Shadow of the Past (7 page)

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“You better,” she said with a wink, and
the disappeared inside.

He didn’t yell in triumph until he was
a block away, racing the V home as fast as it would carry
him.

Mark crept quietly through the back
door and into the kitchen. He wasn’t sure if Uncle Joe was awake or
even home, but he didn’t want to ruin a near-perfect evening by
finding out the hard way.

Yeah, near-perfect except
for the psychotic hallucinations. Other than that, picture
perfect.

It had been easy to forget it all with
friends and laughter and kissing (my god, the kissing), but
sneaking through the dark he couldn’t help but conjure up the image
of those flaming eyes and that sickening, sing-song voice. Not only
that, the dream he’d had the night before about the boy watching
the house across the street and getting attacked in his room was
crystal clear.

Just like the song he’d heard in
Clara’s apartment. The same one from the dream.

He stopped, closed his eyes, took a
deep breath and then exhaled slowly, opening his eyes as he
did.

Nothing strange. Nothing unusual.
Nothing black and smoky and on fire. Just a kitchen with a sink
full of dirty dishes and a pile of pizza boxes by the trash. The
only scary thing here was that this was his life.

Mark tip-toed his way through the
hallway and then heard a low, faint whisper coming from the living
room. He took another step forward and peered into the living room.
The room was dark except for a soft light and a large figure on the
couch and Mark reached out for the wall to keep from falling
down.

He’s here he’s here
he’s--

Joe, he realized. Joe, in his usual
seat in front of the television.

“Jesus,” Mark said. “You scared the . .
.”

He should’ve realized what was going
on, but the sudden rush of panic had taken him by surprise. Not
only was Joe in his normal seat in front of the TV, he was also
passed out drunk. Mark just shook his head, spying the glass with
the mostly melted ice.

Mark started upstairs, stealth
completely abandoned. He paused at the third step, looking over at
Joe. With a pained sigh, Mark turned around and headed back for the
living room.

“Joe,” Mark shook his shoulder. “Joe,
you need to go to bed.”

Joe’s head lolled back and forth,
eyelids fluttering. “Vah . . . whu . . .”

“Joe, you need to go
upstairs.”

“I don’t gotta do nothin’,” Joe said,
finally lifting his head and peering around the dark room. After
several clumsy pans around the room his eyes landed on
Mark.

“What are you doin’ here?”

“I live here. You fell asleep watching
TV and I thought you’d be more comfortable upstairs.”

“Th’ hell do you know?” Joe pulled
himself to his feet, wobbling like human Jenga.

“Just thought I’d help.” Mark rolled
his eyes and headed for the stairs before this got even more
pointless.

“Hey!” Joe barked. “It’s almost
midnight. What the hell’er you doin out so late?”

“I was at a party,” Mark said, not
stopping.

“Dammit stay still when I talk to you!
What damn party?”

Mark stopped, gripping the banister as
hard as he could. “A birthday party. For me. Y’know, since my
birthday is coming up?”

Joe’s face scrunched together as he
tried to get as much power as he could to his remaining brain
cells. “Your birthday? When?”

“It’s on Tuesday,” Mark said. “Three
days from now? Same as last year.”

The Big Wheel of Drunken Emotions spun
around and then settled on anger. “You fuckin’ smartass. You can go
fuck yourself and your snotty at’tude. You’re not too old to get
kicked the fuck out, y’hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Mark turned and
headed up the stairs. The threat of getting kicked out had lost
most of its weight by now.

“Hey! Dammit, come back here!” Joe
yelled, shuffling to the bottom of the steps. Mark kept going,
pausing only to slam and lock the attic door behind him. He took
the steps up to the attic room two at a time and then threw himself
onto his bed.

At least last year he had gotten a
card, a stern nod, and a “Happy Birthday.” He should’ve known to
expect less as the years went on, but every year he strolled
forward whistling like an idiot going “This time it’ll be
different!” The only thing that was different was how hard he got
shoved back on his ass.

Clara loved talking about the future
and how full of possibilities it was. “This is High School,” she’d
say. “When your life really begins you’ll look back and see how
strong all of this has made you.” He didn’t have the heart to tell
her that the only thing it was making him was more and more certain
that the future was a joke. His grades were mediocre and that meant
no scholarships, and if Joe wasn’t putting up money for birthday
cards he sure as shit wasn’t going to put anything up for college.
By the time graduation rolled around he’d be lucky if he was
working minimum wage at a burger joint with Joe charging him
rent.

All of the red-headed, green eyed,
angel-lipped girls in the world couldn’t change any of that. Damned
if they still didn’t put a smile on his face though. Maybe, just
maybe, she could give him a glimmer of something to hope for until
then.

It was that glimmer that let him fall
asleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Seven

While Mark Watson dreamt a figure made
his way around the tiny islands of street-light on Briarcliff
Avenue, hat pulled low and coat collar turned up. The only sound on
the suburban street was the scuff of sneakers on pavement as he
hurried towards his destination. He stopped between the two giant
oaks and peered through the overgrown tangle of dead and dying
bushes.

“Home,” he said in a soft, dreamy
voice.

He pushed his way between the overgrown
hedges and into the yard. The grass was almost knee high and the
only gaps in it were from the cracked cement tiles of the path
leading to the door. The entire yard was filled with the thick,
damp smell of fall and at the center of everything was the
house.

His house.

Time and neglect had savaged the place.
The paint was all but gone, and the house itself sagged as if it
were in the midst of a deep inhale that would end in a death
rattle. He walked through past the rusted sign that proclaimed that
“Yes, this wonderful castle could be yours! Just ask Dave Keener
(Northern New Jersey’s realtor of the year, 1981,
1983)!”

