Room of Shadows

by Ronald Kidd

  I edged toward the table and picked up the raven, which was warm to the touch, and moved it to the desk. The table, covered by a dingy cloth, bumped and shook. Fear gripped me, but my curiosity was stronger. Taking a deep breath, I reached out, grasped one edge of the cloth, and slowly pulled it aside.

  I was amazed to see that the object beneath wasn’t a table at all. It was an ancient wooden chest, carved on the sides with strange shapes and designs. As I watched, the chest seemed to vibrate, and there was a loud rattling.

  I could just leave. I could blink, snap my fingers, and find myself back in bed. But then my questions would never be answered. Why was there a chest in the room? What was inside? What did it all mean?

  While the clock chimed on, I reached for the chest. The lid was stuck. Gripping it with both hands, I yanked upward. The lid flew open. I stumbled and fell. Crawling forward, I reached the chest and peered inside.

  I saw a body. It had stringy black hair, sunken eyes, and a mustache. As I stared, the clock chimed twelve. The eyes popped open and bore into me. The cracked lips grinned.

  The body lurched to a sitting position. The arms reached for me.

  I ran, bumping against the chest, tripping over my feet, staggering to the doorway. The next thing I knew, I was back in bed, wrapped in the sheets, sweating.

  “David?”

  I looked up and saw my mom. She sat on the edge of the bed and put her hand on my shoulder.

  “You were yelling,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  Remembering the body, I shivered. “Bad dream,” I mumbled. “I’m fine.”

  She leaned over and kissed me, then pulled her robe around her and left.

  I stared into the darkness. Those eyes stared back at me. They wouldn’t go away.

  I knew what I had to do. I got out of bed and walked to the closet. Opening the panel and the door, I went inside and switched on the lantern.

  The raven was on the table, and the cloth was back in place. Papers were scattered around. The clock was silent, showing a minute before twelve. The room was just as I had left it that afternoon.

  To make sure, I set down the lantern, moved the raven to the desk, and pulled aside the cloth. Just as in the dream, the object beneath wasn’t a table at all. It was a chest. I reached out, my hand trembling, and opened the lid.

  The chest was empty.

  I wanted to think it had always been empty. But maybe, part of me whispered, the dream had been real. Maybe the body had sprung out of the chest and into the world. Maybe it was lurking, grinning, watching me at that very moment.

  I folded the cloth and set it aside, then shut the chest, put the raven back on top, and picked up the lantern. I checked the room one more time, then went back to bed.

  I didn’t sleep very well that night.

  Reynolds’s face was like two faces.

  One side was smooth and calm. The other side, red as blood, buckled and heaved, as if boiling from the inside. When he smiled, as he was smiling now, I shuddered. Can a face rip apart?

  Words oozed out. “Ah, back again.”

  Behind that hideous grin was knowledge I needed. Reynolds was a mesmerist, a disciple of Franz Mesmer. Mesmer believed that people have spirits, and objects do too. The spirits can reach out across the void and connect with each other. Mesmer learned to shape these spirits, to train them by putting patients into a hypnotic trance to call up memories or block out pain.

  I had first met Reynolds when researching some of my stories, and I had used his ideas as the basis for several of them. Now my need was more urgent:

  “Please, for the love of God, stop the pain! Keep my head from exploding!”

  He induced the trance. The vise loosened. Blessed relief! Then, like a clap of thunder, it tightened again.

  I opened my eyes. He shook his head sadly. “You are beyond my help.”

  Oh, wretched words! Oh, miserable life!

  Fumbling in my pocket, I paid him a few dollars. As I did, he eyed my roll of bills greedily.

  Who would have imagined it? That glimpse consigned me to hell.

  Chapter 7

  An Icy Breeze

  It was early in the morning a few days later, and the shop was open. A neat sign hung over the door.

  Second Chance

  Repair and Restoration

  Stepping inside, I saw a big, swarthy man who wore a leather apron and stood at a workbench. He had put a broken chair leg in a vise and was gluing it back together.

