Shadow People

by James Swain

  “Sorry.”

  “That leaves family. Are your families interfering in your lives?”

  “Peter’s family is gone, and mine isn’t a problem,” Liza said.

  “Well, this hardly sounds like a bad situation. Unless of course I’m missing something.”

  Liza squirmed uncomfortably. Peter felt like he was in a cab stuck in traffic with the meter running. He reached across the couch and took Liza’s hands in his own, then cleared his throat. “Okay, here’s the deal. The problem with our relationship is me. I’m a psychic. I can read minds, see into the future, and communicate with the dead. Liza and I have been living together for two years. I kept this hidden from her until recently. It’s causing us a lot of problems.”

  Sierra’s face had gone blank, and Peter wondered if it was too much information for him to absorb. After a moment, the good doctor spoke.

  “You look familiar. Aren’t you a professional magician?” Sierra asked.

  “That’s right. I have a show downtown.”

  “And you’re telling me that the tricks you do are real?”

  “Some of them.”

  “But not all.”

  “Correct.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, I’m finding this rather hard to believe.”

  Sierra had a bemused look on his face, and Peter felt himself grow flush. He hated when people laughed at him, and he felt his inner demon about to rear its ugly head. He didn’t want that to happen in the presence of a stranger, and forced himself to calm down.

  “Perhaps you could give me a demonstration,” Sierra said.

  “You want me to read your mind?”

  “Could you? That would be splendid.”

  “Give me your hand.”

  With a twinkle in his eye, Sierra placed his hand onto Peter’s outstretched palm. As their skin touched, the doctor jumped in his chair. “Your hands are ice-cold,” Sierra said.

  “I have a demon inside of me. When it starts to come out, my skin turns cold.”

  “Oh, come on, you can’t be serious.”

  “Dead serious. Now, think of something in your past. Anything at all.”

  Sierra looked at Liza for help. “Is your boyfriend on the level?”

  “Everything he says is true,” Liza said.

  “Including this demon?”

  “Including the demon.”

  “This must have come as a great shock to you.”

  “Well, it’s definitely taken some getting used to.”

  Sierra shifted his attention back to Peter, who had not let go of his hand. “Most people think I was born in Havana, because that is what it says on my passport. In fact, I was born in a small village in the mountains of Cuba that is not on any map. Tell me about it.”

  “Are you thinking about this village right now?” Peter asked.

  “I most certainly am.”

  Peter gazed into the depths of Sierra’s eyes and went searching. The doctor’s head was a library of information, and it took an extended moment before he found the images he was looking for. The rural village where Sierra had been born and raised held a special place, and Peter treaded carefully on the older man’s memories. “You were born in a farming village in the Sierra Maestra mountains in the western region of Cuba. Your family has lived there for six generations, raising sheep and cattle. On the outskirts of the village is a primitive cemetery where many of your relatives are buried. Your older brother rests there: He perished after being thrown by a horse. He was your best friend, and it broke your heart the day it happened.

  “You left the village at the age of twelve to attend a school for gifted students in Havana. When you were a teenager, you escaped Cuba with a group of friends on a makeshift raft made of tires, and landed on a small island off Key West. You later relocated to New York, where you worked three jobs to put yourself through college and, later, medical school. You have not been back to your birthplace in forty years, and long for the day you can return safely, without fear of retribution from the government.”

  Sierra’s eyes welled with tears. “Astonishing. How long have you had this … gift?”

  “Ever since I could remember. At first, I thought everyone could do these things. But then I learned that only certain people can.”

  Sierra adjusted himself in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. He seemed to be having a hard time coming to grips with what Peter had just done. There was a name for this: seeing but not believing. The brain did not accept what the eyes had seen, and that caused the mind to wrestle with reality. It was not a fun process, but in the end, reality usually won out.

  “You said that you did not tell your girlfriend about your gifts until recently, yet you’ve been living together for two years,” Sierra said, the professional tone returning to his voice. “The obvious question would be, did you read her mind during that time, and not tell her?”

  Peter looked at Liza as he replied. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not? Most men would.”

  “I wanted our relationship to work. If I started to read Liza’s mind, it would make things off balance.”

  “Not even once?”

  “No, sir.”

  Sierra addressed Liza. “Do you believe him?”

  “Yes, I believe him,” she said.

  “Then I would say you are off to a wonderful start. Now, tell me more about this demon inside of you. I’m curious to hear how this came about.”

  “Why is that important?” Peter asked.

  “You cannot simply tell Liza you have a monster inside of you, and then expect her to accept it, and move on. That is not fair to her, or to you.”

  “I didn’t say it was a monster. It’s a demon, and I have it under control.”

  “What triggers it?”

  “The demon comes out whenever Peter blows his top,” Liza interjected. “A dark cloud comes over his face, and his nostrils flare, and he starts to look like a total maniac. The demon also has powers that Peter doesn’t.”

  “So you’ve seen this firsthand,” Sierra said.

