Speculative Fiction Centre

SHADOW-WALKERS
Mary E. Rose

“Damn it...”
            Prying open tired eyes, Brian groaned.  A bass drum pounded inside his skull, making mincemeat of his brain as the alarm clock next to the bed buzzed in anger.  His arm flew out, slapping the crap out of the piece of truth-telling technology.  It crashed to the floor, buzzing all the way down, its life cord taking the empty Wild Turkey bottle from the night before along with it.
            “Damn it,” he moaned, rolling to face a window that leaked sunshine through a slit in the heavy curtains.
            “Please,” a soft, rasping voice breathed.
            The voice cut through his exhausted brain, leaving pain so intense he was forced to hold the sides of his head.  He wished it was all a dream, but knew better.  Dreams were for those lucky people who didn’t live lives as hard as his.  Sitting up, he rocked back and forth, putting pressure on his temples.
            “Please don’t leave me, Brian.”
            Tears filled his eyes, burning them as if they were a foreign substance to his body.  Drops of salty fluid ran down his unshaven face, leaving trails of wetness behind.
            They wanted him.  All of them did, especially her.  They wanted what they could get from him, what he could do for them.  They wanted him to become one of them.
            “Brian, please—”
            “Stop it!” he screamed, pressing harder against the sides of his head.  “Just stop.  God.  Please.  Just stop.”
            “I miss you so.”
            “No,” he moaned.  “Just leave me alone.”
            “Get up,” the voice rasped.  “Get up and join us.  Don’t leave us alone.”
            Brian ran his hands over his face, wiping the tears he’d shed into the depths of his skin.  Opening his eyes, he found he was alone.  A strip of morning sunlight stretched lazily across the sheets of his bed.  He shivered, naked against the frigid air, a tale-tell sign that there had been others in the room with him.  He swept a pair of jeans off the floor, pulling them on one leg at a time as he walked into the bathroom.
            Pissing away the Wild Turkey from the night before, he pulled himself together.  He needed a shower in the worst way, but the clock on his nightstand told him that would be impossible.  So, instead, he settled for brushing his teeth and slapping deodorant under his arms.  He heard the raspy voice again; begging, pleading, and demanding obedience.
            He ignored it, pulling on tee shirt and tennis shoes, readying himself to get the hell out of here before he succumbed to it.  Swiping up his keys, he threw open the door and stepped into the morning sunshine.  Pulling the door closed behind him, he inhaled air off of heated asphalt, a little vehicle exhaust, a hint of mowed grass.  Beautiful.
            The hotel parking lot was littered with a few beat-up vehicles.  His heap of junk sat in front of his room, dented and rusted.  Climbing inside, he coaxed the vehicle to life and pulled out onto the highway.  The car rattled in protest, squeaking and squalling as he stopped at intersections and steered around curves.
            Eventually, he made it where he was going.  Shutting the damn thing off, he climbed out and slammed the door behind him.  The old thing wouldn’t last much longer, he knew, but for now, it was all that kept him from walking.
            He opened the door to the local courthouse and slid inside.  The busy atmosphere was almost overwhelming.  Though the county was rural, the place was packed.  Pissed off citizens sat on wooden benches against the old wall, waiting for whatever fate the local government planned on handing them.  Brian strode past them, occasionally bumping into a suited and brief-cased human being as he made his way to a room filled with huge, thick volumes that held the county’s history.  A couple of computer monitors stood on a corner table in the far side of the room.  He took a seat in front of one of them and tapped the keyboard to life, telling it what he wanted done.  After a few moments, he hit pay dirt.  He clicked the print command, waited, then scooped up the sheet of paper that was spat out with aching slowness.  He handed the lady at the desk two bucks for the printed page and left.
            He threaded herds of people on his way out, climbed back into his rusted heap, and drove to the first address listed on the printed page.  He parked the car under a huge shade tree and walked.
