Do You Fear the Shadows?

    Danny Johnson sat at the cramped little desk, bored out of his mind.  He hated school.  He made decent grades, but didn't enjoy the hours.  At least I'm in the back.  Much rather be sleeping though... he grumbled to himself.  Eleventh grade-no, school in general-was starting to be a bore.  The English teacher, Mr. Lawrence, was droning on in his monotone voice.  The warm morning sun shined brightly from Danny's left.  He had a window seat in the class, and on warm days like this enjoyed the light breeze that cooled his skin as the sun fried his insides.  Icing the cake laced with poison... the lazily contracted double-entendre grew in his mind.  Danny smiled at the thought.  He subdued it before maniacal laughter could escape his lips.  He uttered a small, suppressed sound that sounded almost like a weak cough.
    Looking around to see if anybody had noticed, he turned to his right just to see the beautiful Cynthia Lawrence looking at him brightly.
    "Was that you?" she mouthed.
    "Yeah, I just got choked up for a sec.  I'm okay now" he mouthed back, making hand gestures to show the slight choking that sometimes happened to him.  Of course, smoking didn't help this, but he couldn't help it.  He'd been hooked since last year.  Damn seniors.  Hook me then abandon me here.  He thought bitterly.  The seniors of last year, the class of '07, had always made fun of Danny.  They were out to get him, especially the Varsity football players.  One day, as Danny was walking to wrestling, they jumped him and dragged him into the locker room, a cement-and-plastic palace where everything felt cold.  They dragged him back to the far corner of the showers and four held him down while the fifth took out a cigarette.  He lit it for Danny, and then stuck it in Danny's mouth.
    "Suck on this, queerboy.  Everyone knows you hand out blowjobs like candy."  The one with the cigarette had said.  He held it in Danny's mouth just far enough so Danny would inhale and exhale the smoke, but not enough for Danny to spit the thing out of his mouth.  Danny had been hooked ever since, and wrestling was hell this year.
    Now Cynthia Lawrence was staring at him, a funny look on her face.  Concern.  He thought, a wave of excitement splashing through him.  His head lightened a bit-it was already light enough, with the boredom and lack of anything else to do-and he felt woozy.  Danny, a six foot three kid, had longish jet-black hair and striking yellow eyes.  His hair, when he rolled it across his head, had the effect that some referred to as the 'emo flip.'  It hung down in front of one eye and people told him he cut and that he sucked the root constantly.  He was about average size, which meant he was skinny but not deathly thin, and had little muscle in his body.  He was by no means big but this desk got smaller every second.  Stupid desk.  Stupid school.  If someone died it would be more interesting here. He thought.
    Suddenly, there was a change in the stifling air.  An ominous feeling sank into him.  The change was instant, shocking.  It left Danny gasping for air.  He tried to hide his choked breathing and suppressed the coughing.  Mr. Lawrence glanced at him suspiciously, and then got back to his lecture.  Danny tried to clear the shockwaves from his brain.  He managed to calm the waves, and looked down at his desk, his cheek reddening.
    His eyes trailed to his right side again, following his own shadow to Cynthia's feet, up her beautiful, tanned legs.  She was wearing tight Hollister's with pre-cut holes in the knees and halfway up one thigh.  His eyes trailed up her thin form, her dark hoody hanging loosely from her small frame.  He could almost see the bra, inside the shirt, inside the hoody, and his heart fluttered for a second.  Then his eyes moved up to her face.  Her perfect, beautiful face.  He thought.  She had a cute, small nose.  Her eyes were brown, but they shone like stars.  Her hair was blood red and her bangs hung down over one eye.  Suddenly, she turned and looked directly into his eyes.  Danny's face burned hotter than the sun and his heart started to pound in his ears.  He liked Cynthia, and noticed that she might have taken an interest in him.  Asking for her number was his next move.  He opened his notebook-a first in three weeks-and wrote, Cynthia, I really like you.  Can...can I have your number?  Maybe we can hang out sometime?
    He was planning to give the note to her after class.  His heart pounded almost painfully in his ears now, blocking out Mr. Lawrence's lecture completely.  He could almost see himself, sitting there hunched over in the small little desk, his eyes shining and his face beet-red.  The sight was comical.  Danny's mind relaxed and his heart calmed.  The eye of the storm, no doubt.  When I look into her eyes as I give her the note, everything will turn upside-down again.  Danny couldn't wait for that moment.  He stole a glance at her figure again, and his heart filled with joy.  Another emotion also came: lust.  He wanted her as a convict wants freedom.  He figured the physical attraction might take over, but he didn't care at that moment.
    Danny actually started to listen to the lecture-with fifteen minutes left, no doubt-and found that it was about poetry.  He listened as Mr. Lawrence explained the difference between a sonnet and a couplet.  Danny's eyes started to close.  The warmth was welcoming now, fitting his skin like a blanket.  Rational thought left him.  Couplets, sonnets, fuck it.  He was starting to slip into a dream where he and Cynthia were isolated on a beach, when a sharp, short bark woke him.  Mr. Lawrence was looking directly at Danny, his eyes narrowed almost to slits.
