Funhouse (18 page)

I saw Charlie, and like Luke, his shadow was distorted and broken, and then I understood. Because as harmless as he was as a child, as a man, Charlie would get into weapons trading with Middle Eastern countries, and supply them with a suitcase nuclear bomb that would go on to be used to devastating effect in the city of Chicago. Or at least it would have if Benson hadn’t stopped him.

Benson was moaning, and bloody tears rolled down his cheeks. The world went on around me, but it was muted and hollow as if I were underwater. Benson balled his fists and began to tremble, then opened his mouth. My shadow filtered back out and reattached itself to my feet, streaming from him like billowing black smoke. His eyes returned to their normal colour, and as they did, the connection between us was severed, and the world came back to its usual vibrancy.

He wiped away the bloody tears, and looked at me. He seemed somehow even older, and his efforts had obviously exhausted him. 

“Do you understand now boy?” He whispered, still trying to catch his breath.

“
You can see them can’t you Mr Benson?” I croaked. “The bad people. But you see them before they are bad. You see it in their shadows.”

He nodded. “The shadow and the soul are connected. People think that they are born into this world with a clean slate, but it’s not like that. Bad people are born bad.”

“Are you some kind of angel?” I asked him, and despite his exhaustion, he found it in himself to chuckle.

“
No, not exactly. I was born in Boston actually.”

“
Then how?” I trailed off, and stared down at my shadow which just a few minutes ago had been ingested by the withered old man in front of me.

“
I don’t know the how’s or why's.” He said with a shrug.  “I didn’t get the power until I was in my early forties. Fell off a ladder when I was painting the house and banged my head on the concrete. Knocked myself out cold. When I woke up, I saw my neighbour who had come to help me and see if I was okay. His shadow was tainted, all fuzzy and jittery. Course, I didn’t know what it meant at the time. I thought it was just a concussion, and didn’t give it much thought. A couple of years later he was all over the news. Serial killer. But by then I was starting to suspect what had happened to me.”

I nodded, letting him go back and remember and tell his story.

“First time I took a shadow was nineteen sixty six. I don’t know how I knew to do it, I just did. I knew how and I knew why. But whatever it was that showed me what to do, didn’t tell me how to live with the guilt. And you better believe it boy, it’s hard to sit down to eat dinner with your family when you have just condemned a soul to death.”

“
But it’s only bad people, isn’t it?” I whispered.

“
Good or bad they are still people. And even bad people might still have good qualities.”

“
How many…” I muttered, as he looked off into the distance.

“
I don’t know. Thousands I expect. One thing I can tell you is that the guilt doesn’t get any easier to live with. When a man can’t look his family in the eye, it’s time to stop burdening them.”

“
That’s why you moved out of your house, isn’t it?” I said.

He nodded, and I noticed that his hands were shaking.

“Are you okay Mr Benson?”

“
I will be. It takes a lot out of me these days. Every shadow I take eats a little bit of me. That’s the way it is. That’s the rules. Sugar helps. That’s why I asked you to go for lemonade, for after I took your friends shadow.”

I had half a bar of chocolate in my jacket, and I offered it to Benson. He took it gratefully, and broke off a piece.  He popped it in its mouth and we were silent. He watched the people, looking for the bad ones. Even though I couldn’t see what he did, I looked anyway.

“Does it hurt them, when they go I mean?”

Benson shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope not. I know they don’t feel me taking the shadow, and they never die right away. It’s always later. I like to tell myself that there is no pain, but I’m only guessing.”

“The papers said Luke went in his sleep and wouldn’t have felt a thing. Same with Charlie.”

Benson nodded, popping another piece of chocolate into his mouth.

“Well, that’s something I guess.” He muttered, taking a long hard look at a young woman’s shadow as she walked across the other side of the street.

“
Bad one?” I asked, partly dreading the answer.

“
No.”

I nodded.

“That’s why you only ever come out at this time isn’t it Mr. Benson? When it’s sunny and the shadows are easy to see.”

He nodded.

“Makes my work easier. The older I get, the harder it is to function. I don’t suppose I’m long for this world son. Even though people here see me as some crazy bum, I've worked hard at trying to make the world a better place. Only thing is, there are too many bad ones now. Way more bad than good. There is only so much I can do.”

