Shadow of the Past by Thacher Cleveland Read Free Book Online Page A

whatever it was that
had been moving around up here but there was nothing. Not even the
kung fu mayhem was making its way up the steps.
    “Hello?” he called again, his voice
bouncing around him.
    There was a flutter out of the corner
of his eye, near the kitchen. As he turned to look a breath of air
washed over him, carrying a thick odor of smoke as if it had just
blown out a thousand candles. He wrinkled his nose as he peered
around in the dark, not wanting to leave the little island of light
from downstairs.
    There it was again, a flutter of
something in the deep blackness of the kitchen. He stepped forward,
and then the dark exploded towards him like black smoke. He stepped
back, trying to get into the light, but the shape was on him in a
second, enveloping him and filling his nostrils with the scent of
ash and fire. His stumbled back, waving one arm behind him to find
the wall and the other in front of his face. The darkness was so
absolute that he couldn’t even see his own flailing limb in front
of him.
    All he could see were two lights
flickering in the distance. They bobbed slightly, getting bigger,
and then he realized they were eyes.
    He turned to run but then realized he
was inches away from the top of the stairs. He pinwheeled his arms,
frantically trying keep from toppling forward. Stretched out,
trying to keep his balance, he realized the stairway had changed,
become old and wooden. This wasn’t Clara’s anymore, and the light
from downstairs didn’t come from a kung fu movie, but flickered
like an open flame. Smoke wafted up at him, carrying with it a
heavier smell of something burning like a rancid
barbecue.
    Mark heard the low whistle of a
familiar tune and when he turned the flaming pair of eyes towered
over him.
    “Come on-a my house, my house . . .” a
voice whispered through the darkness.
    There was a flash of silver, a
brilliant contrast to the darkness, and then he was tumbling
backwards down the stairs.
     

Chapter Six
     
    “What the hell was that?” Christine
said, jumping to her feet. Steve and Clara raced behind the curtain
where the racket had come from and when she squeezed past them she
could see Mark sprawled out at the base of the stairs, staring up
at them in bewildered panic.
    “What, are you taking up
stair-sledding?” Steve asked.
    “Are you okay?” Clara said, elbowing
Steve out of the way.
    “Yeah, I just remember--” Mark
scrambled to his feet. “Upstairs! There was . . . something.
Someone, I think.”
    “What?” Clara said, reaching over and
turning on the stairwell light.
    “But . . .” Mark said,
taking a hesitant step up the empty, well-lit, non-life threatening
stairway. “I heard something. I went up there and it was totally
dark, and then--” Mark eyes met Christine’s, and he could see the
“He is strange and not one of us” look everyone eventually caught
around him. Now she’s getting a taste of
the real Mark Watson.
    “It was nothing,” he said, giving the
stairs a second glance. “I must have . . . I dunno, slipped. No big
deal.
    “And here I thought
we weren’t gonna
watch The Thing ,”
Steve said.
    “Are you sure?” Clara said, elbowing
Steve.
    “Yeah,” Mark said, his color coming
back. “Sure. It was probably the wind or a curtain or something,
and I just lost my footing coming down the steps. I’m fine,
really.”
    “We should check, just to be
sure.”
    “Clara, it’s nothing,” Mark
said.
    “If it’s nothing then nothing is what
we’ll see,” Clara said, heading up the steps. Mark darted after her
as fast as he could, Steve and Christine trailing behind
them.
    The upstairs door was open and all four
of them crowded into the doorway, peering into the living room.
“Mark?” Clara asked, but he just opened his mouth and then closed
it.
    One of the small lamps on the sofa
end-table was lit, and down the hall there was a dim light coming
from the back of the apartment. The kitchen was dim but not
impenetrably black, lit by