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The Shadow of My Sin

It’s still there, the shadow. It sits in the corner of a small psychologist’s office, out of place, not cast by any object in the room. About five feet from where I now sit, trying desperately to ignore it, it lays inert, challenging me to acknowledge it. I try my best to refocus on the man in front of me. He asks me a question.

“When did you start seeing these... apparitions?”

I can feel his eyes judging me as my gaze darts repeatedly to the shadow’s corner.

“I suppose I started seeing them around the time my parents were...murdered.” I considered lying, but there would be no point. He came into this conversation expecting something wrong with me, and as such, he will find it regardless of what I say or do.

“I see.” He scribbles on his notepad. “Can you please describe the last time you saw one of these apparitions?”

My eyes dart once again to the corner; still it sits, unmoving, unchanged. For a brief moment I consider telling him, telling him that it is right there in the corner. I don’t. “It was sometime last week. When that convenience store was robbed.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“I was there when it happened. I was pumping gas on my way back from work when I saw the thief enter. The...shadow was attached to him.”

“What exactly did the shadow look like?”

The urge to point it out resurfaces with a vengeance. I almost do, but no matter how obvious they are, people never notice them.

“Like a black cloud pressed against his back, but it looked... more liquid than gas... but more solid than liquid. From that black cloud, flowed tendrils that wrapped around his arms, legs, and curved around his head to his face.

It is not a good description; it fails to capture the paralyzing terror that these shadows inspire.

“I see… Did the thief acknowledge this...shadow?”

“No”

The psychologist checks his watch.“Well, Mr. Phillips.” Thank god, I need to get out of here. “Our time together is up. This was a very enlightening discussion. Are you taking your prescribed anti-psychotic?”

“Yes,” I lie.

“Good, I look forward to continuing this discussion next week.”

I shift forward in my seat preparing to rise when I catch motion out of the corner of my eye. The shadow. I tense up as terror shoots through me, paralyzing me, forcing me to watch. It slowly slides directly upwards. it stops just below the ceiling. It hovers, for an instant, in the corner before drifting...no flowing, to the center of the room. The shadow hangs there for just a moment. Then it extends threads of liquid shadow toward the psychologist in an undulating, motion. He doesn’t notice it, of course; no one ever notices them. The appendages reach his shoulders and gently wrap themselves around his arms. It appears as a loving gesture; tender and slow. As it winds its way around his arms, I notice it swaddling his legs in the same manner. The shadow flows down from the ceiling, settling just above the psychologist’s head. Three more appendages ooze from the shadow and flow up into the psychologist’s mouth and nose. His entire body briefly convulses then relaxes.

“Sorry I must have dozed off there for a second. Did you say something?”

I merely stare at him for a moment; unable to move. It is still there, and It will never leave him as long as he...lives. I think it suspects. Suspects that I see it. This is why it asks me this question; to see if I will mention it. I will not...I cannot let it know that I see it. By degrees, I feel myself reassert control over my body. I get up from the chair, stare resolutely at my phone and mutter, “I said nothing.” I walk out of the room perhaps a little faster than is natural, but I need to get out of there.

The drive home feels long and arduous. This was the third psychologist I had seen lose to the shadows. I am beginning to speculate that this may not be a coincidence, and I cannot shake the feeling that I am being targeted. I glance around reflexively. Paranoia. One of many words psychologists like to throw around; especially in reference to me.

Upon arriving home I make a call to the psychologist’s office to cancel all future appointments. I mumble something about being unable to afford it and hang up. I make my way to the bathroom slumped over and tired, coming down from the shock of seeing yet another person succumb to the shadows. I splash my face with cold water in a vain attempt to clear my head, and look up to stare at the person in the mirror.

I can see why people think I am crazy. My long, dark, messy hair, and equally unkempt stubble certainly give that impression. Unfortunately, I am quite sane. The shadows I see could not be mere illusions conjured from the traumatic memory of my parents’ murder, because I first saw them before my parents died. Furthermore, all the drugs and therapy I have cycled through has never made any of them look any less visible.

