Shadowshift (9 page)

CHAPTER 13

In the days since the disappearance of her father, Hannah spent most of her time alone. Her mom frequently slept, and Hannah was grateful for the peace. When awake, she smothered Hannah and talked too much about their tragic situation, and that only made things worse. It was easier for Hannah to clear her mind—to forget. She read and drew and watched cartoons on the small television in her parents’ bedroom, while her mom occupied the couch. Her mom said she couldn’t sleep on the bed anymore, but Hannah didn’t understand why.

One night, Hannah put down the remote control and began changing channels with her mind. An impulsive act without a shred of calculation, however not free of consequence.

In the flickering light of the screen, shadows shifted across the room. For a moment, Hannah didn’t notice the unfolding horror on the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed, her attention glued to electronic images that—by her will—sped through changes of their own. But when sharp cracking sounds erupted, followed by a low animalistic groan, she turned and gasped.

Her mother’s cat statue was transforming. Much too large and still growing, the cat’s head peeled open like a flower. From the center of the bloom, a shivering shaft of meat snaked.

Hannah backed into the headboard, trying to scream, but her throat only rattled dryly. Her sinuses were clogged, and she could barely breathe. Her heart thundered.

Inches from the ceiling, the end of the meat-snake became round. Layers of pale, featureless flesh poured down from the top of the new head, and the thing’s body quivered and became manlike. Dull, dry sounds—like cracking sticks, she thought—ricocheted through the room, and Hannah hoped the commotion would wake her mother.

But her mother didn’t come, and the change was soon complete. That’s when Hannah understood. Her father—like her—was different. As if she’d just awakened from a nightmare, her tremors ebbed.

Still in his work clothes, he sprawled across the top of the dresser. His breathing came in spastic hitches. His body trembled, but he was still alive.

Hannah grabbed her Veramist from the nightstand, then shoved the applicator in her nose as she squeezed the trigger and inhaled. She took several deep breaths, the vice-like grip on her head retreating.

“Turn away,” her father whispered, then his eyes shot open.

“Daddy?” she said.

His lips curved into a smile as he pushed himself up. He swung his legs across the wooden platform and planted his sneakers on the carpet. “I risked a lot to see you, sweetheart. Come give Daddy a hug.”

When she did as she was told, he lifted her into his lap.

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“You said ‘Turn away.’ Why did you say
that
?”

He chuckled. “After what you just saw, that’s the first thing you think to ask?”

“Sorry,” she said.

“No, that’s okay. It’s because you’re special, like me. My mother used to tell me to ‘Turn away,’ when my father was in one of his moods. It always stuck with me, and now I say it whenever I escape. When I change, I leave everything else in the past. The past is my enemy. It’s everyone’s enemy.”

“Does it work?”

“Listen, honey, we can talk about all that later. For now, I need to tell you something important, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I need you and Mommy to leave this town, get as far away as you can, preferably out of the country. Do you understand?”

“Why?”

“We can talk about that all later, too, but let’s just say there was a misunderstanding.”

Hannah considered her next words carefully. There was something she had to know, but she didn’t want to anger him. She gazed down at the floor, then looked up and asked, “Did you kill that man? The police came here, and Mommy said you killed that man.”

“No, sweetie, I didn’t. Please believe me, I
didn’t
.”

She searched his eyes and could tell he was hiding a dark secret. She nodded but didn’t believe him. She’d spent too much time around him not to know when he lied. As her mom was fond of pointing out, you could tell he lied because his mouth moved. In Hannah’s estimation, that wisdom landed inches from the truth.

“Good,” he said. “It’s good that you trust me. Trust is very important to me. Now, can I trust you to keep our little secret?”

She nodded again, and this time she meant it. She understood the importance of secrets, and she didn’t want to burden her mom further. “Were you
inside
the cat?” she asked.

“No,” he said, patting the dresser. “Your mother’s precious pussy is still safe in the bottom drawer.” He smirked, but Hannah didn’t understand what was funny. “Like I said, sweetie, there’s plenty of time to talk about magic later. Your mom wants to get out of this town, right?”

