James Swain - Shadow People

“Come to mention it, yes. You’re a great hugger.”

“Thanks, boss. Not mad at me, are you?”

“No. Thanks for doing that.”

Peter headed up the front steps. He had a temper, no doubt about it, and he was fortunate to have people like Herbie there to stop him when his emotions got the best of him. The door opened and Liza came out wearing drab workout clothes.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m managing.”

She led him down the hallway to the kitchen, where his two unwanted guests sat at the table sipping java. Both looked up as if startled out of a daydream. Sierra was the first to rise and seemed apprehensive and more than a little nervous about being here.

“I’m sorry to come barging into your home like this,” Sierra said.

“It must be important,” Peter heard himself say.

“It is. Please let me introduce my friend. This is Richard Hunsinger.”

The second man slowly came out of his chair. He was little more than skin and bones, and wore a black shirt buttoned to his neck, and black slacks that hung loosely around his waist. His hair was flecked with spots of white that looked like snowflakes, his eyes sallow and pale.

“Hello,” Peter said stiffly.

“Hello, Peter,” his guest replied. “Do you remember me?”

“No. Should I?”

“We met long ago. You and your parents came to see me. Think hard.”

“Is this a quiz?”

“It will be easier this way. Please,” Hunsinger said.

“How long ago was this?”

“You had just celebrated your seventh birthday.”

Peter tried to imagine a younger version of Hunsinger. After a few moments, it dawned on him who this person was. Hunsinger was the bogeyman he’d been seeing in his dreams since he was a kid, the strange man in black who’d made him cry.

In his dream, Peter was in a study with a scary painting of Jesus Christ hanging on the cross. Jesus’s face was filled with so much pain that he’d avoided staring at it. Beneath the painting sat a man wearing black clothing and the gravest of expressions. The man motioned for Peter to step forward, only Peter wouldn’t budge. The man gently took Peter by the hand, and pulled the boy toward him. Peter had started to cry. His parents were standing nearby, and he looked to them for help. His mother was crying as well. But she would not help him.

A strange dream, for sure. But now the young magician knew otherwise. It had actually happened. Hunsinger was real, and had known his parents. For that reason alone, Peter needed to hear what the man had to say. Maybe then the dream would go away, and be replaced by some other unexplained mystery from his youth.

“I remember you now,” Peter said. “My parents brought me to see you, although to be honest, I have no earthly idea why. Did I do something wrong?”

Hunsinger picked up his coffee cup as if to take a drink. Instead, he stared into its depths as if it held the secret to the universe. He had the kind of honest face that Peter associated with people with a clean conscience. He’d not met many people he could say that about.

Hunsinger looked up. “Do you remember anything that happened?”

“All I have left are dreams.”

“I hope your dreams are not painful.”

“Actually, they are. You made me cry.”

“It was a difficult time. Dr. Sierra met with your parents on several occasions, and he referred them to me. Your parents brought you to me, and I examined you and gave them my opinion.” His voice had gone weak, and he paused to catch his breath. “Dr. Sierra and I always wondered what became of you. When Dr. Sierra called to tell me that he’d found you, I asked him to arrange a meeting. I hope you don’t mind.”

“At first I did mind, but now I’m glad you came,” Peter said. “Now, would you please tell me who you are, and what this is about? The suspense is killing me.”

“Of course. You see, I’m a priest.”

Peter could not have been more confused. His mother and father weren’t Catholic. Why on earth had they taken him to see a priest? “Why did my parents come to see you? Were they thinking of converting to Catholicism?”

Hunsinger stole a glance at Sierra. Where to begin? his facial expression seemed to say. After a moment his eyes returned to Peter’s face. “If you don’t mind, I need to sit down. My body is frail, and I am unable to stand for long periods of time.”

The priest lowered himself into his chair. He was sickly and moved in slow motion. The fact that he’d ventured out in such poor health to meet Peter was not lost on the young magician.

“Can I interest either of you gentlemen in more coffee?” Peter asked.

The offer brought a smile to both their faces, Liza’s also.

“Another cup of your delicious coffee would be splendid,” the priest replied.

“I would love another cup as well,” Sierra said.

“Me, too,” Liza chimed in.

Peter fixed a fresh pot and served his guests and Liza, then pulled up a chair to the table. His heart was racing and he could hear a bass line pounding in his ears. Life was filled with unexplained mysteries which we carried with us to our graves. One of those mysteries was about to be explained to him. Liza sat on the windowsill overlooking the courtyard, content to listen as Peter’s past unfolded.

“Perhaps I should go first, since it was me your parents first came to see,” Sierra began. “As you and Liza know, I am a marriage counselor by profession, and I specialize in dealing with relationship issues. One day, your parents appeared in my office, and said they were having problems, which is nothing new in my line of work. They were both rather vague about the situation, and seemed to be having difficulty coming out in the open and discussing it. Whatever this problem was, I could tell it was affecting them deeply, and harming their marriage. As our session wound down, I bluntly asked them to tell me what was going on. If they were unwilling to do this, I said, then there was no point in their coming back, since I couldn’t help people who couldn’t be honest with themselves.”

Peter stared at the table. It sounded like an echo of his own problems with Liza. “Did they finally tell you what was going on?”

“Your mother broke the spell and explained the situation,” Sierra said. The problem, it seems, was you.”

Peter drew back in his chair. “Was I causing problems?”

“I’m afraid so. Your parents were beside themselves as to what to do. It was tearing them apart, so they decided to come and see me.”

“How bad were the things I was doing?”

“Very bad, I’m afraid.”

“Did they spell them out?”

“No, but they alluded to them. Don’t you remember?”

“Not at all. I must have repressed the memories.”

“That is not uncommon in violent children,” Sierra said.

The kitchen fell quiet. A sense of enormous guilt came over Peter. To think that he’d done things that had nearly ruined his parents’ marriage was unconscionable, and he felt the overwhelming urge to bolt from the room. Milly had accused him of running away from his problems, and he forced himself to sit tight and face the music.

“You must have some idea of what I was doing,” he said. “Was I hurting other kids at school? I had a rough time when I first came to the United States. I was small, and my British accent made me stand out. I got into a fight with a bully at school who was picking on me. Was that what they were talking about?”

“No, it was not,” Sierra said. “Your parents told me that you had a demon inside of you. They said that you were born with this demon, and that when it showed its face, it was capable of all sorts of horrible acts. At first, I thought they were exaggerating, and blowing the problem out of proportion. After all, you were only seven, and how much trouble could a child that age cause? It was at that point that your father decided to show me the photos.”