The Darkness of Shadows

by Little, Chris

  “You watch too much TV.”

  I sucked at crime. “Guess you’re right.”

  “So are you,” she said. “Let me call him—he owes me a favor. And you didn’t answer my question.” She pointed to the envelope.

  “Letter from my grandparents.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Did I want to talk about the fact that my grandparents left me to a man they knew was dangerously insane because they were too afraid to stand up to him? Hmm.

  “Someday.”

  We took a ride to my grandparents’ place. It was a small, one-story brick house, hidden by a few trees and overgrown hydrangea bushes.

  Val pulled into the driveway and parked by the side door. I tapped my fingers on the console. My nerves were jangled. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

  “You sure you’re up to this?” Val said.

  “No, but I have to do it sometime.”

  “You could just sell it and not bother.” She put her hand on top of mine, stopping the movement. “It was a rental property, right? So just dump it. Nat—”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  Val was peering into windows when I got to the side porch. I pulled the keys from my pocket and inserted one into the lock. She gave me a gentle nudge over the sill, then we were in the kitchen. It felt strange being in my grandparents’ house, even though it wasn’t their home. I never knew them and they sure as hell didn’t know me.

  Val looked around. “What do you think?”

  I shrugged. “Nice.”

  “It’s cute. Perfect size for you, for now.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “We can do a lot of cool things. The house seems to be in good shape. What’s wrong?”

  “They never tried to see me.” His power has surpassed our abilities. “They left the house and the money to me out of guilt.”

  “Is it someday?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you going to tell me about the letter?”

  We leaned against the counter. I gave her the rundown.

  “You don’t leave a kid in the hands of monsters to save your own ass,” I said.

  “Not everyone is brave enough to stand up for what they believe in,” Val said. “Sometimes it’s easier to look the other way rather than get involved and make a difference.”

  “Still, I was hoping there would be a least one normal person in my family.” Time to start lowering my expectations. “So what do you really think about this place?”

  “We need to get the plumbing and electrical checked out. Think about getting central air, if you’re going to stay. A good cleaning, a fresh coat of paint, and you could move in.”

  “Yep.”

  “Look at me.”

  I turned to face her.

  “You don’t have to stay here forever. Try it, and if you don’t like it, sell it. Then you could take the studio at my house. It’s private and it would be pretty cool to have you down the driveway.” She smiled.

  “I’ll try it for a while. Will you help me pick stuff out?”

  “Try and stop me.”

  “Thanks. Just not up to doing this myself.”

  I started wandering around.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Val said.

  “That they hid the pages somewhere in this house?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s as good a place to start as any.”

  “Be right back.” And she went out the kitchen door.

  Worn linoleum tiles and cigarette-burned Formica countertops waited with me.

  She came back with a toolbox. I smiled.

  “What? Dad told me to always keep it in the trunk. You never know when you might need something. Where do you want to start?”

  “The kitchen. Slap some bacon on a biscuit and let’s go—we’re burnin’ daylight.”

  She shook her head. “I can't believe you said that.”

  We pulled out a few drawers and were met with emptiness. The kitchen fixtures were encrusted with who knows what. Neither of us were squeamish, but this was beyond gross.

  Val grabbed a raunchy knob and tugged. The drawer held tight to the frame. Time, grease, and unknown substances made a strong adhesive and a good security system.

  She braced a foot against a cabinet and yanked. The drawer came flying out, followed by a swarm of cellophane-wrapped snack cakes.

  The last cabinet watched in horror as Val and I dismantled its neighborhood.

  “Whoa!” Val said.

  “Holy crap!”

  The contents of the cupboard weren’t what we were looking for, but instead was a mecca of collectible fast-food movie cups.

  “This is insane.” Val shuffled through the compilation of plastic. Something rattled around in one of the cups. She dumped the contents on the counter.

  Hard, black shells that resembled candy-coated treats skittered to and fro. Forensic examination revealed that they once had legs.

  “I want a hazmat suit,” I said.

  “Um …”

  “You can have the cups, movie freak.”

  She smiled and shook the debris from the rest of the cups.

  “We have to look deeper,” I said. “This would have been too easy.”

  She nodded and opened the toolbox. She took the pry bar and handed me a screwdriver.

  “Hey! Take it easy.”

  “This all needs to be replaced anyway,” she said, prying a cabinet from the wall.

  “Yeah, well, I’m paying for it.”

  “Don’t play the poor card with me. I know what you got for your business.”

  Cabinets came down, countertops up and off, linoleum peeled back—and still nothing.

  The storm before the calm continued in the dining/living area.

  Val was bouncing around like Tigger, searching for loose floorboards. I hunkered down next to a heating vent. The screws had been painted over many times and were proving tenacious. I chipped away a few layers and cleared the slots. Putting my substantial weight behind the screwdriver gained a few turns on each corner. I slid the blade behind the cover and popped it off. Bits of paint and plaster crumbled to the floor. I grabbed the flashlight and shined it on countless years of dust and other heating duct things.

