The Darkness of Shadows

by Little, Chris

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  She turned with her hands on her hips, chin pointing skyward, and a smile. All that was missing was a cape billowing behind her.

  “I sense a shift in the delicate balance—”

  I threw a pillow at her.

  An accordion folder held a crash course in family history.

  The beginning was comprised of high honor roll report cards, sports and science fair wins. Pictures of my father and (I assumed) his parents were interspersed. Pride was in all of their postures as they beamed for the camera.

  The college years were next. More academic accolades, but fewer family pictures. An engagement announcement, wedding stuff, a small birth announcement.

  Newspaper and magazine articles were plentiful.

  William and Karen Gannon are the dynamic duo of consulting.

  Watershed win with major technology company brings Gannon Consulting extraordinary potential for expanded business.

  Gannon Consulting celebrates a career milestone.

  The Gannons believe it is their responsibility to build skills, confidence, and leadership opportunities in the companies they are rebuilding.

  My father’s bombastic words were next.

  This event is a celebration, but it’s a celebration with a purpose. This is an opportunity for us to experience the strength of our relationships. Some new, some built over a lifetime. A powerful demonstration of the diversity we embrace.

  Everyone loved the fairy tale of my parents’ life. William and Karen Gannon were everything to everyone: kind, generous, community-minded people, loved by all in the land.

  I learned all of this from a box of crap strangers sent me.

  The rest of the peccant tale was all too well known. I refiled the memorabilia and moved on.

  Letters tied with a cloth ribbon were next. I opened the first in a series and recognized my grandmother’s handwriting.

  The recipient’s name was eradicated, the words were faded, but most were still legible.

  William’s become more distant. He is convinced that by marrying Karen, he can produce an amalgamation of a Healer and a Necromancer. He is capable of bringing his ideas to fruition, and our world will suffer.

  John and I are unable to bring him back to our ways. We are desperate for your help.

  The next letter contained a foreign penmanship.

  Beth,

  We understand your concerns, but William’s need to do what no other Necromancer has done or will ever do is ludicrous.

  As for Karen, she is no longer a member of our family. Any offspring that she may conceive is not a concern of ours, nor should they be to you.

  William and Karen have embarrassed us. It has taken much time and soothing of egos to repair the damage. We stand firm in our decision not to acknowledge them. You and John should consider this tactic as well.

  We are returning your correspondence. Please do not contact us with regard to this matter anymore.

  It was signed with a name I didn’t recognize. My stellar detective skills led me to believe this was an exchange between both sets of my grandparents. The holidays must’ve been a hoot with them.

  William Gannon was an evil sorcerer and I was trying to take him down.

  I turned off the light and fell into a restless sleep.

  Something was tapping at the window. I tried to ignore it, but whatever it was persisted. “Natalie,” a familiar voice said, “it’s time.”

  I threw the covers off and sat bolt upright, ignoring the pain in my stomach.

  It couldn’t be.

  I went to the window and opened the curtains. It couldn’t be.

  It was my mother.

  It looked exactly like her: brilliant blue eyes, long blond hair, same beautiful woman from the past. But there was no friggin’ way.

  “Bring the pages,” she said. “Your father is ready.”

  “Ma’am … I … I …”

  “You know what will happen to Valerie if you don’t.” Her ruthless words floated in the air.

  I let the curtain fall back into place. Seeing my father bring back a cat was one thing. This … this was a whole new bucket of fucked up.

  And I couldn’t just ignore it. Because if that really was my mother out there, then William Gannon had the means to back up every threat he’d ever made against Valerie and her mom.

  I went to the kitchen, opened the door, and saw my mother standing there, waiting.

  “Come here!” she said.

  I should’ve stayed at the threshold, but a labyrinth of nocent emotions drove me into the night.

  Delicate hands took me from behind and pulled me back into the house.

  “Natalie, where are you going?” Mrs. Guerrero said.

  “My mom’s here. Don’t you …?” I pointed into the blackness, but my mom—or whatever had looked like her—was gone.

  “Valerie!”

  Footsteps and more hands pulling me back.

  “Let me go!” I lurched into the darkness.

  “You’re dreaming,” Val said.

  “NO!” I wrangled free only to stumble to the ground.

  “Valerie, get her back into the house, now!”

  “I’m trying.” Val dragged me inside. The door closed and the lock slid into place.

  “Why won’t you let me go?” I said as Val leveraged me off the floor to a standing position. Well, more like a ‘slumping against Val’ position.

  “Your mother is dead. There is no one there,” Mrs. G said as we all headed to my room.

  “But, ma’am …”

  Val and Mrs. Guerrero exchanged a look. My ranting made me sound like the newest resident of Crazytown. But she was there! At least, she had been. I was getting pissed they didn’t believe me. I pitched forward and landed against Val.

  “Easy there.” She sat me on the bed.

  I tried to get up but Val was too strong.

  “Valerie, please get me a cool washcloth and a glass of tea,” Mrs. Guerrero said. “It was just a dream. I need to check your stomach. Please lie down.”

  She brushed her hand over my head in a soothing motion, whispered something. I relaxed. She seemed satisfied that I hadn’t done any damage.

