James Swain - Shadow People

“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.

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.