Shadow of the Past by Thacher Cleveland

she tumbled to the ground, finally letting
out a low moan as she pulled her injured wrist close to her
chest.
    He circled her as she rolled over,
swinging the cane down on her back. She doubled up in pain, trying
to cover as much of herself as she could as he swung down on her
again and again.
    The man stopped, turning his fiery eyes
to Mark, and he could see the swirling smoke and blackness of his
face twist into a smile.
    “Oh yes,” he said, his voice a rumbling
echo of the one Darren had heard in Mark’s dream.
    There was a long metallic scrape and
Clara, who’d been doubled over and whimpering, looked up. The man
drew the blade from the cane-sheath slowly, moving to stand
directly over her, his legs straddling her.
    “Don’t! Don’t! Whatever you want, just
don’t do this! Not her,” Mark tried to yell, but there was still
nothing.
    Clara turned, and Mark realized she was
looking towards him. The flames in the man’s eyes followed her gaze
and then the blade swung down on the back of her neck.
    With no eyelids or hands, there was no
way for him to look away as her head did a little hop and then
rolled about a foot to the left of her body.
    The man stood there watching as the
blood drained onto the tile. He dabbed the tip of the blade into
the growing puddle and the blood began to creep upward, coating it
with red. When the blade was fully covered, he slipped it back into
its sheath.
    He turned and headed for the door,
rubbing the fingers of his free hand together. A ball of smoke
collected in his hand, and then with a snap of his fingers a tiny
flame burst to life in his palm. As the man walked past Mark’s
disembodied dream-self and out the back patio door Mark found
himself pulled along with him. As he reached the edge of the patio
the man tossed the ball of flame over his shoulder. It landed in
the center of the kitchen, a few feet in front of Clara’s headless
body. The flames spread quickly, burning along the floor fast but
curving around Clara’s body and head as they made their way towards
the living room.
    The man stepped off the edge of the
patio and Mark found himself plunging into darkness
again
     

Chapter Ten
     
    Mark never got around to finishing his
homework. The next day in class he mumbled an excuse to Mr. Bucco,
who stared at him with his beady, rodent eyes and told Mark that he
expected it tomorrow, no excuses. Mark wasn’t surprised that
threats from a balding algebra teacher didn’t have the same weight
as they had on Friday.
    Steve met him at his locker after
class, and after a moment of the two just staring at each other,
Steve reached out and put his arm around Mark’s
shoulders.
    “Dude. I don’t know what to
say.”
    “It’s okay,” Mark said, shrugging
Steve’s arm off his shoulders before anyone saw.
    Steve shook his head. “Light years away
from okay. This has got to be . . . well, I can’t imagine it. I
mean, when my Grams died, it was weird, but this--”
    “It’s a little different,” Mark said,
walking off. By the time Steve caught up with him Mark was relieved
that the hallway was a little less crowded.
    “I know, totally different, you’re
right.” Steve said. “I have to tell you my mom was wicked pissed
when that cop showed up. I mean, you know how much of a hard-ass
she can be, but this? Whoa, baby.”
    “I’m sorry it’s such an inconvenience
to her,” Mark said, making a quick left into a
stairwell.
    “Dude, tell me about it. I
mean, this is the fucking cops! ” Steve said. Mark glanced
sideways as one of the field hockey girls walked past, her eyes
actually shifting over a bit to look at Steve and Mark.
    Mark let out a sigh and drew up short
on the steps when they were finally alone. “Look,” Mark said,
stopping Steve with a hand on his shoulder, “I know you’re trying
to help and all, but please don’t talk about this at school. I
don’t want people knowing this kind of shit about me,
okay?”
    “Oh,” Steve said. “Of course.