  The man looked up and smiled. “I wish people were this easy to fix,” he said. “A little glue and paint—they’d be as good as new.”

  I thought of my dad. “What if you don’t want to fix them? Maybe you just throw them away.”

  The man studied my face, then gestured across the room at a floor lamp with a shade made of brightly colored glass. “See that lamp? I found it at the city dump. It needed work, but now it’s my favorite thing in the shop.”

  I heard footsteps on the stairs behind him, and Libby appeared. I noticed she was wearing her backpack.

  “Hey, it’s fixed,” I said.

  “It all gets fixed—eventually. Right, Dad?”

  Chuckling, he brushed off her backpack and tightened one of the straps.

  She said, “I see you’ve met David.”

  “Is that who he is? I thought he was just hanging around, looking for advice.” The man wiped his hand on the apron and held it out to me. “I’m Libby’s dad, Hector Morales.”

  “David Cray,” I said. “I’m a friend of Libby’s.” Shaking his hand, I was impressed by the strength of his grip.

  He looked back and forth from Libby to me then nodded. “Off to school, huh?”

  “We could stay and help you do repairs,” she told him.

  “You’ve got better things to do,” he told her. “Like, be a doctor or lawyer.”

  “Dad, I’m in the eighth grade.”

  “Not for long,” he said.

  She gave him a peck on the cheek, and we headed off. It was a misty morning, the way it sometimes gets in the fall. A bank of fog had rolled in from the ocean, blocking out the sun.

  The shadows reminded me of the dream I’d had a few days before, and suddenly I wanted to tell Libby. I described the snakes and scorpions, the chimes, the chest, and the man inside.

  “What do you think it means?” I asked.

  “It means you’ve got a vivid imagination.”

  Just then the sun broke through, and she smiled. Maybe the dream wasn’t so scary after all.

  We didn’t say anything for a while. We didn’t have to. It was one of the things I was learning about Libby. When you were with her, you could just be yourself. You didn’t need to fill up the spaces.

  We strolled down the street, past shops that sold antiques, used books, and second-hand clothing. There was a plumbing supply store and a brickyard. People wandered by, and a few stopped at the gas station, where you could buy coffee, doughnuts, and sandwiches. Some waited at a bus stop. Cars passed by, then a bus rumbled up to the curb. A woman got off, holding her daughter’s hand. She greeted a man who was sitting on the bench, and he tipped his hat. Maybe the place really was a neighborhood.

  As we walked another block or two, a feeling swept over me like an icy breeze. I was sure someone was watching us. I turned and looked, but no one was there.

  “Did you see anyone?” I asked Libby.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She gave me a funny look, and we kept going.

  On the next block, I glanced in a store window and saw something reflected. It was dark, like a shadow. I whirled around, but nothing was there.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Libby.

  I said, “Did you ever have the feeling you were being watched?”

  “Look, David,” she said, “don’t get carried away. This is real life, not a dream.”

  “I thought I saw something.”

  She said, “I see something. You’re lo
sing it.”

  We turned a corner, and school loomed ahead of us. People say Marshall Middle School is a historic building, but if you ask me, it’s just old. The windows are dirty, and the bricks have been blackened by years of smoke and grime. The steps leading up to the front door are cracked, with weeds poking through.

  As we climbed the steps, someone shoved me from behind. I skidded to the ground, ripping my jeans and scraping my knee.

  Looking up, I saw Wesley Gault, Jake Bragg’s buddy. He was a skinny little kid who had earned the nickname Weasel. The odd thing was, that morning he seemed to be scared, as if he had had to build up his nerve to push me.

  “Go ahead, hit me,” he said, his voice shaking, “like you hit Jake.”

  I remembered the way Jake Bragg had grinned as he reached for my crab cakes. He had tripped something inside me. Now I felt it stirring again. I pushed it down and shook my head.

  “Sorry, not today,” I said.

  “What’s wrong? You afraid?”

  “Maybe you’re just too tough for me, Wesley.”

  I turned away, and he shoved me again. I lost my balance and landed heavily on the steps.

  Wesley stood over me. A couple of his friends were behind him.

