Fusion: A collection of short stories from Breakwater Harbor Books’ authors by Scott Toney
Nathan turned his head left and right, then said in a hushed tone, “Wait.”
He looked down and I did the same. At first I didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary, but when I looked at the withered grass at my feet more closely I knew it was flecked with blood. I gulped, cold fear sliding down my limbs.
“What the hell is that?” I muttered, but Nathan wasn’t in the mood to answer any of my questions today.
“Let’s go,” he just said.
The farther we followed the trail, the more blood there was.
“This is not the worst part,” Nathan said, a maniacal glint in his eyes.
“What? Are you kidding me?” I panicked.
Both of us took cautious steps forward.
“Are you sure we should go on?” I asked.
Nathan nodded without saying anything.
“What is there?” I kept firing questions.
“You’ll see.” Nathan waved at me to keep following him.
The feeling of someone watching us persisted, and I didn’t like where this was going. A low buzzing soon filled my head, with a sickly sweet smell tickling my nostrils. The trail led behind a tree, and something told me I’d better not see what was there.
We made a few more steps, and then I gagged at the most horrifying sight I’d ever seen in my life.
There in the grass, in a pool of its own blood, lay a deer, disemboweled, a swarm of flies feasting on its carcass.
The fetid odor hit my nostrils, churning my stomach. I covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve and turned away from its lackluster eyes.
“Gawd!” I moaned, taking a few steps away from the poor animal. “What the hell is this?”
Nathan backed away as well, but kept staring at it, then turned to me. “Cal, the question is what is it doing here? By the looks of it, it’s been here awhile. And all the animals left the Swamps years ago. How come this one ended up here?”
Whatever Nate was talking about, I didn’t care.
“I don’t know, man. I hope that’s all that you wanted to show me ’cos I really feel like I’m going to throw up,” I said, still covering my nose not to breathe in the putrid stench.
A stick snapped a few yards to the left of us, and the world lost the little color it had. It was the worst thing that could happen to me, my gift and my curse—the Shadow.
A dark-haired boy with a thin, pale face stood staring at me. A deep gash ran down the left side of his face, his neck bruised to a dark purple. As he wheezed fog escaped his cracked lips.
I looked around, and to my horror there was no Nathan, no animal rotting under the tree. No one except that boy.
He extended his hand to me, when of their own accord lacerations started showing on his skin. Circles, triangles and numbers came out, as if there was someone invisible hurting him. Tears beaded his dead eyes as he sobbed.
Then he opened his mouth wider and shouted, “Run!”
What made it more frightening was that he shouted in Nathan’s voice. The colors returned, together with the stench. Someone yanked me by the sleeve, dragging me away from the place.
Where the boy had been, stood a woman I’d seen once before. Mrs. Palmer. The school librarian.
Dressed in long, black clothes, she reminded me of a raven that had taken a human form and forgotten to shift back.
I knew that we’d better get the hell out of there. Raw instinct to survive spurred me to run. Nate tugged at the sleeve of my parka harder, and I let my fear claw hold of me.
We sprinted away, no longer caring about the pools of water in our way. Spray of droplets scattered in all directions as our sneakers pounded the ground. I jumped over a log of a fallen tree, and my foot stuck into the mud. I dropped onto the mossy ground, staining my jeans with green.
“Oh, crap!”
Nathan helped me up, and I tried to rub the dirt off, but only made it worse. Panting, we rushed towards the edge of the wood; trees seemed to close in on us, and I thought the wood would never end.
Finally we made it, exiting a few hundred meters away from my home.
“Holy crap! What the hell was with you?” Nathan asked, then coughed.
“I don’t know,” I said, air whooshing out of my burning lungs. “It was so weird.”
“She just appeared out of nowhere. And you stared at her without blinking. You two scared the hell out of me!” he said, taking a look back.
I looked back as well, glad to see only the skeletons of leafless trees, and no Mrs. Palmer.
