Hededuced the shadow must have a true lair, if not in the hearts and minds ofmen. If not within the walls themselves. The shadow must have a place to sleep,and rest, because unlike Samuel, the shadow was at home in its house of death.It had everything it needed and maybe, like Samuel, it was bound there. It’sone slice of the afterlife to call its own. Maybe, somehow, the shadow had oncebeen like him. It could have been Samuel’s imagination, but his white suit wasmuch more silver and gray than he remembered
Onthe first floor, he paced the beginning of the stairwell and thought of Mrs.Parker. The front door had changed, wires had been strewn throughout the wallsand the building, how much of it was truly the same? Like the ship of Theseusconsistently rebuilt until not a plank of wood remained of the original vessel,what was it that kept the building the same? What bound it other than amiserable shadow and a frustrated dead man? Samuel clenched his fists, andfound himself sinking.
Anage-old question he once pondered as a boy was, what if a ghost sank to thecenter of the earth? What if it sank and kept right on sinking and ended up inChina? Or wherever bouts Missouri was lined up with if you stuck a pencilthrough a globe. Samuel sunk up to his chest and hoped he’d find out thatanswer quickly. Try as he did to go through the front door and emerge onto theroof, he never considered what might lie below. The house had no root cellarthat he knew of, no underground labyrinth guarded by a minotaur to call itsown. Samuel tilted his nose up and gave in. Failure as he was, he was ready toleave the house in the West Village, one way or another.
Hefound himself in the deep, dripping black of a sewer. It could have beennothing else. He didn’t need to see or smell. He could feel it, shivering alongthe nerves he wasn’t supposed to have. This is where it slept, the shadow. Thiswas its true kingdom, it was never a resident of the building at all. An invader,much like Samuel. Like Samuel, slowly learning to influence the world, only, inthis case, by snuffing a fresh pair of lungs, tripping an old lady andmanipulating the open mind of a drunk. Samuel had talents, too. Much like howone is born with a knack for an art or a calling, in death you have ways ofmanipulating the world—even if the world has to catch up to you—through lights,radios and wires of all sorts. As Samuel he was forgettable, but as Mr. Twain?He was timeless.
Theshadow was weakened, preparing for a long hibernation. He had it cornered.Twain’s emotion, when tuned just right, could burst a light bulb. He couldn’ttouch the shadow, couldn’t physically harm it. But the house of death? Hecouldn’t make the shadow bleed, so he’d make it homeless.
MarkTwain rose above the sewers, shaking free the dancing nerves that tried to curlhis spine. It was nightfall, and he visited each tenant, whispering into theirsleeping heads and changing the pattern of their lives. He waited untilmorning. One by one, each of the tenants left the building: some for work, somefor school or the pleasantries of a day off. Others oddly, with littlereasoning as they lumbered to Washington Square Park, unsure of theirintentions. All behaved exactly as Mark Twain intended.
Asthe sole not-quite-living resident of the building, aside from the shadow, ofcourse, Mark positioned himself within the building’s middle, between floorsand units, within a nest of wires and electric outlets. Born and perished inthe passing blaze of a comet, he had landed here, in a place where reason andlogic were shredded into lunacy. Where his words and his whit no longermattered and he was stripped to nothing more than a good suit only he couldadmire. Mark Twain reached out and clenched his eyes shut of a world gonestrange.
Asa boy, he once worked on steamship with his brother. Called away to follow hispassions as a journalist, his brother was killed by an exploding boiler on thevery steamship they had operated on together. Death laughed at him, from thevery beginning of his lifetime. It took his wife and children as compensationand left a rich man with no one to leave his possessions to. Mark Twain onlyhad his words, tossed among the world and also taken from him, taken and twistedby all who may use them. He would have a say in one matter, at the very least,before pulling with every ounce of soul he had left in his pale, spectral form.
TVsexploded. Outlets poured flame and light bulbs shone like miniature supernovas.Mark Twain fed the sparks until all around him melted and oozed, charred andblackened. For a moment, he admired the distinct beauty of such immense flames.Within them, he could feel his heart and how it soared and wept, for all thetenants lost, for the black clouds that would rise above his dear New York andhow all of West and Greenwich Village would be a mess of soot and ash for weeksto come.
MarkTwain rode the collapsing floorboards with his feet pointed like daggers,stabbing into the shadow’s lair within the sewer. It squealed, too tired toflee as the fire consumed it. “Passion!” he screamed into laughter, for thetroubles of the world occasionally needed to be illuminated, dug up and made toanswer for all the pain they’ve caused.
MarkTwain drowned out the shadow’s squeals with his own laughter, before the flamesparted and he stepped through a door that may have always been there, waitingfor him to knock. As always, he left this world like a man who knows how enter,and exit, the stage.
Ghosts In Their Eyes
Trisha J. Wooldridge
1.
She watches. She watches. She watchestheir eyes.
Shewatches. She watches. In silence, she cries.
Penancefor silence, see the ghosts in their eyes.
NurseEmma remembers so, so many years
asnurse, secret keeper for Doctor Audaire.
Shewishes she forgot so, so, many tears.
Itwould be easier if she didn’t care.
Butshe still has