“I do, too,” Hannah said. “Someplace nice, with fireflies in the summer and snow in winter.”

Grinning, he said, “Yes, yes, so I suggest you and Mom do what comes naturally. Just take me with you when you go, and do it sooner rather than later. Do you have something that’s special to you? Something I can become, that you can take care of?”

She considered her possessions, then shook her head. “I have Mom. She’s special to me. And I have a lot of old junk, but none of that stuff’s really important.”

Gazing at the ceiling, he said, “I have no choice. I’ll have to become your mother’s cat again.”

“Can’t you become the TV or a lamp or—”

“No, sweetie. It has to be a loved object. It’s the only way I can do it.”

Just as her special power had limitations, so too did his. That realization birthed another, and a vague plan took shape in her mind.

“I was watching you change the channels, you know,” he said.

“You could see me?”

“I could, yes, and what I saw made me very happy. I always knew you were special, Hannah, like me. When I saw you taking control, I had to talk to you, because I knew you, of all people, would understand. Your mother, I’m afraid, would never understand.”

“You made Mommy very sad.”

He shook his head, then said, “Your mother makes her own tragedy. Don’t go believing for a second she’d understand your abilities. Hell, I’m not so sure I understand. Tell me, what can you do? How far does it go? Can you move things?”

“You said we could discuss those things later.”

His grin returned. “You’re so smart.” He moved Hannah from his lap and stood, then slid open the bottom drawer of the dresser and lifted a stack of T-shirts; reaching beneath them, he grabbed the real figurine and placed it atop the chest of drawers, where it belonged. He kneeled in front of Hannah and grabbed her shoulders. “When I change back, hide me. Someplace safe, please. And take care of me. We can talk like this when you’re alone. Would you like that?”

Hannah didn’t have a chance to answer. Couch springs squealed from the living room. The refrigerator door creaked open. It was only a matter of time before Hannah’s mom walked into the room.

“Turn away,” he said.

“Turn away,” she replied.

Closing his eyes, he took a few steps back. Then, quickly, his body caved in on itself, until he was once more an exact copy of his wife’s favorite vestige of the past. Hannah picked up the statuette and turned it around in her hands, then she looked at the drawer her father had left open. There, she spied a roll of black electrical tape. Her mother’s steps rattling the floor, Hannah grabbed the roll and bit off a piece of tape with her mouth, then she was in her dark place.

She saw within the ersatz keepsake, into the large theater where her father sat, grinning and waving in the center seat. Her vision abruptly telescoped back to the object in her hands, and she acted fast, sticking the slash of tape across its eyes.

“Stay,” she whispered, then she was back in her room, where the doorknob started turning. She rolled the sightless feline beneath the bed just as the door cracked open.

“What are you doing in here?” her mother asked. “You should be asleep.”

“Sorry,” she said, trying to appear innocent. She scampered from the floor, climbed into bed, and pulled covers up to her chin.

Her mother snapped off the television and sat on the edge of the mattress, running a hand through Hannah’s hair. “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“What?”

“I heard your voice in here. Sounded like you said ‘Stay.’”

“Oh, I guess I was just talking to myself.”

“Do you want to stay here, Hannah? Is that it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, for a while. Maybe it will be okay here…without
him
.”

“You don’t think he’s coming back, do you?”

“No,” Hannah said. “He won’t be back.”

“If you want to stay,” her mom said, “we can, but please know, he can find us here.”

Thinking about her father, Hannah squinted away tears in the darkness. “Just for a little while,” she said, trying to force the sadness from her voice, “until we know where we want to go. He won’t be back, I promise.” She was taken into her mother’s arms.

“Okay,” her mother soothed. “Whatever you want, sweetie. I guess we’ll stay.”

* * *

When Chet returned to the theater, he leaned back in the red velvet seat and studied his daughter on the large screen. He’d never expected his grace to become her inheritance. But now, knowing he wasn’t alone, he was excited by the implications of her extraordinary influence. He could merely shift and slip beneath doors; she could likely disable alarms and open doors with her mind. He would now have an ally. Better, an ally bound by blood.