“Do you want my advice, pal?” Nathan said. “Never approach that woman. She’s mental. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out it’s she who kidnapped Greg.”
Greg. Greg Thornby.
I remembered the story well. Greg Thornby had gone missing a few days before Mom, Beverly, and I arrived at Olden Cross. After a few months’ search his body hadn’t been found, and the inquiry still continued.
I’d never met the boy, but I suspected it was him standing there with his hands stretched towards me. The image still caused goosebumps all over me.
What if Nate was right, and it was Mrs. Palmer who killed Greg?
After a few minutes we slowed down a bit, still breathless and shaking. I looked a real mess, with the green stains and dirt over my jeans.
Now I’ll have to come up with something to tell my mom, I thought grimly.
My thoughts were interrupted by the voice I hated more than the sound of nails screeching against a blackboard.
“Well, well, well, little Callie’s got poo all over himself. Did you do it to him, Rushmore?”
Cheering and laughter followed the remark.
I turned around, my teeth clenched. A group of thugs were closing in on us. Stan Crosby, the boy who spoke, was in the center, flanked by four guys on either side. They made my life a living hell. During the short time I’d been in Olden Cross, he’d given me a couple of black eyes, tripped me whenever he saw me, and humiliated me in every possible way. The son of the school principal, he easily got away with it, and I didn’t feel like blabbering about every one of his pranks to my mom. Just had to live with it.
Nathan took a step towards the group. “Back off, Stan, or—”
“What? Are you going to kick me?” Stan’s group produced another round of cheering and whistling.
“I definitely will.” Nate balled his fists and took another step.
I grabbed him by the sleeve and whispered, “He isn’t worth it. You’ll only get another detention.” To my relief, Nate didn’t argue.
“Right, Rushmore, listen to the loser.” Stan folded his arms, a smug smile playing on his face. “You’re lucky we’re not in the mood to kick your sorry asses today. But we will be next time.” He turned to his cronies. “Come on, guys, let’s go.”
They rushed past us, Stan giving me a hard push with his shoulder. I tried my best not to flinch, even though the push hurt as if his shoulder was made of rock.
As their silhouettes and voices retreated into the distance, Nate and I stood watching them.
For a few minutes, I forgot about what had happened at the Swamps. Though lightning never struck twice, something told me my bad luck for the day wasn’t over yet. If bad things were bound to happen to me, today would be the day.
“Let’s go,” Nate said. “Wayne and Audrey are waiting for us.”
*
Olden Cross was a small godforsaken town, fringed for the most part by an ancient forest. The old townsfolk said it used to be a village whose first two streets formed a cross. As time passed, more people arrived here and the village turned into a small town. A few more streets appeared, but the name stuck.
The two-story cottage where my mom, sister, and I moved to belonged in a row of cottages that stood closest to the woods.
Nathan and I veered off the road, taking a turn away from my house and the forest. As the horrors of today played back in my mind, I decided to break the silence.
“Are we going to tell the guys
“Sure. We need to tell them about the animal and Mrs. Palmer. There’s something weird going on, and we’ve got to find out everything.”
He offered me a humorless smile, a sign he was being serious.
That was Nathan. Never reasonable, always dragging himself and those close to him into trouble.
“Do you think she killed that animal?” I asked.
“Definitely.” He furrowed his brow, his lips squeezed in a grim line.
I started tsking and snapping my fingers, which I knew irritated him, but at least it helped me distract myself from the haunting images of the boy in the forest.
“By the way, here they are,” Nathan said.
Wayne and Audrey. Perhaps the two people I envied most of all in the whole world. Only a year older than me, they already held hands in public, kissed at the back of our school, and did who-knew-what-other things that I, the loner of Olden Cross as I called myself, couldn’t. I’d never even had a girlfriend. For a fifteen-year-old I had way too many things wrong about me, yet this one made me probably the most miserable.
