Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz (39 page)

All these events the Black Water regarded with infinite, detached
patience from exile within its spinning tomb, these and millions
more, until at last, the time of Walter Coombs, when the latest apes
launched their steel seeds against the moon and bored into her,
sinking their roots deep.

But in so doing, they freed the Black Water, and now the Black Water
had returned to their ancestral cradle, using eons of observed
knowledge to remake the planet once more.

Already the fungus that obscured the planet’s wealth of
silicates was being choked off and killed. The Black Water expected a
certain paltry, tedious resistance from parasitical humanity. Yet it
derived no enjoyment from genocide, and saw no real use in the human
body it was possessing, except to further its greater cause, that of
extermination.

It already encircled the planet entirely, its own body blocking the
solar radiation that had given birth to and nurtured the weird
monstrosities that covered it. It would continue to precipitate
itself, to soak the earth and poison the fragile organic matter that
coated it as a farmer must eliminate colonies of troublesome aphids
from his crop with clouds of pesticide.

All these things Walter Coombs learned as he died.

The thing that walked haltingly into Sergeant Timms’ office the
next morning and settled into the chair across from the desk was not
properly Walter Coombs. It retained his appearance, and enough of the
memories it had shared in passing to don the hood of its hazmat suit,
lest the black liquid that filled its human eyes and seeped from its
gummy lips alarm the jittery sergeant.

It was not Walter Coombs that failed to respond to Timms’
tearful, besotted confession that he had gunned down Sergeant Mackey,
and what felt like half the population of Lawton, that he had enjoyed
it at first, that it had been like
over there
, kicking in
doors and asses. Or a zombie movie. It was not Walter Coombs’
sympathetic ear that listened to Timms as he rambled on about the
black geysers aflame in desert oil fields on the other side of the
earth, and the muddy spatter, the tar that covered every man that
walked through that hell and how the people of Lawton reminded him of
them with their black eyes and mouths full of the same black slime.

It was not Walter Coombs that lifted the mask of the hazmat suit when
Timms held out the near empty bottle and asked him how he’d
slept.

But it was the Black Water that commanded Walter Coombs’ hand
to reach out and grip Timms’ wrist, causing the bottle to smash
on the desk. It was the Black Water that opened Walter Coombs’
mouth as shock just began to register on Sergeant Timms’ face,
and it was the Black Water that spewed from Walter Coombs’
mouth through the parted lips of Timms.

And when Sergeant Timms tumbled backwards, gurgling over the office
chair and crashed to the floor, it was not Timms who rose again and
accompanied the body of Walter Coombs out the door as, overhead, the
night sky began to drip a black bounty once more.

The law of gravity stated what went up must also come down. But the
night had fallen.

And the reverse did not apply.

The man was short, stubby in appearance with a receding hairline. His
waist showed the results of fast foods and unhealthy eating habits of
a middle-aged, semi-active human. He sat, pushed deep into the
comfortable cushiony chair, pressing the palms of his hands together
and squeezing his fingers in a wringing motion, unconsciously
attempting to rid himself of anxiety, nervousness ... fear.

Doctor Maria Dobbs observed his actions from her chair behind the
desk opposite Benedict Arnold, a man whose problems, she thought,
began when he realized the cruel sense of patriotic humor his parents
possessed.

“Both of your parents are deceased, Mister Arnold?” she
asked, pen atop her notepad ready to scribble undecipherable
observations.

His head bobbed slowly up and down. “Yes.”

“And how did they pass?”

Benedict looked at her. Their eyes met. He searched for the concern
of a doctor, the affection of a friend, the passion of a woman, but
found the curious glare of a skeptic.

“Same as the others,” he murmured.

Doctor Dobbs smirked, placing the pen and notepad onto the desk
blotter. She folded her hands and silently looked at Benedict as he
lowered his head once again in what she thought,
Defeat, anger,
pity, loss of self-esteem, perhaps emotional weakness, or was
Benedict a paranoid schizophrenic?

