James Swain - Shadow People

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he said to the phone.

Then Peter answered the call. “Special Agent Garrison, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.

“Where are you?” the FBI agent barked.

“In a cab, heading downtown.”

“Can you get back to Grand Central? I need your help.”

Peter’s priorities would always be to his friends and loved ones, and he said, “I’m sort of busy at the moment. What’s going on?”

“About an hour ago, a surveillance camera at a train station in Westchester picked up a shadow person climbing onto the roof of a New York-bound train. It will be arriving soon, and I’m trying to figure out what to do. That’s why I called you.”

Another shadow person was coming into the city? It was starting to feel like an invasion.

“I was thinking of having a team of agents board at one of the stops, and see if they can root this thing out,” Garrison went on. “Is that practical?”

Peter sat up straight in his seat. “I would advise you not to do that.”

“Look, my men are trained professionals. They’ve seen everything there is to see.”

“Don’t do it.”

“So what do I do?”

“Nothing.”

“They don’t pay me to do nothing. Come on, think of something.”

Ordinary people who engaged with the spirits often spent the rest of their lives regretting it. As a result of their unearthly encounters, ghosts visited them regularly, and they were plagued by otherworldly voices in their dreams. Their nerves became frayed, and they walked around perpetually scared. Garrison had no idea of the danger he was placing his agents in.

“The best thing you can do is to leave it alone,” Peter said.

“Some help you are. Don’t tell me there isn’t a way to fight these things.”

So that was it. Garrison wanted to fight. He was stubborn that way, and would probably try to capture the shadow person no matter what Peter told him. And then there’d be hell to pay for Garrison and his team. “You can’t fight a shadow person. But you can catch it the same way you capture a ghost. Promise me you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“You have my word.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. The train will pull into the terminal, and the shadow person will stay on the roof until the passengers have departed and the platform is quiet. Then it will get off and creep up the stairs to the exit, and hang by the door. Once it sees an opening in the terminal, it will bolt toward an exit. That’s when you have a chance to catch it.”

“How? With a butterfly net?”

“Turn on the lights inside the terminal to their brightest wattage. It will freeze the thing in its tracks.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Yes. Whatever you do, make sure you don’t touch it.”

“How am I going to move it?”

“You don’t. Unless you want to cause great harm to yourself and your team.”

“What? And leave it there for everyone to see? Are you nuts?”

The taxi had reached its destination, and the driver raised the flag on the meter.

“Call me if you catch it,” Peter said, “and I’ll tell you what to do.”

Max had made a living doing magic for half a decade. Unlike most stage performers, who lugged around lots of bulky props, his act fit into a small suitcase. The Egg Bag, Linking Rings, Floating Ball, Rising Cards, and an occasional mind-reading stunt made up his repertoire. In his hands, each trick was a masterpiece of deception tempered by delicious patter and funny stories. Max the Magnificent, One of the Better Cheaper Acts.

These days, Max limited his act by performing close-up tricks that fit into his pockets. On Mondays he could be found entertaining the lunch crowd at a Bleecker Street landmark called the Peculier Pub that featured hundreds of imported beers and ales and a menu of traditional British fare. The pub had a low tin ceiling, which magnified the sound of the diners and folks lining the bar, and Max often had to shout to be heard.

The room was mobbed, and Peter sifted his way to the back, where he found his teacher doing a card trick for a group of businessmen having lunch at a table. The deck was not cooperating, and Max kept getting the wrong card, much to the men’s’ delight.

Max pulled an ace of hearts from beneath his collar. “Is this your selected card?”

“Nope,” said a businessman drinking beer.

“Rats! How about this one?” From behind his knee, Max made the king of hearts magically appear, and waited expectantly.

“Wrong again.” The businessman snorted derisively.

“Godfrey Daniels! Give me one more chance. I’ll give you a prize if I don’t succeed.”

“What kind of prize?” the businessman asked.

“A very valuable one, worth lots of money.”

“You’re on.”

The businessman tapped his knife against a water glass. A hush fell over the pub, with all eyes glued to the old magician with shoulder-length white hair and frayed tuxedo. Max cuffed his sleeves and displayed his empty palms. His hands were soft and supple. When his fingers danced, it was with the lightness of butterfly wings. A playing card materialized out of thin air.

“Wow,” someone at the bar gasped.

“Name your card,” Max said triumphantly.

“It was the nine of spades,” the businessman declared.

Max spun the card around to reveal the three of diamonds.

A groan went through the tavern.

“You lose,” the businessman roared. “Pay up!”

Max acted disgusted with himself. Reaching into his pocket, he removed the businessman’s wallet, and presented it to him. Next followed the man’s wristwatch, car keys, cigarette lighter, and reading glasses. The businessman grabbed helplessly at his empty pockets while the pub roared with laughter. It was a staple of many tricks to turn failure into triumph. No one did it better than Max, and sustained applause followed.

Max hadn’t lost his touch. The great ones never did. As Peter approached him, he sensed an otherworldly presence in the room. Had the shadow person beaten him here?

“Why, hello, Peter, how are you?” Max asked. “Enjoy the show?”

“It was great. You killed them. I need to get you out of here.”

“But I’m just getting warmed up.”

Peter looked around to make sure no one was listening, then brought his mouth up to Max’s ear. “There’s a shadow person in the room. You’re not safe.”

“No, there’s not. Sit down and have some lunch. The corned beef is very good.”

“I felt it, Max. Come outside with me.”

Peter pulled his teacher toward the front door. Max waved to the crowd on his way out.

“Be back in sixty,” he called out.

The feeling of an evil spirit disappeared the moment Peter stepped onto the sidewalk outside the pub. Max grinned at him the way an older man smiles at a child.

“See? I told you it wasn’t a shadow person,” his teacher said.

“But I felt something strange in there.”

“And so did I. A feeling of anxiety, yes?”

“That’s right. Do you know what it was?”

“I most certainly do. It’s called electromagnetic hypersensitivity. Ghost hunters often mistake electromagnetic hypersensitivity for ghosts, when it fact it comes from refrigerators.”

“I got spooked by a refrigerator?”

“Afraid so. The owner lets me set up my show in the kitchen. I noticed that a refrigerator had been moved so it backed up onto a wall of the pub. As the refrigerator’s cooling settings cycled on, the electromagnetic field it emitted passed through the wall. That’s what you felt.”

Peter lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“You know what they say. There’s a paddle for everyone’s behind, and yours just got paddled. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish my show.”