Shadow People

by James Swain

  “But it’s your mother’s.”

  “She would have wanted you to have it.”

  Liza slipped the necklace over her head. She appraised it in the broken mirror on the dresser. The pendant rested comfortably at the base of her neck. “It’s beautiful.”

  “The five-pointed star is a talisman, and will keep the shadow person away, along with any other evil spirits. I want you to wear it until this thing is gone.”

  “Do I have to give it back?”

  “No, it’s yours.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  It was not the circumstances under which he would have liked to be giving her a piece of his mother’s jewelry, but it would have to do. Liza brought her hand up to her mouth.

  “Oh, my God. It’s back.”

  A shadow person lurked on the other side of the bedroom. Shaped like a person but without a face, it hovered a few inches above the floor, and made no sound. Peter stepped protectively in front of Liza. Through the broken window he heard a car pull up in front of the brownstone and Garrison and his team get out. They all knew about Peter’s powers, and were people he trusted. The cavalry had arrived.

  “That’s Garrison. I locked the front door. Better let them in.”

  “And leave you here with this monster?”

  “I can handle him.”

  “No!”

  Liza did not understand the danger she was in. With his body, he gently pushed her toward the door. She resisted, and pushed right back.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said defiantly.

  Their unearthly visitor glided across the floor as it came toward them. Objects flew through the air as if weightless, while the electricity flickered on and off.

  Peter stepped forward, knowing what he had to do.

  6

  Because he’d moved around as kid, Peter hadn’t had a lot of stuff. Just his clothes, his school uniforms, a worn baseball mitt, and some toys. It hadn’t been much.

  As a result, he did not buy things on a whim. Every purchase was carefully thought out. The tricks and illusions in his brownstone were a perfect example. They were things he’d coveted as a child, but could not afford. When he’d finally had the money to buy them, he’d taken his time, and made one purchase at a time. Each item he bought, he savored.

  And now, it was all gone.

  The shadow person had wrecked his home, while scaring the woman he loved. Ghosts had broken things in his home before, but it had been out of sheer clumsiness, never on purpose. The shadow person had attacked him on purpose.

  Homer had said this might happen. If Peter didn’t respond, the shadow person would ruin his life, and drive Liza away. And then where would he be? Alone and brokenhearted, no different from before.

  Seen in that light, there was no other choice but to turn to a power within him that he feared and loathed, and summon the demon that had resided inside of him since birth. Through clenched teeth he muttered the words that would allow him to fight back.

  Darkness, take my hand.

  Give me the power to vanquish my enemies, and rule the world as I see fit.

  He started to change. The feeling started like a bad case of heartburn, and grew worse, until he was burning up inside. With his heart pounding in his ears like a bass drum, he marched across the bedroom. Shooting his arm out, he struck the shadow person right in the nose, if it had had a nose. The black mass emitted a yelp, and wavered uncertainly.

  “Oh, my God, you hurt it,” Liza squealed.

  “Score one for the good guys,” he said.

  Filled with confidence, he brought his fist down hard on the shadow person’s shoulder, and saw it crumple. Being already dead, a spirit could not be killed. But it could be injured, and that hurt would last for an eternity. It shrunk before his eyes.

  “You did it again,” Liza said.

  “Think I should stop?”

  “No! Let the bastard have it.”

  Downstairs, the pounding on the front door had grown louder. If they didn’t let Garrison and his team in, they’d kick the door down, and something else would be in need of repair.

  “Please go downstairs, and let them in,” he said more calmly than before.

  “What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “Don’t tell them anything. Let me do the talking.”

  “What are you going to do to this thing?”

  “Convince it not to return.”

  “I’m all for that. I’ll be right back. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She smiled with her eyes, and left without making a sound.

  Peter blinked. The shadow person was no longer standing in front of him.

  “Damn it,” he cursed.

  He hunted for it. He could still feel its presence, and sensed it was hiding behind a piece of furniture or inside the wall. With his knuckles he rapped loudly on the plaster. Getting no response, he got on his knees, and looked beneath the furniture and the bed.

  Still nothing.

  He got to his feet, still burning with anger. Then he noticed something odd. None of Liza’s perfume bottles sitting atop her dresser had been touched. The shadow person hadn’t come here to mess with his girlfriend. It’s me he wants.

  Garrison and his team came up the stairs. How was he going to explain this? He never should have told Garrison about the shadow person in the first place. It added nothing to the situation, and led to too many other topics that he didn’t want to discuss.

  He decided to meet the FBI agents in the hallway, and take them back downstairs. He’d fix a pot of coffee and offer them something to eat. It would give him time to make up a story. It wasn’t a perfect plan, just the best he could do given the circumstances.

  He started to walk out of the bedroom when he saw his unearthly intruder inside the vanity on the dresser, hiding within the mirror’s reflection. Staring at him, even though it had no eyes. He approached the dresser, shaking his fist. “Damn you for wrecking my house. I want you to leave, and never return. Do you understand?”

  No response. Was it mocking him?

  “I’ve had enough of your games,” he said angrily.

