A/N: yet ANOTHER english assignment (i have more of these than i had thought!!) the assignment was to write a story to go with one of several black-and-white illustrations. the story behind the illustrations was that there was a man who came into a publishers office years and years ago with this set of illustrations and their captions. the publisher agreed to read the stories that went with the pictures, but the man didn't have them on him, so he left the illustrations with the publisher and said he'd be back the next day. only problem is, the guy never came back. these illustrations can now be found in a great many places as a source of inspiration to writers. the assignment was to create a story about the illustration, using both the title and the caption. so, here it is:

The Uninvited Guest
Also Entitled “Shadows and Memories”

I waited, watching silently, my eyes glued to the tiny door at the foot of the stairs. Suddenly I froze, heart pounding; I could’ve sworn I had seen the doorknob move. My heart pounded into my throat as I watched the crack in the door grow bigger. A shadow detached itself from the blackness beyond the door, whispering its way into the room. It slid along the walls, climbing slowly up the stairs until it found my sneaker-clad foot.

I watched, frozen, as it collected in the shadow that I cast from the flickering candlelight, growing until it reached my height.

“Hello.” Its small, murmuring voice took a moment to register, not so long, though, as the fact that it could talk. Of course, I was twelve, so the only way to handle this was in a grown-up, very mature manner; I fainted.

---

When I came around, it was to find the shadow looking at me curiously, if you could call it that, considering it didn’t have any eyes to speak of. I sat up suddenly, a mistake as I was about to find out. My head spun, or perhaps it was the room; I was too disconcerted to tell. I moaned, covering my eyes with one hand, using the other to support myself, and wishing desperately that my head, or the room, or whatever it was that was spinning, would stop.

A cool, soothing tingle slithered up my leg, across my belly, and up my arm until it stopped just below my shoulder.

“Friend?” Its voice was a breathy squeak, barely audible, even in the dead silence of my basement.

Slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movements would make it disappear, I removed my hand and opened my eyes. “Friend?” it inquired again. I just held my breath, not quite believing that it was real.

“Friend?!” This time it was more impatient, and the squeak was a little louder.

What I did next surprised both me and it. Perhaps I did what I did because I was still young, and, despite the mundane, unimaginative teachings of adults, magic was still real to me. Or perhaps it was because I so badly wanted my painfully bleak life to have at least a bit of magic. Then again, it was probably because children tend to be reckless beyond belief. Nevertheless, I touched it.

I know, I know, the stupidest thing I ever could’ve done, right? It wasn’t. I’ll never forget that moment when shadow and flesh mingled into one. If whispers were things, than that’s what this would feel like; cool, and soft as the finest silk, I dared only put three fingertips into it before pulling back with surprise.

“Friend?” This time, it was more of a scared whisper, like that of a cornered child in the horror movies who doesn’t know what’s happening. “Friend…. I think,” I replied quietly. With a little sigh, the shadow-thing slid up into the curve of my shoulder. My head swam with the new-found sensations; I was touching something that wasn’t really there at all. This time, instead of blacking out immediately, I slipped quietly into the depths of slumber.

---

When I woke up for the second time, I was just like I had fallen asleep, only in reverse. I came to slowly, my head clearing of dreams like clouds breaking up after a storm. I had no idea how much time had passed, but the moon was up. It flooded through the dusty, stained picture window in my living room, bathing everything in its calm, silvery glow. The furniture, shielded from dust of the years by large sheets, rose from the old, worn rug like friendly giants. At least, from my position on the floor they looked like giants. Then, an odd feeling crawled up my spine; something wasn’t right with the room.

The little shadow-creature was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t what was wrong. How did I get here? And why am I getting the distinct feeling that something’s wrong? I had lain here many times, with a pillow under my head, swaddled in a big quilt pulled off the bed in the master suite, looking at the night sky. I liked to imagine that the stars were really small, friendly specks of pixie dust, scattered by a careless nymph who was dancing across the sky. The moon transformed my lonesome little world of books and dust into a whimsical, dream-world, filled right up to the brim with mysterious shadows, magic, and stories yet untold.