  “I have to go …” My words became softer as Mrs. Guerrero’s bantam hand continued its rhythmic journey across my head. Such relief from such a simple gesture.

  “Hush, child, hush.” Her voice calmed me.

  My breathing slowed and my body decompressed even more. “Ma’am, what are you doing?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your hand … my … head.”

  “It is just to calm you. Would you like me to stop?”

  I took a slow breath and swallowed dryness. “It … feels nice.”

  Her face was soft and I couldn’t focus anymore. The coolness of a cloth wiped the sweat off my face and neck. The grit on my hands from the patio was next.

  “Take some tea.” Val put the straw to my lips and I took a small pull.

  “She was there.” I pointed to the window. I so desperately needed them to believe me.

  “Shh, rest.” The gentle cadence of Mrs. Guerrero’s hand brought me to a dreamless sleep.

  A few weeks after my salsa with anaphylactic shock, I moved into my grandparents’ newly renovated house. I still couldn’t believe it was mine.

  Val and I had a few “discussions” about paint colors. As far as I’m concerned, there are two: white and off-white. But being best friends with a graphic artist, you get introduced to a world of colors and combinations of said colors.

  I didn’t put up much of a fight—she had the decorating gene, not me. Between her style with my lack of style, we managed to make it a comfortable mix.

  Sometimes I wondered why Val and I got along so well. Our interests were so different—she dragged me to museums and gallery openings, I dragged her to chocolate and dessert shows. I think she made out better on that deal. But we’d been friends forever. I guess after that long, there wa
s no reason needed.

  I checked and double-checked that everything was locked. The curtains—sorry, the window treatments—were drawn.

  The money was holding up fine. Even after the renovations, all the stuff to furnish the house, and some new clothes, I’d still be all right for a while.

  I hoped it would last until I figured out what I wanted to do for a job. I didn’t want to touch the money my grandparents left me.

  I was applying some WD-40 to the aged crank of the casement window over the kitchen sink. The night air felt good as it blew in.

  A small light whizzed by.

  Wasn’t it too late in the year for fireflies? And the auras that accompanied my migraines looked nothing like that.

  It zipped closer to the window and landed on the sill. I leaned over the sink for a better look.

  The colorful, delicate butterfly wings stopped fluttering as it—he—stood on the windowsill in front of me. Four, maybe five inches tall, with light brown hair that brushed over tiny ears, Caribbean blue eyes coruscated in the light. A white T-shirt, denim jacket, faded blue jeans, and tiny work boots completed his outfit.

  “Oh crud!” a smallish voice said. “She’s gonna squash me! Last week I got the ‘Age quod agis’ speech and now this!”

  We stared at each other.

  “Who the hell are you?” I leaned closer. “Scratch that. What the hell are you?”

  He became airborne again and hovered about. His lime green wings were transversed with lines of black, and the outer edges featured a zigzag pattern dotted with concentric circles.

  It’s wonderful what the mind latches on to in an effort to preserve its sanity.

  “I’m in deep!” Flitting backward, he bounced like a hummingbird. “Man oh man, I’m screwed!”

  “Hey, it’s okay. Calm down.” What the hell was I doing? Was I having a psychotic break? This little guy couldn’t be real.

  “Nigel!” a tiny, sing-song voice said. “Come on! Let’s go!”

  Oh good, there’s more than one imaginary creature in my yard.

  “Camille, she saw me! Please don’t tell.” He was hovering in front of me.

  “I won’t. I promise. You have my word.” After the debacle of seeing my dead mom standing in the yard, I was keeping this one to myself.

  “Thank you!” He breathed, seeming relieved.

  “She gave you her word. No worries, boy. Let’s go!” The island accent was stronger now.

  Nigel and his unseen companion disappeared into the shadowy night.

  I scrubbed at my eyes, then fought with the crank to close the window. Just shut the blinds, curtains, whatevers, set the alarm, and pretend this didn’t happen. That’s what I was going to do.

  I needed a Coke. The magnet on the fridge taunted me. The Poe quote read, “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”

  I snagged the bag of Cheetos from the top of the fridge and a can of soda from inside, then made my way to the living room and settled into the chair. I placed the pistol on the side table, within easy reach.

  Age quod agis? Why was that so familiar?

  So much for sleep. I fired up the TV. It was going to be a bumpy night.

  The day was dark and dreary, so much so that it falsely represented night. And I was in a bad mood. No idea why, it just happened.

  Our schema was as good as it was going to get. We had the pages, a place to meet, and a recycling plan. Now we were in hover mode, waiting for Karl to get back to us with a phone number so we could get the party started.

  What I said before about not knowing why I was in a pissy mood wasn’t entirely true.

  Val had brought up the topic of head injuries and hallucinations. She was as subtle as the scale at a Weight Watchers meeting, and I’d been ignoring her calls. I would continue to do so until I got over my mad.

  I went for a ride to clear my head. And doing so, I ended up someplace I thought I never would go—the cemetery behind the middle school.

  Before I knew it, I was clicking along the plots and grounds, not knowing why I was there. I decided I wanted to be toasted and tossed—no burial for me. People left cards, balloons, and decorations on their loved ones’ graves. I guess it was more for the living. Dead was dead, right?