    "Mr. Johnson, would you like to give an example of a sonnet to the class?" Mr. Lawrence asked dangerously.
    "Uh...Um...Sonnet...14?  No, Sonnet 13."  Danny guessed.
    "Yes, I suppose you dodged the bullet there.  Can you recite said sonnet?"  Mr. Lawrence tested.
    "No sir, I can't."  Danny resigned.
    "Let me cite it for you, then, and pay attention!
   
    'O, that you were yourself!  but, love, you are
    No longer yours than you yourself here life:
    Against this coming end you should prepare,
    And your sweet semblance to some other give.
    So should that beauty which you hold in lease
    Find no determination; then you were
    Yourself again after yourself's decease,
    When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear
    Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
    Which husbandry in honour might uphold
    Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
    And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
    O, none but unthrifts!  Dear my love, you know
    You had a father: let your son say so.'
   
    'How do you like that, Mr. Johnson?  William Shakespeare wrote a total of 154 sonnets in his lifetime, and many plays and poems."  Mr. Lawrence said, a proud air in his voice.
    "Sound's like someone's got time on their hands." Danny retorted quietly.  He saw Cynthia giggle quietly from the corner of his eye.
    "What was that, young man?"  Mr. Lawrence's face was turning red.
    Danny rebuked.  "I said, sounds like we have a really talented poet on our hands, this Shakespeare guy."  Danny told him hastily.
    "Better be what you said, punk." Mr. Lawrence grumbled.  He returned to his lecture, and Danny breathed a sigh of relief.  Dodge a bullet and scored a laugh.  Danny thought, stealing a glance at Cynthia.  The ominous, creepy feeling was still there, but Danny had gotten used to it.  He didn't like it, by any means, but he didn't try to fight it.  It was one of those things you don't particularly enjoy but live with just the same.
    Danny suddenly looked at the clock.  It was 10:05.  There were ten minutes left in class.  Danny felt a longing to get away from the stuffy room, to find some shade to hide from the heat.  His skin started to crawl, burning under the light of the sun.  His desk grew very uncomfortable, the back of the small chair digging into his spine, the hard seat rubbing against his butt-bone, and the desk itself cutting off his breathing.  The air was stifling, heavy.  It was as if someone had laid an invisible iron curtain in the air, pressing down and up and every which way against Danny's body.  Danny felt a quick, sharp sense of vertigo as the world turned in his eyes.  He blinked once, twice, trying to rid himself of the feeling of falling.
    Then the floor came up to Danny's face very quickly, and he uttered a slight "oomph" as the other students laughed and Mr. Lawrence continued as if nothing had happened.  Danny shot back up to his seat, embarrassed and laughing at the same time.  Cynthia was laughing, a pitying look on her face.
    "Are you okay?" She mouthed, more concern on her face this time.
    Danny held an embarrassed thumb up in the air and continued watching Mr. Lawrence's mouth move, watching the slowness with which his tongue formed the words.  For a moment, Danny was amazed with the man's entire movement cycle.  His dark, tanned arms moving as slowly as his mouth, exaggerating every word he spoke.  Mr. Lawrence was a tall man, even in his sixties.  At six-foot six, he was the tallest teacher (not counting freshman gym, of course, Mr. Pennebaker was a towering seven feet tall) that Danny had ever had.  Mr. Lawrence's head was that of the typical sixty-three year old man: bald on top with short white-grey hairs sticking out to the sides and in the back.  His eyes were brown-obviously the same brown that his granddaughter had inherited-and his nose was rather large.  It stuck out on his face as a pimple on a teenager's.  His body structure was that of the typical, southern Indiana, late 20th century boy.  Strong, firm bones jutted from beneath muscles that used to be coarse and rippled, from working out in the fields all day.  Danny was transfixed on the man's simplicity.  He'd never had a need for video games, he'd never wanted for a cell phone or the latest technology.  Mr. Lawrence, as a kid, had only known work.  Danny's generation had not.
    It was then that Danny recognized the ominous feeling.  It was fear.  Cold, black fear of the unknown.  Something was happening today, in this very room, in less than five minutes.  Danny looked around wildly, trying to see what would happen, when his eyes locked on the floor.  The shadows that had stuck so willingly to their masters' forms had taken on a different master.  As if being controlled by the hands of a puppeteer, the shadows themselves danced.  A chord struck in Danny's mind.  Darkness(n): the absence of light.  He thought over the definition in his mind, chewed out every possible explanation for...for this.  He couldn't explain it.  The shadows danced wildly, and no one noticed.  It was as if everyone in the room, Mr. Lawrence included, was entranced.  Danny hadn't known why he was spared, possibly for whatever it was in the air to have a witness, but Danny definitely wasn't daydreaming this time.
