Shadows
Burned In

by

Chris Pourteau

Text copyright (c) 2000, 2013 by James C. Pourteau. All rights reserved.

First Kindle Edition: September 2013

ISBN 978-0-9899813-0-9

Thank you for purchasing this ebook. It is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover photograph copyright (c) 2013 by Valerie Yaklin-Brown. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

Cover design copyright (c) 2013 by Kim D. Miller. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

Stancliff’s Lament

Words and Music by James McMurtry

(c) 1997 SHORT TRIP MUSIC/Administered by BUG MUSIC, INC., A BMG CHRYSALIS COMPANY

All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

Vague Directions

Words and Music by James McMurtry

(c) 1992 SHORT TRIP MUSIC/Administered by BUG MUSIC, INC., A BMG CHRYSALIS COMPANY

All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

I’m Not From Here

Words and Music by James McMurtry

(c) 1989 SHORT TRIP MUSIC/Administered by BUG MUSIC, INC., A BMG CHRYSALIS COMPANY

All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

For Alison

My soft, cool breeze on a hot, Texas day

My best friend

Part 1

(15 years from now)

I’m not from here, I just live here,

Grew up somewhere far away.

Came here thinkin’ I’d never stay long,

I’d be goin’ back soon someday.

—James McMurtry

“I’m Not from Here”

Chapter 1

“Do you think it’s haunted?”

The girl whispered the question, half hoping the boy beside her hadn’t heard, half hoping he would answer yes. She stared open-mouthed at the old place, wondering if it stared back at her. Or if it could reach out this far, snatch her up, and carry her inside.

“Of course it’s haunted,” the boy answered. His tone said her question had been stupid in the first place. “It’s Old Suzie’s house. Everybody knows it’s haunted.”

The girl closed her mouth. The grass where she lay wasn’t so cool anymore. The ditch they were in didn’t feel so deep. She felt exposed, staring up through the Spanish moss hanging from the large oak trees surrounding the old house, guarding it from the sun. Wind breathed through the moss, making it sway.

“Haunted by what, do you think?”

The boy made a disgusted sound. “Spirits, dummy. What else?”

The girl fixed her eyes on the second-floor windows, ignoring his insult. Cracked by rocks thrown by brave children, they reminded her of jack-o’-lanterns on Halloween, hastily cut and cruel. She remembered something her mother told her more than once about how dangerous broken glass was, then heard herself saying to the boy, “Well, I thought maybe monsters or something.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Oh man, how old are you again? Everybody knows there’s no such thing as monsters.”

She didn’t answer.

“Come on. Let’s get closer.”

Her heart skipped. His hand was on her elbow, urging her toward the broken glass and past the bushy beards in the trees.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Mom says to be home before sundown.”

She could almost hear the boy rolling his eyes this time. “Mom says? Come on, you’re in the seventh grade now. You still do everything your mom says?”

Embarrassed, she merely shook her head.

“Then come on. Don’t be such a baby. You said you wanted me to show you around, didn’t you?”

She nodded, giving in, still staring at the broken windows. The house seemed even more like a giant Halloween pumpkin now, its smile wrapped crookedly around razor-sharp teeth.

The boy moved up, hunched over and running like a commando. He reached the outermost oak tree and threw himself back first against it. The girl ran up next to him. She crouched down but felt even more exposed now. The tree wasn’t quite wide enough to hide them both.

Screwing up her courage, she peered around the tree. The porch’s railings were warped, and the slight smell of mold reached her as the wind blew through the old house. A limp screen hung, waving, and it seemed to carry a moan from inside the place. The girl thought she heard it inviting her in. But that was silly. Just wind through the broken windows, she told herself.

“Come on,” the boy said and was off again, moving closer. She followed because she was more scared not to. She wiped her palms on her jeans as she caught up to him, and they hunkered down beside the porch.

“Damn, this place is old,” the boy said. He hoped his cursing impressed her.

But the girl’s whole attention focused on the house. Brown leaves and broken sticks littered the cracked wood of the porch, blown there by last night’s storm. As she looked at the house, she thought she could see eaves that once had been painted baby blue and white. Now, after years of rain and wind and no upkeep, they’d faded to a pollen-pale green. Closer up, the empty windows seemed less like teeth now and more like sockets with their eyes plucked out. Somehow that made them scarier. A skull of a house, staring at her with empty eyes.

Scratches came from inside.

Fingernails. Bones scraping on rotting wood, she thought.

Inching closer.

“Come on,” he whispered. He was on the porch now, and with a crack, he fell over.

She started at the sound, almost screamed when she saw his leg was missing below the shin.

“Damned old wood,” the boy said. With a grunt he pulled his leg out of the hole, careful to avoid the splintering edges. He needn’t have worried. The planks were more rotten than dangerous. More careful this time, he approached the front room window.

The smell of old wood, wet blankets, and mildew flew up her nose. The girl almost gagged. This is probably what Mom thinks my room smells like, she thought.

“Well? Are you coming?”

She got onto the porch and looked at the hole his foot had made. She felt a bit of vertigo, as if she were looking over the edge of a cliff. The porch wood creaked under her steps, and she thought that whatever had made

(was making)

the scratching sounds inside would hear her feet, reach out with bony fingers through the window

(or up from the hole)

and drag her inside.

The girl stepped over the hole to the other side. Her heart beat quickly, and only through a force of will was she able to look back at the hole. She saw only the broken wood and empty gloom beneath.

“Boo!”

She screamed, then lost her breath in the muteness of terror.

The boy laughed. “Come on, baby,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

But the girl didn’t like this game anymore. She could hear the house talking to her, like in a fairy tale.

(come into my parlor, dear)

Talking inside her head.

“Hey!” he yell-whispered. “Didn’t you hear me?”

She stared at the shady doorway that held no door. She listened to the murmuring blackness inside but could only make out sounds, not words.

(I spy something)

“The scratches,” she said, amazed her voice still existed at all.

“It’s only rats,” the boy said.

(with my missing eyes)

The girl shook her head.

“Hey, don’t be a baby! C’mon! You said you wanted me to show you around.”

(I spy something small)

He walked back across the porch, commando-hunched, snagging her by the arm. “What’re you, scared?”

(I spy something new)

His grip on her arm brought her back. “Do you want to go in or not?”

She twisted to get away from him, her eyes still on the windows.

(nice to have a visitor, so lonely here)

“Hey!”

(won’t you come in for tea)

She felt the pinching of his hand, then nothing as she wrenched her arm free.

(I have sweets)

“Hey!”

(and sweetmeats)

Before she knew it, the girl was running back across the tall grass and vaulting over the ditch. She knew the boy would give her a hard time, knew the other kids would too, as if being new here wasn’t bad enough already. But right now she didn’t care. She only had to get away from that house, from the old voice and its moldy breath, from the mossy beards and shattered all-seeing eyes, from the smell of old women and their parlors.

To read the rest of Shadows Burned In...