My phone rings. I groan inwardly. This is not a discussion I am looking forward to. I pull out my phone and go to the living room to sit down. This is going to be a long talk.

“Hello?”

“Norman, why the hell did you cancel on another psychologist? Furthermore, why didn’t you consult me first?”

My brother’s straight to the point attitude was getting on my nerves today. “Hello Harry, how nice of you to call, how’s your day been?” I respond in an exaggerated cheery tone.

“Answer my question Norman.”

“What happened to pleasant conversation?” Harry does not respond. “I canceled, because I can’t afford therapy anymore.”

“Bullshit, mom and dad left you more than enough, including that house. Plus you have your job. You have plenty of money.”

“Don’t bring mom and dad into this; they controlled my life enough when they were alive,” I snap with more venom and hatred then I intended. A silence darkens our conversation. “I have my reasons, why can’t you just leave me alone. I’ll deal with this myself.”

“No, you can’t Norman, you’re sick, and I wish I could leave you alone. I really wish I could, but you’re my brother. I’d help you myself if I could, but, as your brother, referring you to my colleagues is the best I can...”

I stop listening as something out the window catches my eye. A jogger. I see her jog by my house nearly every day around this time, earbuds firmly in her ears, shutting out the world, but something is different this time. My blood freezes in my veins as I realize what I’m seeing. Another shadow.

“...aren’t even taking your anti-psychotics are you? How are you-”

“Harry, something just came up I gotta go.” I hang up.

Several things about seeing a shadow on that jogger worry me. First, I am seeing these shadows more and more often. Second, until recently, I only saw shadows on people committing crimes or other violent and selfish acts, like the gas station robber, or my… parents’ murderer. Thirdly, all of the shadowed people I have seen recently are connected to me, including all of my psychotherapists, and now the woman who jogs by my house every day. There is no doubt. This is not a coincidence. They are targeting me. They must know that I see them. I can no longer trust anyone. Not a psychologist, not my co-workers, not even my own brother. I am alone on this, protected only by my knowledge of the shadows’ existence.

It seems as though the only option is to hide. To cut my ties with everyone around me. Isolate myself. It’s a bleak prospect, but it is the only way I can feel safe again. Or...I could fight back, like I did for my parents. I could try to free these people.

I do not go to work for the next week. I hate that dull data entry job anyway. I am glad to receive the call that I am rid of it. I devote all my time to gathering information on the shadowed jogger. Where she lives, where she works, her daily schedule. Everything. If I am going to free her I need to know everything. After asking around my neighborhood and getting her name, Angell Thurston, gathering the rest of the information is surprisingly easy. Her address is, of course, the easiest. There aren’t any other Thurstons in the county, so a quick internet search summons her Facebook page providing me with a veritable treasure trove of information. Her birthdate (September 8, 1985), workplace (a local Happy Burger), address (1890 Sunderland Dr.), and phone number (555-1096) are all at my fingertips in an instant. Learning her daily schedule, on the other hand, proves to be a far more difficult endeavor. That kind of information is difficult to glean from her social media. I get a vague idea: she visits a favorite coffee shop an hour every day for lunch, and she works weekends, however this is not enough. I need something more. It seems I have no choice.

I wait at my window until I see her jog by, and then slip in step a good twenty feet behind her. It is hard to keep my eye on her. Every moment I stare at the thing attached to her is a moment of terror I must endure. It seems to bounce and shift as she runs, but in a slow, delayed, fashion; out of sync with the world around it. She jogs for about an hour, her music obliterating any possibility of noticing me. Nearing the end of the hour, much to my dismay, we return to her house. She slows to a walk as she reaches her garage and inputs a four digit code (an important year perhaps?) Using the sound of the motorized garage door to mask my movements, I dive behind the bushes in front of the house. Minutes later I hear her car start and drive off. I stay there for the rest of the day. Over the course of the week tailing Angell becomes a daily ritual. The more I follow her, the more pity I have for her, the more disgust and fear I harbour for the shadows, and the more I start to...love her. I must put that out of my mind. I must not have distracting thoughts as I… free her. Once the week is out I have all the information I need. Tonight will be the night. She will be free.