Tonight, it was different. There was no silent music playing through the night, no shy elves sneaking in the shadows. Then it hit me: there were no shadows. Each and every one of them was gone, leaving a strange, almost two-dimensional world. I looked frantically all around me, but my shadow was gone as well!

Springing to my feet, I stumbled my way into the kitchen, biting my lip to hold back the string of curses on the tip of my tongue when I stubbed three toes on a table leg. I hopped around on one foot until I saw it. I froze, suspended in time, watching it with morbid fascination. The shadow-creature crept up on the shadow of the old green refrigerator like a carnivore creeping up on its prey. With a slight squeak--from which shadow I couldn’t tell--the shadow-creature pounced, landed silently on the refrigerator shadow, bulged for a moment, and then slid on, leaving nothing behind save a stained, white-tiled floor.

I screamed, snapped violently out of my reverie, my socked feet sliding out from under me. My head hit something hard, sending me flying across the floor on my stomach. Surprisingly, though not to my relief, I didn’t black out. Groaning, my eyes squeezed shut and my hands clenched into fists to block out the pain, I rolled over onto my back. Carefully, slowly, I cracked open the eyelid of one eye. After a moment, I realized that watching the room spin around me was making me dizzy, so I shut my eyes again.

“God?” I whimpered. “What in the heck did I ever do to you?”

---

Two hours later, when most were still asleep, I was staring at the wall, chewing my right thumbnail out of habit. I never actually chewed the nail off, but it helped me to think. My mind wandered to the little door in my basement. For two weeks, maybe even longer, every night from twelve o’clock to five after one, on the dot by three clocks, a soft tapping had come from the other side of the door. I couldn’t open the door, no matter how hard I turned, and nobody seemed to hear me when I yelled through the keyhole. On the fifteenth night, the shadow-creature had slipped through the door. Was it really only last night? I wondered. My life had always moved in strange ways, first at a mind-blurring speed, then excruciatingly slow. For the past two years, since the dark day my parents died, I had been…. numb. Nothing seemed real, nobody seemed to exist. I had once read a book, a variation on Rapunzel by Donna Jo Napoli, where a girl was locked in a tower for two years, and she kept telling herself “Life is slippery. One moment reverses the last.” That’s how I felt. Nothing was real save my pain, and even that faded away after a while. I felt like Rapunzel, locked in that tower because the only person she could trust had told her that life outside was dangerous. So I crawled inside my self, creating a shell impenetrable to all emotion and outside beings.

The shadow-creature had jerked me into reality with such suddenness that my head was still spinning. True, the creature was a thing of fantasy, but it was so real. So completely out of my shell that it forced me to follow. Now, I had to send it back, wherever “back” was. I didn’t want to--I could live without shadows—but somebody was bound to notice, and no doubt some cruel, inhumane scientist or other would capture it to perform experiments. I couldn’t let that happen, and if I did, they would surely send me to another horrible orphanage in who-knows-where, away from my home, the last thing I had of my parents. So, the question was how to send it back?

---

By the time the sun’s first probing rays of morning light were filtering through the grime on the windows, the shadow-creature had devoured over half of the house’s shadows, but I had figured out how to get rid of it. I had remembered a riddle I once heard. It went like this: “I am your friend, constant companion, but when the dark comes, I disappear. What am I?” So, all I had to do was create a lack of light, a complete darkness where no shadow could exist.

I decided on the basement, partly for it’s one window versus at least three windows in every other room, and partly for the presence of the little door. I changed into a worn, “Hard Rock Café” t-shirt, and pair of old jean overalls, paint-splotched and missing the right suspender, I tied my thick, golden-red-brown hair out of my eyes, and got to work. First, I lugged a two-gallon paint can from one side of the room to the other. Choosing the thickest of my mother’s old paintbrushes, I started slathering the inky concoction all over the little window. At first, I tried standing on tiptoes to paint, but soon gave up when I found that I could only reach the lowest three inches of the window. I searched the tiny concrete basement for something to suit my purpose, finally deciding on an old, wooden orange crate that said “Fresh from California” in chipped blue lettering.

