Shadowplay, Or So-and-So
by Nicholas Russell
So here she stands. He told her not to come in, not to wander, but she’s doing it anyway. This old, dark house, easy enough to see from the road, gaunt, hunched, easier still to avoid. Against one wall, a long, feasted table, layer of fine dust on top, even if the food itself doesn’t look so bad, so rotten. She’s not hungry. Besides, there’s a fresh meal to finish downstairs. It was odd, the moment their host opened the front door, welcomed the party into the grand foyer, took their coats, pressed good tidings into their hands, that the only thing she had heard him say was, “Please don’t step foot in the attic.” So it ended up being all she could think about as they stood and drank amiably together in that old, dark house, secrets and requests and politeness as the only thing stopping most from doing the things they wish to, even as they are warned. Apart from the long table, the attic is entirely empty, save a witch’s window, slanted and narrow, looking out onto the front yard where she had entered. As she ascended, on the stairs she noticed a light shining from under the attic door and now she remembers this, turns about in her silver sequin dress, sees clearly because the room is brightly lit that there is no lamp or bulb to speak of. If she were less observant, she would resign herself to thinking the light came from some hidden aperture, some easily explained trick, but no, there, on the wall opposite the table, her shadow projects large and black and sharp. She turns again, sparkling light shards dancing, but the wall behind her isn’t any different. Her shadow has followed her, is before her in both directions no matter where she looks, as if whatever source was directly behind her. So, yes, maybe it is a bit strange in here, but nothing truly remarkable, nothing to caution against. Downstairs voices veiled by the closed door echo through the room, hearty, drunken. She looks to the table, this time with discerning interest. No hunger for a meal, maybe a snack. Yet for all her brazenness and the peculiar lighting, what might be most strange is a fully stocked table complete with high-backed chairs and cutlery left to stand in an otherwise barren attic. So she knows better than to sample what’s available, however tempting, there is no reason. In her final moments, she pauses in the middle of the room, stares at her shadow. She moves her arms, swings them loosely like a pendulum, delights in the absurdity of her actions and the two dimensional cartoon mimicking her on the wall. She dances lightly, quiet as she can, foolish as she can. There’s nothing like basking in one’s own privacy after leaving a crowded room, nothing like taking in the silence when they believe themselves to be alone. So she makes puppets with her hands, a dog then an elephant then a bird. Long fingers, thick hands that melt into fantasy in the shadows. She makes little noises to go along with them, coos and barks and laughs. She puts her hands to her head, a thumb at each temple, fingers splayed, like she’s making fun of someone. Her shadow is huge, well-defined, and when she moves, it does too. The act is entrancing, this little show she conducts for herself, three of her, one on either side, this human curiosity for flaws in nature, this desire to catch a lag in her reflection, see if something steps out of place, so that when it does, when the shadow against the wall with the table stops dancing with her and simply stands, it takes her two wild spins round to notice. When she does, the shadow is gone, though the other one facing her on the blank wall remains, remains in tandem with her movements. Laughter, shrill and clear, rings through the room. The door to the attic is no longer closed, ajar, but barely. So she listens and after some unintelligible rumble, hears someone say her name, surprised, chiding, playful. She doesn’t see the second shadow stand up straight, doesn’t see it walk out of the room after its twin, huge and shifting and black. She only hears the laughter of the party, then a gasp, then an unnatural hush before the attic door slams closed, the light disappearing, her breath close, everything too dark to see.
Nicholas Russell is a writer and bookseller from Las Vegas. His work has been featured in The Believer, Reverse Shot, Columbia Journal, wildness, and Lumina, among other publications.
