Stone's Shadow Page 6

  “Screw this. I’m going to get coffee.”

  As he spun toward the door, two burning red circles stared back from the darkness. He slammed his eyes shut again.

  The pressure returned, first around his leg, and gradually wrapping toward his chest. This time there were no blankets to blame. The grip tightened, but he refused to look. Time slowed to a stop, and a cool wetness coated his cheek.

  Just a bit longer.

  There must have been some kind of barrier between himself and the demon. Even under increasing tension, the monster would have surely killed him if it was able. The thought squeezed out under the tightening grip. He pushed off the balls of his feet, and the restraining force vanished. Before he could consider if it was another mind trick, he smashed into the sharp, uneven edges of the heavy wooden apartment door.

  His mind spun as he scrambled back to his feet. His hands, hunting for a hold, caught his jacket. It slipped, and he fell again. A roar of laughter erupted like the beginning of a death metal song. He finally stabilized, and nearly ripped the doorknob off while racing for the hallway.

  The door slammed behind him, and he collapsed into a heaving pile, coughing and hacking between gasps.

  He caught his breath as a tiny red dot landed on his eyelash. The nightmare was over, but the devil was still in his room. The door might not be able to stop it. He scrambled down the hallway, and tumbled down the stairs to the first floor. The steps cut across his back, his arms, and his legs, until finally he rolled onto his back in the lobby, eyes now wide open, staring at copper ceiling tiles.

  He mumbled in short breaths, “Stupid. Freaking. Stairs.”

  The voice spoke again.

  Just a bit longer.

  “Shut up,” he yelled, not caring who heard. With another beat of his heart, he found himself out in the cold, racing barefoot across the frigid sandpaper sidewalk toward the café. He yanked on the glass door with fury. A heavy crack sounded from the spring mechanism as it slammed open. Inside, his wet foot hit the slick tiles, and down he went.

  Laughter erupted from the late-night patrons, mostly college students trying to catch up on studying, or sober up from their drinking sprees. It was exactly the type of situation he tried to avoid. He was in third grade again, crying on the playground when he would have been better off just taking his beating from the school bully.

  “What the hell happened to you?” called the familiar voice of a barista, who rushed around the bar and skidded to a stop over Scott’s body. “Are you all right?”

  Do I look all right?

  The bearded barista hoisted him to his feet. Scott wrapped his arm around the guy’s shoulders as he was half-carried across the coffee shop. The whole world stared, covering their stupid smiles. Some of them couldn’t control their laughter, and the echo of giggles and smirks followed him to the back room. A minute later, he was sitting on a stack of pallets behind the kitchen area, broken and out of breath.

  The barista looked him up and down. “What the hell are you doing? What happened to your face? You're bleeding.”

  Scott's hand raced upward to touch the stings of a thousand hornets on his forehead. He drew it back to see blood smeared on his fingertips.

  A cook looked up from preparing a midnight sandwich, “What the hell is this?”

  “Shut up,” said the barista, and pulled a wooden chair between Scott and a heavy steel sink. He grabbed a rag and ran it under the faucet while staring down. A moment later, the scalding mass of heavy fabric was against Scott's forehead, burning away the sting. “Hold that there.”

  “Thanks.”

  The barista straddled the chair and leaned close, looking him over carefully.

  “Get that guy out of my kitchen.”

  “Shut up, Carl,” yelled the barista. He turned back to Scott. “You want to tell me what’s going on? I mean, you aren’t exactly 100 percent normal, but this is odd, even for you. Why are you bleeding?”

  “I ran into my door leaving my apartment.”

  “I sometimes run in to my ex leaving mine, but she doesn’t gash me on the forehead.” The barista frowned with half of his face, and smiled with the other. “Too soon?”

  Scott shook his head at the guy’s poor attempt to cheer him up. “Too soon.”

  “You've been coming in here almost every night for months, and tonight you decide to bash your skull in on the way out of your apartment? You needed some excitement in your life, or what?”

  Fatigue set in, and Scott leaned back, falling against the hard wall with a bounce of his skull. His body went limp. If the monster wasn’t bad enough, he had now officially announced his insanity to the world. At least he slept in his clothes last night, and didn’t run in wearing boxers.

  He brought his knees to his chest and rested his heels on the edge of the pallet. His arms wrapped around, pulling them in and creating a hiding spot to bury his sore face. Tears dripped onto his jeans, or maybe it was water from the rag. His heart was still pounding, a prelude to the panic attack he was about to have. His eyes closed, releasing more tears. A long sigh escaped with them. His face caught fire, and his body shook with whimpers that climbed out of an empty stomach.

  “I don't know what's happening to me. I'm going crazy. I had to get out of there.”

  The barista put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “I never did get your name.”

  “Scott,” he said, his voice muffled by denim.

  “Scott? I'm Patrick. Now we're introduced, so you can stop calling me tall cap.”

  Scott winced. A hint of levity from the comment fought against the helplessness of his sinking spiral of despair.

  “You need me to call an ambulance or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Stay here. I have to get back to work. I’ll check on you in a little while, okay?”