After the first coat had been brushed on, I took a break to let it dry, in the meantime making a PB&J with baby carrots and a glass of 2 milk on the side. When I finished the sandwich, I took the remaining carrots out to the living room to watch the shadow-creature. It was quite fascinating--in a twisted, morbid kind of way--to watch it eat shadows. It reminded me of a kitten that I had rescued. It had been in a burlap bag, dangling precariously on the branch of a tree that had fallen in the last storm, almost falling into the muddy-brown river. After it had returned to full health, I released it in out grassy backyard, where it amused itself by stalking grasshoppers, crickets, and occasionally my sandaled foot. The shadow-creature was pouncing on shadows like the kitten had pounced on grasshoppers: slowly creeping up behind its victim, then pouncing with all its ferocious vigor. Both looked comical, especially the kitten, who acted as though she were queen of the wild savannah, not just my tame little backyard.

I sighed, pulling away from the memory of the kitten. She had run away later that summer, and I felt as if my eight-year-old heart would never heal. Thinking about it then, I didn’t think it ever really did.

Pushing on my knees to lever myself up, I made my way to the basement door. Descending the stairs, I surveyed the room thoroughly; everything was as I left it, and I was pleased to notice that the first layer of paint had dried. Smiling brightly, as if my torturous inner voice could see me and think that I was completely happy, I got back to work.

---

“Come on, sweetie, I’ve got some really big, yummy shadows for you! Follow Auntie Andrea,” I crooned, using a yogurt top to cast a shadow that would lure the shadow-creature into the basement. I bumped into a rough, wooden surface. Fumbling behind me for a doorknob, the door clicked and swung open, letting a yellow square of light on the floor below. Tossing the cap clumsily, I prayed that the shadow-creature would follow it. I had to bite back a sigh of relief when I turned to see the shadow-creature following the cap greedily. Hastily, I shut the door, stuffed some rags under the crack, and waited.

---

Darkness enveloped me, inside and out. A high, keening wail echoed of the walls, reverberating in my mind, sending every hair on my body on end. It called back memories’ memories I had tried to bury long ago, and that I didn’t want to remember. Biting my lip to hold back a scream, I curled into a fetal position. A corrosive, coppery liquid filled my mouth, but I didn’t notice; salty tears drew ragged crevices down my cheeks, but I didn’t care. My senses were all focused inside; inside where the pain was. Images circled around my mind, each screaming at me to be noticed, to let them in to haunt me.

A mangled car, its shape and size indiscernible, flames licking angrily at the interior, ignoring the pelting rain. Then came the wail of sirens, flashing red and blue lights blinding me, men yelling; the fire is put out, and twisted, charred bodies are pulled from the car and put on clean, white stretchers, a sickening contrast. There is no hope for them.

I am running, my heart pounding in my throat, my breath gasping in my ears. My bare feet slip on the mud, grappling for purchase, but finding none. I hear the shouts of men coming closer. Frightened, panicking, I push myself up, not even pausing to wipe the blood and mud off my knees.

I will lose them in the woods. I know it before it happens. My ten-year-old body is thin and quick, and I am only wearing a light-weight, once-white dress. It tangles in my legs, hindering me for but a split second before I hike the skirt up and rush on.

I hide in the woods, waiting for the men to leave my house. They send dogs out to search for me, but I’ve seen TV. I walk in the rivers, jump from tree to tree, and set out bits of once-white cloth to throw them off my trail. And when I’m not running, I make my shell. First, I push all my grief and anger aside, shoving it into the tinniest cranny imaginable. Then I stop feeling; where once I felt the freezing cold of the river, now I don’t. Lastly, I don’t talk to anyone, don’t get near anyone.

In a week, the men are gone and I go home. But it isn’t the home I remember. The walls don’t reverberate with laughter; the kitchen doesn’t smell of food cooked with love and care. It’s empty, as am I. It suits me, so I stay. After all, it’s the only home I know.

---

The keening wail fades away, and with it, I send my shell. As if for the first time, I feel the cool concrete on my skin; the musty air fills my nostrils with the smells of old memories and new paint; I taste the blood in my mouth, and, disliking it, I spit it out, thinking that perhaps I bit my lip a little too hard. The pounding of heartbeats that floods my ears slowly fades to normal. I yawn, and, head cradled in my sweaty palms, I sleep.