  Liza started to reply, but nodded instead. Not long ago, she’d seen Peter kill a man who’d been intent on murdering her and Snoop. Peter had killed him with a screwdriver with a dull point. It had been like watching a macabre magic trick. One moment the screwdriver was in Peter’s hand, the next it was embedded in their attacker’s heart.

  What had bothered her most was the transformation Peter had gone through. One moment he was gentle, fun-loving Peter, the next a snarling Mr. Hyde. The transformation had been painful to watch and, thankfully, had not lasted very long.

  “Your anger brings it to the surface?” Sierra asked Peter.

  “That’s right,” Peter said.

  “How long does the demon stay?”

  “A couple of minutes at the most.”

  “When it finally leaves, how do you feel?”

  “Pretty awful. Especially if I’ve hurt someone. I suffer for weeks.”

  “Were you ever tempted to see a psychiatrist?” Sierra asked.

  He shook his head. “I was raised not to talk about these things.”

  “Raised not to talk about these things by who?”

  “My mother and father.”

  “Your parents knew about this demon? How did they deal with it?”

  Sierra was on the edge of his seat, and had the unmistakable gleam in his eye of someone stumbling upon something of great value. The look bothered Peter. What was the good doctor planning to do with the information? Write about it in a prominent medical journal? Or sell it to Hollywood one day? These things had happened to psychics who’d made the mistake of baring their soul to strangers, and Peter didn’t want it happening to him. “Before I answer your question, I want you to promise me that you’ll never reveal what I’m about to say to you to anyone else.”

  “Your secrets are safe,” Sierra assured him. “Nothing you say will leave this office.”

  “Is that a promise?”


  “Yes, it’s a promise.”

  “All right. I inherited this demon from my mother and father. They were trapped by one of the Devil’s sons when they were children, and forced to become his disciples. They grew up, got married, had me, and I got this demon. They raised me in a loving household, and taught me not to lose my temper. I can still hear my mother saying, ‘Don’t get angry—you’ll just tempt the Devil.’ I didn’t realize she was telling me the truth.”

  “Your parents were trapped—how?”

  “They lived in a small village in the south of England. One day they were playing with their friends, and saw an injured black cat on a frozen lake. When they went to rescue it, the ice broke under their weight. One of the Devil’s sons was waiting on the bottom of the lake for them. He converted them, so to speak, and the children became his disciples.”

  “The Devil has children?”

  “He has six sons. They’re responsible for most of the horrible things that have happened to mankind in the past two thousand years.”

  “What kind of people were your parents?”

  “They were wonderful people. Even though they knew they were possessed by an evil spirit, they still choose to be good. It was a struggle, but they won out.”

  “How extraordinary. Where are they now?”

  “They’re dead. They were murdered when I was a boy.”

  “Where? In England?”

  “Here in New York. We moved here when I was small, and lived in an apartment in Murray Hill. They were abducted and killed by a gang of evil psychics after seeing a show in Times Square. I was with them.”

  Sierra’s head bobbed up and down, drinking in every word. “The night your parents died—how did you react? Did the demon come out then? Did you go berserk?” he asked.

  The words hit Peter like an invisible punch. He had cried and cried that night, just like any normal kid would do. What did Sierra think he was? A freak?

  “What kind of question is that?” Peter snapped.

  “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.”

  “It sure didn’t.”

  “Please don’t get angry,” Sierra said, trying to sooth him. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You asked a deliberate question that took deliberate thought. Now here’s my answer. I’m not Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I don’t piss on rugs and spin my head and say crude things to party guests. I can control myself. I do control myself.”

  “Of course you do,” Sierra said.

  “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me,” Peter said.

  “And how is that?”

  “Like a lab rat that’s grown two heads.”

  “Oh, Peter,” Liza said, knowing what was coming next.

  “You are a patient, and I am a doctor. That is how I’m looking at you,” Sierra said.

  “You’ve got something else on your mind.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”

  “I’m never wrong about stuff like that. You’re a snake, and you’re going to betray me.” Peter rose from the couch and glanced down at Liza. “I’m leaving. You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like. I’ll meet you back at the house.”

  “No, I’m coming, too,” Liza said.

  She rose and clasped Peter’s hand. She could find the good in just about anything, even a disaster like this. To Sierra she said, “Thank you for taking the time to see us. We really appreciate it.”

  “But we’re not done,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, we are,” Peter replied, and pulled Liza toward the door.

  17

  Sierra chased the young couple into the reception area. His receptionist’s desk was empty. “I’m sorry I offended you. I meant no harm.”

  Peter gave Sierra the evil eye. The look came straight from the depths of his troubled soul. Liza clutched his hand while staring discreetly at the floor.

  “You asked if the demon came out the night my parents died. What exactly did you mean by that?” Peter asked.

  Sierra felt Peter’s eyes burning a hole in him. He did not want the young magician reading his mind, and shifted his gaze to the clutter of paperwork on his receptionist’s desk.

  “I don’t know. It was a slip of the tongue,” he said.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Peter!” Liza said.