There certainly was evidence of an existing psycho physiological
disorder. She was leaning towards drug abuse as a simple cause of his
malady, although he showed no physical signs of it,
He does
possess an erratic eating routine, which may contribute to a high
stress level, therefore producing a conversion into a psychological
dilemma. He had to be hallucinating … his shadow killing
people?

She grinned to herself, then asked, “Can you begin again,
Mister Arnold?”

He lifted his face with an expression of contempt towards repeating
his history once more.

Doctor Dobbs noticed. “I meant to say, can you proceed from the
night you were watching television. I believe it was
The David
Letterman Show
.”

She reached for the pen and notebook, crossed her legs, and then
settled back into her ergonomic leather chair. Doctor Dobbs realized
most patients needed prodding to help them discuss whatever caused
their disturbing actions or unwanted visions. Benedict was no
different, fearing to raise his eyes very long, glancing around the
room, or at anyone. From his file and diagnosis by other clinicians,
Arnold was afraid seeing his shadow would bring death to someone,
especially someone he disliked, or who upset him in some way.

A curious fellow
, she thought,
afraid of his own shadow
.

She tapped the pen against the bridge of her nose waiting for him to
begin,

“Yes, the Letterman Show,” he sighed heavily, still
looking towards his knees. “As Paul Schaffer began intro music
for some obscure actor seeking affection from the audience, I heard
loud thunder, right overhead. Then, as Letterman stuck his hand out
to greet the celebrity, the television blinked, popped, and fizzled
out.

“It seemed just a mere second or two until power came back on.
The television sparked to life, showing a test pattern on the screen.
My watch showed it was five-thirty in the morning. I had fallen
asleep for six hours.”

“You fell asleep exactly the same moment the television lost
power?” Doctor Dobbs questioned.

He nodded.

“Go on, Benedict,” she said.

“Please … Ben,” he almost whispered.

She smiled, understanding his desire for a shorter version of the
name. She considered approaching the name subject at another session;
especially questioning why he had not changed it. For now he was
distraught enough without adding fuel to his emotional bonfire. He
continued without further prodding.

“I sat in front of the test pattern for a while. I was tired,
feeling like I was up all night and not rested. From the corner of my
eye, I caught the movement of a shadow. I assumed it was a bird
flying past the window or a mouse running along the woodwork.”

He stopped there and his head lowered further, placing his chin onto
his chest.

“What was it?” Dobbs hoped to continue his open dialogue
without searching and pulling answers from him.

“I don’t know. It disappeared, but I felt something, or
someone, in the room.”

“One of your parents, perhaps?” she wondered.

“No. I asked them, but they had been asleep. I explained what
happened and father laughed, explaining it might have been a Double
Walker.”

“Excuse me, Ben, a what?” Dobbs said, leaning forward.

“Doppelganger.”

Doctor Dobbs nodded and made some notations. She tried to appear
aloof at what she just heard.

Doppelganger.

With that word, Benedict had brought other areas of expertise into
play: parapsychology and mythology.

“German, meaning a mythological phantom, quite an interesting
choice of words depicting a simple shadow,” she said with a
grin.

“It means the same in any language, Doctor Dobbs,” he
pointed out almost belligerently. “My double, my shadow, a
spirit, phantom, demon … whatever you wish to call it.”

She looked at the top of his head as he still gazed down. His
thinning hair was brushed back in an attempt to cover a widening bald
spot at the crown of his scalp.

“Why won’t you raise your head?”

“I am afraid to see it.”

“Why is that, Ben?” she asked.

“It is not a good thing. I-I cannot control it.”

“But it’s just your shadow. It moves with you, stops with
you … how can a shape which mimics your own movement, a shape
without substance, harm anyone?” Dobbs wondered.

Ben shook his head, laughing softly, almost crying. He wrung his
hands harder, his head lowering further still, almost tucking his
face between his knees in a bent position.

“You don’t understand. No one understands. They all think
I am crazy. How can a shadow hurt anyone? I’ll tell you how!”
Benedict’s voice grew loud with frustration. “It is not a
shadow but my exact duplicate. It has killed without warning and
without my approval. It will again, I assure you. It will kill anyone
who upsets me, or him, and I cannot control it, damn it!”