Everyone at school compared them to Romeo and Juliet, and now that I saw them holding hands I wished it was me with Audrey instead of Wayne.
“Hey, guys!” Nathan called.
I shot an uncomfortable look at Audrey, mumbling a hardly audible hello, then looked down as if in shame.
Well, did I mention I felt like a total loser when girls were around? With Audrey I was a real mess. She was special, a flawless angel with perfect auburn hair, and an aroma of peaches around her. But what chance did I have to date such a girl? Zilch.
Wayne looked us up and down, curiosity twinkling in his eyes. “Where’ve you been? Looks like you had fun today.” Both he and Audrey smiled.
“We’ve got to tell you something,” Nathan said enthusiastically, as if what we’d gone through was something enjoyable.
“Maybe you’ll tell us when we get to the Underground?” Wayne asked, smiling.
“Okay then,” Nate replied.
“Erm, sorry, guys,” I said. “I just realized … I promised Mom I’d come home early.” Though that was a lie, everyone seemed to believe it.
Nathan shrugged. “All right, man. If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”
I nodded, turned around and ran home as fast as my sprained ankle let me.
Chapter 2
Entry #15
February 12
I gave up on the idea of interfering with the Shadows. It’s no use. Every time something stops me: either I get a detention on the day I know someone will die, or Mom takes me and Bev to town. There’s nothing I can do. It’s as if they don’t want me to. As if they want me to stare at their agony before they die.
I can’t. I just can’t.
A strip of mauve tinted the sky where it met the horizon. It was already dusk. Days in Olden Cross were too short.
An old Ford Explorer stood next to the garage and the windows on the first floor blazed with lights. Mom and Bev had come back from town.
I hoped they wouldn’t notice my anxiety, though I could barely control my heavy breathing. I would probably have to sneak past them, then change my clothes and hide the stained jeans under my bed.
Hurrying across the yard and up the porch steps, I was glad today would soon become history.
As soon as I entered the house, a voice chimed from the kitchen, “Sissy-pants is home!”
I appreciated my sister’s sense of humor, only I wished she’d never have to exercise it on me.
“Stop it, Bev,” a defensive voice—a lower pitch but still almost the same—said with disapproval.
Mom was the only one who could make Bev shut up, and that was what I needed right now. Both came to meet me. Bev propped her shoulder against the doorframe, her pouted lips and folded arms very much the usual form of greeting me. This time she added rolling her eyes to her ‘Hate-you-Callum’ etiquette.
“What’s with your clothes?” Bev asked right away.
Only then did Mom notice. Thanks, Bev, I’ll pay you back some day!
“Is it that Crosby boy again?” Mom asked. “I promise I’ll give that ill-bred boy a dressing-down when I see him next time.”
“It’s not him, Mom. Please let it go,” I said, rushing past them towards the stairs. “I just fell off Nate’s bike, and by the way, it doesn’t hurt, thanks for asking.”
Mom’s eyes bored into me, and I did my best to stare back without blinking. As if she’d fallen for it, she said, “Okay then. Change and go wash your hands. We’re having pork roast, green beans, and creamed corn.”
Mom went back to the kitchen, leaving me and my sister alone. Bev stared at me, her lips pressed in a thin line. “And a pinch of rat poison for you, sissy-pants!” she hissed. “I know that Nathan doesn’t have a bike.”
“Bite me!” I said in a hushed tone, and sprinted up the stairs.
*
For the rest of the evening I managed to act as if nothing had happened. No carcass, no Shadow, no Mrs. Palmer.
Mom chattered excitedly about their drive to the city while I did my best to show that I was listening by inserting ‘I see’ and ‘Great’ once in a while. As soon as I finished dinner, I went back to my room and locked the door.
The clock ticked on the desk.
Moonlight flooded through the dusty windowpanes so I could see everything without switching on the lamps. Posters of Breaking Benjamin and Linkin Park hung on the walls; clothes, school books and CDs were strewn all over the place along with crumpled papers and my bag.