“
Are there others like you, Mr Benson?”

“
I don’t know son.” He sighed. “I hope so. I hope there is an entire army of them, because if not, the world is in trouble. I’m working as hard as I can, but this old body of mine is running out of steam.”

“
So what happens now?” I asked him.

“
That’s up to you. If you want to go to the police or repeat what I have told you, I can’t stop you. But I know your shadow, and I believe what it tells me.”

“
That I’m one of the good ones?”

“
Yes, you are.”

The orange of the sunset had turned to red, and day was starting to become night.

“I won’t tell anyone.” I said, watching as he finished the last of the chocolate. “I think you're doing a good thing Mr Benson. I think you're one of the good ones too.”

“
Thank you, I only hope you're right.”

I turned my bike around, and readied to set off.

“Will I see you again Mr Benson?”

“
I don’t know.” He said with a shrug. “You know where I’ll be, for as long as I’m able. As soon as I know it’s the end, I’ll go someplace quiet and end it my own way.”

I nodded, and we shared a look that was a bond greater than any friendship or relationship that I have experienced since.

“Good luck Mr Benson.”

“
Thank you for understanding. And for the chocolate.” He said quietly. I started to ride away when he called after me. I turned on my bike, and once again he was just a withered, broken old man.

“
Keep being one of the good ones.”  He said, and then turned back to the road and the people.

I never spoke to Benson again after that day, although I did see him a few times, always on that overturned crate, always at that same time of day when the shadows were strong and easy to spot. I think it was around six months later when he stopped showing up. I guessed he had made good on his promise, and found himself a nice quiet place to finally get his peace. I hope he went to a better place, and that his service to our species was well served. I remember my conversation with him, and our hope that there were others out there like him, and that they were doing all they could to protect the rest of us. But the more horror I see in the news, the more terrible things that I see happen, the more certain I am, that Benson
was one of a kind. There is one thing for sure though, without him, the world is a much worse place.

I never told anyone about Benson, not until now, but I did heed his advice. I have tried to be one of the good ones. I have a beautiful wife and three amazing children who I’m trying to bring up as best I can. As I write this, I’m watching them playing outside in the garden. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m incredibly grateful for what I have. My children’s shadows dance in tandem with them, and I can only hope that they are pure and untainted, and that they will grow up to be one of the good ones, just like Benson was.

T
he cat was on the kitchen counter, and even from across the room, Mannering knew it was dead. He stared at it, quite unable to fathom why it was there, but the cat offered no answers, and its glassy green eyes only stared back at him. Beside the dead cat were the blue marigolds that Alice used when she washed the dishes. They were pocked with marks and scratches, just like the ones a struggling cat might make if someone were trying to kill it.

He realised that he was holding his breath, and exhaled, unable to tear his eyes away from the dead animal, which was the only blemish in the otherwise pristine kitchen where just a couple of hours ago he had eaten breakfast and headed off to work.

The house was quiet, and he listened to the silence, which weighed like a physical thing as he tried to make sense of what was going on. He could just about hear the constant metronome ticking of the grandfather clock in the sitting room and the dull hum of the fridge freezer, but other than that, the house was completely devoid of sound.

It was then that he asked himself a new
question.

Where was his wife?

He had been married to Alice for twenty one years, and their union had been happy. The house had been long since bought and paid for, and the two of them were content to live a quiet life ruled by routine and very defined roles. He went out to work, whilst Alice looked after the house. That was the way it had always been.

It was only now as he stood in his kitchen, that he started to ask himself what his wife actually did all day when he went out to work.

“Alice?”  He said, his throat dry as he croaked his wife’s name.

Silence.

He wondered where she could be. She didn’t drive, and even if she did, he had taken the car to work that morning anyway. He supposed she could have been over at Betsy’s, had he not known that she was visiting her sister for the next two weeks.

“
Alice?” He repeated, this time finding the courage to say it just a little louder. 

Still without reply, he walked into the sitting room, his heart fluttering as wildly as his mind raced with ideas, speculation and possibilities, none of which explained the dead cat in the kitchen. It was then that his curiosity morphed into fear.