Everything changed when she slid something over his window to the world and disappeared. The theater went dark, and Chet felt hope wither.

Hannah’s voice boomed from all corners of the theater: “Stay!”

With the temperature plummeting, Chet’s eyes darted, but the pitch-black conditions made it impossible for him to see anything. When he tried to rise, he couldn’t, as if he’d been fused to the seat.

This continued for what seemed a long time—the theater growing colder, the darkness turning darker. Eerie silence fell over everything. Chet opened his mouth and screamed, but no sound registered.

Just when Chet felt certain his existence—or lack thereof—would remain this way forever, a spark ignited beside him. The tip of a cigarette plunked into a newborn flame, then glowed orange as ghostly smoke swirled upward. The billowy plumes formed an azure halo of dim light around the man who sat next to Chet. Although the man looked very familiar, Chet couldn’t place him.

“Hello, son,” said the man. “It’s been a long time.”

“Who…who are you?”

“Oh, Chet, you were always such a forgetful boy. Don’t you recognize your own father?”

“No. Ray Mitchell was my father.”

The man laughed, then poked Chet’s head with his finger. “Earth to Major Tom,” he shouted. “You’re pretty fucked up in there, Major Tom.” His laughing intensified.

“Stop fucking with me,” Chet growled. “If you’re going to kill me, do it. Get it over with.”

“No, no,” said the man. “I have something much better in store for you. I’m going to make you remember.”

“I
hate
remembering.”

“Yeah, most kids hate shit they suck at.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Like I told you, Chet, I’m your father.” The man sucked deeply from his cigarette; when he exhaled, the resulting smoke expanded impossibly far, washing the theater in ghost light. The man stood and spun in circles, gesturing to the seats around him like a showman, then said, “Welcome to the Theater of the Lost.”

PART TWO: THEATER OF THE LOST

CHAPTER 14

“You don’t remember this place at all, do you?” the man said, a look of confusion sweeping his face. “I knew they did a number on you, but I never expected you’d forget
this
place.”

“This is
my
place, where I come when I take an object’s form,” Chet said.

The man grinned. “Object shifter, eh? Holy shit, I knew you’d become something special, but I never thought my own boy would become so powerful, particularly left in the care of normals.”

“What is this place?” Chet asked.

“This was our home,” the man said, pointing upward. “We lived in the apartment above the theater, and we made our money showing second-run flicks. Place was in the bad part of town, the ghetto, but we did okay…for a while.”

Chet pushed himself up, glad to find he was no longer united with the chair. He strolled up the center aisle, looking for anything that jarred his memory. Soiled carpet. A few broken seats. Nothing inspired remembrance. He turned and glared at the man, who slowly approached up the aisle as Chet shook his head.

“You don’t believe me,” the man said.

“I’ve been through hell,” Chet said. “I’m in trouble, and I think my daughter just betrayed me. I can’t trust anyone right now.”

“Our kind is no stranger to trouble, son,” the man said. “Embrace it, because that trouble of yours is what brought us together. You will have one chance to put things right, but first you must remember.” The man gestured to an aisle seat. “Please sit,” he said, “you need to see something.”

Chet didn’t take orders from anyone, and he wasn’t going to start with this crazy man who claimed to be his father. “If it’s all right with you,” he said, “I’ll stand.”

“Suit yourself.” The man plunked into one of the seats, then squinted back at the projection booth. “Agnes,” he called.

The booth’s filthy window slid open, and a meek female voice replied: “Yes.”

“Would you please be a dear and run the reel for us?”

The window snapped shut, followed by the clicking whir of an old projector.

“It’s not much,” the man said, “but it’s the only reel they didn’t take from me when they came and took you. This is all I have.”

The theater darkened, and the screen was filled with home movies. A young boy was running around the theater. He dashed behind a seat, then peeked out playfully.

The youngest representation Chet had ever seen of himself in a photograph was six or seven.
Why did I never question that?
But now, he was sure, he was seeing himself no more than five.

“Maybe you’d like to sit now?” the man said.

Chet lowered himself slowly, his eyes never leaving the screen.