  He nodded, eye sockets pressed against the plastic rims of his glasses.

  With the scrape of a wooden chair, Patrick’s presence disappeared into fading footsteps.

  “No,” said a voice. “Get him out of here.”

  “You shut your mouth and worry about your job. Let me worry about the kid.”

  Darkness closed in.

  The clang of a pot roused him. His head zapped both ways. Everywhere, people were moving and cleaning. He caught sight of Patrick, who approached to look him over.

  “A billion people were asking about you tonight. They all seemed to know you, but none of them knew your name. You're quite a celebrity.”

  “What?” Scott's head was groggy and throbbing. His hand reached up to touch the rough mess above his right eye.

  “All scabbed up. Don't scratch it. You'll end up like Richard.”

  “Who's that?”

  “Bartender. He picks at everything. Always has these rashes on his arms. Ever since. Well. Nevermind.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost five. Time for you to get out of here before the boss comes in. You live close by, right?”

  “Yeah, next door.”

  “Some of the customers said that. They said you walk here and back from that apartment building all night. You gonna tell me what happened out there? That's a short walk to get you into this much trouble. Girl problems?”

  “I don't have a girl.”

  “Well. I'd call that a problem. Roommate kicked your ass?”

  “No roommates.”

  “Somebody did a number on you. Maybe you’re just trying to be tough, or whatever. You don’t want to be a narc? You should tell the police. I don't know what happened, and it's none of my business, but you're a good tipper, and I'd prefer to keep you as a customer.”

  A clattering of pots and dishes came from the sink. The guy who dropped them scowled at him, before heading to the front of the shop.

  “I also don't want to kick your ass out for walking in here barefoot and bloody. Can’t have people just strolling in like that. You know?”

  Scott sighed. How could he tell this guy anything? How c
ould he tell anyone? Nobody would believe it. He hauled to his feet. Maybe the monster would kill him next time, instead of playing with him like a cat toy. It was one thing being the local wimp. Earning a reputation as the crazy straight-jacket kid was a whole other ballgame. He stood, weaving from a dizzy spell. The barista snapped to action, clutching him around the chest. Pain shot through his neck and back. His whole body was stiff.

  “You gonna be all right?”

  “I'll be fine.”

  “Okay, man. I hope you get better.”

  “What time did you say it was?”

  Reality had a funny way of creeping up on him during moments of high anxiety. His shift at the gas station started in less than an hour, followed by classes for the rest of the day. He wobbled back to the apartment, his personal torture chamber, trying to calculate how many hours he might have slept. The door was wide open. He flicked on the light, revealing what looked like a burglary. His mattress sat cock-eyed on the box spring, his jacket lay in the middle of the floor, and sheets were scattered from the foot of the bed to the door. At least there was no demon waiting for him. Maybe the shadow creatures were scared of sunlight.

  8

  His boss was a middle-aged Asian man. Always early to work. Most of the time he was in the back office counting things, watching video tapes and making backup copies for the outdated security system, counting the number of mistakes his employees made, or scanning the shelves and counters that failed to get cleaned by the graveyard shift. His name was Bob. An odd name for a short, dark-skinned man with tiny gold-rimmed glasses and a long ponytail, or so he thought. Bob’s accent may have been foreign, but his attitude was all American. Aside from his looks, he was probably the most iconic American boss ever: strict, motivated, and all business. He constantly changed the signing around the store, moved products to different places, and indulged the local community with car washes, Girl Scout bake sales, and a number of other events that could drum up business.

  When Scott walked in, Bob was fighting with a roll of receipt paper and swearing at the machine it was supposed to load into. He slammed the plastic top closed and looked up.

  “Scott. What hell happen to you?”

  “I fell down.”

  Bob shook his head. “You okay to work? Or you take day off?”

  “I'm good.”

  “Okay. You feel bad, you let me know. Okay?”

  Bob’s short legs didn’t inhibit his speed. He made up for his size by moving in fast forward, and he was just as fast to layoff worthless employees. He trotted to the back in his usual high-energy fashion. Scott came to understand the reasoning behind it. Every day that he worked, there was some mess left behind by the night crew, and everyone he worked with directly was worthless. Most of them would be lost if not for the cash registers and their automatic calculating.

  Scott kept his mouth shut. He hated his coworkers, who spent more time chatting with their friends than actually working, but he hated conflict even more. If they weren’t on their phone, they were having a powwow at the counter after inviting two or three friends over to discuss what party they were going to that night, or how much weed they’d be smoking. Scott never complained about it out loud. Maybe that’s why the boss liked him. He’d been working in the dump since he started school, while the rest of the employees played musical chairs with job vacancies. The gas station had an entirely new crew every three months, except for himself and Bob.

  Eight hours of handling money and dealing with annoying customers was enough to drive lesser humans mad. The worst people on the planet showed up at convenience stores as customers. They held their hands out to collect change, because it was expected that the clerk should place money directly in their hand, yet when they paid, they either dropped it on the counter or threw it at him, when they were paying with cash. Credit cards had the magical effect of disengaging most of them from the annoyances of conversation and interaction altogether. Human beings were a race of self-serving creatures. Each one obsessed with nothing but their own worries and gripes, not sparing one second to consider how they treated others.

