S H A D O W ⊥ O W N: Page #3

NIGHT FOLK

• Fiction
• Horror
• Mystery
• Short story
• Fantasy

								


The shutters fell from Emily's grasp, clanging against the side of the house. Darkness surged upward like a tide.

"Hello Emily, " said a voice "Aren't you special girl, ."

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her hands over her ears, but she couldn't block out the sounds that followed. When she finally looked again, Emily was gone. Only her pink phone case remained on the ground, frost already forming on its surface.



Three houses down, retired Marine Corps Sergeant Chadwick Spencer sat on a couch in his reinforced basement, monitoring the bank of security cameras he'd installed around his property. The night-vision feed showed the usual distortions – strange artifacts in the image, awkward impossible movements caught frame by frame. He adjusted his headphones, listening to the ambient sounds picked up by his microphones.

The Visitors had different voices for different people. For Chadwick, they usually mimicked his old unit. Tonight they started with Rodriguez.

"Sarge? You there? The hajis have us pinned down! We need backup!"

Chadwick's hands tightened on his chair arms but he didn't respond. Rodriguez had died in his arms outside Fallujah fifteen years ago.

"Please," The visitor begged. "It hurts so much. Why didn't you save us, Sarge?"

The camera feeds glitched. When they stabilized, Chadwick saw something dragging itself across his front lawn. It moved like a man with broken legs, leaving a trail of darkness behind it. As it got closer to the camera, it raised its head – It had Rodriguez's face. 

"Remember what you promised?" it asked in Rodriguez's voice. "No man left behind?"

Chadwick switched to another feed. Mrs. Sullivan from the library was walking her dog – at night, breaking every rule they had. But something was off about her movements, about the way her feet didn't quite touch the ground.

"They're getting better at it," he muttered into his digital recorder. "Better at mimicking human movement. But they still can't get it quite right. Uncanny valley effect particularly noticeable in the leg movements and head positioning."

The visitor wearing Mrs. Sullivan's shape stopped suddenly, turned to look directly into the camera. Its face split into a smile that went all the way up to its temples.

"Taking notes, Chadwick?" it asked in Mrs. Sullivan's prim librarian's voice. "Always the good soldier, gathering intelligence. Do you really think it will help?"

Static filled all the monitors at once. When it cleared, every camera showed the same image – Rodriguez dragging himself through the dark, getting closer, closer...

Chadwick switched off the monitors. In the sudden silence, he could hear scratching at his basement door

In St. Michael's Church, Father Michael's evening prayers were interrupted by the sound of children laughing. It echoed through the nave, bouncing off stone walls that had been consecrated two hundred years ago. The electric lights flickered, then died, leaving only the candles burning at the altar.

"Be not afraid," he reminded himself, though his hands shook as he gripped his rosary. "Be not afraid."

The laughter came again, closer now. It sounded like children, like their voices had been recorded and played backward, then forward again.

"Father?" A small voice called from the darkness near the confessional. "I need to tell you my sins."

"You are not welcome in this house," Father Michael declared, his voice stronger than he felt. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit—"

"But we're already inside," the voice giggled. "We've always been inside. In their hearts, in their minds. In their sins."

The temperature plummeted. Candles guttered but didn't go out – they never went out, these special candles made from the Vatican, blessed and dipped in holy water.
The light showed shadows moving in the dark. 

"Who's watching the children, Father?" Another voice asked – Mrs. Russo this time. He'd heard her confession just that morning, heard her worry about Emily staying out too late. "Who's watching your flock?"

The shadows gathered.
They took shape slowly – a child's form, too thin. Its head moved like it was under water.

"Want to hear my confession?" it asked in Emily Russo's voice. "Want to hear what the darkness feels like?"

Father Michael began to pray louder, drowning out the voices with ancient words of protection. But he couldn't stop the sounds of scratching in the walls. 

At the Cryptopolis Diner, Maya Rodriguez worked the last shift alone. Town rules said all businesses should close before dark.
They'd reinforced the diner as best they could – steel shutters, salt lines, protective symbols hidden in the classic '50s décor.

She was wiping down the counter when the jukebox started playing on its own – "Mr. Sandman" warped and slowed down, the cheerful harmonies turning sinister at half speed.

"We're closed," she called out reflexively, though she knew no living customer had started the music.

The fluorescent lights flickered. In the chrome surface of the napkin dispensers, Maya caught distorted reflections of movement behind her – tall, spindly shapes that shouldn't exist, bending in impossible angles.

"Special order," answered a voice directly in her ear. "We'd like to try... you."

Maya didn't turn around. She focused on her reflection in the chrome, on the protection medallion her abuela had given her, hanging at her throat.

"Kitchen's closed," she said firmly. "We don't serve your kind here."

Laughter droned through the diner – first one voice, then many, layered over each other like a crowd talking all at once. The temperature dropped until she could see her breath.

"Brave girl," the voices said. "Just like your grandmother. She used to tell you stories, didn't she? About the things that hunt in the dark?"

The jukebox skipped, started playing multiple songs at once – a cacophony of corrupted music that made Maya's ear ring

"She didn't tell you everything," the voices continued. "She didn't tell you what really happened to your father that night."

Maya's hand tightened on her medallion. "You're lying. He died in a car accident."

"Did he? Or did he answer when we called? Did he open the door when we wore your voice, crying for daddy to save you?"

The lights went out completely. In the darkness, Maya felt something cold brush against her cheek – like fingers, long and smooth.

"Want to see him?" the voices asked. "He's still here. Still screaming. Still—"

The medallion grew hot suddenly, burning against Maya's skin. Light blazed from it, brilliant and golden, filling the diner. The shadows retreated with a sound like tearing silk.

When Maya could see again, she was alone. But the jukebox kept playing its distorted songs, and in the window's reflection, she thought she saw her father standing behind her, his face black as void, his hands reaching...

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