He’d visited Dave Keener in a dream
once. After that, Dave left the house alone, losing it in a shuffle
of paperwork.

Not to mention sleeping with the light
on for a couple of years.

The figure took a cautious step onto
the porch, avoiding the hidden patches of rotted out wood that
could break underfoot with the slightest bit of weight. Like the
big hole on the top step that Tommy Reardon’s leg plunged into when
he ran into the yard and up the steps on a dare twenty years ago.
He could still smell the blood on the ragged edges on the hole
where the step had bitten into his leg all the way up to his middle
thigh.

Tommy woke from a dream shortly after,
screaming and tearing at his bandages to make sure that there
weren’t really any maggots making their way through his
cuts.

The doorknob was stained almost black,
and the door itself still had slightly lighter patch of wood in the
center where the knocker once hung. He touched it there and the
locks released their hold and the door slowly swept open, cutting a
swath in the years of untouched dust. He hesitated for a moment,
savoring the musk of rot and age that washed over him that he’d
waited decades to experience again. It was happening. Finally, he
was in this wondrous place again, and this time it was no
dream.

Before him a wide staircase headed up
to the second floor, and next to it a hallway led into the back of
the house. On either side of him was two wide archways; right to
the living room, left to the dining room. Each room was spotted
with furniture hidden under dusty, molding shrouds.

He walked down the hallway and into the
kitchen. Nestled into the wall to his right was a thick wooden
door. He walked forward and placed a trembling hand on the cool,
dusty wood. He moved his fingertips down to the doorknob. It
twisted, but would not open. He concentrated for a few moments and
there was a faint metal scraping sound as the bar on the other side
unlatched itself and the door swung open. Before him were spindly
wooden-stairs leading down into darkness.

He let his fingertips linger on the
handrail as he walked, pausing at the small landing at the bend in
the steps and then continuing down to the right. Once at the
bottom, he was in total darkness.

He didn’t need to see where he was
going. He walked forward, between the twin support columns and then
tilting his head to avoid the piece of chain hanging from one of
the pipes in the ceiling.

It was right in front of him now. He
stopped and put his hand out, feeling the warm metal. All the years
of neglect weren’t enough to put the fire out. He dropped to his
knees, running his hand down the metal until it reached the glass
window in the front of the furnace.

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long,
Lord. It’s been difficult to be away, but it was
necessary.”

His hand moved to the handle. He
twisted it and the door opened with a shriek of rusted metal. He
brushed the hat off his head and leaned forward, resting his head
on the edge of the chamber. He took a deep breath of the stale, ash
filled air until his lungs were full and he thought he was going to
burst.

He could feel Him in there, just below
the surface. An ember waiting to catch flame.

He reached inside, his hands moving
through the ash until his fingers found the long bundle of cloth.
He drew it out, shaking the ash from it before unraveling it. The
long, thin black cane topped with silver was as lovely as he
remembered it. He turned it slowly over in his hands, moving up to
the dragon’s head that served as the cane’s handle. He flicked the
switch at the dragon’s neck and drew the long, thin blade out of
the shaft. The sound of the instrument being freed was as glorious
as remembered. He swung it through the air, spinning and slicing
through the darkness. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the
blade smoothly back into its sheath.

He dropped back down on his knees in
front of the great steel furnace. He closed his eyes, both hands
squeezing the cane in front of him. “Thank you for bringing me
back, Lord. I will feed you and make you strong again.”

There was a slight stir in the chamber
of the furnace. A tiny breeze shifted the dirt and
ashes.

“Yes. Yes, yes,” he said.

A warm and smoky breeze passed over
him. He drew it deep into his lungs and it filled him completely.
He held it inside, concentrating, bearing down on it until he could
feel the fire explode in his lungs.

It spread through his insides, burning
everything. He screamed in ecstatic agony as the fire took him
over, sizzling in his ears and then bursting through his eyes like
tiny, volcanoes. Fire burned up his throat and the smoke and embers
that burst forth pooled around him, clinging to his body. He shaped
it whimsically around his body as the coat, hat and gloves he
remembered so well.

“I will nourish You,” he said, kneeling
with reverence before his steel god. “I will bring you the blood
that You require, and I will make him ours once again.”

Clara Washington woke with a scream.
The dream that startled her awake racing from her as she realized
she was safe in her own bed. The only sound was her own gasping
breath, and she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe
steady and even, willing her heart to calm down.

Mark.

There had been dreams like this before;
when her husband died, when her daughter had her car accident.
Sometimes all she could remember were small details that would pop
up in the moment and she’d find out that she’d been seeing
something as it happened. Others times it was what was about to
happen. It didn’t happen often, but she’d learned to trust it and
be on the lookout for signs of what was about to come.

This one had been a doozy. The
specifics were fading fast, but she could see Mark in the center of
it. Just focusing on the details made her shiver, but if she had to
make a guess she figured she’d been shown something that was
coming, not what has happening.

She got out of bed, put on her robe and
headed for the kitchen. She noticed the time and knew that it’d be
too late to call to make sure he was okay. The last thing she
wanted to do was deal with that ogre of an Uncle that he lived
with. Even when Martha was alive she’d only talked to him a few
times, but it was enough to know that they wouldn’t ever like each
other beyond strained small talk.

What she needed to do was get something
to drink, take some deep cleansing breaths and get some sleep.
After some focused meditation in the morning she could tell Mark
whatever she could remember about her dream and what she thought
was going to happen.