The room was perfectly normal, perfectly clean and tidy and as it had been that morning, apart from the string of dead blackbirds on the wall. There were three of them strung across the chimney breast. They had been threaded through the neck and hung in the same way that they hung their Christmas cards, the scrawny bodies hanging limp and broken as Mannering stared at them.

He opened his mouth and then snapped it closed. He had intended to call out to his wife again, but then had decided against it, because now in light of everything, he wasn’t so sure he wanted her to know he was here. He felt almost like an intruder, like he had transgressed on some secret ritual meant for her eyes only. He thought about how long this could have been happening. How many of those Monday to Friday eight to six shifts had been consumed by this…whatever it was.

As he considered that idea, other things started to fall into place, things which up until then, hadn’t registered. The way she always insisted he call before he left the office. He had always assumed it was just something she did to know that he was coming home, but now he wondered if it was to give her time to hide away her… displays. The more he considered it, the more he thought it could be a valid point. It was only just after eleven in the morning, and he should be at work. It was her time, time which he shouldn’t be encroaching on. If only the office hadn’t had a power outage and sent everyone home, then he would still be there and not a witness to the disturbing happenings in his house. Because it had been both sudden and a situation out of the ordinary, he hadn’t called home and now he had discovered… whatever it was that he had discovered. The disturbing display had also made him consider the fact that – as ashamed as he was to admit it - he knew nothing about what his wife did with her spare time. Nothing at all. As far he knew she had no hobbies, no real friends. Her entire life, as he knew it, was spent within these four walls keeping their home clean and tidy and running smoothly.

Could that be it? Could the years of isolation and loneliness have broken something in Alice’s mind to make her believe that such repulsive things as killing animals was acceptable? He couldn’t bear to think about it anymore, and pushed the idea to the back of his mind, knowing that he needed everything to rationalise and deal with the unique and frightening situation at hand. Once again, he asked himself just where Alice was, and in the same instant, the floodgates opened and the answer popped into his mind.

He didn’t rush, as part of him didn’t want to prove his suspicions right. Instead, he walked back to the kitchen, giving the dead cat a wide berth as he walked to the window and looked out into the garden.

Alice’s greenhouse.

He had built it for her when she expressed an interest in growing their own vegetables, something which she had done for a while and then seemed to lose all enthusiasm for. The greenhouse had remained unused since, its windows grimy and fogged. Ghosts of overgrown plants pressed against the glass, and Mannering was filled with such an intense dread that he had to cling to the edge of the sink.

He had never set foot in that greenhouse, and knew that if he was to find Alice, then that is where she would be.  How he knew that, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it came with the absolute knowledge you could have for a person over time, although he hadn’t seen this particular situation coming, so all bets were off

The air was cool and crisp as he stepped outside, pausing at the edge of their neatly trimmed garden. His breath fogged in the chill September air, but even that was nowhere near as cold as the ice which circulated his veins. He could see no sign of movement in the greenhouse, no shadows moving against the filthy, frosted glass.  He set off towards the greenhouse, walking slowly, straining his senses. After the silence of the house, the chorus of birdsong around him was deafening. There were two more cats in the garden. The first bore all the hallmarks of a stray, its fur mangy and knotted. It’s head was twisted at a nauseating angle, and like the one in the kitchen its glassy eyes stared accusingly. The second was even more horrific, its clumpy grey fur flecked with blood. The kitchen scissors were embedded into the creature’s eyes, and it had been displayed spread-eagled on the birdbath, the drinking water now a diluted shade of red. Whilst he was asking himself what he would do if his wife was actually insane, a second, more important question came to him, one which he had no answer for.

What would he do if she wasn’t?

What if, when it came to it, she was perfectly rational? What if she was exactly the same woman who he had loved for the last twenty three years, twenty one of those as his wife? What would he do if she was fine apart from her desire to kill the local wildlife? Could he, over time, learn to live with it? Could he treat it like some kind of sordid affair and ignore it? Perhaps sweep it under the rug and go on as if nothing had happened? He didn’t think so. He was pretty sure that if he could, he wouldn’t be inching his way towards the greenhouse at the end of the garden.