  He rushed the vanity, prepared to break it into a thousand pieces. The mirror turned a deathly black that expanded into the bedroom like a storm cloud spreading over the horizon. He was sucked into the void, and desperately tried to resist. Too late. He’d been trapped again.

  * * *

  His world changed. He was transported from his bedroom to the dirt road on the hill beside Dr. Death’s house. Dr. Death was chasing him, the Volvo’s headlights dancing in the darkness as the vehicle snaked down the hill. It was déjà vu all over again.

  Peter ran for his life. In all the years he’d been visiting the other side, he’d never been taken back to the same place twice. Every trip was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Not just for him, but for every other psychic he’d ever communicated with. It was always a one shot.

  But the rules were different now. The shadow person had taken him back so Dr. Death could finish the job, and take Peter out of the picture. It wasn’t fair, but the spirit world rarely was. In that regard, it was no different from the real world.

  He looked for a landmark that might tell him where he was. In the distance, two-story houses with pitched roofs dotted the hillside. He counted four, along with a number of cars and pickup trucks parked in driveways.

  The Volvo reached the bottom of the hill, and chased him. Peter looked for a tree or some bushes on the side of the road to hide behind, just to buy himself some time. He could not remember having ever felt more helpless in his entire life.

  A gunshot ripped the still night air. He stopped running and clasped his leg. Blood was flowing freely out of a wound in his thigh, just like the first time. He hobbled over to the grass and tried to stop the blood by pressing on it with his palm.

  The Volvo braked and Dr. Death got out with a lunatic smile distorting his face. Gun in hand, he came over to where
Peter stood, and told him to kneel. The young magician complied.

  “Anything you want to say before I kill you?” Dr. Death asked.

  His mind raced. Dying was for quitters, and he wasn’t about to quit. He was going to go back to the real world, and track this bastard down. To do that, he had to learn more about Dr. Death. Even the simplest detail would help the FBI find him.

  “Who are you?” he said boldly.

  “You want to know my name?”

  “Yes. I have a right to know who my killer is.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What does it matter? I’m going to die, anyway.”

  “I’m still not going to tell you.”

  “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

  “That’s none of your business. Now close your eyes, and I’ll make this painless.”

  Dr. Death was being bathed in the Volvo’s soft headlights. Peter gazed up into the killer’s eyes, and saw Dr. Death walking into a room filled with college students taking a class. His hunch was right: Dr. Death was a college professor.

  “Aren’t you afraid of being caught?” Peter asked.

  “I said, close your eyes.”

  “Not even by your neighbors? They must have heard your gun.”

  “My neighbors won’t save you, and neither will anyone else in this hellhole. Now close your eyes and shut your damn mouth.”

  Dr. Death had just told him something important, yet Peter had no earthly idea what it meant. The FBI would, and he prayed he got to speak with Garrison again.

  The gun’s warm barrel pressed against his forehead. A pair of hands begin to shake him, trying to bring him back to the real world where he lived.

  Then the shot rang out.

  7

  Liza shook him hard. “Peter, wake up.”

  He returned with the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Lying on his back on his own bed, the white plaster ceiling spinning in a lazy clockwise rotation. He checked the gunshot wound on his leg for the second time that night, and found that it had healed itself.

  Liza’s lovely face came into the picture. She looked scared out of her mind. She’d just saved his life, and didn’t even realize it. “What in God’s name happened?”

  “I took a little trip to the other side. Thanks for bringing me back.”

  “Did that thing draw you over?”

  “Yes. Is Garrison here?”

  The FBI agent’s solemn face came into the picture. Built like a pro linebacker, he wore a dark suit whose jacket’s left side bulged more than its right from the gun that he carried. He was breathing hard from running up to the third floor of the brownstone.

  “We’re here,” Garrison said. “How you doing?”

  “I’m okay. Thanks for getting here so fast.”

  “Not fast enough, I’m afraid. Let me help you up.”

  Peter got out of bed on shaky legs while leaning on Garrison for support. Not seeing the rest of Garrison’s team, he said, “Where’s your gang?”

  “Having a look around. Your place looks like a tornado hit it.”

  “That’s one explanation. I need a cup of coffee. Want some?”

  “I never say no to coffee,” Garrison replied.

  The kitchen was on the first floor and faced a private courtyard. It hadn’t gotten much use until Liza had moved in. The miracles she produced in it were every bit as amazing as those Peter performed onstage each night. That was an exaggeration, only there was something about home-cooked food that seemed totally magical to him.

  Liza served fresh coffee and reheated bagels. Garrison’s team consisted of three male agents dressed in dark suits, and a droll blonde named Nan Perry.

  “What just happened upstairs?” Garrison asked.

  Peter took a moment to gather his thoughts. Saying too much would lead to trouble; too little, and the FBI would be no help at all. “I took another trip into the future, and saw our killer. The scene was exactly the same. I was outside his house, trying to run from him, and he shot me in the leg. He was getting ready to put a bullet in my head, when Liza shook me awake.”

  “That’s intense,” Garrison said.

