“Shadow creatures should never be confused with shadow figures; they’re variants,” mused Professor Lakin. “Most paranormal investigators fail to distinguish between the two due to ignorance. That and shadow creatures’ comparative rarity . . . until now.” Just as in classroom, he catalyzed undivided attention.
The elderly professor, long retired, had spent the latter part of his academic career chairing the local college’s Parapsychology Department, a field of study generally considered a fringe discipline by both the institution’s academic faculty and administrative officials alike. It was only when Dr. Thaddeus Lakin volunteered to fund the department out of his own pocket did the pertinent bureaucratic honchos agree to add its peculiar curriculum.
Introduction to Parapsychology quickly became one of the most popular classes on campus with a long enrollment waiting list each and every semester. I had been one of the lucky few first year students (fresh out of high school) to gain admission to the class via an early fall pre-semester lottery. First time I’d won anything.
Enraptured by Professor’s lectures, I subsequently majored in the field, accepted (an arduous task) into the small, but highly competitive undergraduate program following my third semester. Remained after graduation to earn a PhD in the subfield of paranormal research under Dr. Lakin’s tutelage.
Now more than a decade later I was lecturing in my chosen specialty at a local community college by day and conducting paranormal investigations by night. My podcast, Excursions in Parapsychology with Dr. Knute Quinn, had morphed last year into a cable network broadcast with an expanding audience base. Unlike similar programs, mine added academic legitimacy to the paranormal field via the infusion of advanced scientific research methodology, something sorely lacking in a majority of those competing shows typically hosted by rank and noncredentialled amateurs . . . in my totally unbiased opinion.
I decided shadow figures would be the focus of my first televised paranormal research project of the new season, and like many times in the past, I paid a visit to the nearby home of my old professor for consultation and guidance. After pondering Dr. Lakin’s initial input on the topic, I asked the obvious question, “What’s the difference between the two?”
Professor Lakin peered at me for a moment through thick bifocals, his flowing white hair sheltered by a tattered baseball cap. Well into his seventies, he remained as sharp and erudite as ever. “In general, shadow figures roughly resemble humans; might be a bit larger or smaller, but their darkly opaque forms are recognizably hominoid; shadow creatures not so much. Shapes and sizes vary over a considerable range of abominations. And they’re much more aggressive . . . and dangerous.”
“Dangerous? How so?” My mind swirled with possibilities for the next telecast.
“Unlike the usually reticent shadow figures, these things attack if felt threatened or a territorial breech perceived. Due to relative rarity of past encounters, few researchers are cognizant of the danger. But this might be shifting at least temporarily; come with me.”
I trailed the spry professor into a cluttered office located in the rear of his seven-gabled Victorian abode (hauntingly ethereal in the late fall) and pulled up an adjacent chair as he booted up an older Mac atop an antique mahogany desk.
“Let me pull up this file,” Dr. Larkin murmured as he clicked away.
“Looks like it’s time you consider a new machine,” I jested as we waited for the Excel file to appear onscreen. The professor’s razored glance told me he was not amused by my quip.
Eventually, the spreadsheet materialized. “Here it is, Knute. Take a gander at the data,” Dr. Lakin said as he pushed the mouse in my direction.
I intently scrolled down the Shadow Creature file’s dates, locations, and events dating back over five hundred years. Not numerous, but steady with a few exceptions. Most encounters were recorded in Europe, Africa, and Asia; later years featured sporadic data from the Americas.
“Wow, it must have taken you quite a bit of time, research, and travel to compile all this information,” I observed. “An impressive feat.”
“I’ve been retired for a while now, Knute. Lots of time on my hands. And since I ceased funding the college’s now defunct Parapsychology Department upon departure, I’ve the means to finance my global research jaunts, although that substantial inheritance I received years ago has dwindled considerably–it wasn’t cheap supporting an entire academic department, even a small one.”
“I’m grateful you lingered until I completed my doctorate; I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Well, happy to have obliged–you were my star pupil, but I must say I’m not totally onboard with that TV show of yours. Although it’s far superior to the excrement being produced by those other paranormal programs.”
We both chuckled then returned our gaze to the Mac’s screen. Professor queried, “What do you notice about the data from a longitudinal research perspective?”
I perused the spreadsheet once more before responding. “It appears every hundred years there’s a significant spike in creature figure encounters . . . and in the ramifications of said confrontations.”