  The bouncing stopped.

  “Find anything?” Val said.

  “Not sure.” I didn’t want to stick my hand into the unknown.

  Sensing my hesitation, Val squatted down and plunged her arm into the darkness.

  “Nothing … nothing …”

  Her eyes dilated in surprise. She jerked forward, her arm yanked farther into the duct.

  I dove at her, performing a half-tackle. It was enough to free her and send us both skidding across the floor. My stomach made sure I knew the movement wasn’t appreciated. She was turned away, shoulders heaving.

  “You okay?”

  I scooted closer, expecting to see a pool of blood forming around her.

  Silent laughter prevented her from answering.

  She gasped a few times. “I can’t believe you fell for that.” She rolled up and onto her feet, offering me a hand up.

  I ignored it. Heat rose up in my neck, past my cheeks, and threatened to boil my brain.

  “Jerk. Not funny in the least.” I glanced behind her: wainscoting was cleaved from the walls, floorboards uprooted from their families. “You’re like a tornado.”

  “I didn’t find anything either.”

  I angled upward with the aid of the cane and stood next to her. We were covered with sweat, dirt, and disappointment.

  “Bathroom’s next,” Val said.

  The dollar signs went into the stratosphere.

  We eventually moved on to our last hope: the bedroom. Val tapped along the plaster walls with the pry bar. I went into the walk-in closet to escape the wrath of the demolition queen. I held the flashlight in one hand and felt along the wall for any irregularities.

  Was that a bump?

  I traced a rectangu
lar shape on the wall at about chest height. My heartbeat quickened.

  A small crash, followed by an “Oops, I’ll pay for it,” was white noise as I pressed my fingernails around the perimeter.

  “Come here.”

  She appeared behind me. “What’d you find?”

  “Not sure. Shine the light here please.” I handed her the flashlight and pointed to the spot. I heard the click of a knife and jumped.

  “Here, use this.” She handed me a small blade.

  I cut around the edges and peeled the aged paper flowers away.

  A metal door was revealed. I handed her the knife. There was a metal pull ring—high-tech security. I grasped it and pulled. Nothing. I persuaded it a little harder and it gave way.

  Val let out a long breath, and a lungful of mine followed as she shined the beam inside.

  An old fuse box.

  “That was anticlimactic,” Val said.

  “Yeah.” I grabbed the bar from her hand and slammed it into the opposite wall.

  Val wheeled back. “A little warning would be nice.”

  “Sorry. It’s just …” I pulled the bar out of the wall. It was drywall, not plaster. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  I dug my fingers around the jagged hole and yanked. It gave some. Val joined me and more came down.

  When we finished, a pile of crap was underfoot and we were looking at a small wooden door.

  She held the light up. “Your expedition, your honor.”

  I nodded and opened the fine craftsmanship to reveal a leather portfolio. That was all. No treasure chest, no final words on a hand-held tape recorder.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Can we go to your house? It’s getting dark and I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Sure.” She started to gather the tools of obliteration.

  The house was in good shape—or it had been until we did our own version of an extreme home makeover. Looks like I’d be overstaying my welcome at Mrs. Guerrero’s a little longer.

  We cleaned up from our construction outing and sat opposite each other in Val’s kitchen, our find on the table between us.

  I touched the cover and pulled away. It was like an old woman’s skin—thin, soft, and prone to fall apart at any moment.

  “Would you like me to look?” Val said.

  “Yes.”

  She opened the portfolio, removed three journal pages and placed them on the table. They were covered in strange designs—it looked like some insane yet gifted tattoo artist had gone to town.

  “This must be what my father’s after.”

  “Natalie …” Trepidation was in her eyes. “These drawings look like the scars on your back.”

  “Excuse me.”

  I just made it to the bathroom. Not being able to bend my right knee too much makes it hard to pray to the porcelain god, but I managed. I was sitting on the tile floor, trying to process what Val said, when I heaved again. Dammit!

  A cool cloth appeared on the back of my neck.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed ahold of the sink basin and leveraged myself up. “Sorry, I can’t believe I threw up.” I turned on the faucet and rinsed my mouth.

  “Let’s go back into the kitchen.”

  She handed me a Coke as we sat. I popped the tab and took a swig. The cola slid down my throat, washing the puke taste away.

  “Can I see?”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she said.

  I nodded and she slid the pages across the table. Meticulously hand-lettered instructions followed by exquisite drawings of creatures and unfamiliar symbols were laid upon the pages before me.

  I looked up to see her staring at me. The worry on her face was intense.

  “This is what’s on my back?”

  She nodded. “Some, not all.”

  I pushed the papers away.

  “You can say no, and that would be fine.” I stopped, feeling very uncomfortable for what I was about to ask.

  Val saw the scars on my back before they became scars. She used to put aloe and whatever else we could find at the drugstore on the wounds. I knew it upset her and hated to ask but she was the only one I trusted.