  “He’s lying,” Peter repeated. “One moment, he’s being all nice and friendly, the next he’s asking me if the demon came out the night my parents died. He knows something.”

  Sierra cursed under his breath. He had handled this all wrong. He should have told Peter the truth the moment Peter had told him that his parents had moved from London to New York when he was a boy. Had he told him the truth, none of this would be happening now.

  He tried to repair the damage as best he could. “You are a troubled young man. I can help you and your girlfriend, if you’ll let me. Please give me another chance.”

  “Up yours,” Peter said.

  “Peter—that’s so rude!” Liza scolded.

  “I don’t trust him,” he said, not caring anymore. “He’s got something else on his mind—you can see it in his face. The moment I told him my parents were murdered, his whole demeanor changed. I don’t know what this clown is up to, and I’m not about to find out.”

  “I’m not a clown,” Sierra said indignantly.

  Peter wagged a finger in Sierra’s face. A simple gesture that carried an implied threat. This young man was capable of causing him great harm if he chose to, and Sierra listened carefully to what he had to say.

  “If one word of what was said here today gets out, there will be hell to pay,” Peter said. “Do you understand that? None of this can ever be repeated, or written down in a journal or a diary, or passed on to another doctor in a conversation. It stays here. Got it?”

  “I understand,” Sierra repeated.

  “Look me in the eyes when you say that.”

  Sierra swallowed hard. The image of Peter’s mother and father sitting in his office burned vividly in the theater of his mind. They’d been a nice couple, except for the terrible secret they’d carried with them. He’d tried to help them, and when that had failed, he’d gone to a higher source.

  Sierra repressed the memory, fearful Peter would see it. He locked eyes with the young magician. “You have my word. I will not repeat anything you said here today.”

  Satisfied Sierra was telling the truth, Peter ushered Liza out and slammed the door behind him, causing the walls to shake.

  “Damn it,” Sierra said under his breath.

  * * *

  Sierra began to shiver. A gust of cold wind swept through the office, even though the window facing the street was shut tight. This was Peter’s doing. He had not trusted Sierra, so part of him had stayed behind as a warning, in case Sierra had second thoughts about the promises he’d been sworn to keep.

  His receptionist returned, reeking of cigarette smoke. “Are you okay, Dr. Sierra?”

  “Do I not look okay?”

  “Come to mention it, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Back in his office with the door shut, he tried to decide his best course of action. His eyes fell upon the thick volumes of psychiatric journals filling the bookshelf behind his desk. One of the journals inched out of its space and fell to the floor, landing on its spine with a dull thud. As he bent down to retrieve it, another journal crept out of its place, and fell on top of his head, then another and another, until all eleven volumes in the series were raining down upon him. It could have been much worse, and he returned the books to their spots.

  The greatest fear was of those things we did not understand. Sierra sat down at his desk, and tried to regain his composure. His heart was racing, and adrenaline was coursing through his veins. His professional career had been filled with challenges, but one had stood out above all the rest. It had never been resolved, and he’d accepted that it probably never would. Each morning he’d stood at his office windo
w, remembering the sunny fall morning twenty years past when a charming British couple named Henry and Claire Warren had paid him a visit to discuss their unusual problem. He’d seen them only once, yet the effect they’d had on him had been so profound that he’d never forgotten them.

  He rummaged through his desk drawers. In the bottom drawer was an ancient Rolodex, and he flipped through it, quickly finding the card he was looking for. The pencil markings had grown faint, and he had to hold it beneath the lamp on his desk.

  Hunsinger

  555-1259

  That was all. Just a last name and a phone number.

  Sierra could not help the Warrens, so he’d put them in touch with Hunsinger, who had tried to help them with their problem. Hunsinger had failed, just as Sierra had failed. Had Hunsinger’s curiosity been eating at him ever since? Did he also stare through a window each day, pondering life’s unexplainable mysteries? Sierra guessed that it had. Situations like this happened once in a lifetime.

  Picking up the phone, he punched in the number on the card, and heard the call go through. Three rings, four rings, five. Sierra expected voice mail or an answering machine to pick up, but instead heard the unhealthy sound of a man’s raspy cough.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning. I hope I have the right number,” Sierra said.

  “I’ve had this number for forty years. I think you do,” the voice replied.

  The receiver grew tight in Sierra’s hand. “This is Dr. Raul Sierra. We met many years ago.”

  “I remember you, Dr. Sierra. How have you been?”

  “I’m well. How about yourself?”

  “My health is not what it used to be. So to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

  Sierra hesitated. Ten minutes ago, he’d made a promise that he was now about to break, and he hoped it would not come back to haunt him. “Do you remember a British couple I sent to see you named Claire and Henry Warren?”

  “How could I have forgotten, even after all this time? Is this about them?”

  “No, it’s about their son.”

  “You mean Peter.”

  “Yes, Peter.”

  “I always wondered what happened to him. I read in the newspapers that his parents had been killed, and I tried to track Peter down. He disappeared, you know. I assumed he was sent back to England to live with his relatives. I think about him often.”