    Then Cynthia, sweet, beautiful Cynthia, touched Danny gently on the shoulder, making him jump.  Danny looked directly into her eyes, wanting to explain the phenomenon he was witnessing, but not having the words.  His mouth moved, but no sound escaped his rapidly closing windpipe.  Danny was sure he would pass out before this was over.  The heat was sucking the air from his lungs.  He couldn't breathe, and yet, he didn't want to, either.  He knew whatever was coming had the force of a bullet train.  Cynthia looked at Danny, her eyes wide and scared.  She had felt the presence too.  Danny tried to breathe a sigh of relief.  He found this easier said than done.
    Suddenly, Danny choked out four words: "...Do...you...feel...it?" he muttered soundlessly.  Cynthia nodded, and looked at the floor.  Danny saw the scream hitch in her throat as her eyes dilated and fluttered.  She was going to scream and faint.  Right here in class, with three minutes left, she was going to faint and Danny would be caught looking at her when it happened.  "Stop!" Danny whisper-yelled under his breath.  She caught his glance and locked her throat tight, uttering no more than a small whistle of breath.  Danny motioned toward the shadows again.  Cynthia shook her head adamantly.  She wouldn't look back down, no matter what.  She even went as far as turning back to listen to Mr. Lawrence's droning lecture.
    To Danny's horror, this was exactly what that Puppetmaster of Shadows-whoever he may be-wanted.  At that point, Cynthia's shadow disintegrated into her own body.  A dark beauty, shadowed, muffled, took over her features.  Danny looked frantically for it across the sun-streaked floor.  Nothing.  It was as if Cynthia herself had become a ghostly apparition, a vampire, maybe.  Then Cynthia turned back toward Danny.  Her eyes had taken on a ghastly red glow, the whites turned pitch-black.  Her pupils, as red as if she was a walking, out of focus picture, contracted.  She smiled malevolently.  Her teeth were perfect, as they had always been.  Not vampire...something else.  Danny noted.  She sucked in her small stomach and moved her left arm slightly, so the right one was clearly visible to Danny.
    Slowly, as if in excited anxiety, she drew back the sleeve of the rather loose hoody.  Her left hand pulled on the sleeve with the grace of a churchgoer holding the cup of the Blood of Christ.  Something gleamed out at Danny, something he'd never expected.  A dark shape was there, held fast by the hoody.  It was about six inches in length, and Danny could just make out a small button on the end still concealed by the hoody.  Danny's fear grew.  This was what was going to happen.  Whatever was possessing Cynthia was going to rise up in her body and strike someone with that object.  That switchblade.  What's she going to do with it?  Danny thought frantically.  Cynthia covered the blade back up and got up, her limber body moving with feline quality.  This was to be expected.  With two minutes left till the bell, Cynthia was normally up and waiting at the door-a perk she had only because it was her grandfather teaching the class.  But this time, she didn't have her books with her.  Just the switchblade.  But what's she- Danny's eyes widened with horror.  He suddenly knew what the Puppetmaster-he'd decided to call her possessor this, because it was practical and easy to remember, and shadows didn't move by themselves-was planning with her body.  He tried to call out, to warn the class.  "She's got a switchblade!  Everybody down!"  he wanted to scream.  But no sound escaped his lips.  They were too dry; his throat was too dry to utter even a single sound.
    Cynthia's graceful movements had carried her to the front of the classroom.  Her grandfather gave a sidelong glance, acknowledging that she was there but continuing his lecture.  She walked straight up to him and, being a little over five feet tall, she reached up, touching his shoulder.  She motioned for him to bring his head down, as if she had a secret to whisper in his ear.  Danny's eyes bulged out of his head.  He was scared shitless, no doubt.  He saw the big man lean down, ever closer to that extended right arm.  Cynthia received his head in her hands and pulled his ear toward her face.  Danny closed his eyes, waiting for screams of pain and terror from Mr. Lawrence's own throat as he was cut to pieces.  What he saw in his mind's eye made him want the knife himself, to rid himself of that image.  Danny opened his eyes, thinking the truth even could be better than his horrid belief of what would happen.
    In fact, he was right.  Mr. Lawrence leaned down to hear what his granddaughter had to say.  She put her right arm across his throat and whispered something.  Danny could make out the words "See...hell...man," and saw a look of pained rage float across Mr. Lawrence's face.  The man was just beginning to turn toward Cynthia, possibly to reprimand her, when that soft, sick, almost inaudible click sounded.  A horrid squelching sound, as if cutting through paper, sounded, and the expression on Mr. Lawrence's face turned from agitated horror to betrayed fear of death.  He looked wide-eyed at Cynthia, who was laughing horribly, and crumpled to the ground.  Blood gushed from the slit in Mr. Lawrence's throat.  It pooled around his limp body and soaked into his shirt and tie.  The whole class was silent, except for Cynthia's hysterical laughter.
    Then, that was cut off too.  Danny saw Cynthia staring at her deceased grandfather with a hysteria of a different sort rising in her.  Her throat hitched again, and Danny knew there was no stopping her this time.
    The sound of the bell was drowned out by Cynthia's hysterical shrieks of pure horror.