            Headstones, some large and overdone, some small and almost invisible, soldiered the area.  A couple of stone mausoleums guarded the center of the county’s internment for the dead.  Some more extravagant, some more humble, but what lay beneath the earth was always the same; decomposed flesh and bone, mementos of love and affection, and the encasements that held all of them safely from the light of day.  Walking and studying the writing on the stones took more time than he liked, but finally, he was able to confirm he was in the wrong place.
            He crawled back into his car and hit the next cemetery on the list.  Behind a large grove of trees, on a gravel road about five miles on the outskirts of town, he found it.  Black, iron-rail fencing surrounded twenty-some headstones that jutted from the earth, chipped and broken, half-hidden by tall weeds no one bothered to cut.
            “And they wonder why the dead are so restless.”  He coaxed the broken gate open despite the overgrown grass, stepped inside the boundaries, and moved weeds, trampling them to peer at the worn writing on the stones.  He stopped to examine a small, weather-worn cross, no bigger than a dinner plate, standing sentry over the plot.  The name and the dates on the cross satisfied his suspicion; this was the grave he’d been searching for.
            Abandoning the stone, he went to his car, popped the trunk and pulled out a shovel and crow bar.  He was careful to make certain no one was around, but doubted there would be anyone watching over this God forsaken area.  He returned to the grave.  He felt bad about disturbing a final resting place, but knew—for some poor souls—there could be no rest.  He shoveled away the weeds and dried earth with the quick precision of practice until he reached a child-sized, wooden coffin.  He pried it open with the crowbar, took a deep breath, and lifted the lid.  The smell of corruption rose around him.
            Inside laid the skeleton of a little girl.  A ragged pink and beige, gingham dress was limply collapsed on her.  Wisps of dark hair clinging to the child’s bony shoulders, outlining a small, golden heart locket that occupied the center of her sunken chest.
            For a moment, he was overwhelmed with guilt.  If anyone saw what he was doing now, more than a crazy—he’d be branded a criminal, maybe a perv.  He concentrated on his goal, pushing everything else aside.
            Brian lifted the locket with his fingers, turning it over to see the back.  A small inscribed crucifix sparkled in the sunlight.  He gently rotated the chain around until he found the clasp and released it from the child’s neck, careful not to damage her.  He released the tiny catch on the side of the locket and opened it, revealing two small, black and white photos of faces he knew.  Satisfied, he closed the locket and shoved it down deep in the front pocket of his jeans, then set to lay the child back to rest.
            Back in his barely mobile heap of junk, he wiped sweat and grime off his unshaven face onto the front of his tee shirt.  Personal hygiene would be addressed when he returned to the hotel.  A quick stop at a local gas station supplied him with fuel, a sandwich, drink, and a pack of cigarettes.  He picked up another bottle of Wild Turkey at a convenience store and drove to the hovel he’d rented for the week.  After a shower and a shave, he finished off lunch and lit a cigarette.
            The first draw was heaven.  The second sent a dazing sensation of relaxation through him nothing else outside of opiates could duplicate.  He rode it, savoring it until he was forced to finally butt it out.  He eyed the bottle Wild Turkey that waited for him, promising to take him the hell out of here as soon as he was finished with what he had to do, ghosts be damned.
            Then he set to work.
            Securing the curtains, he pulled a white pillar candle out of his old army duffel and set it aflame.  It flickered under the breath of an air conditioning vent, dancing shadows all around the darkened room.  Opening the locket, he held it between his forefinger and thumb, encircling the chain around the candle with his free hand before he closed his eyes to concentrate on the two images within the locket.
            “Brian ... Brian...”  The scraping voice pierced his ears, calling his name, breaking his train of thought.
            He shuddered against the unnatural cold the entity brought with it.  “Not now,” he whispered.  “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
            A breath of frigid air blew lightly into his ear, electrifying his senses and sending chills up and down his spine.  He said a bad word, not that it did any good.
            “That’s not funny, Lee.  Stop it, okay?”
            Laughter from the past echoed in the room.  Though death had distorted its original sound, he remembered it none-the-less.  The sound stabbed at his heart, but he refused to let it get to him.  Not now.  Not when he was so close to making all of it stop.
