S Shadow

Leah Hughes

II’d been on my way into town the first time I saw the boy. It was the dark time of the morning, when the street lamps turn off in preparation for daylight, but the sun has not yet awoken. The summer air was tinged with autumn cold and dew still clung to spears of grass like cold sweat on a nervous forehead. I remember thinking how funny it was that the world reincarnates every summer morning—wet and fresh like a newborn. I remember this, because it was one of the few moments of clarity I’d had since I’d moved here. I wanted to believe it was something about the house that was plaguing me, not my own deteriorating mind—that the space was so small and cluttered with junk and smells and memories that it was overflowing into my brain and littering my thoughts— I just needed to get away from it. I was planning on walking the few miles into town and purchasing a train ticket to whichever destination was leaving first. I was walking through the overgrown grass towards the gravel road that stretched between the house and our neighbor’s when I heard a faint creaking, overpowered by a rhythmic scraping sound, like someone dragging their feet. I couldn’t imagine why anyone else would be out this early—certainly there could be no innocent purpose—and I held my breath, afraid that even disrupting the air would catch its attention— as I watched its silhouetted form disappear over the hill. When my heartbeat regained its regular rhythm I continued down the path, but I grew worried about my grandmother. She’d lived on her own for years before I moved in, but she was having increasing trouble with her memory and movement. Halfway to town, I stopped. The sun had turned the sky periwinkle and heat was beginning to seep into the valley, but I got a chill and felt for some reason that I couldn’t leave her now, so returned to the house and raced into my bedroom just as she was awaking.

IIspent the next day watching shadows

grow shorter then disappear, then grow longer on my walls and outside my window as the earth followed its familiar rotation. The walls were covered in a cream colored wallpaper, full of pink cursive diamonds that dispersed into lavender and pearly flowers just below the ceiling. All of the furniture was made of white-painted wood, but that in no way made the room appear cohesive. My grandmother had cluttered the dresser and the desk and the shelf in the closet with stuffed animals. I pointed them all through the day. My grandmother had left a sandwich at the door. I assumed something would eat it in the night. I was pretty sure she had mice. to face the wall because they were old fashioned and their eyes were made of dull beads that made me uncomfortable, so I was constantly surrounded by animal butts. There was a whole garden of dried flowers hanging near the window and the empty wall seemed to be a shrine to religion. A picture of Mother Mary hung at a slight angle (the straight wooden cross next to it gave away its slant), with a rosary hanging from one corner and a holy water container poorly nailed to the wall on the other side. My grandmother expected me to pray, but I was more interested in the shadows these shapes produced. I watched my own shadow too. I thought it was funny the way the ceiling light formed one shadow and the window cast another. Throughout the day I imagined that one of my shadows was overtaking the other, like the Jekyll and Hyde stories that my bother used to try to scare me with. Eventually there was just one shadow left and I realized that I had sat and leaned out. Still there was nothing. He wasn’t there. It was hot and windy and I nearly choked on my hair as it blew into my face. The trees were beckoning wildly like a storm was on its way so I closed the window. It must have been the old wood of the house creaking in the wind. Then I heard the dragging of feet. Still there was no boy on the path. Maybe the mice were running through the walls. There was a clunk and the sound stopped. Then the door creaked. I realized I’d left it unlocked after weeding. Maybe it hadn’t latched all the way and the wind blew it open. There was a louder creak and cold fear rushed into my lower back. This was coming from inside the house. Still the boy was not outside. I tried to piece my brain together from the disorder but it was like tearing a room apart to find a single pair of keys and the creaking was getting louder, overpowered by the steady, rhythmic dragging of sneakers on tile, and ne night the creaking was especially loud. I searched the path from the warped glass of my window but saw only still gravel the creaking was getting louder and louder. I opened my window for a better view and saw nothing, then removed the screen then wood as the creaking clunked over the step between the kitchen and the living room. I walked to the door, but froze when my hand was on the doorknob. I didn’t want to miss the boy if he walked by. I ran to the window and searched again for the child, but he was nowhere to be found. There was a th-thud and the groan of a wooden step. Then another. And another. I felt another rush of cold and my bones felt liquid but I fell through my door and into my grandmother’s room. I stumbled my way to her bed and started shaking her. “Grandma, there’s someone in the house”, “Grandma, please, you have to get up!” I shoved her hard. She wouldn’t move. Her hand was hanging off the side of the bed. I’d never noticed her wrinkles before. Her veins laced around each other and over her bones like exposed tree roots on a riverbank. Her skin looked so pale and fragile— almost translucent against the beige, floral wallpaper. Her walls were different than mine. Flowers crawled up the ceiling vertically, their leafless stems intertwined. I tried to shake her again. The sound had made its way to the top step. I started hitting her outstretched arm. The doorknob twisted. I leapt into her open closet and crouched in the darkness. The first thing I noticed was his blond hair, then his red wagon. I still couldn’t see his face. He dragged his feet into the room and pulled my grandmother by her outstretched arm into the wagon. She slumped in, neck first, and he folded her legs sideways. Then he turned towards me and I realized he had no face, as if it had been melted away, and he turned and clunked down the stairs. I ran to my window and watched him shuffle down the path.

II’d been sitting in a rocking chair by the window and drifted in and out of sleep through the night, my dreams trying to take hold through my brains clutter. Somewhere between my conscious and subconscious I heard a creaking and the slow shuffling of feet. My nose against the cold glass, I watched a child trudge his feet through the gravel, dragging a rusty red, empty wagon behind him with one hand. The streetlight illuminated his bleach blond hair and blue striped shirt. He was wearing baggy cargo shorts and dirty sneakers that may have at one point been white. I couldn’t see his face. I kept my face pressed to the glass for hours, waiting for the boy to return. I was nearly asleep again when I heard a heavier creaking of rusty wheals and the dragging of feet. The street lights were off by now, as the sun was about to rise, but squinting through the darkness I realized there was something in the wagon.

I watched the boy go back and forth every morning, intrigued by his load and him timing. I watched the shadows go creep back and forth against my walls. I weeded the garden and planted herbs on the windowsill when I was tired of the blandness of my grandmother’s cooking, and I dusted the house when breathing began to make me cough. I searched the basement for books, something with adventure, and found only cookbooks that she hoarded in her overflowing cupboards. I wasn’t sleeping because I was watching for the boy and I was losing my mind between dressers and bookcases. Once I tried to show the boy to my grandmother but it was especially dark and she couldn’t see or hear well enough, and she grew angry with me for waking her up. Then she asked me how often I watched for the boy and scolded me for not sleeping. I didn’t talk to her about it again.

...it was like tearing a room apart to find a single pair of keys and the creaking was getting louder, overpowered by the steady, rhythmic dragging of sneakers on tile...

The sound had made its way to the top step. I started hitting her outstretched arm. The doorknob twisted. I leapt into her open closet and crouched in the darkness.