  Half of them didn't notice the laceration on his forehead, while the rest would ask “What happened?” in a nonspecific manner, sometimes while looking a different direction. None of them really wanted an answer, but they liked pretending they cared. They put on their worried face until their overpriced soft drinks or snacks were paid for, and left without giving him another thought.

  People spilled fountain sodas and ice, then walked away, as if nobody would notice the mess. They refused to pick up after themselves. If they didn't act so shady about it, it wouldn't be a big deal. He handed change back to one lady while watching the remnants of a mess drip from the outside of her cup onto the counter. That big forty-four-ounce cup, and you need to fill it all the way to the rim?

  He whispered to himself, “I suppose that phone call is so important that you didn’t realize the cup was full, huh?”

  “Hold on a minute,” she said into the phone, and then cradled it against her bosom. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Have a nice day.”

  “Okay, thank you. Hello?” The phone was right back in her ear, and she left a trail of sticky droplets on the tile floor as she walked away. The path led from the soda machine, through the snack aisle, to the counter, on the counter, and straight out the sliding doors into the parking lot.

  Scott looked down at his hands, wondering how people could have syrup stuck to their fingers without going crazy. If he splashed even the tiniest amount, he had to make a trip to the nearest sink to get the nasty crap off with the utmost haste. Maybe they were crazy, or maybe he was.

  “Store’s clear, one pumping gas,” he said aloud.

  He jogged to the back to grab the mop bucket. And returned to see three more vehicles in the parking lot.

  “Every time I move to do something.” He shook his head, whipping the mop around sloppily until the doorbell chimed to announce an early lunch rush. He was back behind the register before the first swab could be wrung out.

  The first person in line held a twenty dollar bill across the counter with one hand, and a phone to his ear with the other, like Scott could magically figure out what he wanted. He scanned the cars outside to see which was impatiently trying to pump gas while waiting on the computer system to approve the sale. He snatched the bill and asked, “Twenty on pump four?”

  The man jumped, just like the last time the jerk came in. Scott figured that if he directed his speech to emphasize the same information repeatedly, they would eventually figure out which words to use. Nope. The redneck’s head bobbed left and right, looking past the other customers into the lot. He spun round. “Yep. I think so. That white truck.”

  Scott sighed. A whole day of this was waiting for him.

  It was a job. It paid for books, helped with tuition his grant didn't cover, and paid the rent. The best and worst part of the job was that it taught patience and tolerance, whether he felt like learning those lessons or not. With a migraine the size of Chicago, he really didn't care about finding his calm center that day. He didn't care about being the silent pillar of self control.

  “There should be a legal limit of six hours of work per day for anyone in customer service. Any more is cruel and unusual punishment,” he said to next customer, who was obviously ignoring him. He waited. The sound waves left his mouth, danced in the background of another feeble mind, and finally created an all too typical response.

  “What? I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention.”

  Of course you weren't. “I said, have a nice day.”

  “Okay, thanks. You too.” The man snatched his stale pretzel from the counter, pinching it between his thumb and a giant Styrofoam cup, while browsing social media with the other hand. He strolled out the door, leaving no indication that he had flooded the soda station with another sticky mess.

  The upshot of working a mindless job was that time passed quickly. The more annoying th
e customers were, or the more generic labor tasks he performed to keep himself busy, the faster the clock seemed to run. He mopped the floor four times, stocked the cooler twice, and his shift contracted the time line by about four hours. As soon as it was over, he pulled off the work uniform, which consisted of a red cotton pullover and name-tag, and headed for school.

  Class after class, the instructors took one look at him and asked how long he'd be out for. If he was going to skip class, he never would have showed up. He inspected the cut in a bathroom between American History and Bio. It didn't look that bad, or perhaps he was getting used to seeing it. He cleaned the wound, clearing tiny bubbles of pus or blood that oozed out during the work day. They looked like rhinestone gems on a felt backing. Miniature cabochon ambers and rubies, so smooth upon drying that they shined in the institutional light of the school bathrooms. Each tiny bead carried an inherent beauty, and a curse: they served as a lasting reminder of the horror that awaited him at home.

  Biology 101 was followed by a break before creative writing, which he hated almost as much as math. He spent the spare time sitting in the quad with a sub sandwich from the cafeteria, shivering in the windy weather as he watched people pass. Nobody looked at him, or noticed him, or cared. On campus, he was the leper. The sickly kid with the acne problem. Finding a girlfriend would probably be easier if his face wasn't covered in tiny white blisters, or if he didn't have a big red gash running down his forehead, but that hardly mattered since he never opened his mouth to talk. He was the worst at making the initial move, and suspected that the result would be ending up with a girl who treated him like crap, if he was lucky.

  He lost himself in the day’s writing assignment. For some reason, he couldn’t scratch out anything story related until immediately before it needed to be turned in. As long as he got a passing grade, it didn’t matter. It was just a stupid elective anyway. He scribbled: