Sam

     

         Early morning sunlight filtered through windows shrouded in aged white lace, allowing intricate patterns of light and shadow to fill the tiny kitchen. This time of day cast a homey, golden glow that normally wouldn't accompany the shabby furniture, cheap appliances, and chipped laminate. The eastern sun was forgiving, if one skipped over the details.
         Sam sat at the kitchen table, swaying back and forth in the unstable wooden seat. Salt from a previous meal littered the table top and he entertained himself by drawing designs into the grainy surface with a finger. Every morning he sat in this spot, waiting for the sound of the bus's thunderous motor to come to a squeaking halt in front of Sam's front yard; which doubled as the designated pick up spot for the area. Kids who lived in the same trailer park, their laughter carrying through an open window, stood patiently awaiting the yellow giant to gobble them up and be spit out into the school yard. Sam harbored unkind feelings toward the school bus and its taciturn driver. How could he not? It was the unstoppable force that brought him each morning to the place he hated most, school.
         It wasn't the grades, the teachers, or the horrible cafeteria food. Nor was it any harassment from fellow classmates. Actually, Sam was bothered very little by the others in his grade, and those in the higher 7th and 8th grades wouldn't give his lowly 6th grade status in the hierarchy of junior high a passing glance. No, it was the loneliness. He had no friends, none. Sam was classified as a a loner, a quiet figure that hovered on the edge of classrooms and social groups. He couldn't recall a time in all the torturous years of education under his belt of ever striking up a friendship. All anyone would ever remember of Sam McIntyre was a quiet boy who only spoke when spoken to, and then only in short, scant replies. What they didn't know, however, was that Sam suffered from debilitating shyness. Anytime attention was focused on him, even something as mundane as a teacher's quizzing question, Sam's tongue would grow thick and clumsy in his mouth, ears and eyes burning. It was all he could do to bite tongue and pinch his arm to prevent bursting into tears. An eleven year old crybaby, embarrassing. A fact he carefully hid by an aloof demeanor and avoidance.
         It wasn't his only secret shame.
         Outside, the laughter grew into hysterics that were quickly drowned out by the roar of the approaching school bus. Sam cursed, a relatively new habit of which he was proud, grabbed his back pack and flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt. He quickly but quietly opened the dented metal door, not wanting to wake up his father's girlfriend. The woman was an absolute witch and would wreak havoc if woken up before noon. In his opinion, the more crude bitch didn't adequately encompass Darla's well rounded evil.
         It was a beautiful spring day. The morning dew clung to dark green grass, birds chirped from hidden perches, and the sound of morning traffic was comforting in a rhythmical, ordinary way. At odds with the gorgeous weather, nausea churned in Sam's stomach in anticipation for the school day. The upcoming hours would be filled with hiding in bathroom stalls, praying for invisibility, and waiting for the time when he could retreat to his room. Where in he could collapse onto his bed and let down the mental guards. To allow the tension to ebb from his muscles and his thoughts to wander. To lay bloody and exposed, in a sense, where he was safe. But now was not that time. Sam mentally shouldered on his armor, took a deep breath, and plunged into the world. He faced it with tight lips and a blank face.

♥


         It was a Monday after a three day weekend and a mixture of excitement and disappointment hung in the cavernous hallways. Girls stood in huddles, gossiping about events that had occurred over the weekend and rehashing old drama. Boys ran around yelling and whooping, talking sports and furtively glancing at the girls. Teachers stood outside classrooms, chatting while keeping a diligent eye on the students.
         Sam, hood obscuring his face, shuffled toward the library. The small library was the usual spot where he would sit and lay his head cradled in his arms until the shrill bell would sound, signaling five minutes before the start of first period. He feigned sleep for that thirty or so minutes, to discourage anyone's approach. Sam could never relax his guard enough for a nap with so many around, he was always on the alert, but the cool wood of the table and the small privacy it afforded was fortifying. Funny, the library was Sam's favorite place on campus but he couldn't recall ever actually checking out a book from its shelves.
         A table occupied by a group of girls deemed “The Manga freaks” on account of their obsession with anything Japanese burst into shrieks. That was common enough, they were a volatile bunch. Sam lifted his head in hopes of catching some of  the entertainment. A soda lay on its side, the carbonated contents spraying in every direction. The more sensible of the girls, Megan, reached out to grab the bottle. She tightened the cap, stopping the flow. Mr. Hollingsworth the librarian let out a scowl and ordered the girls to clean the spreading mess. The shrieks turned to giggles, the girls gathered their soaked books and backpacks and began moping up the liquid.
         Sam sat frozen in his seat. Fingers digging into the thick sleeves of his sweatshirt, eyes fixed on the dated anti smoking poster hanging on the opposite wall. Movement at the corner of his eye caused his heart to spike, palms to itch. Distorted laughter rang, shrill and unnatural in the generally subdued library. There was still fifteen minutes to go before the first bell would rang. Sam stood, shrugged on his backpack and walked out of the library. He kept his footsteps even and fought to maintain a relaxed pace.
         The green restroom was empty, as usual, when Sam entered. It was the smallest restroom in the oldest part of the school. Only two stalls stood, one taped with the ever present sheet that read “Out of Order”.  The janitors rarely restocked the toilet paper and paper towels. This was fine with Sam, the restroom provided the most privacy possible in between classes and during lunch. He sat his backpack down in a corner and entered a stall to conduct business. As well as calm his nerves after the most recent “incident”. The incidents were getting more frequent of late.
         Hearing the voices. Seeing the shadows move. I'm crazy, Sam thought, So crazy. Just like Gramps. Alan McIntyre died three years ago of a brain aneurysm. His son who was also Sam's father, Rob, found him slumped at the kitchen table with hands cupped around a coffee mug. Sam was never close to his grandfather but he had a few pleasant memories of Alan reading to him in his Scottish brogue and playing his old guitar. However, those memories were outnumbered by those of Alan's eccentric habits, how he would don clothes inside out on occasion, carry intellectual conversations with animals, and give away his belongings on a whim. He'd given everything he owned, including his house, to a homeless man right before he died. Much to Rob and Darla's irritation. Sanity completely abandoned Alan in the last year of his life. The vacant look in the elder man's eyes still haunted Sam. They were the same pale green of his own. Some nights,  he would wake from the recurring nightmare of looking into a mirror to see Alan's gray face, stark white hair, and blank green-eyed stare.
         Don't think about it, Sam ordered to himself. He closed the toilet lid and sat down, staring at the stall door. He hated waiting. He visualized his room and cursed the cowardice which kept him from just walking out the doors from this everyday hell. 
         The bathroom door swung open, causing Sam to jump.
         “Get in there, tard.”
         “Let go!”
         “Grab his shit” Sounds of struggle and sneakers squeaking on the tile floor flooded the small restroom. Sam recognized one of the voices as Blake Reynolds, they shared home room.
         “Fuck!”
         “LET ME GO!” A high voice squealed. It was followed by a dull thud and a grunt.
         “Don't you say another fucking word gay wad, you got me? Not another word.” Blake threatened.
         “Kick his ass, Blake. The little dork bit me.”
         “Shut up.”
         “Yeah shut up. You're making more noise then he is, stupid.”
         “Quiet,” Blake demanded, “Let me see it.” Silence.“I said, let me see it.”
         “No,” said a small voice, obviously out of breath. A small scuffle ensued. The sound of paper tearing was louder than it should have been. The noise sharp in the tiled room. Anger boiled in Sam's gut. Bullying didn't happen often in this school but it was still present. Sam rarely witnessed the brutality of his fellow class mates, as isolated as he was from the social scene. A rising need to interfere rose. Blake wasn't that big, he was taller than Sam but not by much. The other voices sounded familiar but he couldn't pin point to whom they belonged. Blake was popular and inhabited multiple social groups as a football player, class clown, and a member of the yearbook committee so there was no telling who his cohorts could be.
         I should come out, Sam thought. They'll stop when they see me here. He imagined a heroic scene where in he saved the unknown victim from further harm. He would say something witty and cutting to the bullies, shaming them. Sam and the weaker boy would stroll out into the hall, victorious.
Fantasy is all it was, for he knew what would happen if he tried to speak and stand up to them.
         Coward.
         “Wow, I don't believe it!” Exclaimed Blake, followed by a obnoxious laugh.
         “Let me see.”
         “What's in it?” A brief pause was followed by an explosion of laughter.
         “Oh...my...god. You are gay! I knew it!”
         “Dude...I-I-I'm...I can't stop....” One of the boys chocked out, unable to stop laughing.
         “Poetry? Poetry!”
         A throat cleared, and Blake read, “He is beauty. He is bright. A shining light with gossamer wings.”
         Laughter exploded again.
         “It's mine, give it back.” A boy demanded weakly.
         Another thud. The laughter faded.
         “Dude, I can't believe you kicked him that hard”
         Sam found himself opening the stall. Three heads swung in tandem in his direction. Heat burned his cheeks and neck, he couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes. Instead he focused on a small figure laying huddled on the floor. Sam recognized him as the new kid who arrived a couple of weeks ago. Except for Sam, he was the only other kid who spent his lunches alone. The boy's small frame was buried in the too large jacket he wore, red hair bright against the green tile. Freckles covered every inch of visible skin, his eyes squeezed shut in either pain or to keep from crying. Most likely both.
         An awkward moment passed. Lee, a chubby boy much bigger than Sam, stared him down. Daring Sam to interfere. Blake looked away, his attention returned to the thick notebook in his hands. Anger fled to be replaced by embarrassment. Embarrassed that he could for a moment believe he was strong enough to stand up to these guys. That he could protect someone. Blake, Lee, and  the boy whose name Sam didn't know were just guys, none of them overly intimidating or bright. If Sam could just manage to say something they would probably retreat, but he couldn't. The words crowded in his throat, choking him. So he went to the sink and began washing his hands.
         “You're more of a loser than I thought.” Said Blake to his victim. Sam watched the scene reflected in the mirror.
         “Man, if I catch you checking me out you're dead.” Threatened the third aggressor, he wore  baggy jeans and a red basketball jersey.
         Lee grabbed the book from Blake. He leaned over the huddled figure and began tearing pages, letting the pieces float down to land on the boy. The others, finding this hilarious, exploded into laughter once again. Sam looked away, he grabbed a paper towel and dried off his hands. He glanced at his reflection as he threw the towel away in a nearby trash can. Bright green eyes stared back at him, intensified by the fluorescent lighting. His pale skin and dark brown hair unremarkable next to them. Behind him, the boy on the floor flinched as Blake feinted a kick. The bell rang and Sam walked out.

♥

         It was raining when the bus turned onto Sam's street. It was the end of the school day, relief and a new surge of energy poured out of the the bus along with its passengers. The light spring drizzle was not enough to prompt Sam into a mad dash for the dryness of his trailer home, but others who lived nearby ran for cover. Their backpacks carried over their heads and voices loud in excitement.
         A battered white work truck rested in the dirt driveway of Sam's home. It was the only clue that anyone lived in the faux wood paneled, single wide trailer. There were no personal touches. No flag hung, no plants occupied the tiny porch, not even a garbage bin. Sam sunk deeper into his sweatshirt and pulled the hood as far as it would go over his face. As he stepped up onto the porch, he could hear voices arguing inside. Darla and Rob fought like alley cats and he could sense a full blown fight in the making. Sam's father Rob and his girlfriend of almost five years, Darla, had a strange love-hate relationship Sam couldn't even begin to understand. Darla didn't officially live with them, but she was sneaking her belongings in. Often staying for long periods of time when her mother put her out. She was ten years younger than Rob but had the disposition of an old hag with her constant complaints and sense of entitlement. She and Sam had very little interaction for the most part due to a mutual inability to relate; as the two were from alien worlds.
         Rob and Darla's argument paused briefly when Sam entered, he could feel their startled glances from him to the microwave's digital clock. Sam crossed the living room into the hall, making a quick bee line for his bedroom. The argument continued, muffled by his bedroom door. His backpack thudded to the floor, the sweatshirt flew towards the pile of laundry beside the shoe box of a closet. Sam kept his room neat, the bed always made, trash put in a bag, books stacked on shelves. It was the only neat part of the trailer. Rob was a slob. Darla little better as her cosmetics were left in the bathroom, sometimes staining the counters and sink.
          “It ain't right, boys are supposed to be dirty. Clean freak, just like your mother.” Rob had said the last time he had seen Sam's room.
         Sometimes, when he was brave enough, Sam thought about his mother. Her name was Stacey and she'd moved to Texas some years ago to live with her new husband. She called sometimes, usually around holiday's or Sunday's after church. She had a pleasant but detached voice. Sam laid on his bed, stretching out. He looked to the photo tacked to his wall. It was of Stacey laughing, he as toddler sat in her lap, hands paused in the act of clapping and a large smile on his face. They looked nothing alike. When he was eight, shortly after his grandfather had passed, Stacey brought Sam to stay with her in Dallas for two weeks. It was a foreign land. Everything was so orderly and clean. Stacey kept the household  to a rigorous schedule of oatmeal in the morning, then a walk to the park so that Sam and his younger half-brothers could play, juice and a sandwich for lunch, chores, some light TV, dinner at six, and lights out by nine. The two weeks went by fast and the drive back to Oklahoma long. He cried when they pulled up to his father's house. Rob stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. Stacey leaned down and gave him a tight squeeze.
         “You're okay, honey. Well do this again I promise. You were such a good boy, maybe we can see about you coming to live with us, okay?” He could still remember the feel of her arms around him, the lemony scent of her hair. She let him go, Sam watched the blue minivan until it disappeared around a corner. Rob's hand on his shoulder was heavy in male comfort. Rob ruffled his son's hair and gave him a light shove towards the trailer.
         “Let's go, Bud. I got a happy meal with your name on it.” Years passed, but Stacey didn't return in her minivan. There wasn't any talk about moving during the short phone calls. Sam didn't have the courage to ask, nor the heart to leave Rob. He was his father's only living relative now. Rob never confided in his son, but Sam saw the loneliness in his father's eyes at times when Rob was pretending to watch TV. The memory of Rob sitting on the porch crying over his beer after Alan's funeral sprung to his mind. It was the only time he'd ever seen his father cry. Stacey had her family. He needs me more, Sam thought.
         Sam sat up on his bed and reached for the Mp3 player Stacey had sent him last Christmas. He hadn't a computer or the funds to download any songs but it could play the radio. Darla and Rob's fight was really heating up now.
         “Argh! Why don't you just slap the bitch with child support? That's some money we could use!”
Screeched Darla. They were fighting about money again, not surprising.
         “There's scissors in the drawer there. Why don't you just use those to hack off my balls!”
Roared Rob, then in a lower octave “Watch your damn mouth, woman. Sam could hear you.”
         Sam plugged in his earphones, effectively drowning out Darla's no doubt cutting return in the twang of a popular country song. Sam left it on the station, crossed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Music was soothing, it was comforting in a way that Sam could not fully understand yet. The rhythm and verse put his overactive mind at ease. He imagined playing the guitar while sitting on a porch facing the countryside. A tall glass of lemonade sweating at his side. He thought of other homes, other families, and the homework to be done before class tomorrow. Mostly, he thought about the red headed kid laying on the floor. Who he was, where he came from, and what his name could be. Something dorky, Sam thought, like Percy or Gilbert. The image of the boy's face popped into his head. A wave of guilt washed over him, surprising in its intensity. Frustrated that the music wasn't doing its trick today, Sam tore off the headphones and looked outside. It was still drizzling, but with no hints of a harder rain. He once again donned his sweatshirt, left his room and entered the living room where Darla was currently in the midst of throwing pillows vehemently at Rob who stood just outside of the kitchen. Sam dodged a cushion and banged out the front door not caring about the noise he'd made.
         Outside, moisture hung in the air. The gentle drizzle peppered his face in light drops. Sam reached for his hood to pull it over his head. The sun was hidden by thick clouds but light still escaped. He passed other trailers, the occupants shuttered inside. Parents cooking dinners while their children played video games, watched TV, or finished homework. Sam's stomach growled, he cursed his lack of foresight. The knowledge of pop-tarts sitting in the kitchen tempted him to head back but he didn't. He walked to the end of his road then turned to circle around the perimeter of the trailer park. Or as the sign stated, “Evergreen Mobile Home Community” which he passed. Sam took this route often. At a slow scuffle it took about thirty or more minutes to wind up back on his street. Ordinarily he waited until later in the day when night fell to walk but on this day the weather provided the privacy he craved before sunset.
         The scene in the library earlier in the morning plagued him now, despite his attempts to block it. The distorted, high-pitched laughter echoing in his head. This time he'd been fortunate not to see them, to have a ready escape. He'd seen them before, the monsters. Heard their laughter, felt the bite of teeth and claw. Sam's first memory was of chasing a shadow as it leaped around a park. His mother scooping him up with a laugh. “Where do you think you're going, Sammy boy?” She'd asked. In the beginning the sightings were fascinating. Provided adventure and mystery in the boring ordinariness that was his life. When he discovered that he was the only one who saw them, it excited him even more. He was unique, special, and he'd thought it a gift. 
         Then Alan caught him chasing another shadow.

         The shadow lay across a patch of grass, vibrating. It was a strange sight for the boy. A shadow had never previously vibrated. Cautiously, as cautious as a seven year old boy could, he approached with an old mayo jar and lid in hand. He'd been watching the shadow for about an hour now after spotting it from his grandfather's kitchen window. The boy thrilled with the idea of capturing the shadow and keeping it in a jar by his bed as he'd done with the light bugs his Gramps helped catch.
         Stealthily, the boy moved from a corner of the house to behind a tree, bringing him closer to his prize. The shadow paused in its vibration. His breath caught in his throat while dodging behind the tree trunk , hoping he hadn't alerted the shadow to his presence. Slowly, he leaned away again to peer into the backyard. The vibrating had resumed. The boy took a calming breath, forcing himself to be patient. Something he wasn't very good at being, as Gramps so often chided. He crouched to the ground to lay down, resting his weight on his elbows like he'd seen in the war documentaries Gramps always watched. The boy crawled forward with eyes focused on his prey, straining to be silent. Closer and closer, until the shadow was just a few inches away. The boy didn't know if the shadow had eyes, or even where they would be, but it obviously hadn't noticed him. He leaned on one elbow while lifting the jar with its  end facing the ground, ready to strike. He didn't breath nor blink. The jar slammed down. Only to catch grass and air. The shadow flew towards the boy, hitting him square in the nose.
         “Ah!” He cried out, the thing had hit him so hard that his vision swam. It flew around the boy, pinching him multiple times where it landed. There was a “tinging” sound, like drops of water hitting metal, coming from the shadow. The sound came faster and faster as it pinched, becoming one long “tiiiinnng”.  The boy tried to swat it away, spinning around in circles in the effort. He felt a hard arm swoop him up around his torso and lift him into the air. Heavy cursing rang above his head, the words so buried beneath a thick Scottish accent as to be unrecognizable.  Gramps hustled him into the house, slamming the screen door and sitting the boy down so fast he lost his balance, falling on his bottom. His grandfather locked the door then turned to him with anger in his eyes. This alone took the boy aback, he'd never seen his Gramps anything but cheerful.