  “The good news is I got a hard look at him. His face will be easier for me to remember when I sit down with your artist for a composite.”

  “That’s a plus. Did anything else stand out?”

  “Well, he said something strange. Right before he was going to shoot me, I asked him if he was worried that his neighbors might hear the gunshot. He replied that his neighbors wouldn’t save me. He called where he lived a hellhole.”

  “What do you think he meant?”

  “Hard to say. He lived in a nice area. It didn’t look like anything remotely resembling a hellhole.”

  “Maybe something happened there that made him feel that way.”

  “Could be.”

  “Why do you keep going back there?”

  “Believe me, it’s not by choice. An evil spirit called a shadow person is taking me.”

  “Did this shadow person rip your place apart?”

  Peter nodded and sipped his drink.

  “What’s its motive? You must have some idea.”

  Every psychic had a spirit which looked over his shoulder and protected him. Peter guessed the same was true for people who were in league with the Devil.

  “It’s our serial killer’s guardian angel,” he said quietly.

  “So those really exist,” Garrison said.

  “They most certainly do.”

  “And this serial killer has one.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  The kitchen fell silent. Peter hated when that happened. Garrison leaned forward on his elbows. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp. “You talk with the spirits on a regular basis. Why not talk with them again, and ask them who this killer is. It can’t hurt, can it?”

  Peter had been communicating with spirits since boyhood. There were rules to the game, and he said, “It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just cross over, and start asking questions.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t. I rarely speak when I’m on the other side.”

  “What do you do, then?”

  “I watch and listen.”

  “Can’t you at least give it a try?”

  He laughed under his breath. The other side was not gentle. Within its ever-shifting landscape of light and dark was a force that ruled with a firm, if not brutal hand. He likened it to the Old Testament: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, where wars lasted for centuries and grudges were never settled. It was not a place where you wanted to spend eternity, and those who did suffered for it, every single moment of their wretched lives.

  “No,” the young magician said. “You have to trust me on this.”

  Garrison let out an exasperated breath and put down his mug. He looked ready to call it a night. “I’ll come by your theater with the artist tomorrow. What time works for you?”

  “Come at four. We can do it in my dressing room between shows.”

  “Four o’clock it is.” Garrison put his empty mug in the sink. One by one, his team filed out of the kitchen. “You need help cleaning up?” he asked at the door.

  Peter stole a glance at Liza, who still looked upset. He needed to have a talk with her, and not with the FBI hanging around. “We’ll manage. Thanks for the offer.”

  Peter walked the agents to the front door. The hallway was lined with rare magic playbills that he’d purchased at auction at Christie’s. Each was one-of-a-kind, and worth a fortune. Their frames had been smashed, and Garrison pointed at the ruined glass.

  “Look at that,” he said. “The breaks in each frame are the same.”

  Peter had a look. The breaks in the glass weren’t the same, they were identical. He wondered how that was possible. The spirits conformed to the laws of physics when visiting the real world, and the broken frames were an obvious violation of that.

  “I need to take a photo of this,” Ga
rrison said.

  He snapped a series of photos on his iPhone. When he was finished, Peter walked him to the door. His team waited outside on the sidewalk.

  “Sure you don’t need some help?” Garrison asked.

  “We’re good,” Peter said.

  He started to leave, then asked the inevitable final question. “Will it come back?”

  “Probably. It hasn’t gotten what it wants.”

  “Meaning you. I could leave two of my team to act as bodyguards.”

  “They’ll only end up getting hurt.”

  “Don’t be so sure. We deal with more bad stuff than you can imagine.”

  Garrison didn’t get it. The shadow person existed in another dimension that was either light-years away, or right next door, and had the power to visit the real world whenever it chose. The FBI did not possess the means to stop it.

  “We’ll manage. Thanks, anyway,” Peter said.

  Their ride was a black GMC Terrain with needle antennas on the hood. The vehicle seemed to disappear as it drove away. Peter waved and shut the door.

  “What a night. Ready to tackle this mess?”

  Liza put her head on his chest and started to cry. Her evening had been one long horror show, and now he was asking her to clean up.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he said.

  “No, it’s probably a good idea.” She sniffled. “It will take my mind off things.”

  “You sure?”

  She answered him with a kiss, and climbed the stoop and went inside.

  8

  The living room had been hit the worst, so they decided to start there. Liza went to the kitchen to find a broom while he started to pick up pieces of broken illusions from the floor. A sizzling sound filled his ears. Without warning, the brownstone was plunged into darkness.

  “Peter!” Liza called from the kitchen.

  “I’m right here. Are you all right?”

  “It’s back. I saw it out of the corner of my eye.”

  He stumbled down the darkened hallway. “Don’t move. I’m coming.”

  “Hurry. I’m scared.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Oh, great. Now I’m more scared.”

  As he reached the entrance to the kitchen, a flash of white light exploded before his eyes. It had no sound, and continued to flash on and off like heat lightning. In the kitchen he found Liza huddled by the fridge, her hair standing on end as if electrified. Clutched in her hands was a frying pan she’d grabbed off the stove. He held her protectively against his chest.