  Libby knelt beside me. “David, are you okay?”

  I waved her off and peered up at Wesley. Suddenly I was back at Lexington Market, beating up Jake. My face was hot. My fists were pumping. Each time they hit him, I felt stronger.

  “How did you like the police station?” asked Wesley.

  “Get out of here,” I told him. “Go away.”

  “I hear it’s nasty.”

  He glanced at his friends, and the grin crept back. “The cops want you back, David. They’re saving a place for you. All you have to do is hit me.”

  It would be so easy to reach out, pull his legs from under him, and bash his head against the steps. I could rip away his grin. I could hurt his friends.

  I closed my eyes, fighting the feeling. When I opened them, a crowd had gathered. They whispered and pointed. I felt like some kind of freak, an animal in a cage.

  That’s the kid who beat up Jake Bragg.

  I hear he almost killed him.

  Funny, he’s not that big.

  I could teach them a lesson. It’s not what you look like. It’s what you feel. It’s what you see. It’s the pictures that crowd into your mind and push out everything else. It’s the people you’d like to hurt. It’s what you can do with your bare hands.

  “Watch this,” Wesley told his friends.

  He kicked me.

  I wanted to hit him, hard. It would feel so good.

  He kicked me again. His friends laughed. The crowd gathered closer.

  “David!”

  The voice was behind me. I turned and saw Libby. I had forgotten she was there.

  “We have to go,” she said.

  Wesley grinned and asked me, “Is that your girlfriend?”

  Libby stared at him. “What if I am?”

  “Your boy’s not so tough after all,” said Wesley. “In fact, I think he’s scared.”

  She turned to me. “Come on. Class starts in a minute.”

  There it was, a picture of my life. I lose no matter what. If I hit him, I get locked up, maybe in my house, maybe in jail. If I walk away, Jake’s friends win and I look like a fool.

  I glared at Wesley. I stared at the crowd. Some of them backed away, nervous. I wanted to hurt them all. I wanted to make them bleed.

  Libby grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.

  “Let’s walk,” she said. So we did.

  Chapter 8

  Focus!

  P.E.

  They say it stands for physical education, but as far as I’m concerned it could mean “puny effort” or “puke easily.” I ask you: Why should a person run in circles around a field? What’s the point of climbing a rope or pulling yourself up on a metal bar?

  I was pondering those questions later that day as I lay on the floor of the school gym, trying to do sit-ups while our P.E. teacher, Mr. Dudley, barked out a count from one to twenty.

  That was about the extent of his ability with numbers, which was pretty funny considering the fact that he was also my math teacher.

  He looked down at me. “Focus, Cray. Focus!”

  I’d heard that Mr. Dudley had eight children of his own. I imagined him in the delivery room at the hospital, a kid under each arm, yelling to his wife, “Focus, Dudley. Focus!”

  From the first day of class, Mr. Dudley had been convinced I was a slacker, and nothing I did could change his mind—until he found out I’d beaten up Jake Bragg. Then suddenly I was okay. He still yelled at me, but he didn’t threaten to tear me limb from limb.

  We finished our sit-ups, and Mr. Dudley gave us a quick lecture about the benefits of fresh air, multivitamins, and clean underwear. Then he told us to run three laps around the field and head for the showers.

  Ah, the showers—my favorite part of P.E. It was a time when I could wash off the sweat, close my eyes, and stand under the hot water until any thoughts of Mr. Dudley dissolved, at least until math class.

  Suddenly, running laps didn’t sound so great. Hanging back, I waited for the others to head out, then took a shortcut to the locker room. The room was ancient, like the rest of the school, with lockers that were scratched and dented, wooden benches between them, and, high above, an old-fashioned metal ceiling fan that could never quite blow out the smell of dirty socks and B.O.

  I ducked through the doorway, imagining hot water on my neck and shoulders. As I peeled off my T-shirt, I noticed a dark shape overhead. I thought of the shadows I had seen on my walk to school. Were they real?

  This one was.