            He centered on the images within the locket again, ignoring Lee’s pleas for attention.  After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and saw a small, tired looking woman with dark, penned up hair facing him.  Beside her stood a balding man, thin and distraught, clutching a black, felt hat.
            Brian forced a nervous smile at the couple.  “I apologize for bringing you here,” his voice broke a little.  He cleared his throat as they stared a hole in him.  He’d seen the look before.
            Ghosts were never amused to be summoned.  The woman spoke first, gazing down at the locket Brian held in his hand.
            “My daughter’s locket,” she moaned.
            The sound of death talking painfully raked Brian’s inner being.
            “How did you get it?” she asked.
            The husband looked from his wife to Brian.  “We buried her with that locket.”
            Brian coughed nervously.  “I know.  I promise I’ll put it back after we’re through.”
            The room grew suddenly colder, if that were possible, and Brian shivered as he turned back to the woman.  She looked angry, so he got straight to the point.  “Look, I need to know where you put the book.  The one your grandmother gave you when you were married.  Please.  It’s very important.”
            “The book?  You disturbed my daughter’s resting place for that?”
            Brian pinched his eyes closed, knowing his life might depend on staying calm.  “If you want the locket back with the kid, you’ll answer me.”
            The bottle of Wild Turkey flew across the room, smashing into the far wall, shattering into pieces as the amber liquid splattered and dripped.
            “Damn it!” Brian yelled, gripping the locket tighter between his fingers.  “That was just mean.”
            The man turned his attention to his wife.  “What book is he talking about, Katherine?”
            Katherine shifted uncomfortably, meeting her husband’s eyes.  “You know, dear, the leather-bound one.”
            “But we got rid of that old thing, remember?  Sold it to an old bookstore in Indianapolis.”  The man eyed Brian with uncertainty.  “Why do you need an old book on witchcraft anyway?”
            “It’s not witchcraft.”  Brian pulled his composure together.  “I need that book.  Please.  Think.  Which bookstore was it?”
            The man chuckled.  “That’s been years ago.  The place is probably out of business by now.”
            Katherine stiffened, her anger stirring the air, ruffling the heavy curtains and twisting the flame of the candle.  “Don’t say another word, Harold.  It’s obvious this man is deranged.”  Her eyes shot daggers at Brian.  “You should be locked up.  Grave robbing, practicing Satanic rites.  God will punish you.”
            The locket imbedded deeper into Brian’s fingers.  His hand began to tremble.  Sweat beaded on his forehead as he gritted his teeth.  “God already has.”
            “Sounds like you’re in a heap of trouble then, son.  I suggest you drop all this nonsense and come join us.  You’ll be much happier dead.”
            “Don’t pacify him!” Katherine screeched.  “He deserves to live with what he’s done.”
            Fury burned in Brian’s chest.  “Just tell me which fucking bookstore you sold the damn thing to!”  Realizing his mistake, he lowered his voice.  “I’ll take it from there.”
            But it was too late.  He’d already upset the couple.  The curtains whipped around furiously, swatting the flame.  A small thread on the corner caught fire and curled it upward into the material.
            Brian dropped the locket, yanked down the curtain and smothered the flames.  Candle and blaze were snuffed out, leaving him in the brightened room with more sunlight pouring in.  Katherine and Harold faded in the smoke-filled air, leaving Brian alone with the thrill scream of the fire alarm and a headache.
            “Damn it!”  He yanked the locket from the candle and hurling it across the room.  “Damn it to hell!”
            The candle rolled off the table and dropped to the floor, reeling under the bed.  In a fit of rage, he snatched the alarm off the wall and ripped the battery out of it, hurling it to the floor, before sinking back into the chair.
            “This is never going to stop,” he moaned, placing his pounding head in his hands.  “Never.”
            “Brian.”
