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Chapter Two: The Shadow




I stood frozen in front of my house. Never had it appeared so dismal. Gloom hid in every shaded crevice. All the comfort I once found in its inviting façade was gone. The flower pots on the porch resembled the haunch of a dead animal; the front door, an ominous grotto’s access; the steps, its rocky pathway. The interior’s darkness watched me through every window, while dread weighted my steps forward.

I didn’t remember entering; or emptying my pockets on the credenza, which was my routine. I must’ve made it to the bedroom, and into the shower, for my head felt the soothing warmth of running water. How long I remained there was anyone’s guess. I stretched out my hands and saw the furrows in my skin.

For the very first time, I set my sights on how the runoff from my body violently swirled into the drain. My eyes fixed on the mini-whirlpool at my feet. It seemed to mock me. It affirmed my circular life. Every aspect of it; every minute spent under the illusion of gaining ground. I’d gone nowhere. No matter how fast or how far I traveled, time after time, I returned to where I started: The same frightened girl; the same disturbing life. It was a sick Monopoly game: “Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200.”

What had I learned? What compelled me to revisit each mistake, thinking it would be different next time? I had no answer.

The rotating current on the shower floor scoffed at the absurdity of it all. It was infuriating.

“Shut up!” I yelled as I slammed the valve shut.

I wrapped the towel around my torso and tucked one end into the other above my breasts. The neat freak in me hung the mat over the edge of the tub, closed and straightened the shower curtains, and repositioned the hamper to its original place under the window. Rarely did I have visitors, and no one had ever used this bathroom but me, which made my routine laughable at best; sheer lunacy was more like it.

Who cared if the shower remained exposed, or the floor littered with dirty bundles of clothing? Me. That’s who.

My behavior teetered on the edge that separated neurosis from psychosis. I’d spent my energy on the mundane and the needless. I’d ignored the fundamentals and essentials of life. All this flooded my thoughts. All this detected from one simple, circular motion of an everyday cleansing ritual. I was losing my mind, slowly but surely.

I approached the sink, stared at my reflection in the mirror, and laughed. My laughter turned into a maniacal cackle as I examined the unhinged, red-faced, narrow-eyed fool looking back at me.

“You idiot,” I told the image. “What are you doing? Chill out.”

For sanity’s sake, I chalked up my short-term madness to recent events. It had, after all, been a bizarre evening. Ross was not a typical man by any stretch of the imagination. People rarely⎯if ever⎯came across coyotes in the middle of a park. If they did, they’d be at the county morgue. Right? Surely, it had all been a hallucination: Stray dogs, muddled perceptions, and moonlight disguising reality within its shafts. My explanations were endless.

I sat at the window recalling when we crossed paths with the wild dogs—coyotes—whatever they were. I knew the ugliness of anger and the beauty of forgiveness. Yet, within Ross, they seamlessly co-existed. It was his ferocity coupled with compassion that haunted me.

Even the morning sun, shining through a maple tree into the bedroom, reminded me of the dappled figure beneath the oak tree. A synchronized dance between darkness and light leapt from wall to ceiling and back again. Within their movements were the answers to the rhythmic existence of good and evil, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Within their movements were the replies to all the questions that chafed me—so close, yet so far away.

Content with my perception of the dimly lit room, the tree outside my window, and the shadow dancers, I turned my attention to the street. There, a gallery of silhouettes painted inverted, bug-toothed trolls out of the welcoming homes one sees by dawn’s first light. Greenery resembled monsters and goblins; parked cars, chambers of horror.

It was then that I saw movement near the house across the way. It was nothing more than a turn of a shape, but movement nonetheless. I strained to see more; any sign that I wasn’t imagining things, again. Minutes later, a closer shadow shifted rewarding me for my effort. I became terrified, however, when it crept nearer. Soon, it arched behind the maple.

“Who’s there?” I shouted.

No one answered.

Someone was there. I saw it. I sensed it.

