In Shade

Cold Hands and Lost Marks

Morning came with snow covered roads, closed schools, and bright, blinding sunlight. It was piercingly white enough that it even made its way into Drew's room through the heavy curtains. He shuffled slowly up into waking, his eyes squinted immediately against the sun. "Damn, it's bright today," He grumbled. The room remained silent around him, and he was nearly surprised that he hadn't gotten an answer. He got out of bed and got dressed. A black hoodie and pale blue jeans, some of his hair tucked behind his left ear.

Surprisingly, the rest of the day was peaceful. Much like the snow outside, the house was quiet. Undisturbed. Drew even smiled while he relaxed in the library with a cup of coffee. For once, it nearly felt like a home. By late in the afternoon he found himself fighting sleep in one of the living rooms. He had been stretched out on his back, a book resting more or less on his face. Eventually, he had let himself doze off.

Drew wasn't sure what time it was when he woke up. It was dark in the living room, the dregs of silver moonlight barely showing the space. He turned onto his side with a groan and internally cursed himself as his book thudded against the floor. With much reluctance, he sat up. His back ached from lying still for so long. He patted where he thought his book had fallen. Nothing there. His eyebrows furrowed as he felt all around, his hands brushing along the rug and finally meeting the ancient hardwood floor.

"Now, where the hell..." Drew mumbled. He ran his hand further out upon the rug but was met with nothing besides the soft fabric. He guided his hand back towards the couch slowly in case he may have missed it. Slow strokes upon the fabric, back towards the hardwood just before the edge of the couch. Moving nearly with hesitance yet purpose. A low breath ran from Drew's chest. His nails barely scraped the chilly hardwood. Had the book fallen under the couch, perhaps? Drew let his nails drag along the floor. They tapped lightly where the boards met. No book on the edge.

Drew pushed his hand beneath the couch. His fingertips grazed along the boards yet further. The floor was cold, chilling. He had yet to feel his book. Drew leaned forward as to reach under more. Still nothing. How far could it have fallen? His arm was in nearly to the elbow. The floor grew colder. Drew heaved a sigh.

"C'mon..." He spoke in a tone like desperation. One inch further. Something freezing and wet grabbed his hand. A scream peeled from Drew's chest and he pulled back as hard and as fast as he could. The freezing hand gripped his own. Panic overwhelmed him.

"Let go of me!" Drew shouted. He yanked his arm back harder than he knew he could. In fact, he pulled back so hard that it hurt his arm. Muscles wrenched and twisted. Hot pain flashed up to his shoulder and radiated back into his elbow. Drew didn't care to feel it. He powered through the ripping pain and finally wriggled his hand free. He didn't care to find his book now, either. The most pressing thing in his mind was to get away. To get away from whatever was under the couch. For all he cared, it could keep the damn book.

Drew ran out of the living room. He took off down the hallway and into the foyer. Being as dark as it was, he didn't see the ottoman sitting next to one of the chairs. It caught him right in the shins. Drew fell to the floor hard. He tumbled a few feet and cried out in pain as his hurt arm slammed against the floor. His heart was beating a thousand miles a minute, the fast, unsteady thump thunderous in his ears. Drew heaved himself up off the floor and kept running for his room. Once he got there, he shut the door behind him. The lock clicked steadily into place. He backed away from the door and let his left hand clutch at his injured arm.

As he started to calm down, the pain in his arm grew more apparent. It ached in a throbbing and hot way. Almost like a deep burn. Drew's eyebrows crinkled as he clutched it.

"God..." He whimpered. Though he hated to admit it, the pain nearly brought tears to his eyes. He must have pulled something. Probably many things. His blurry eyes crept down to his hand. The sight made him gasp. There were four dark bruises rising on the back of his hand. They were in the shape of fingertips. Though he didn't want to, Drew began to shake. He quivered and sank down against his bed. Tears brimmed up in his eyes. Two streaked down his cheeks. He no longer felt any semblance of safety. The things in this house were evil. Cold. They weren't meant to be here. And he was getting the feeling that they felt the same way about him.

Drew wept. He wept tears of bitterness and broken hope. Tears forged from the aching in his arm. From the fear he felt rounding every corner. Drew curled beneath his covers and wept tears of defeat.

The night was a long one, for Drew didn't sleep.

He lay awake until early in the morning, until the rays of the sun were peeking through his window. Only then did he get out of bed. Something needed to be done about this. The situation was ridiculous and Drew was nearly at his wits' end. He was still wearing the clothes he had had on yesterday. His hair remained uncombed as he crept slowly across his room. His injured arm was drawn next to his side. What could be done? What could he do? His mind felt as frazzled as a burnt out bulb while he tried to sort things out. There was almost too much to take in.

What could he really do against the dead? He couldn't fight the ghost. He couldn't chase it out. There was no way to face it head on since it was only seen when it wanted to be. Reluctantly, Drew began to pace. He walked slowly back and forth in front of his bedroom door. With every other turn, golden light from the window fell across his face and chest. It shone on him in a sad way, a way that made the darkness of his features rise up. It outlined the worry that scored itself over his eyes and scraped on the corners of his mouth. The collective etching of pain and concern on his jaw and cheekbones. It painted over his slumped shoulders, his defeated, bent neck, his tangled hair, and his wrinkled clothes.

When he was done pacing, he had come to a conclusion. He decided that he would wait for the ghost. He would invite it out. See what it wanted and try to come to terms with it. In his sleepless state he thought that maybe they could come to an understanding. An agreement. Tonight he would meet it. He would sit out in the foyer and anticipate its arrival. And then maybe, just maybe, something good could come of it.