The Shadow Man

Something that spilled out of my mind at 2am. Written in an hour and edited a few times.

Hope you enjoy!

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Feel free to call me strange, weird perhaps, whatever your choice word would be, but one of my favourite past times late at night was to open the kitchen window of my tiny flat and watch the stillness.

I would hang out the window, breathing in the fresh air, letting the breeze ripple over me and on occasion I closed my eyes allowing my mind to wander and pretend I was somewhere else. Perhaps lying in the scratchy heather of some far off moor surrounded by the scent of warm peat or sitting beside a gently lapping lake up in the hills, sheep bleating quietly as they crop the grass. In fact anywhere that isn’t this hellish city.

It was during this little ritual of mine that I first saw him.

Nothing seemed different as I peered up and down my gloomy orange-lit road. The terraced houses stood to attention, quiet rows of habitation, windows black, the occupants sound asleep. That night even the usually present distant roar of cars seemed to have ceased. The hush filled the air, the space, the distance. It seems funny to say that but that’s what it felt like. Not empty or barren but full, full of… of expectancy. That’s the only way I can describe it.

Placing my hands on the wide, peeling windowsill, I leaned further out hoping I might see a fox. There were loads around where I lived and I’d often see them when I was late coming back to the flat. Of course they would run as soon as they detected my presence but from up by my window I could see them but they couldn’t see me. Sometimes I would feel as though no one could see me up here and I gazed down at strangers going about their business without knowing they were being watched.

On this night though there were no foxes, only the dark shape of a man standing on the corner; his outline sharp and stark in the pooling glow of the electric streetlight. I wouldn’t have noticed him except that his trench coat fluttered in the breeze. I stared down at him but with his brimmed hat pulled low making it hard to see his face in the gloom, I couldn’t be sure which way he was facing. It was eerie; everything about him was dark like his whole being was made of shadow.

Rooted to the spot he remained quite still, unusually so and this drew my gaze to him, making me linger on his form rather than looking away. Usually the people I saw out at night were zooming home in their cars or hurrying along the path, desperate to get out of the darkness and into their nicely lit houses but he stood there, detached. It was as if he wasn’t part of the surroundings, like he was a dark cut-out placed against a background. As my eyes roamed over him I wondered what an earth he could be doing. Then a shocking jolt ran through me as I realised he was looking up at me as I was looking down at him.

I hadn’t noticed to begin with. He was so dark, but now I could see the way his body was positioned, the way his head was tilted. He was looking straight at me. Lurching back I snapped the window shut as quick as I could and pulled the blind down.

My heart beat fast against my breastbone and my breath came in short pants. As much as I was curious as to who this person was, the thought of being noticed, of this man knowing that I lived in this house, in this particular tiny flat was unnerving. I slept restlessly that night, my mind plagued with shadowy figures that stopped, turned, and looked directly at me.

The next time I was at that window peering out, I couldn’t lie, I was nervous. It had been a few days since I had indulged in my little past time and truth be told I was itching to smell that night air again, but I hesitated. Finally I cranked up the blind and paused again before opening the window. I couldn’t see anything. Not a living soul was on that street and so heartened I opened the window. To my surprise I was somewhat disappointed that the shadow man was not on my street corner and as I lay my chin on the window ledge, letting the cold air whip through my hair, I again wondered who he was and where he might be.

For several nights I went to the window and he wasn’t there. I half began to accept that he was merely some random person who happened to see me that night. Though something still bothered me, still niggled at the back of my mind. It had something to do with the pool of light and the way he stood out; his darkness against the light that surrounded him.

So there I was again, arms hanging out of the window, a dreamy smile on my face. It had just rained and oh how I loved the fresh smell in the air just after it had rained, the atmosphere was electrifying.