The glass and steel construction was just ahead of him now, and he paused at the door, waiting for his knotted stomach to settle. On the ground in front of him was a single spot of blood. It was something
that, under ordinary circumstances, he might have never noticed, in fact he would never have been over at the greenhouse in the first place, but that was before he came home early from work to a house and garden filled with dead animals and a wife who was still missing.

Alice.

His wife’s name hovered in his throat, but try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. A light, cold sweat had formed on his arms and back as he tried to force himself to open the door and face whatever was inside.

It’s not too late, just turn around and go back to work. If you love her, you would. She obviously doesn’t want you to know about this.

No, he couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t. He had to intervene, to sit her down and talk to her, perhaps pay her more attention, make sure they did more things together. But first, he had to face whatever was inside.

He quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

The smell hit him immediately.

Mannering blinked, unable to process what he was seeing.

The twin shelves which lined each wall of the greenhouse were filled with withered, brown overgrown plants, most of which were dead or dying. Alice’s clothes were neatly folded and placed between two cracked red plant pots. At the furthest end of the greenhouse was a natural earth bed which had been excavated to allow Alice to grow potatoes and carrots, but now, as Mannering watched, he saw that they had been used for an entirely different purpose.

Alice lay on her back in the dirt, moaning as she rubbed the moist earth into her body and over her face. She had her eyes closed and was murmuring as she scooped the soil against herself. Buried within the dirt were bodies - putrid, rotting carcasses of birds, cats and dogs. Whenever her hand would fall upon one, she would drag it towards her and crush it against her body, displacing flesh and allowing liquefied organs to spill out, turning the soil into a thick mud paste.

Mannering was bizarrely reminded of their first wedding anniversary when they had made snow angels in Paris.

He watched in sick fascination as she rolled in the dirt and pulled another mound towards her. A human arm flopped out of the mud, touching her stomach. It was putrid and rotten, and Alice grabbed at the maggot infested appendage and touched its dead fingers to her cheeks, kissing the blackened nails. Mannering could only look as he saw for the first time beyond the writhing shape of his wife to the other arms which protruded out of the earth like strange exotic plants. Some were brown and leathery, but many were still disgustingly recognisable, even in their putrid state.

He stopped counting at seven, knowing that his mind wasn’t equipped to take much more. He was just an insurance salesman. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him. Without knowing that he was going to do it, he backed out of the greenhouse and gently closed the door, shutting away the horrors inside.

You need to call the police.

He staggered back up the garden path, unable to focus, unable to breathe. The dead cat in the kitchen now seemed of little consequence. After all, how could it shock him after what he had just seen? Mannering knew he had to get out, had to get away.

He staggered to his car, dropped the keys, picked them up again with shaking hands and managed to unlock the vehicle. He drove away from the house, looking but not seeing as he left his little slice of suburban hell behind. 

He made it as far as the docks before he pulled over and threw up into the grass verge. As he stood there sobbing and panting with his hands on his knees and the bitter taste of vomit in his throat, it finally hit home just want he had witnessed. Things had changed, and would never be the same again.

You need to call the police. Now.

It was true. He loved his wife, but she was obviously sick. There was something inherently wrong with her that needed to be fixed, or at least that was what the rational side of his brain was telling him. On the other hand, she was his true love, his soul mate, his one and only thing in the world that he cared for. Could he do it? Could he bring himself to make the call? He wouldn’t be there when it happened, but the neighbours would. And as the police arrived en masse and led Alice away in handcuffs, questions would be asked, asked of him.

Mannering fished his phone out of his pocket, stared at it, and then knew what he was going to do. It was for the best.

Alice
was just finishing washing the dishes. The kitchen was filled with the delicious aroma of pot roast. She heard the car pull up to the house, and paused. It was earlier than normal, and her eyes went towards the knife block on the side. She heard the car door close, and waited, hand hovering over the carving knife.

Mannering walked through the door, and Alice relaxed. He looked jaded, exhausted even as he slipped off his jacket and walked towards the kitchen.

“What’s for dinner?” He asked as he fixed himself a drink, flashing a quick glance towards the spot where the dead cat had been displayed earlier.