The boy was pointing at something off camera, smiling like all children do when excited, then he took off running, the jogging camera following him into a dark corner of the theater. The boy kneeled and cupped something from the floor in his hands. He spun his beaming face back to the lens and opened his hands, revealing a cockroach.

Dumb kid looks like he just found money, Chet thought.

The boy’s thoughtful attention was drawn to someone out of frame. Nodding, he seemed intent on whatever instruction he received. Then he turned back to the twitching bug in his hand. A moment of hesitation, then the boy jammed the roach into his mouth and chewed. The boy’s expression of fear quickly became joy as he was overcome by fits of giggles, yellow viscera running down his chin.

“That was the moment you were imprinted,” the man said.

“Imprinted?”

“An important moment for a shifter, son. If the shadows had found this film, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

A fast cut took Chet away from the disgusting scene. White letters on a black director board read:

JULY 9, 1978

SHIFTING EXERCISES

SUBJECT: CHET TREMBLAY

“Tremblay?” Chet said.

“That’s you,” the man said. “Your
real
name.”

The boy squeezed his eyes shut, like he was constipated. For a moment, he took off-camera direction, nodded thoughtfully, then a hand entered the frame, holding a frightened mouse out for his inspection. The rodent’s nose twitched as its head rapidly darted around. Chet was fearful his younger self would soon make a meal of the mouse, but that didn’t happen. Instead, the boy closed his eyes again, and his pained, need-to-shit appearance returned.

“You’re learning how to become things other than your imprint form,” the man said. “These things require study, but the imprint is always at your disposal.”

“Why a roach?”

“Because cockroaches are hard fuckers to kill.” The man laughed.

The boy became shapeless, then the quavering gray blob he’d been reduced to started shrinking. When the camera found the boy again, he was no longer a boy. He had become a white mouse. The cameraman’s hand placed the real mouse next to the imposter. The two sniffed each other, then turned in opposite directions.

The screen went white for a moment, then the projector noise died as ghostly blue light filled the theater.

While the evidence was compelling, Chet was no sucker. This place wasn’t the real world. It was magic. And where magic abounded, there was almost always illusion.

The man, who had been sitting two rows in front of Chet, stood and turned. “You think I’m trying to trick you,” he said, as if he’d read Chet’s mind. “It’s right for you to be suspicious.” He motioned to the blank screen. “After all, this place has shown you its share of lies.”

“This is the Theater of Truth,” Chet said. “This place showed me my parents’ secrets, revealed the depth of their cruelty. It let me know I was alone in the world, just as I was always alone here.”

“What about now? Are you alone now?” the man asked.

“I don’t fucking know. I’m probably just losing my mind.”

“Let me ask, Chet, do you believe everything you see on TV?”

“Of course not, but what does that have to do with anything?”

The man jabbed a finger toward the screen. “But as long as you’re alone in here, you believe everything up there, is that it?”

“This place set me free, you freak!”

The man laughed. “How odd of you. Here you sit, in a prison of your own design, a mere replica of a lost home you’ve forgotten, and you think these confines set you free.”

“Who are you?” Chet asked. “You’re not my father.”

The man nodded, then extended his arms wide. “Trust me, this is what your father looked like, before he was taken down by the thugs who dragged you away. So you’re right, I’m not your father. But Anthony Tremblay, one of the last of his kind,
was
.”

“Then who the hell are
you
?” Chet demanded.

With that, the man rapidly changed from form to form, never staying one for more than a second. Ray Mitchell shifted into Phillip Wise shifted into Hannah shifted into Tina shifted into Molly Mitchell shifted into…

“I’m everyone,” the thing said, still changing, “and I’m no one. I can be any person you’ve ever known, and everything you’ve ever lost. This is where you keep me, Chet. Good times. Bad times. You didn’t discriminate, and you never had much room in your head for nostalgia.”

The shifting stopped, the thing freezing on a countenance Chet didn’t recognize. A kind-looking woman. Short blonde hair, oceanic eyes. She reminded him of Hannah—the point of her chin, the curve of her cheekbones—but she was older.

“I’m Agnes,” she said softly. “Your real mother.”

“Nothing is real here,” he snarled.

