punch, an urge to find something…some kind of reason, or answer, or…
Fuck it, he thought, about to give up. And at that moment another thought:
Attic.
Her voice. His wife. Odd, because of course she wouldn’t know where the picture went. She was dead, wasn’t she?
Dead, he thought, but just to himself.
Attic, Keane. Go in the attic.
She sounded…eager.
31
Keane hadn’t planned on staying until dark, or going in the attic. The only source of light he had was his cigarette lighter and he didn’t want to use it in the attic near the lagging. He didn’t know how flammable the stuff was and he wasn’t about to risk burning down the house, even if it wasn’t his anymore.
Don’t worry, she told him. I’ll show you. Take my hand.
He didn’t want to hurt her, tell her she was just a voice in his head.
So what if she was, though?
She was his, he was hers.
And she was dead. If anyone could negotiate the dark, surely the dead could?
He pulled down the ladder and clambered up into the musty blackness of the attic (warmer than below, for some reason).
He reached out at her bidding to take her hand…and screamed when he found it.
32
He screamed, then, shortly after as she comforted him in her arms (God, he could smell her, feel her…she was standing…she’s solid) he cried. He cried there in the dark and had no idea for how long.
After a time—maybe an hour, maybe more, she let him move. His legs ached from standing so still in her cold arms.
“You can’t rest, baby,” she said. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her and her words weren’t in his head, but coming from her mouth.
“You know he’s not dead,” she said.
Keane shook his head. He didn’t know if his dead wife could see the gesture in the dark, but he couldn’t speak. Not yet.
His throat felt raw. Like he’d been choked by his shade all over again.
“He’s coming again, Keane. Brother Shadow. He told me.”
Finally, Keane found his voice.
“No,” he said, and felt so tired, so afraid, and yet comforted by this ghost he loved, whether she was real or imagined, he didn’t care. He’d missed her so much, and to have her hand in his in this dark place was more than he could ever wish. He did wonder if he’d finally broken completely, but she felt, she sounded so real.
If this was breaking, he thought, then he could deal with it.
But not him .
“You know it’s true, Keane. You know .”
The bastard of it was that he did know. He didn’t need her to tell him, yet it drove it home painfully. After all, hadn’t he been looking for him all this time? Trying to find his dark partner, Brother Shadow?
“He call himself that?”
Even though he couldn’t see and she was just a ghost, or maybe his tortured imagination, he sensed her nod, just as he now knew she had sensed his.
“What is it, Teresa? Who is he?”
This time she shook her head.
“I don’t know what it is, Keane. I know it’s not you, though. You know that, right? You believe that?”
Keane wasn’t so sure. He wondered, often, late into the night. Was his shadow him? A part of him? Something he couldn’t see, like an epileptic seizure dream?
Was his shadow just a fugue state? Keane, acting out some kind of demon inside? Did he own this? Was all this his doing?
She heard his thoughts, even though she wasn’t in his head but outside in the dark attic.
Teresa squeezed his hand.
“No, honey. No. Don’t think that. You don’t need to think like that. He is Brother Shadow. He’s real. Real as you.”
He noted she didn’t say “real as me,” but then did it matter? Maybe she was just a part of him, but either way, she was telling him like it was, and despite the chills he felt, the fear, the fucking awful horror of his dead wife and a demon in his own shadow, he smiled.
That smile felt good here, like a torch against the darkness.
And at that thought, he
Fuck it, he thought, about to give up. And at that moment another thought:
Attic.
Her voice. His wife. Odd, because of course she wouldn’t know where the picture went. She was dead, wasn’t she?
Dead, he thought, but just to himself.
Attic, Keane. Go in the attic.
She sounded…eager.
31
Keane hadn’t planned on staying until dark, or going in the attic. The only source of light he had was his cigarette lighter and he didn’t want to use it in the attic near the lagging. He didn’t know how flammable the stuff was and he wasn’t about to risk burning down the house, even if it wasn’t his anymore.
Don’t worry, she told him. I’ll show you. Take my hand.
He didn’t want to hurt her, tell her she was just a voice in his head.
So what if she was, though?
She was his, he was hers.
And she was dead. If anyone could negotiate the dark, surely the dead could?
He pulled down the ladder and clambered up into the musty blackness of the attic (warmer than below, for some reason).
He reached out at her bidding to take her hand…and screamed when he found it.
32
He screamed, then, shortly after as she comforted him in her arms (God, he could smell her, feel her…she was standing…she’s solid) he cried. He cried there in the dark and had no idea for how long.
After a time—maybe an hour, maybe more, she let him move. His legs ached from standing so still in her cold arms.
“You can’t rest, baby,” she said. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her and her words weren’t in his head, but coming from her mouth.
“You know he’s not dead,” she said.
Keane shook his head. He didn’t know if his dead wife could see the gesture in the dark, but he couldn’t speak. Not yet.
His throat felt raw. Like he’d been choked by his shade all over again.
“He’s coming again, Keane. Brother Shadow. He told me.”
Finally, Keane found his voice.
“No,” he said, and felt so tired, so afraid, and yet comforted by this ghost he loved, whether she was real or imagined, he didn’t care. He’d missed her so much, and to have her hand in his in this dark place was more than he could ever wish. He did wonder if he’d finally broken completely, but she felt, she sounded so real.
If this was breaking, he thought, then he could deal with it.
But not him .
“You know it’s true, Keane. You know .”
The bastard of it was that he did know. He didn’t need her to tell him, yet it drove it home painfully. After all, hadn’t he been looking for him all this time? Trying to find his dark partner, Brother Shadow?
“He call himself that?”
Even though he couldn’t see and she was just a ghost, or maybe his tortured imagination, he sensed her nod, just as he now knew she had sensed his.
“What is it, Teresa? Who is he?”
This time she shook her head.
“I don’t know what it is, Keane. I know it’s not you, though. You know that, right? You believe that?”
Keane wasn’t so sure. He wondered, often, late into the night. Was his shadow him? A part of him? Something he couldn’t see, like an epileptic seizure dream?
Was his shadow just a fugue state? Keane, acting out some kind of demon inside? Did he own this? Was all this his doing?
She heard his thoughts, even though she wasn’t in his head but outside in the dark attic.
Teresa squeezed his hand.
“No, honey. No. Don’t think that. You don’t need to think like that. He is Brother Shadow. He’s real. Real as you.”
He noted she didn’t say “real as me,” but then did it matter? Maybe she was just a part of him, but either way, she was telling him like it was, and despite the chills he felt, the fear, the fucking awful horror of his dead wife and a demon in his own shadow, he smiled.
That smile felt good here, like a torch against the darkness.
And at that thought, he
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