Barbara Michaels - The Walker in Shadows

Pat felt cold stone against her back. They had retreated as far as they could, and still the thing came on, moving forward with horrible, jerky movements.

Mark stood his ground. The light was strong enough to cast shadows, horribly distorted shadows, like parodies of the forms that shaped them-strong enough for Pat to see that the shadow stretching out from Mark's feet was, surely, that of a man inches shorter, broader of shoulder, with close-cropped hair instead of Mark's unruly mop.

A voice spoke, softly. It had to be Mark's, though it sounded nothing like his. Pat was unable to make out the words; but at the sound the whirling light stopped its forward progress with an uncanny, horrid suggestion of human surprise. The voice rose in volume, and changed, in tone and in rhythm.

"Don't you get it? It's all over; we know. You can't stop the truth; you can't hurt anybody; you're dead, dead and damned. Go back to wherever you belong. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, and all the saints, and…"

Mark went on, mouthing an insane litany of mixed-up religious formulas, invoking every deity he could think of. Pat lost track of what he was saying; for, incredibly, the thing began to shrink and fade. For one fantastic moment-and she was never sure whether she really saw it, or whether she only imagined it-just before it went forever she saw it clear, in its true shape: the form of a woman, so emaciated as to be virtually skeletal, her straggling white hair framing a visage completely without color except for the blazing blue eyes.

Then it vanished, taking all light with it, even the feeble beam of the flashlight. A rumbling crash shook the very earth, as if the darkness had solidified and fallen upon them.

Pat would have been thrown to the ground if she had not had the support of the wall and Josef's arm. Choking, she thrust out both hands against air thick with dust.

"Stand still," Josef ordered, tightening his grasp. "Don't even speak loudly. Mark. Mark, are you there?"

At first there was no reply, only the rattle of subsiding debris', and Pat's racing heart stopped. The catastrophe-whatever its nature-had begun at the other end of the room. Mark had been closest… Then her son's voice came out of the dark and she went limp with relief.

"I'm here. Part of me, anyhow…"

"The flashlight?" Josef asked.

"Under a ton of dirt and stone."

"Hang on. I've got a lighter."

The flame flickered and flared. It was sufficient; there was little left for it to illumine. Half the room had vanished under a heap of earth. Mark's legs were buried up to the thigh and the face he turned toward them was streaked with blood from a dozen cuts. But his grin was broad and cheerful.

"Her last gesture," he remarked. "Dumb stunt."

"We're buried alive," Pat said. "Not so dumb."

"Don't be dramatic, Mom," Mark said coolly. "The part that collapsed was the wall where the tunnel was. The vibration dropped the trapdoor, but it's not barred or anything. We'll be out of here in five minutes."

His estimate was fairly accurate, but it seemed much longer to Pat. They didn't even need the stepladder, which was fortunate, since it was half buried under the earth slide. This proved to be quite stable, thanks to the clayey quality of the soil; Mark was able to climb the ramplike slope to a point where he could lift the trapdoor and pull himself out. The others followed. When he had lowered the trap again it was as if he had wiped out the past half hour. Pat might have thought she had dreamed the whole incredible episode had it not been for the grubby, disheveled state of her companions and her son's scratched face. She realized that Mark's eyes were fixed on her accusingly as he mopped the cuts with a dirty sleeve, and she was about to offer first aid and maternal concern when he said,

"I'm starved. What's for dinner?"

When they got back to their house, the telephone was ringing.

"Don't answer it," Mark ordered. "It's probably Mrs. Groft wanting to know what's been going on around here She must have noticed that the wall is down."

"I guess so." Pat felt as if she had put in eight hour of hard manual labor. Even her eyelids ached. With an el fort, she roused herself. "Mark, you had better shower and change clothes. Then I'll tend to those cuts."

"I can do that," Mark said. "You get something to eat."

"Mark," Josef said quietly.

"What?"

"My generation has hang-ups about hitting a man when he is off guard. Get your dukes up."

"Dukes," Mark repeated. His face went scarlet, and Pat realized that he was struggling desperately to keep from laughing. "Now, Mr. Friedrichs, you just take it easy. I don't want to hurt you. This is silly."

"Not at all. If your mother is going to render first aid, she may as well tend all your wounds."

For a variety of reasons, which she never bothered to analyze, Pat said nothing. Kathy moved forward as if to intervene, but she was too late; Josef's fist slid under Mark's raised hand and hit him hard on the chin. He fell backward into a chair, where he sprawled, his arms and legs at oblique angles.

"Do you know why I hit you?" Josef asked.

Mark's glazed eyes focused and a ghost of a twinkle appeared in their depths.

"It's a long list," he croaked, rubbing his jaw.

"No. I slugged you because you had the consummate gall to quote Shakespeare at us at a tense moment. 1 can't stand smart-aleck kids. Now go clean up. If you're hun gry, you and Kathy can go out for pizza or egg foo gai gunk, or whatever ghastly mess you fancy."

"Yes, sir." Mark struggled to his feet. "Right away, sir." He destroyed the effect by grinning and sketching an impudent imitation of a salute before heading toward the stairs.

"If you are going with him, you had better change," Josef said to his daughter.

"You're horrible," Kathy said. "I hate you!"

"Move."

He took a step toward her. Kathy scuttled after Mark.

Josef looked at Pat. Leaning against the wall, her arms folded, she regarded him unsmilingly.

"Crow," she said.

"What?"

"Flap your wings and crow. It's not going to be that easy, you know."

"My dear love, I am well aware of that. With your son, it is going to be a daily battle."

"If you can stand him, I guess I can put up with Kathy's giggling," Pat said.

Smiling, Josef reached out for her, and then contemplated his dirt-streaked sleeve in some dismay. "I'll meet you down here in ten minutes," he said. "And if we're lucky, the kids will take a long time getting the food."

They had half an hour alone before Mark and Kathy returned with pizza and spaghetti and other Italian delicacies. "Enough food for an army," Josef grumbled; but Mark managed to get rid of most of it. He refused to talk while he was eating, and Josef let him enjoy this small revenge. But when Mark had shoved the last bite of garlic bread into his mouth, the older man said, "Here's your chance to shine. Or are you going to sit around smirking while we make wild guesses?"

"It was so obvious," Mark said patronizingly.

"Not to me."

"Well, look. The ghost had to be one of the Turnbulls. All the Bateses died in their beds, after lives of sickening virtue. That isn't necessarily conclusive, I admit, but the suggestion of blue eyes confirmed my suspicion that we were dealing with a Turnbull. Mr. Turnbull was fair, and so was Peter. It wasn't unreasonable to suppose that Turnbull's daughter by his first marriage had also inherited his coloring.

"Mary Jane was a ghostly figure in every sense of the word. We knew nothing about her except for the occasional references in Susan's diary. Susan thought she was an old witch-she even called her that once. Well, a lot of kids think of bossy big sisters as witches. But I got to thinking-Mary Jane did seem to hassle the kids a lot, and there she was, a spinster at almost thirty, with a younger half brother who was the answer to a maiden's prayer- handsome, domineering, sexy…"