I pulled down the window and reached to close the blind when a hulking figure emerged from the brush in the front yard. It stood there…Watching…Waiting…

Gradually, I retreated to the bedside table forgetting about the blind, and turned off the lamp. I used the scant furnishings, in the room, for duck and cover as I approached the window once more. From its corner, I could see the shape’s eyes gleaming in the half moonlight/half sunrise. They burned a path in my direction. The room felt like a furnace. Sweat trickled from my forehead and bathed my upper lip.

Those eyes…I’d seen their luminous kin less than an hour ago. For a moment I thought it was Ross. The two shiny orbs reminded me of my first glance at him as he stood beneath the tree at the park. It couldn’t be Ross. Our encounter was very different. A similar blaze simmered in these eyes, but their fire brought only fear.

It wasn’t Ross. He wore an elongated trench coat that fell to his calves. This shape wore no coat. Ross’s hair was long and silky. The figure, on my lawn, wore shorter hair. I saw the slight outline around its ears from the street lamp by the curb.

Suddenly, it stepped entirely out of the shadows and into the artificial glow. Though clearer, it was half hidden in darkness. It wore a thick belt of some kind. Furthermore, I could make out half-moon, linked chain extending from its midsection. Boots covered its lower appendages, and the cuffs of gloves circled above its wrists.

It continued staring at me, and I froze.

Eventually, I summoned up the courage to inch my way into a pocket and pulled out my cell phone. I punched Jillian’s number. She had been my best friend since childhood, and I frequently called her at odd hours. I knew she would answer. Five rings later, though, I wasn’t sure.

Then finally…

“Mary. What’s happenin’?” her voice chimed.

“Thank God you answered, Jillian. Someone’s watchin’ me from my front lawn. He’s been there for a long time. And it’s creepin’ me out.”

Unknowingly, I’d responded with identical silliness and disregard for any word arrangement, or structure. It was a stark transition from the conversation I’d had earlier. Leading me to believe that my parents had been right, I would jump off that proverbial cliff.

“What? Who is he?” Jillian shrieked, breaking in on my wandering thoughts.

“I have no frickin’ idea. He’s been there ‘bout half an hour. And he sees me.”

“He can see you? Where are you? Upstairs or down?”

“Upstairs. I’m looking at him from my bedroom window. Wait a minute, up or down? Who cares?”

“Upstairs is better,” she answered adding a “duh” at the end, which infuriated me.

“Better? How? He could just as easily break in the house from down there, and come up here, and git me,” I whispered loudly.

“Then call the cops, dammit! I’ll be right over.”

“Okay. Yeah, yeah, hurry up. Get over here.”

“Alright, but promise me you’ll dial 9-1-1 as soon as you hang up.”

“Okaaaayyy, I will. I will. But please hurry.”

As instructed, immediately upon hitting the red-colored receiver button, I called 9-1-1.

“911, what is your emergency?” a female voice asked.

“There’s someone peering into my house. I think it’s a burglar or something.”

“Can you give me a description?” the voice asked.

“Yeah, it’s a man. He’s tall. And he’s been staring at me for 30 minutes.”

“What’s he wearing?”

“A shirt, pants, boots, a big belt. I can’t see very well.”

“Can you estimate his height?” the voice requested.

“Tall. Very tall. Pleeease send someone over here right away.”

“I will ma’am, but a better description would help.”

“I can’t give you a better description. It’s kinda dark. An’ he’s scaring the ever-lovin’ crap outta me,” I bellowed. “He’s tall and dark, dark and tall, and…”

Before I could finish my sentence, the woman on the other end interjected with “It could be just a Peeping Tom, Ma’am. Stay calm. Someone’s on the way.”

“A Peeping Tom? That’s supposed to make me feel better.”

I wanted to add “you ninny,” but I let it go.

When I heard sirens in the distance, I informed the voice.

“Okay, stay on the phone…” were the last words I heard before I hung up. This time, I hadn’t allowed her to finish.

A quick look out the window intensified my uneasiness. I saw no police car and no ominous stranger in the street. No one⎯nothing⎯there.

I panicked. Terror seized my chest just as two police cars screeched to a halt at the curb. I ran down the stairs and jetted from the front door.

Once on the porch, I saw the cops standing beside their cruisers. Startled by my exiting the house so quickly, they beamed their flashlights and aimed their weapons in my direction. I took the two steps down to the walk.

