew rounded the bottom of the staircase. He had a gun. “Carmen!”

  As one, the cats spotted him. They streaked into the dark dining room across the hallway.

  “Follow them!” she said. She hurried into the room and switched on the lights, no more than a second behind the creatures.

  But the cats had vanished.

  She glanced beneath the dining room table and chairs. No sign of them.

  Cats couldn’t vanish like that. It was impossible.

  A spell of dizziness hit her. She gripped a chair to regain her balance.

  Andrew arrived in the doorway, scratching his head.

  “Where’d they go?” he asked.

  In the family room, Carmen lay on the sofa in her bra and panties, while Andrew sat beside her and applied ointment to her scratches and bites, to disinfect the wounds.