“Exactly; and for the longest time I couldn’t understand why. But now I’ve developed a hypothesis. Just a theory, mind you, but I believe it’s on the right track. Maybe that show of yours could explore and substantiate it . . . but that might be asking too much; way too much.” The professor cringed as soon the request escaped his lips.
“Enlighten me; I’d love to use your supposition as the episode’s focus,” I eagerly replied, my heart palpitating as if I’d finished a marathon.
“Forget I mentioned it,” responded the old professor, his expression serious and sprinkled with fear. Dead serious.
Only when I (fingers crossed) promised Professor Lakin I wouldn’t explore the topic on my telecast did he divulge the particulars of his theory.
Three weeks into the new year; time to begin onsite preliminaries for my season premier scheduled for the first week in August, always the extensive lead time between video production and final on-air product. Academic protocol dictated an extensive baseline study of the chosen location prior to episode filming. Depending on locale and topic, said analysis could last several weeks, typically longer than it took to video the actual cable show.
I’d titled the season’s premier, Shadow Creatures–Fact and Theory. If it hadn’t been the beginning of the hundred-year cycle, I’d have heeded Professor’s caution. But I just couldn’t ignore the centenary and projected spike in shadow creature activity. Couldn’t. I’d never have the opportunity again. Sorry, Dr. Lakin.
According to the spreadsheet, the nearest verified creature figure activity (only once a few years ago – benign) was inside the gut of Creech’s Cave, located about forty miles west of town. The subject of local paranormal folklore for the past two hundred years, the cave’s folkloric yarns were pooh-poohed by many contemporary town residents; others swore (mostly intoxicated teens at this summer party spot) they’d encountered ghostly mists and shadows, heard strange howls, and dodged stones thrown from nowhere.
A younger me had explored the cave’s hollow a few times (prior to my academic interest in the paranormal) as had many locals in their teen years, part of summer’s hot weather fiesta outings. I never encountered even a paranormal whimper. Thus, the cave wasn’t considered a viable destination for my telecast . . . until that spreadsheet. That damn spreadsheet.
“Thank God for global warming,” Sonja Herrera quipped sarcastically as we unloaded research equipment from the van at the mouth of Creech Cave in preparation for the baseline study. The winter had been unusually temperate, and if local meteorologists could be trusted, it would remain so well into February.
“Luck’s on our side; this time last year we’d be standing in ten inches of snow,” I replied to my associate and budding researcher.
When it appeared a cable network gig was imminent, I advertised on various academic job sites for assistance. After receiving well over five hundred resumes (mostly unqualified), I narrowed it down to five candidates. Two rounds of intensely in-depth interviews ensued before I selected Sonja, a recent college grad with an independent major in the parapsychological field from a prestigious university who planned on pursuing her doctorate. Exceptionally bright, articulate, and energetic–the young woman was a perfect fit for the telecast. Now in her second year of cable (and probably last . . . grad school beckoned), Sonja had blossomed into an outstanding researcher, a significant factor in the program’s soaring ratings.
We’d both worked up a swelter unloading, then prepping our equipment in the belly of the Creech. Time to take five, we opened the cooler and grabbed a couple of OJs, reclining on the cave’s rocky wall amongst a sea of research paraphernalia lounging eerily in the shadows of our portable lights. Sat there in silence a few minutes, each lost in thought and anticipation.
“We’ve loafed long enough; time to get a move on,” I said, positioning my right hand on the cold wall to stand.
“Okay, okay. Just let me take one last swig of . . .” Sonja’s reply was interrupted mid-sentence by concurrent beeps of both electromagnetic field detection and movement sensory equipment.
“Holy shit; what the hell is causing that, Sonja?”
Sonja’s response, a primal scream as she pointed a shaking finger toward the cave’s posterior (at least as far as the lighting permitted a visual).
I jerked my head in the direction of her extended digit and caught site of it, my body quivered with fear. “We need to get the fuck out of here now, Sonja. Now!” I turned and sprinted toward the light at the mouth of the cave. Heard the patter of Sonja’s feet about ten yards behind . . . at least I think it was hers.
We’d found what we’d come for, I thought scurrying out the cave and toward the surrounding tree line; that horrific image burned into my brain like it was engraved by a hot Texas branding iron. The shadow creature was immense, at least fifteen feet tall and half as wide. Misshapen its outline was, almost blob-like except for what must have been the head at the apex of the monstrosity, best described as an abstract rendition of a T-Rex cranium. Its jagged mouth ripped open in a silent roar. Disturbing, yes, but not the worst of it. A portion of the thing’s lower realm began to split away like a cell dividing under a microscope. As I raced toward the forest perimeter, Professor’s voiced theory replayed in my mind.