I limped across the room and collapsed onto my bed. My leg still hurt from the fall. I massaged my ankle, only causing it to hurt more.
In all my life, I’d never been so scared of falling asleep. I’d seen Shadows since I hit nine, but today’s Shadow sent shivers all over me.
I tried not to think about the whole thing, but the harder I tried, the easier dark thoughts crept into my head. I turned, pulling the soft blanket over myself. Doubtful protection from nightmares. How naïve I’d been to think that my life would get better if we moved to a place where nothing ever happened.
Seemed like the right place for me. Until today. I clenched my jaw tight.
Lying full-length, I stretched my hand behind the headboard where I kept my secret. My fingers scrabbled through dust and cobwebs before I finally got it. I crouched, then took a flashlight from under my bed and shone it onto the thing in my lap, whisking the dust off it. An old diary.
I had found it a few years ago among the piles of books and magazines that cluttered our basement back in Phoenix. Even though it had a few pages torn out, it pulled me to itself as if by some mysterious force. Or maybe it was because of my father’s name—Aiden Blackwell—that was written on the back page. I’d never known Dad, and every time I asked Mom about him, she usually stared at me with coldness, offering non-committal replies that had me drop the subject.
If I don’t write about the Shadow, he’ll come. The diary is the only thing that can stop the dead, I thought, and opened it to the back page. Handwritten scrawl beneath my father’s name went: Callum Blackwell. A bit lower the legend ran in smaller letters, in the hope that anyone who might come across the diary wouldn’t see it: Diary of the Gone.
Back in Phoenix I’d needed to do something—anything—to stop the Shadows, and surprisingly writing about it had worked for me. With time I’d realized writing in it gave me the calm I couldn’t get out of anything else.
I took a ballpoint pen, well chewed at the top, and turned several dog-eared pages filled with the same illegible handwriting where I used to put down all the horror I’d seen.
When I was about to jot my first word, a blast of wind rattled the windowpanes, startling me out of my wits.
Damn, what was that?
With a trembling hand, I scribbled: Entry #153, October 27.
Someone knocked on the door, and I knew they had come for me. I
Why have they come so early?
Freaked out, I focused on the diary, trying to shut off my senses.
They are here again, behind the door, trying to get in. It’s not like them. Why are they breaking the rules?
The wind whistled outside, the rattling of the windowpanes even more persistent. I bent closer to the page, scribbling frantically.
Nathan found a corpse of a deer in the forest. He showed it to me today. When we were standing there everything turned to monochrome gray, and I saw a boy not far from me. He had strange symbols appearing over his hands. I have no idea what they meant. The Shadow was different this time. So much different.
They didn’t go away. Writing about it didn’t work. Why? Whoever was behind the door started scraping its surface with nails that were definitely larger than Bev’s. I clenched my teeth and pressed my hands to my ears, but the scraping didn’t stop.
Go on writing, Callum, I told myself. Only the words didn’t come easily tonight.
The boy was looking at me. He wanted to tell me something. What does it mean? Does it mean that Greg Thornby is dead?
As if answering the question, the scraping and the wind stopped. A chill slithered over my body, my heart thumping in total silence.
“Callum,” a voice I’d never heard called, coming from inside my head. “Callum, let me in.”
I pressed myself into the corner of the bed, awaiting my doom.
Please, leave me alone, was my next line. Then the door burst open, and consciousness dimmed. Just as my mind slowly drifted into welcoming blackness, I saw a silhouette advancing on me. It wasn’t Greg. It was a girl, only I couldn’t see her face, her features blurry in the dark, her long hair streaming down to her waist.
She came close to me and laid her bony hand on my shoulder, whispering, “Thank you for setting me free.”
Chapter 3
Entry #28
May 26
I don’t know why Shadows haunt me. Why me of all people? If it’s a gift, then it’s a lousy one.