“Memories
are
real,” she countered. “Even those one forsakes.” She stepped into the aisle and glided toward him. The image of simplicity in her house dress. Stunning. Without a trace of makeup, this was a natural beauty. Grace in motion.

Chet felt himself soften as she neared. Although he had never cried before, tears unaccountably stung his eyes.

“Your father,” she said, “didn’t show you everything. How could he? He was so much like you, I’m afraid. So very forgetful. And he could sometimes be so very cruel.”

“Maybe you are real,” he whispered, reaching out to touch her face. His hand passed through her.

“Once upon a time,” she said, “I was real. Do you remember?”

Staring into her eyes, he saw a reflection of himself as a child.

Concentrate
, he heard her say, although her mouth didn’t move.
No more turning away.

No more turning away…

* * *

He stands in a graveyard, Agnes at his side, holding his hand. He’s young again, his legs wobbling as he struggles to maintain balance on the jagged, rock-choked earth. Her hand tightens around his, steadying him, and he smiles up at her.

“This is where we bury the lost,” she says.

All the markers here are crude, fashioned from sticks and twine, and none are uniform or made to resemble crosses.

He remembers this place. This is where she brings him often, where she tells him about the past. And he remembers her. She’s good to him, feeds him, reads him exciting stories before bed.

She’s gentle.

She’s Mother.

“Our kind,” she says, leading him down a rocky path, “were once a species like any other, struggling day by day, using our inherent skills to survive. Now, I’m afraid, we are an endangered species.”

“Where did we come from?” he asks.

“No one knows for sure. Legend says we rose from the oceans, and that could be true, but it hardly grants us grace. All living things, after all, were birthed from water.”

For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say, then a flash of knowledge hits him. “Father says we’re special.”

She stops and looks down, but he doesn’t follow her gaze. “Your father was a scared man,” she drones, “but look.” She points at an uninspiring grave marker—sticks crisscrossing in no apparent pattern. “This is where he lies.” Then she turns her severe eyes on Chet.

“All of us,” she says, “are the same in the end.”

A network of dried flowers lies beside his father’s resting place. Another marker, but this one more dignified, more graceful…like Mother. Looking up at her, he knows she’s already gone, and this is where she sleeps forever in the real world. Tears cloud his gaze.

“You and Hannah are the last of our kind,” she says.

In his mind, past and present collide. He considers how little he’s done to protect Hannah, to cultivate her talents. If only he’d known the things he’s now remembering—

“No,” Mother corrects. “You
chose
to lose all this. When you found the theater, you found a place to hide your past.”

“But why?” he asks. “Why would I
want
to forget?”

“You were young, in pain, in a strange new place you didn’t understand. You were offered love, but it came from the hands and hearts of the kind who robbed you of your heritage.”

“Ray and Molly Mitchell,” he says.

“Yes, but they’re not to blame. To them, you were only a troubled boy they wanted desperately to help. To you, they might as well have pulled the trigger that stilled my heart. Don’t get me wrong, they helped you forget, but they thought they were offering kindness. They didn’t know the truth.”

“Ray Mitchell beat me!”

“No, he didn’t, but your real father took the belt to you plenty. It’s all too easy for a young boy to mix his memories, and even easier to carry those lies into adulthood. Your special place told you what you wanted to believe, but Hannah changed that for you. She turned this place into something else.”

Chet casts his gaze back to his parents’ graves, then scans the rest of the yard. “Why are your markers so simple compared to the others?”

“You should know, dear, you placed them here yourself.”

He closes his eyes and…

…sees himself twisting twigs and flowers together, doing his best to give his parents a proper tribute, all the while fearful that the bad men who brought him here for this grim farewell are still planning to kill him, too. Somehow, he has convinced his enemies he’s not a shifter, but he doesn’t know how much longer he can protect the truth.

Shaking off the memory, he asks, “How long do I have to stay here?”

“I don’t know,” she says, “but I’ll stay with you until it’s time to go. I’ll protect you from the shadows this time, I promise.”

“No more turning away,” he says.

With a nod, she says, “That’s right, baby. No more turning away.”