---

I woke up only to find complete and total blackness. At first, I panicked, thinking only of my inward battle the night before. Slowly, I realized what had happened. Laying there, my hair still plastered to my face with drying tears, my head still cradled in a warm palm, I took in the reality--and the not-so-reality--of the past night. Eventually, after my head had cleared, I climbed clumsily up the old wooden steps.

Sunlight flooded my vision. I blinked several times, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. Slowly, surely, I walked through the entire house, brushing my fingers on random objects as I walked by. Some of the furniture was still missing their shadows, but mine had returned. Besides that, everything was pretty much as I left it, though perhaps a little messier. Dust mixed up with memories clung to my fingertips; faded colors grew a stripe of their old hue. I visited every single room, reminiscing without the pain.

The shadow-creature was gone. With it had gone the pain. Why, I don’t know. Maybe because it just unreal enough to jerk me out of my little world of unending pain. No matter, it was gone now, and to everybody but me, it was never here.

---

Two weeks later found me faster than I had expected. I spent the greater part of those to weeks cleaning out the house: dusting, scrubbing, hauling, and washing until I thought my arms would fall off. Despite that, I found the task rather enjoyable. I know it sounds a bit crazy, but I enjoy cleaning. It was nice being able to see it all--grime, dust, and otherwise dirt in general--be cleared away, replaced by the sterilized, lemony scent of all-purpose Lysol.

The rest of the time was spent looking through my parents’ things; old photo albums, Mom’s jewelry box, Dad’s favorite books and my old baby blanket all got placed in the reverent place on the coffee table I had moved to my bedside, and everything else was stored, mothballs and all, in neat boxes in the attic. This house was mine by inheritance, and I wasn’t planning on selling it, although I did want to go see some new faces and places before I turned eighteen and could settle here for good.

After all that was done, I went to town. I stood outside the police station, arm laden with an old berry-basket of groceries, warm summer sun caressing my bare arms, smiling at the men within. A few of them started to notice me, smiling back at me at first, then casting nervous glances my way when I didn’t leave. I watched, chuckling, as the man apparently in charge came into the room, and, noticing the distracted deputies, started yelling at them. Of course, it was like watching a silent movie for me, because I couldn’t hear a thing through the thick glass of the picture window. The sergeant (or at least I assumed that’s what he was) was turning a comical purple from yelling at his deputies. One tried to give him a stuttered explanation, but it took a few tries to get the sergeant to look at me. When he finally did, it was not a double-take, but a triple-take! Yes, ladies and gents, Sergeant Purple-Face has successfully executed a world-record-breaking triple-take. I smiled wider and waved.

The following morning, Sergeant Purple-Face (his real name was John Durham) had his now not-so-purple face plastered next to mine on the local newspaper. The headline read “Local Sergeant Finds Missing Girl”. Yeah, “found me” is right…. right outside his window! I thought, reading it on the train to the orphanage. I was alone in the car.

Next to me was a floral carpetbag that had once belonged to my grandmother, and in it were a few of my clothes, the old photo album with all its fading memories, Dad’s favorite book ever (which also happened to be my favorite as well), and a picture of the three of us when I was ten. In my lap was an old leather backpack containing a paper bag of food, portable CD player, and my old baby blanket, just for safety’s sake. Under my tie-dye t-shirt was a thin silver chain with a matching silver pinecone charm, a present from Mom when I turned seven.

The train lurched to a stop, forcing me to clutch my armrests to keep me from flying forward. I wiped sweaty palms on a pair of faded denim shorts, slung my backpack over one shoulder, grabbed my carpet bag, and started for the car door. Once outside, I looked around at the almost-deserted train station. A little dirt road led down to a tiny village nestled in between the mountains.

I paused, took a deep breath of the cool mountain air, and stepped onto the platform. A short, wide lady in a habit rushed to greet me.

“Hello,” she said, a pleasant smile dimpling in the folds of her wrinkles. “You must be Andrea. I am Sister Margarita. Welcome to your new home.”

The End