  Something drew me to a headstone set back from the others, with space on either side of it for family, I guessed. The area was tidy and fresh flowers were laid in front of the stone. My mother’s grave.

  In all the years she’d been dead, I never once came here. I didn’t go to her funeral either. Lieutenant and Mrs. Guerrero told me I should. Yeah right—I disappeared for a day and a half and caught hell from them both. It went in one ear and out the other. I didn’t care.

  Now, I stood there looking for answers. A Dickensian move on my part. Would I ever be whole, or would I remain shattered, with only glimpses of where the pieces fit?

  I was stupid for coming here. I glanced at the headstone. Part of the inscription read “… as long as we live, they too shall live, for they are a part of us …”

  I stepped away from my mother and my past, and bumped into someone.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  There were two people—at least I think they were people—standing on the path behind me. They looked kind of like twins. They stood several inches shorter than me, with long, straggling black hair and pale white faces, sunken pale blue eyes and mouths twisted as if in pain. Black wool clothes flowed around them like a Goth nightmare.

  “Sorry, didn’t know you were there.” I tried to move past them, but they blocked my way.

  This was not good. I looked around. What did I spy with my little eyes but a completely deserted graveyard. Great. I said excuse me again and tried to get past them. No dice.

  “Something I can help you with?” I reached around and put my hand on my pistol.

  The one on the right stretched out a pale hand and in a husky voice said, “Give me the pages.”

  Crap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I was a little more than nervous now. “Excuse me, I need to leave.”

  The twins moved forward as I drew my gun from the holster. With a blurred quickness, I was disarmed and the H&K tossed aside. I stepped back and held my cane like a bat as they advanced again.

  “My dad’s a cop, so this isn’t a good idea,” I said.

  They both smirked. The chatty one said, “Your father is William Gannon. Give me the pages.”

  Oh shit.

  I took a warning swing. It didn’t faze them as they came closer. The next swing connected with the quiet one’s head and bent my cane.

  He shook his head like a drenched dog ridding himself of the wet. He laughed. It chilled me to my DNA.

  Chatty stood in front of me, the other circled around. Val’s self-defense training didn’t cover this scenario. Chatty landed a punch to my side. It knocked my breath from me.

  “I don’t have any pages!” I threw an elbow at his head.

  The quiet one was going over me like a used car. His touch was a cold burn.

  “Hey!” I said. He backhanded me to the ground and shook his head at Chatty.

  Their heads swung around in unison and they looked up the path.

  Chatty said, “She’s here! We need to leave!”

  The quiet one’s parting gift to me was a heavy kick to my side. They raced down the path and out of sight, not once looking back.

  What the hell? Scanning the cemetery, I saw nothing. I pulled myself up with the help of a headstone, feeling the pain grow in my side. I looked around again.

  Was that Mrs. Guerrero on the hill? It was too far for me to be sure.

  I retrieved the gun and reholstered it. Okay, I can do this—I just didn’t have my trusty cane to lean on. I got to my truck, dragging my right leg as if it was a fifty-pound sack of flour. I put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing. I turned it again. Still nothing.

  I slammed my palms onto the steering wheel and swore. I reached for my cell.
Dead battery. Dammit!

  “Please just get me home, and I promise I’ll take you where really cool cars and trucks go to die.”

  The automotive gods took pity on me and the engine turned over on the next try.

  “Thank you,” I said to the dashboard.

  When I got home, I plugged the cell phone into the charger. The next point of order was a shower.

  I let the water run over me, washing the muck and fear off my body. My side hurt like hell and my jaw was catching up. I dressed in loose clothes and didn’t dare to look in the mirror.

  I went into the kitchen, opened the freezer, grabbed a few ice packs, and headed to the table.

  The stereo remote was waiting. I punched a button and Ella Fitzgerald graced the house. I put my right leg up on a chair and put an ice pack on my knee. If it could have sighed with relief, it would have. My jaw felt neglected, so I held one of the other packs to it. Much better. My side would have to wait its turn.

  So the Goths were joining in the fun-filled search for my father’s journal pages. Did he have a network of creeps, or were they independents working for someone else? The threat level was now orange.

  The damned house phone kept ringing. Then the cell started. It was like they were playing tag. I clicked the remote and turned Ella up a few notches to drown it out.

  A car pulled into the driveway. My watch read seven o’clock. Where had the day gone?

  Val strode in with a casual grace. She was clenching and unclenching her jaw so the muscle popped back and forth.

  “Hey.” She walked past me to the phone on the counter. She picked it up and punched the Talk button. A dial tone hit the air.

  “Huh,” she said. Then she picked up the still-charging cell and repeated, “Huh.”

  I was still miffed about the head trauma thing, but I was curious. “What are you doing?”

  “Both your phones are working,” she said.

  “And your point would be?”

  “I called you a dozen times today, on both lines, left messages. Shocking but true, you didn’t bother to call me back.”

  I looked at the answering machine. Its red light was blinking and the message counter read nine. I grabbed the cell—seven new voice mails.