“Hands behind your head!” one yelled.

“Down on your knees!” another added.

“But I’m the one who called you!” I shrieked.

“Do as you’re told,” a third boomed.

I placed my hands behind my head and knelt on the concrete pathway.

They approached the house as Jillian came roaring up in her vintage Mustang. I remember thinking how jealous I’d often been seeing her pull up in that car. But on this night, she, and it, were a sight for sore eyes.

One officer directed his aim at her and said, “Stay right there, young lady.”

“What the hell?” Jillian huffed. “We’re not the damn prowler. Anyone can see that. Some guy’s out here frightening my friend. How ‘bout you guys get those guns outta our faces and look for his ass?”

“We’ll decide what to do and when to do it,” he answered. “Now, step over here, slowly, with your hands on your head.”

Jillian gave up the dispute, reluctantly. The cop met her half way across the lawn, leaned her against the maple tree, and patted her down. The other three concentrated on me.

“Do you have any weapons on you,” one asked me.

“No!”

“Don’t move a muscle,” another stated.

“Git that gun out of my face. I’m the one who called you for Pete’s sake.”

He jerked my hands down one at a time and cuffed them behind my back. Another policeman was doing the same to Jillian on the lawn.

After Officer Feelgood patted me down from head to toe, he asked “Do you have any identification?”

“Yes, but it’s in the frickin’ house.”

“Let’s go in together to retrieve it, then, shall we,” he countered in a patronizing manner.

“Okay, okay, but could you please take these damn things off?” I pleaded, wobbling my chained hands at him.

“Let’s just wait until I see some ID.”

He followed me into the house, and into the kitchen. My wallet was on the kitchen counter.

“It’s right there,” I said as I bobbed my head in its direction.

He grabbed and opened it; read it for a few moments, and finally said: “Okay, I’m going to unlock the cuffs but don’t move, just stay right where you are.”

He pressed the talk button on a radio strapped to his shoulder.

“We’re at 594 Hardscrabble.” After reading my license number aloud, he said “Check for any priors and get back to me.”

“10-4” was the response.

He went to the door and called for the others to join us. “Seek and destroy” came to mind as he returned to the kitchen by way of the living and dining rooms. All the while, his flash light beam examined the objects therein.

I felt like a criminal; like a wanted felon whose mug had been discovered among the other piranha, in the sea of disdain floating on the wall, in every post office across the country. I had an overpowering urge to knock his teeth out. My anger had reached its boiling point by the time the others entered the house.

“What’s your problem?” I snapped.

“Our problem, young lady, is that someone called us from this residence. How do we know it was you?” the cop who handcuffed me retorted.

“Oh yeah, right. Like I’m the one who wanted to break in, you imbecile. I came running out after you. Lock me up, then, for being in distress, and throw away the key.

Ignoring my rant, he responded. “Anyone else in the house?”

“Nope. Nobody…”As an afterthought I added “I hope.”

Finally, they listened to my story. I could almost see fumes rising from Jillian’s nostrils as I gave an account of my experience. She was itching to say something. I knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t suppress it for very much longer.

“Hey, you,” she yelled with an obviously perturbed grimace on her face. “How’s about you check outside for the creep who was frightening my friend?”

“Shouting at us is only going to get you a run down to the station,” he snapped back.

“Do you guys even know what a criminal looks like?” she continued.

“Yes ma’am, we do. They look like you, like her, like anyone on the street.”

“What a crock! So you’re telling me that those Rotary and Kiwanis jerks look like criminals, too? Funny, I never see you hassling them. What you mean to say is that any excuse to harass rather than protect is fine with you, right?” she responded; her annoyance still apparent.

He blinked rapidly, then motioned to the other three officers and instructed, “Go outside and check it out.”

With that, they exited the house. I heard them trampling the flower beds while they checked the doors and windows.

The officer in the house looked at me from over his shoulder and said, “We’ll check it out and report back in a few minutes.”

He uncuffed Jillian and left.

Finally, she and I were alone.

“What idiots. You okay, Mary?”

“Yeah, I’m alright. I’m glad you’re here, though.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” she asked with a wink and a smile.

We hugged.