I believe every hundred years these things procreate. That’s the cycle; progeny break off from the parent, I think only one, but that’s pure conjecture. Once separated the little one seeks sustenance; it requires energy to stay alive and grow–a catalyst for the hunt. Many don’t survive more than a few weeks . . . as nourishment for survival can be derived only from one source- humans. Not the flesh, but the soul. The shadowy abominations lucky enough to come in contact with a human devour the soul voraciously; one is all that’s needed.
The unfortunate human victim doesn’t die . . . physically. Far worse. Once the soul’s ingested, the body becomes little more than a living shell, similar to those diagnosed with catatonic schizophrenia. It’s extremely difficult to discern between the two unless you know what to look for. The answer lies in the shadow. Careful examination provides the clue. The shadow of one whose soul’s been consumed will look lighter, slightly translucent, almost imperceptibly so at a cursory glance. It can also be felt; yes, felt in your core. Of course, even if a psychiatrist were to discern the variance, no treatments exist for those who’ve lost their souls to a shadow creature. Once gone, can never be retrieved . . . I don’t think. But that would be an even more dangerous, if not impossible, study. Now you know why I made you promise not to pursue this further. I could kick myself for even bringing it up in the first place.
Entering the forest’s periphery, lungs and legs burning, I turned back momentarily to ensure Sonja was right behind. In doing so I stumbled over a fallen tree; fell headfirst into an adjacent boulder. Fade to black.
Months have passed. I visit Sonja once a week; spend an hour or so speaking to her about all sorts of things academic. A one-way conversation. Domiciled in the psychiatric ward of the state’s largest private facility, the once brilliant Sonja idly sits in a wheelchair facing one of unit’s large picture windows. Stares, but doesn’t see. Like her catatonic brethren.
But I know better. When I escaped unconsciousness on that fateful January day, a check of my phone indicated over an hour had elapsed. Groggily staggering to my feet, I called, “Sonja! Sonja!” then carefully crept back toward the cave, ready to retreat at a moment’s notice.
And there she was, sitting in a semi-lotus position a few yards from the entrance. I sped toward her repeating her name as I ran.
“Shit no, shit no, shit no!” I howled after discovering her in that catatonic state. Dr. Lakin’s theory has to be wrong . . . has to be! I called 911, my voice frantic, and waited for the paramedics to arrive, an eternity. I resisted at first, but as the afternoon sun angled its way down toward the horizon, and shadows became elongated, I crept next to Sonja until we were mere inches apart. Took a deep breath and stared intently at the tandem shadows. Oh God, no. No!
Sonja’s shadow was just as the old professor hypothesized. A slight variance compared to mine, but undeniable; felt it too. When the EMTs arrived, they found us both staring blankly into the distance. The only difference-my eyes flowed with tears.
I’ve taken a year’s hiatus from the show; could be longer. A lot longer. A couple of days after the worst day of my life another worst day sideswiped me. Dr. Lakin, my beloved professor and mentor, passed away in his sleep. Heart failure. The last of the family line, he bequeathed his entire estate to me; wrote in his will he hoped I’d continue on with his research. He died not knowing of a promise broken. A silver lining.
The days pass slowly as does my melancholy, exacerbated after visits with Sonja. At home and solitary, I force myself to peruse the news on the Internet; all the shit going on in the world makes my circumstances a tiny bit more tolerable. Everything’s relative. An article the other day stated there’d been a global spike in cases of catatonic schizophrenia this year. The hundred-year cycle. Makes one wonder how many of these poor souls are actually catatonic and how many are . . . you know.
More than you’d think. Much more.
This story previously appeared in The Sirens Call, Spring 2024 Zine / Issue 65.
Edited by Marie Ginga
An ostensibly MBA corporate type with an artist’s soul, Charles Sartorius makes time to write both short stories and music lyrics; his The Missing Case of the Missing Case and Boo Hag have been published in anthologies and several tales have also been included in recent horror zines. Another creation, Abhartach, will appear in the upcoming From the Yonder V anthology; his songs can be found on conventional venues such as Amazon, Apple Music, and Spotify, including his new comedic satire, Ha-Ha in the Ca-Ca.