            “Stop it, Lee,” he mumbled.  “Please stop it.  I can’t do this anymore.  I can’t.  I’m so sorry.  I never meant to hurt you.  I didn’t.  Please, make it stop.  If I could take it all back, I would.”
            Pain shot through his skull—memories of a young woman begging for her life.  Huge orange and red flames billowed thick black smoke, keeping him away from the car where she lay trapped inside.  He sat, helpless, bleeding and broken on the ground as she banged on the window, pleading for him to get her out.  The gas tank caught fire in seconds, taking Lee with an infernal blast.
            When he finally uncovered his head, he saw her walk out of the twisted, smoldering wreck.  Her kiss was cold as ice on his lips, taking his breath away.  Then she disappeared.  It was the first time he’d seen anything like that in his entire life.  That was five years ago.  Since then, he’d seen more than his fair share of paranormal crap.  And Lee, well, now she haunted him on a more regular basis.  Sometimes begging him to help her survive the fiery death that took her, sometimes begging for him to join her in her eternal state.  Either way, his beloved was a pain in the ass.
            He reached inside the duffel bag, fumbling for a prescription bottle of Librax, twisting the top off and spilling two of the capsules in his hand.  He shoved them in his mouth and swallowed, praying that they would hurry and take effect.
            “Brian ... Brian...”  His name echoed all around him for what seemed like hours until unconsciousness finally took over, leaving only the darkness to comfort him.
            At dawn, he stumbled into the shower, scrubbing away the grime of days, and pulled on clothes liberated from the bottom of the duffel.  He returned to the abandoned cemetery and hung the locket on the little girl’s small headstone, feeling guilty that he couldn’t bear to dig her up again and place the locket more intimately.
            He rewarded his efforts with Chinese take-out and a new bottle of Wild Turkey.  Hopefully, he’d get to drink this one before some pissed off spirit decided to smash it to smithereens.
            Popping his next dose of Librax, he settled back into his hotel room, waiting for Lee and countless others to do what they did best; make his life a living hell.  He didn’t have long to wait.  The room dropped about twenty degrees in less than a few minutes, leaving him shivering on the bed.  The television lost its picture to snow, and his box of takeout flew off the small table in the room, splattering the far wall and floor underneath.
            Brian grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey before it became the next casualty, twisted the cap off, and took a huge swig.  The whisky burnt all the way down, warming him.  Grabbing the remote, he switched off the television and turned off the flickering bedside lamp.  He’d been through enough blown bulbs and fried electronics to know when to shut them off.  For some reason, the dead took great pride in shorting things out.
            “You’re nothing,” a voice rasped.
            It wasn’t Lee.  He gave a small sigh of relief.
            “You use chemicals to numb yourself.  You are not worthy to carry the burden of life.”
            “Damn straight,” Brian mumbled, taking another swig from the bottle.  “So take it the hell away from me if you don’t like the way I handle it.”
            “I’d love to.”
            Brian sat up straight, noticing how the voice of this specter grated his ears so much more than all of the others.  The bed jerked, raising a few feet and slamming back onto the floor.  “Who are you?”
            “Does it matter?”  The voice hissed.  “Witchcraft will not help you.  Chemicals will not help you.  Only I can help you.  If you can be helped at all.”
            “It matters.”  Chills crawled up Brian’s spine, etching out onto his skin, making him quiver.  “Who the hell are you?”
            A brittle laugh echoed off the walls of the room.  Brian got to his feet, the bottle still tight in his hand.
            “Why, I’m your salvation from life, of course.”
            The words sunk deep into Brian’s head.  In all of the years he’d dealt with the things that haunted him, never had any of them offered to help, not even Lee.  And that scared the living crap out of him.
            “You’re offering to help me die?”  Silence filled the room for a second or two.  Brian broke it himself.  “Thought so.  If you’re selling, I ain’t buying, buddy.  So, just wander on back toward the light—or hell-pit of your choice.  I can die on my own without your help.”
            “Your lack of hope makes you bold.”
            Brian scanned the room for a physical sign of the entity.  Other than the decrease in temperature, there wasn’t any.