I hadn’t realized how frightened I’d been until that hug. The satisfying warmth, which accompanied it, had often been taken for granted. On that night, however, it radiated to my toes. And I knew Jillian felt it because she held on a little too long as well.

We broke apart abruptly. Perhaps it was due to our dwelling on the long embrace for an uncomfortable amount of time. Whatever it was, the tenderness of it vanished in seconds.

“Let’s go see what they’re doin’,” she suggested.

“Alright, but I don’t think they’re doin’ much of anything.”

We walked out the door and onto the porch. As we looked both ways, we heard mumbles from behind the house. Jillian walked to the railing on one side and leaned over in an attempt to hear them better.

“The Keystone Cops are in back; probably standing around with their thumbs up their asses.”

“I’m staying right here.” I told her. “If we leave the porch, they’ll probably mistake us for muggers or something and cap us.”

She contemplated my statement with an imbalanced smile and a squint. We simply stood there, next to each other, listening; waiting.

Minutes later, Officer Feelgood came around the corner accompanied by the other three coppers. They were bunched up like cheerleaders strolling down a high school hallway begging for attention.

One of the pompoms spoke. “Everything checks out, ma’am. No one’s around. Could’ve been an indigent wandering the streets.”
As opposed to an indigent having a pedicure at the spa? I thought. I held my peace, though.

“What do you want? Three cheers for effort?” Jillian said.

“Yeah, well, thanks for nothin’, officer.” I taunted. “I’m sure you have much better things to do; like arresting freelance photographers, or harassing little old ladies. See ya’ll later.”

I almost saw smoke coming from his ears as he walked away murmuring something under his breath. I felt a teeny bit of vindication.

Once at their vehicles, they formed a mock football huddle in the street. Occasionally, they’d glance in our direction for a second or two.

“Planning their next fumble; no doubt,” Jillian barked. In a kinder voice, she added, “I’m gonna leave and let you get some sleep, Mary.”

“No. Stay,” I pleaded. “Just for the night. I don’t want to be alone.”

She didn’t utter one syllable in protest. I must’ve looked desperate. She simply strolled in the house with me at her heels, and began fluffing the couch pillows. “This’ll do nicely.”

“Are you sure, Jillian? There are plenty of beds in the house.”

“I know, but I’m fine right here.”

“Okay then, goodnight, dear friend. Thank you for being here.”

“Goodnight, Mary. See ya in the mornin’.”

I spent the night remembering my brief history as a journalist. It had been a mere two years since I’d landed the job. Moreover, it seemed that all my news pertained to the corruption in city council and police department, concealed by our “good ol’ boy” mayor. Calling the police to a disturbance at my house was like giving bank robbers the key to a vault. They could act whenever, and however, they wanted. I dozed off thinking: which scares me more, the police or the prowler?

#

By morning’s first light, Jillian had left. I knew that she’d be gone, due to the early hour at which her workday began. Primarily, though, Jillian was uncomfortable getting ready in someone else’s house. She liked being among her own things; in her own home.

The smell of coffee brewing drew me to the kitchen. What a gem you are, Jillian, I thought. I sat by the bay window, tipping the cup to my lips while revisiting last night’s events. The image of the disturbing shadow beneath the tree on my lawn; the altercation with our city’s “finest.” It all abruptly vanished when I heard a knock at the door. Wiping spilt coffee from my pajama shirt, I made my way to the foyer.

I stopped just short of the doorway.

“Who is it?” I shouted.

“It’s Ross, Marina.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. His presence was completely unexpected. I stood frozen, viewing my reflection in the hall mirror for a moment or two: Mussed up hair, no makeup, wrinkled pajamas, and bunny slippers. What a vision, I mocked to myself.

“I know I should’ve called first,” he said. “But I didn’t have your number; only your address.

“My address?” I slowly repeated.

“I followed you home last night to be sure that you made it back safely.”

“You followed me?” I echoed with an elevated ending that signified a question, plus an eerie tone that chilled me to the bone.

“I’m here because of the morning paper. Have you read it?”

I heard myself answer, “No.”

“The headlines read ‘Coyotes found mangled in Roswell Park.’”