         “What did ya think ya were doin' boy?” Gramps asked in a stern, but shaken voice. “Eh? Answer me!”
         “I was trying to catch...t-t-the...a-a...” The boy stuttered, alarmed by the focused attention of his grandfather. An adult had never looked at him like that before. As if what he said was of the up most importance.
         “Spit it out boy, what was it now?”
         “I d-don't know. A shadow?”
         “A shadow.” Gramps repeated. The boy nodded. His grandfather stared straight into his eyes, the boy looked away.
         “Look at me, lift yer head up.” Gramps demanded. The boy did with effort.
         “Ya saw nothin'. There weren't no shadow and if ya ever see one again, ya don't see it understand?” A puzzled look crossed the boy's face. His grandfather sighed, a full body sigh that sagged his shoulders and lengthened the lines around his eyes.
         “Sit down.” He ordered, pointing to the kitchen table. The boy sat, his grandfather taking a chair and turning it to face him. The older man sat, his eyes holding his grandson's.
         “How long 'ave ya been seeing these shadows?” Gramps asked. The boy shrugged.
         “That's not an answer.”
         “A long time.”
         “And what exactly do ya see?”
         “Er, I don't know. They're blobs, kinda fuzzy? And they're dark, like a shadow but they move.” Gramps leaned back in his chair, one big hand stoking his beard in thought. A dark look passed in his eyes. He looked at his grandson in pity, and then in guilt. He sighed again.
         “What are they, Gramps?.” The boy asked. His voice a whisper, eyes wide in excitement that his questions about the mystery were soon to be answered. His grandfather knew everything.
         “They're none of our concern. From now own you keep clear o' 'em, ya 'ear me? Otherwise folks will think yer knockers and ya dunna want that.”
         “Why not?” The boy asked, unease settling in him along with the disappointment that his grandfather wasn't sharing in his excitement. The older man sighed again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, chin on his hands. The sadness in his pale green eyes made his grandfather seem distant, unreachable in a way the boy had never witnessed before.
         “Because they'll lock ya up boy. They'll think yer out of yer ever lovin' mind and put ya away fer yer own good. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is when those shadows get to ya. There ain't nothin' on this earth as bad as 'em. If I ever catch ya going near one of 'em again, I'll take a belt to ya understand?”
         The boy nodded solemnly. Gramps had never whipped him or even made the threat to do so.
         “Good. And don't ya tell no body.”
         “S-so you see them too, Gramps?”
         “Aye, I do. I wish I didn't and I wish you didn't either. You got some hard roads roads ahead of ya boy, and I'm verra sorry for it.” The older man unbuttoned the top of shirt, pushing aside the collar to reveal a long, jagged scar across his throat. The boy gasped in shock.
         “This isn't all those shadows can do to a man. I have many scars, many nightmares from those fiends. You well too, if ya ever tangle with 'em. Ya got lucky today, make no mistake. If they ever even suspect ya can see 'em, yer done for.” Gramps warned. He reached for the boy's sweater, pushing up the sleeve. Gramps drew in a ragged breath, his grip tightening on his grandson's arm. Tiny bite marks littered the boys skin, blood oozing up from the dots.

         Sam shuddered with the memory. Except for when they had been inflicted, the wounds hadn't pained him. Gramps rushed him to the hospital soon after the discovery, forcing the nursing staff to examine him. They were sent away. A few day later, he'd developed a high fever and was hospitalized with septicemia, blood poisoning. The marks took three months to heal completely. The hospital staff never questioned them, they were unable to see the bites. That conversation with his grandfather was the last lucid one. Alan had stepped off the cliff and deep into insanity soon after.