In Shade

Frozen in The Blizzard of Time

So the day passed in an odd, agonizing silence. The stairs didn't creak. The wind neither whispered nor screamed. Nothing sighed and nothing drug across the floor. The house was as quiet as a tomb. And Drew waited. He wandered the house with an ice pack held against his twisted arm. Not once did he hear the sound of slow feet behind him. Nor did he feel eyes pressing into his back. This was more unnerving than anything he had ever felt before. This feeling of unhappy peace. It was like the spirits had drawn away entirely. As if they were planning. It seemed like they knew exactly what was going on. And maybe they did. It seems like the dead are always a step ahead of the living.

As time wore on, Drew decided he should get ready. Even as he walked to his room he felt delusional. Getting ready for a ghost? Who did that? Nobody. But most people hadn't been pushed to this sort of brink. Choosing an outfit would be the hardest part. He looked over his wardrobe with a critical eye. Formal, or casual? He didn't want to be too dressy, after all.

"Hmm... What to wear..." Even as he said the words he realized how ridiculous he was being and began laughing at himself. His voice rose as he spoke to no one, "What to wear? For a meeting with a god damn dead man?" He shook his head and looked down at the floor. As his laughing continued, it lost its warmth. It turned to something colder, darker, and Drew's smile soured into an expression like disgust. His laugh faded into canniness, and then a low sigh, before it rose to a shout and he struck out against his wardrobe door. It rattled loudly on its old hinges and he took a step back. All joy was gone from his face. It had been replaced by anger.

"Why the hell should I get dressed up for a god damn dead man?" He yelled to his empty room; his empty house. The shout echoed back into his empty self. He punched the door again and then slammed it shut. The wardrobe shook from the force.

"Why the hell should I?" He kept yelling and now he turned. He faced the rest of his room and screamed to it. "You got any answers? No? Yes?" His voice rang out into the empty halls and stairwell. Silence was his answer. Drew stood there for a long time, breathing heavy with anger. He was waiting for the ghost to finally come and give him something. A fight? A heart attack? He wasn't sure what. But he wanted to see it.

Nothing came. The house stayed perfectly quiet. His outburst had been fruitless, and now that his anger was fading from him, he felt a deep ache in his right hand. Drew cast his eyes down at it. Bruises were rising on his knuckles, blood trickled down two of his fingers. Though he hadn't noticed before, his hands were shaking. Quivering like two little leaves in a breeze. His breath was rough, nearly acrid in his throat. With a ragged sigh he wiped the blood from his hand. He staggered back from his wardrobe and collapsed against his bed. His face rested in his battered palms. Defeat hammered into him like a drum. His thoughts ran in circles, 'You did this to yourself. This is all you. It's all your stupid, human fault. You're the reason you're hurt, you're the reason for your torment. If you never would've come here, this never would've happened. You did this to yourself."

Drew very nearly cried again. For a long time he just sat on the edge of his bed that way, face in his hands, shirt half off. But eventually, he got up and went back to his wardrobe. This time he eased the door open. He carefully went through all of his clothes. When he was done, he had chosen a white button down shirt and black jeans. Decent. Good enough for greeting something, no, someone, in his own house. Then he had combed his hair and washed off his cut knuckles. He had winced as the water ran over them. But it was a small price to pay to keep them clean. Better than getting an infection, he supposed.

By the time this was all done, it was nearing sundown. The sun was slowly drawing itself to the day's end. It was settling itself down on the horizon like a tired animal. A horse worn weary from travel. And Drew sat down, too. He sat down in one of the chairs in the foyer and crossed his arms over his chest. Two lamps had been lit, casting dim but nurturing light out across the space. Drew sat next to one of them. In the lamp's light, his exhaustion was apparent. Dark circles ran their course beneath his eyes. His eyelids were heavy and threatened to close completely. Drew still sat. He sat there as the darkness spilled itself into his home and stretched across the floor. He sat in patience as the crescent moon rose as a skeletal god. Yet still, there was nothing.