  Dangling in the air was a mummy. Like every mummy in every bad movie, it was a human body wrapped from head to toe with white strips. In this case, though, the eyes had been left uncovered. Terrified, they blinked and begged.

  The mummy writhed. There were muffled squeals and moans. Looking above it, I could see why. The mummy, like some hideous cocoon, had been attached to the ceiling by several of the white strips and was suspended high above the linoleum floor. One of the strips had been threaded between the metal blades of the ceiling fan, and with each turn of the fan, the mummy was hoisted higher and higher toward the ceiling. The fan’s blades were rusted but looked as if they might be sharp.

  “Hey!” I called. “Mr. Dudley!”

  The mummy rose toward the high ceiling, spinning slowly as it drew closer to the blades.

  “Mr. Dudley!” I yelled again.

  He stuck his head out of the office. “What are you doing, Cray? You’re supposed to be running laps.” Then he glanced upward. “Oh my God.”

  “Come on!” I yelled. “We’ve got to do something.”

  He stood there, staring. The mummy rose higher.

  Gathering my wits, I raced around the room, looking for a switch to turn off the fan. I found it on the wall by the door, but someone had broken it off and taped it over. It could be fixed, but not in time.

  “The fuse box!” I said. “Where is it?”

  He shook his head. “I-I’m not sure.”

  The mummy was nearing the fan. Desperate, I turned to Mr. Dudley. “Give me a boost. Hurry!”

  Finally snapping out of his trance, he ran over, clasped his hands together, and offered me a foothold. Taking it, I vaulted upward, braced my elbows on top of a row of lockers, and pulled myself to a standing position. The ceiling was a short distance over my head. Perhaps six feet away, the fan blades turned slowly, steadily.

  “Be careful!” said Mr. Dudley.

  Tell that to the mummy, I thought. It drew closer to the blades, squirming desperately. Its blinking eyes were as big as basketballs. There were muffled shrieks.

  Seeing the mummy up close, I realized its white strips were adhesive tape, the kind you use with bandages.

  Mr. Dudley looked up at me. “Should I get scissors?”

  It
wasn’t a bad idea, but the fan was too far away. Taking a quick inventory of the room, my gaze came to rest on a wooden push broom propped up in the corner.

  “The broom!” I said.

  Spotting it, Mr. Dudley raced over and brought it back. He held it toward me, and I grabbed it.

  The mummy rose higher. It was just inches from the blades. I moved to the edge of the lockers and leaned out, holding the broom end and extending the handle toward the fan.

  “Get under the fan!” I yelled to Mr. Dudley, and he did.

  The handle didn’t quite reach, but I had to do something. There wasn’t time to think or plan or weigh consequences. There was only time to act—barely.

  I lunged from the lockers toward the fan, jamming the handle between the blades and the ceiling. The fan shuddered, made a noise like a garbage disposal, and stopped. Unfortunately I didn’t. I hit the mummy, hung on for dear life, and the two of us went plunging downward, landing on top of Mr. Dudley.

  Stunned, we lay in a pile. Nobody said anything. Then Mr. Dudley smiled at me.

  “Cray, you did it,” he breathed.

  I managed a shaky grin. “You told me to focus.”

  Chapter 9

  Equal Rights for Thugs

  It was Wesley Gault.

  Funny how life works—the person I had most wanted to hurt just that morning had almost died. Someone had wrapped him in tape and strung him up. If I hadn’t come in for an early shower, there was no telling what we might have found in the locker room.

  After we had crashed to the floor, Mr. Dudley had hurried to the phone and called Ms. Fein, the principal. Meanwhile I had begun to peel away the tape, starting with the strips over the mummy’s mouth. When they had come off, Wesley had let out a screech and whined, “I want to go home.”

  The rest of the class wandered in a moment later after running their laps. As they crowded inside the door, gawking, Ms. Fein pushed her way through. She was short and trim, a sharp dresser, with a voice like a bullhorn. It was strange seeing her in the boys’ locker room. I had talked to her before, after the fight, when she had given me her thoughts about what I had done—basically, shape up or ship out. Oh, and if you need me, I’m here for you.