With grim purpose I enter my childhood bedroom. What I’m looking for is exactly where I remember. The dresser to the right of the window, top drawer. I unwrap it from the dark brown stained cloth: a kitchen knife.

I find myself standing in front of Angell Thurston’s house. It is 5:50, she will not be home for at least another half an hour. I check all the doors and windows. She is careful. All the doors and windows are locked. The garage door, however, is locked only by the keypad. I try her birth year, 1985. It works. Slipping under the rising garage door I find a door to the house; unlocked. I press the garage door button, and slip inside the house as the automated door slides down behind me. I am now inside her house; 6:00 only twenty more minutes. I search Angell’s house for a place to hide. I find a closet in the upstairs bedroom, her bedroom, with slatted doors. It is almost too perfect. I enter the closet and wait.

What I know to be about twenty-five minutes feels like lifetimes as I stand in the closet, waiting. A door slams, and I hear footsteps. My heart becomes audible as adrenaline shoots through me like liquid lightning. Through the slats of the closet door I see a figure. I cannot make out details, but it is feminine. It must be Angell. I hesitate. Knowing what freeing Angell means for her, for me, gives me pause. I stand here in the closet holding my breath as Angell undresses, torn between what I must do and what I want to do. I want to save her, but I also want her to live. If twenty-five minutes spent in the closet felt like lifetimes, the seconds of indecision feel like complete eternities. I explode out of the closet, knife in hand and tackle her to the ground. Taking her by surprise I find it easy to pin her...no it to the floor. It uses her body to struggle in a futile act of self preservation. A memory of my parents snaps into my head. I push it aside as I fight it. What I fight now is not Angell. It is not even human.

The struggle lasts seconds, but feels even longer than the eternities spent waiting in the closet. Finally, in its panic, it makes a mistake, an opening. In a comfortably familiar action I make cold hard steel meet soft flesh to draw warm blood. I cut a deep gash across Angell’s throat. The blood from her body drains and soaks into the carpet as I lift myself off her corpse, bloody knife still clutched in my equally bloody hand. As the shadow dissipates, the memory of life leaving my mother’s eyes resurfaces. It is gone, and will never come back.

As I stare at her corpse I feel...euphoric. It feels good. I want to revel in it, but it doesn’t last long before the feeling disappears entirely. But, I know there is much work to be done. A whole world full of people who need to be freed. There is so little time for so much work. No! This can’t be right. In a moment of sharp lucidity I look down at my hands, and arms. My blood runs cold. I see a shadowy tendril shift its grip around my arm. I feel it in my head, congratulating me on the good job I have done, urging me to continue doing its great work. I want to. I want to feel good again. I want to free the world from its bondage to life. To show the world freedom in death.

I remain staring at the corpse of Angell Thurston. The pity I felt for her swells, breaking through into my conscious mind. She did not deserve this. She was a victim of circumstance: the wrong place at the wrong time. I cannot live like this any longer. I refuse to live bound by petty instinct for self-preservation, denying the shadow of my sin. I struggle as my body resists my actions. I grasp the knife handle in both hands, and push it deep into my chest. Slowly, relentlessly, I force the blade through myself. I feel the cold steel tear a hole in my heart. Unleashing an animalistic scream of cathartic agony, I rip the knife from my chest flinging it across the room in one smooth action, splattering blood across the walls of the bedroom. The shadow on my arms dissipates and a weight, I scarcely noticed before now, lifts from my mind. I collapse onto the floor, my blood mixing with Angell’s.

I am free.