He slammed his fist onto the armrest, then raised his face long
enough to present his angered expression to Dobbs before lowering his
chin back to his chest.

Doctor Dobbs watched amazed while thoughts raced through a crammed
mind laden with professional opinions and phobias, disorders,
treatments, and medications. They clicked through her thought
process, mentally examining the probability of the Double Walker’s
existence.

“This shadow murdered your parents?” She carefully asked,
knowing she had entered a sensitive area and needed to understand his
every word. Not for the Attorney General’s office, but for the
course of treatment she must follow with Benedict Arnold, serial
murderer by means of insanity.

Thank God for doctor-client privilege because there’s no way
I could explain how this man killed anyone with a shadow.

Arnold remained silent for a moment, contemplating his answer, for
this was where others had shown misjudgment of his sanity.

“The Double Walker broke their necks,” he replied softly.

“It wasn’t you, Ben?” she asked.

“I told you it wasn’t.”

“You can raise your head. We are alone in my office,” she
added.

“No … we are not alone.”

For some reason, Doctor Dobbs felt an icy chill run along her spine,
raising the hair on the nape of her neck. She scanned the comfortably
lit office for his shadow, her shadow, any shadow.

“I see no one, nothing, no shadows,” she replied.

“I can see him.”

“I understand,” she answered, nodding her head as images
of Jimmy Stewart and his invisible rabbit, Harvey, danced across her
mind. She grinned.

“Okay, Mister Arnold. I am going to schedule another visit. I’d
like to talk more and prescribe medication for—”

“Psychosomatic disorder,” he stated.

“Why, yes,” she said, surprised of his self-diagnosis.
“That is what I feel is the root of your images and visions of
this apparition you say has murdered people. I think perhaps the
lightning that struck your home has brought emotional turmoil to your
senses, causing—”

“Just like the others,” Benedict interrupted.

He lifted his head and brought his eyes directly to hers. “It’s
amazing, doctor, just how little faith some have in others. How
quickly someone’s problem appears illogical, unbelievable,
therefore they must be lying … or insane.”

Arnold stood. His short frame tired, weak, in need of rest. She
watched him step toward the door. “I’ve heard all the
diagnoses before, yet thought I could convince you of the truth. You
seemed different. Sorry I wasted your time.”

“Mister Arnold, please, we can discuss—”

The door closed quietly behind him, shutting out her words. Doctor
Dobbs looked at the closed door for a moment, then buzzed her
secretary.

“Ruth?”

“Yes, Doctor Dobbs?”

“Has, Mister Arnold left?”

“Yes, he has just stepped into the elevator. Shall I find him?”
Ruth questioned.

“No … it’s all right.”

Doctor Dobbs returned to her notebook wondering about Arnold’s
case, his emotional turmoil, and the deaths of his parents.
I
should alert the authorities …

She picked up the telephone, dialed the police, and sat back
listening to the ring at the other end. The icy sensation that raced
along her spine earlier returned, followed by the pressure of
powerful, stubby fingers on her neck, gently looping around her
throat.

She tried to stand, tried to yell, but the strong hands squeezed,
then quickly twisted. Doctor Dobbs heard the crunch of bones breaking
and witnessed a shadowy hand replace the phone onto the cradle as her
vision weakened.

“He told you not to upset me,” a voice whispered the last
words she would hear before her eyes closed.

The noise is constant, insistent; relentless: the loud thrum of the
gas-driven generator, the soft hum of the high power fluorescent
lamps illuminating the compound, and the sharp scraping of claws on
corrugated iron. The noise never stops. It attacks my mind as I try
to sleep and gnaws at the remnants of my spirit. It’s driving
me crazy.

I’m sure I am not alone. The disappearance of the sun has been
devastating for everybody, ripping the joy out of the compound and
replacing it with suffering as we prolong the inevitable. There are
times when I suddenly regain a semblance of consciousness, finding my
finger resting on the generator’s kill switch. A single muscle
spasm is all it would take to plunge the compound into darkness and
deliver my community the peace it deserves.