            “And you’re an after-life lobotomy thinking I’ll take help without asking the oh, so important questions.  I may be a head case, but I’m not that hard up.  So, hit the road or whatever you spirit-types hit on the way out.”
            Brian felt something press against his chest; a light nudge, then a thrust that knocked the air out of him, uprooting his stance—shoving him against the wall.
            He tried to cough, gasp, anything to get some air into his lungs, but whatever had a grip on him wasn’t budging.  The bottle of Wild Turkey dropped from his sagged fingers to the floor.  He struggled against the unseen force, trying to pry away untouchable hands from his chest.  His felt his eyes bugging from the lack of oxygen.  His head ached to explode.  Everything was fading to black.  A few more seconds and he’d be down for the count ... permanently.  Lee and all of the countless other former living would get their wish.
            Brian felt the pressure ease off of his chest.  Air swarmed inside of his lungs, filling the oxygen depressed sacs.  His head spun, making him want to throw up.
            Between coughs he said,  “I don’t know ... who you are ... and I don’t care.  I don’t need you to end my suffering.  Now.  Get.  Out.”
            Brian wheezed as the pressure in his chest started again, squeezing him harder this time.  His body jerked and thrashed as he clawed at his chest, trying to draw in a breath that wouldn’t come.
            “Please, you must allow me to initiate you into the suffering only death can bring.”
            Darkness surrounded him, suffocating him, as the world slipped away for a moment.  He opened his eyes, suddenly awake, more awake then he’d ever been.  A little girl, no older than maybe eight, stood a few feet away.  Her pink and beige gingham dress draped neatly over her childish form, a gold heart locket centered on her chest.  She smiled broadly, a twinkle in her pale blue eyes.
            “Death is only the beginning.”  Her voice was sweet and light, not at all the voice of death.  She giggled and turned away, disappearing through the wall of the room.
            Brian got up, turning to see his body laying lifeless on the floor.  Eyes that no longer focused stared straight ahead at nothing.  The bottle of Wild Turkey lay a few inches from him, its contents spilled around it, soaking the carpet.  Such a waste...  He glanced down at his hands.  They looked the same.  Clenching and unclenching them, he found they also felt the same.  He reached down to pick up the bottle.  His hand came back with nothing.  He tried again, finding that his fingers just brushed through the glass, rippling the whisky still inside.
            “It’s like that, you know,” a familiar voice said behind him.  “You can move stuff if you really try, but it takes a lot out of you.”
            “Lee?”
            She knelt down beside him, covering his hand with her own, comforting him.
            “You sound different,” he said.  “Like you used to when you were alive.”
            “Death distorts everything for the living, but you’re one of us now, thanks to little Amelia.”  Lee gave his hand a light squeeze.
            He felt a smile creep reluctantly across his face.  He should be mad, but for some reason, he wasn’t.  “This isn’t so bad.  I could get used to it.”
            Sadness touched her lips.  “Like life, death is not perfect.  Walking in life’s shadow, we watch what’s going on, but are not allowed to savor it.”
            She gave his hand another squeeze.  He shrugged, returning the embrace.  “I did that while I was alive,” he mumbled.  “But now I’m dead and I have you back with me.”
            He thought he saw tears forming in her eyes, but she smiled again.  “You will get along,” she replied.  “With or without me.”
            “What do you mean?”
            Her hand brushed the side of his face.  “That is the downside, I’m afraid.  There are only so many of us allowed to walk among the living at any given time.  When someone close to one of us in life dies, we move on.”
            A pang of grief hit him.  “You wanted me dead so I’d take your place?”
            She nodded slowly.  “We all do.”
            Betrayed, he pulled his hand away from her.
            “Don’t be angry,” she said.  “You’ll see me again in time, when you’ve walked long enough to injure the living.”
            “I won’t do that.”
            Lee stood up and passed into the wall.  Trailing, her voice echoed sweetly in his ears, as she left him once again.  “You will, love.  When you’ve walked enough.”