  “Would you take a picture of my back? You don’t have to …”

  She took a deep breath—the exhalation was slow and smooth.

  “You’re an idiot. Of course I will.” She thumped me on the shoulder. “Do you want to do it now?”

  I worried my lower lip and nodded.

  Her office was huge. There were many machines about. Gadgets that kept Val connected to the rest of the world at all hours were in their cradles charging. You’ll have to forgive me—I’m far from tech savvy and don’t know the difference between the beasts.

  She had wanted me to learn to text and IM. I gave her a firm no way. If she needed to talk to me, she knew where I was. None of that crap for me—I hate computers and a cell phone was a huge pain in the butt as far as I was concerned.

  The shutters were closed all the way around the room. She went into the closet and pulled out an expensive-looking digital SLR. She pushed buttons, checked settings, and nodded to herself.

  “Ready?”

  “‘All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my closeup.’”

  She rolled her eyes. “Too much of the classic movie channel for you.”

  “Where do you want me?”

  “You’re fine where you are. When you’re ready, we’ll take some shots.”

  I turned away from her and my impending photo shoot. I stripped, but kept my shirt clutched in front of me. Modest, that’s me.

  A few clicks and we were done.

  “Sorry to ask you to do this,” I said as I got dressed.

  “It’s okay.” She took the card thingy out of the camera and put it into a slot in the computer. “Let’s see what we have.”

  She indicated for me to sit in the chair next to hers. She was clicking and doing things beyond my comprehension when my back appeared on the ginormous screen.

  I’d never seen the scars before—I was always too afraid. I turned away.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “We’ll put it into a different context. It’ll be easier to look at, for both of us.”

  “This is your gig. But you can skip the geek speak because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Make yourself useful and get me some dessert.”

  I wasn’t gone but a few minutes. When I came back, Val was looking over some printouts. She put them into the shredder.

  “Here you go.” I put the lemon cake next to the computer.

  Her eyes never left the screen, muttering about levels, making adjustments until she was satisfied. I tried not to watch.

  “Better.” She took a forkful. “Oh, that’s good!”

  I shook my head and couldn’t help but smile.

  “Look.” She pointed to the screen. “They’re not as scary this way.”

  “Holy crap!”

  She’d transformed my back into black and white line drawings. She was right—putting it into a different framework helped big time.

  My parents were artists in their own perverted right. If my back had been a true canvas, the work would have been extraordinary. The detail was unbelievable. The images brought memories that flowed through me like liquid fear.

  I went into the living room and sat on the couch. I felt my gaze going distant—I was shutting down, just like I did back then.

  I lay face down on the table. The Japanese marking knives and cutting tools my father used on my back sat on a tray beside me. He cradled the simple four-inch steel shank in his hand as he went about his work.

  “Which one do you think, Karen?”

  And she would hand him the knife or tool that would provide him the desired control over his masterpiece. My mother’s hand hovered over her pencil torch and soldering iron, waiting for her turn.

  “You will speak of this to no one,” my
mother said. “Do you understand me? If you do, I will kill Valerie and make you watch every painful second of it!”

  I believed every venom-covered word she spat.

  “Nat, stay with me,” Val said.

  I heard her, but didn’t want to—I wanted to disappear into the silence. But her soft voice and gentle touch brought me back.

  “I’m sorry. Just can’t look at them right now.” I cupped my head in my hands and rocked. “Sorry … really sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Can’t think right now.” Images flew at me. My father’s voice struck through me.

  “Of all my tools, you’ve proved the weakest.”

  “Come on now, I’m right here.” Val was holding me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Shh, you’re safe.” She almost made me believe it. The crushing tightness in my chest was still there, but I could breathe.

  “Sorry … I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I looked down at my hands. Slight tremors flowed through them. A glimmer of pain behind my right eye announced the beginning of a migraine. Great, this really blew.

  A Coke and a glass of water appeared on coasters on the coffee table. Man, she was quick!

  “Thanks. I’m really sorry.” I frowned at the soda.

  “Will you stop apologizing?” Her voice was resolute. “Was it like before?”

  I nodded. The stillness of the room wasn’t uncomfortable—more like a constant calm between us. She already lived this with me. It made me heartsick, putting her through it again.

  “You know, if I didn’t want to be your friend, you wouldn’t be sitting on my couch right now,” she said.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m holding you back.”

  Her eyes were dark and serious. “From what?”

  “Your life.”

  “Why would you even say that?”

  I shrugged. The pain behind my right eye was becoming more fierce.

  “You worry about me too much and it holds you back from doing things you really want to do, like getting serious with a guy. Stuff like that. I’m not your responsibility.”

  “I’m not getting serious with any of the guys I go out with because they’re not worth getting serious with. And when I finally do find the right guy, you’ll still be part of my life.” She frowned. “I’m not a friend of convenience—we’ve been through too much together. I will never abandon our friendship and I expect the same from you.”