Abruptly he was there. Closer this time, one street lamp down from the way I remember it. His body positioned the same way, his head tilted up to my window. Again I felt the jolt of apprehension, the fear rising inside me but I didn’t choose flight this time round. I stared back. I would’ve called it a staring match except I couldn’t see his eyes. That was until he moved, shifting his arm up to point in my direction. I flipped out, stumbling back from the window and tripping over my own feet in my haste.

Despite my fear and apprehension, the next night I still I went to the window. I couldn’t help myself. As scared as I was by this man, he was still the most exciting thing that happened in my pencil pushing, paper shuffling, non-existent life. After all who can resist a little mystery and excitement? Even if that excitement comes with a whiff of danger.

He was there again, and again he was a little closer, the next street lamp down. Part of me wondered if I should go out to him. Sound him out, ask him why the fuck he kept coming and staring at my window but then the rational part of my mind would chime in, reminding me that going out of your house in the middle of the night to meet a strange man was probably not the best of ideas. I don’t know how long I looked at him that night but he didn’t move this time. Maybe he noticed how I had reacted when he’d tried that the previous night or maybe he just realised how fucking creepy it was to just stare.

What unnerved me more the next night was how he was at my gate. He was so close that I could hear him breathing. It was a rattling breath, as though he had chained smoked fifty a day for years. I still couldn’t see his face though, couldn’t penetrate that darkness that mysteriously hung about him. For a moment I thought he had broken free of the street lamp fetish he seemed to have but then I realised with dismay that the light outside my house cast an orange glow all the way up to my front door.

For some reason, don’t ask me why, I thought that was the opportune moment to challenge this guy. Hell he was practically on my property, if not then, then when?

“Hey…Hey you! What the hell is your problem?” I shouted down to him.

He moved so quickly that it made me step back, lose my footing, and crash to the floor as a darkness seemed to explode out of him in all directions. Consuming the pool of light he was stood in and coming for me.

Shit, shit, shit!

Not having enough time to slam the window shut I decided to leg it to the living room and crash the door shut. As I reached the adjoining door I felt something cold slick across the skin of my right arm and screeched, yanking it away and slamming the door shut behind me.

What the hell was that? What the hell was going on? Who the hell was that guy?

My breathing was hard, my heart beat double time and when, trembling, I raised my right arm to eye level, my stomach dropped.

There, on the pale skin of my forearm, was a black mark as though someone had lashed me with pure darkness.

I sat there for a time, my back firmly against the wood of the kitchen door, arm cradled across my body. I had no inclination to move, my whole body felt lethargic, like it was too exhausted, too heavy. My breathing slowed and a drowsiness closed my eyes. I felt my body slumping sideways but I couldn’t do anything about it and my consciousness slipped all together as I hit the floor.

When I awoke the next morning I was in my bed and everything seemed to be normal. To the point where I speculated if what had happened last night was all a dream. Even the mark on my arm was gone and I couldn’t help but wonder if I had let my imagination run away with me.

Nevertheless, when I left for work that morning, I paused at the spot where the man had stood the previous night and noticed something that sent goose bumps over my skin. Exactly where the man had been standing, exactly where the beam of light from the street lamp bounced off the ground…all the tiles were cracked; nowhere else but in that spot. As though some force had been exerted on them and they had caved under the pressure.

That whole day I felt slightly queasy, as though my head was in a constant fog and when I got home I lapsed into an uneasy sleep only to awake at three in the morning with a burning need to look out my window.

I staggered to my kitchen, itching my right arm, and looked out. He was there again, waiting at the gate. The funny thing was…I no longer felt scared. I expected to see him, was glad to see him. I smiled.

I went to him. I left my tiny flat, my pathetic excuse for a life, everything behind.

When the glow of the street lamp washed over me I felt contented, at home, as though I never wanted to leave. I remember reaching the gate and watching him, waiting. He didn’t say anything, just offered me his hand.

I took it.

Now I don’t watch out my window anymore. I don’t take pleasure in the night. I am the night. I am the shadow.

And now…I watch you.