In Shado

V

It was strange to see Rune's real face. There was no red around his eyes, no antlers protruding from his black, uncombed hair, and his Shado pallor was replaced by a cinnamon tan. But he still had the same gray freckles splattered across high cheekbones, almond eyes, and aquiline nose, now adorned with tubes along with his mouth and arms. His skin bore a collage of nicks and bruises.

I didn't go in the room. A woman, probably his mother, sat beside his bed, holding his hand. Tears chased each other down her cheeks. Her long, dark hair hung around her face like a willow tree. I couldn't go in.

My house is still empty. Falling sparkles of dust dance in the strip of light coming from the kitchen window across from the faded, floral-print sofa and coffee table. The old floors creak as I head for the basement. A musty smell crawls up the old steps from the open door. All it needs is some fog emanating from the darkness, and it would be perfect for a horror movie.

I flick the switch on the wall and a dim yellow bulb squeezes out enough light for me to see where I'm going.

I take a deep breath and start downstairs, leaving the door cracked open in case I need a quick escape from whatever face-eating demons probably living down there. Every descending step sounds like I'm stomping on a dog's squeaker toy.

Boxes are stacked in rows. To the left is Pop's old desk piled with grandmom's collection of creepy yard-sale dolls, their rigid hair and unblinking faces under a layer of dust. On the floor, vinyls spill into the walkway from their pile next to the old turntable. Bagged outfits hang from the exposed rafters. A congregation of extra dining room and folding chairs sit by the back wall with the unsorted pile of holiday decorations. The ancient washer and dryer lay dormant, waiting for someone to feed them so they can rock against the wall and leak bubbles.

I inch forward, keeping my balled hands close to my chest, and step over the junk to get to three bins stacked on each other. They're my mother's possessions: clothes, jewelry, keepsakes. I snap the lids off, looking for a decorative box with neatly filed books.

She used to keep journals. Even though the memories are smudge with age, I remember how the mornings smelled like her coffee, and she'd be wearing the sweatpants that had white spots from the time she spilled nail-polish remover on them. She'd sit on the sofa with one foot on the coffee table, diary leaned against her thigh, writing until it was time for her to get ready for work.

I used to ask her what she wrote, and she'd usually say "my dreams." Sometimes it was just normal everyday things. Her thoughts, feelings, stuff like that. Dad thought it was funny that she always wrote in her diary at the start of the day before anything happened. That always confused me because I always thought that's just when you were supposed to write in a diary. Little did Dad know, sleep is when everything happens. If Sal is right, my mother went to Shado in her sleep like me. She had a second life that we never knew about.

I pull the box out and lift the lid. A stack of booklets from the bin. I settle cross-legged on the floor and lean over the box, full of journals with numbers drawn on the spines in marker.

Where to start? There's over twenty of these things in here.

Part of me feels guilty. Inside these journals is Mom's personal stuff. I feel as if, by reading them, I'd be violating her trust. But she would want me to know these things, right? If I were old enough before she left us, she'd have told me everything. From what Sal said, she went through the same thing as me. How could she let me believe I was crazy? They sent me to a therapist to convince me I suffered from recurring insomniac delusions.

She'd want me to read these. I take the first book and flip through it.

It still feels wrong.

Maybe I'll just skim them and look for key bits of information?

Hours later, I've finished reading through two and started the third.

It's incredible.

The inside of my head feels swollen with information, and my eyes feel like they've been squirted with water.

Upstairs, the front door opens and clicks shut.

"Hello?" Pop's voice calls from upstairs. He has a part-time job at one of the local gift shops. He's retired, but he claims that lying around at home would "turn his brain to rice pudding." Grandmom is usually home, but she was visiting her sister today. I took the now-or-never chance to visit the hospital.

The sound of his footsteps near, and the basement door squeaks. "Somebody down here?"

I turn to face the light, accidentally letting go of the book. "Yeah, I'll be right up!" I slap my hand down on the book before it closes. "Dang it." Lost my page.

I'm about to withdraw my hand and call it a day when I notice that the page I'm stopped on barely has any writing. I open it.

"Barrow came up with a symbol for Haven," I read from the top of the page. "Something simple, but will show people like us how to find it."

The rest of the page is taken up by an oddly disproportionate X. The intersection lies high, making it more of a triangle without a floor.

I furrow my brow. It kind of looks like a...

My heart skips a beat. The next page starts: "I thought it was clever. A teepee. Like a shelter. Somewhere people can take refuge from the outside." I dig my phone out of my pocket and open the messenger app. I tap Sal's number at the top, take a picture of the page, and hit send.

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