I stared at the door and began to perspire.

“Mary? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, yes. I heard you.”

I slowly slipped the chain off the latch. The click from the lock, as I turned the key, resonated through the entire house. As I gradually opened the door, I saw only a sliver of his face.

“You called me Mary,” I exclaimed.

“I know. Forgive the familiarity, but I’m not here to harm you; quite the opposite,” Ross confessed.

His tone seemed sincere. And for a moment, I fancied that he was as attracted to me as I had been to him the night before. I had my reservations but continued opening the door anyway.

He stepped into the hall and followed me to the kitchen. After taking a seat at the table before the window, Ross set the newspaper down. The caption stuck out like a sore thumb. I stared at the word “coyotes” for an unnervingly long time.

“Marina, you okay?” Ross inquired.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright.”

The front page photo merely showed a mass of detectives, I guessed, and a number of our “boys in blue” (Actually, black, but who else other than myself paid attention?) surrounding gray heaps. Readers were spared the gory pictorial details. Trees and shrubs colored the backdrop green. I know this park. It’s Sweet Apple Park, where we were last night.

Stunned, I sat down in front of my cup, next to Ross.

My eyes then caught the word “mangled,” and didn’t let go. A chill crept up my spine. The hair on the back of my neck and arms rose. Ross gently placed his hand on my shoulder in an attempt either to comfort me or to draw my attention away from the photograph.

“I couldn’t sleep after I followed you home. I went back to the park. A few moments later, I heard a dreadful row: Yelps, screeches, then⎯nothing. Dead silence, just like that. I tracked them to the underbrush, not far from where we first came across the coyotes.”

“What did you see?” I implored.

“Bloody fookin’ mess. That’s what I saw,” Ross returned in a Scottish brogue. “Blood, bone, guts, hide…” his voice trailed off. “I didn’t see whatever, or whomever, did it.” In a lower tone, almost a whisper, he added “but I can guess.”

I repeated his last phrase, but much louder: “You can guess? What do you mean ‘I can guess’?”

“Calm down, Marina. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I should’ve chosen my words more carefully before I spoke. That I didn’t this time is rather perplexing.”

With each well-laid pause, and the manner in which his voice rose and fell, he sounded compassionate and resolved rather than stilted. I clung to every word.

“But I didn’t feel that I had much choice. Bear with me. I’ll try to explain…My thoughts and impressions on any matter are innumerable⎯not literally, of course—but for practical purposes, they’re many.”
He continued while I sat silent. “When you see a branch on a tree, what comes to mind? Its leaves? Its shape? I think of its texture, the tree’s life-cycle, whether it’s native or imported, the birds that nest there, the soil it prefers, photosynthesis…I see the leaves changing color, falling to the ground, being swept by the wind, landing in someone’s yard and being gathered up for next year’s compost. I hear them rustling across the pavement, struggling against the western wind. I imagine next year’s buds and blooms, the scent of the sap... I could go on, but you get the idea. I’ll notice six or seven things simultaneously, and they all zip off along parallel or intersecting tracks at the speed of light. Occasionally, one’s bound to skip off the pavement. Right?”

I hardly knew what to say. I’d never heard of such a thing. Again , I thought, what have I gotten myself into?

As if he’d read my mind, Ross continued: “I may seem odd to you. I know. Nonetheless, that’s how I think. Because of my attention to detail, I see and hear things that other people take for granted. My senses serve me reasonably well. Again, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Though I thought him mad, I took a long sip of my coffee, looked at the photo once more, and asked “What did you do afterward?”

“After I came upon the coyotes?” he returned.

“Yeah.”

“I acquainted myself with your city, for one. I’ve lived overseas for over two decades. The last time I saw America, I was just a child. I entertained a number of possibilities as to why the coyotes were slaughtered, from the acceptable to the worst. Well, then, there you have it; I spent my entire evening walking, learning, talking⎯to myself, of course. My conclusion, drawn from several things I’ve not yet told you, leads me to believe that the reason I flew to the states is the same reason for the carnage in the park. Morgan Albright has come to your town, and his evil is the likes of which you’ve yet to witness.”






Next Chapter: Chapter Three: Death Comes to Town