Shade - 1. Chapter 1

Dalton awoke with a start. The glowing digits on the clock radio told him the time was 3:17 am. As his consciousness took hold, the knocking pipes startled and frightened him, again. For the past three nights, the sounds of the old radiator pipes banging as they carried hot water from the basement to the rooms upstairs disturbed his sleep. Not that his sleep was deep anymore regardless. He seemed to only nap at night, not actually sleep, ever since August.

He lay in bed, the comforter pulled up to his chin, and listened to the noises. It had been a mistake moving out here. This was supposed to be his way of getting away from memories, not living them over and over. Dalton thought the old house was a place they had never lived together. His lover had worked on this place, remodeling, but they’d never lived here together. His first thoughts were, he could keep busy fixing things up would pass the time. It would keep the ghosts away, those memories that haunted him.

Instead, Bauer’s absence made the days drip by and the nights drag out even longer.

Dalton sat up. The room was bathed in moonlight. The shades were drawn, but the silver light filtered through and laid patches of gray about the floor, the chair, the bookcase, even on the bedspread. A few minutes partially uncovered the emptiness, his sense something was missing, and the salt-and-pepper-haired man shivered in the cool, late October night air. This place he moved to wasn’t new; it was filled with the soul of a man gone forever.

When Bauer found the old house, huge and situated on ten acres, sprinkled with copses of trees and meadows, it seemed ideal, or so he argued. They could fix it up as a bed-and-breakfast, and retire while they were still relatively young. Dalton liked to cook and decorate. Bauer was good with his hands, fixing broken things, building new furniture and accents. Making new things and old things work. They were the perfect team, working well together.

The place was abandoned and needed a lot of work, but on the plus side, their house would be the only B&B in the town. Visitors to the private colleges nearby had the choice of an old, high-end hotel downtown or one of the string of budget motels along the highway. These chain motels were surrounded by fast food joints and a couple of family restaurants, but nothing cozy or homey. A bed-and-breakfast place like this could become a dream come true, with economic advantages that would change their lives.

There was also the new bike trail that ran from the historic downtown out to a tubing and canoeing site. Antique stores were sprinkled here and there, offering wares that drew the kinds of patrons who wanted someplace interesting, and friendly. The town drew visitors, and this could be a viable business, profitable, and a way to finance their semi-retirement, as Bauer argued quite successfully.

The old mansion had six bedrooms, a large sitting room, dining room, and an old-fashioned kitchen. Out back, there was a two story, two-bedroom bungalow where Bauer said they could live away from the guests. This would be their retirement place, active in the summers, and closed in the winters. It was perfect. And scary.

His husband, Bauer had accepted an early retirement package from his job at IBM, so he paid cash for the property. It was surprisingly inexpensive, really too cheap, and Dalton had protested. Something must be wrong with the place at the bargain basement price the owner was asking. It probably needed all new wiring and plumbing. The foundation was crumbling, no doubt. The whole place was sitting empty for at least thirty years, so who knows what happened with it.

Bauer had been adamant. The bones of the structure were good. An inspector had reported there were wiring and plumbing issues, and a new roof was necessary, but the foundation was sound, the old cistern was as solid as bedrock beneath the north side, and the walls were sturdy and still square and true. The costs were minimal, so it was settled. They’d buy it and start a new enterprise.

It was only a couple of weeks after Bauer paid for it and started the cleanup process that he had his first heart pains, which got worse until he ended up in the ICU.

Dalton snorted, then brushed away the tears. Thoughts of that time were both painful and amusing. Wow, it wasn’t that long ago, only a couple of months really. It seemed a bit odd, almost unreal, as he remembered their reaction to Bauer’s near-death experience. The doctors called it a ‘cardiac event’ when they were explaining what happened. Heart attacks are now ‘events’. It was so absurd.

They’d joked about it with gallows humor. Bauer said his ‘cardiac prom’ was very serious. Dalton replied that his ‘cardiac quinceanera’ was nothing to make light of. Bauer had responded his ‘cardiac gala’ was a newsworthy ‘event.’”

Oh, they’d laughed. Bauer was a fun guy and could make sport of most anything. Dalton went right along with him. They always did enjoy making fun of difficult situations. Or maybe they didn’t think it was real at first.

It was real.

The doctors explained the myocardial infarction had done a great deal of damage to the heart muscle. So much, in fact, it would shorten his life span. They would try to repair what they could, but it was bad.

It was really bad.

After surgery, they changed things up. Dalton also retired, though he couldn’t really afford it at age fifty-five, but Bauer wanted his last days to be special. So, Dalton agreed.

***

After waking up in the middle of the night, he couldn’t return to sleep. Finally, he had to leave, move, get out of the house -- a place that wouldn’t let him rest. The noises were just so awful. The sounds were relentless, never ceasing, and so overwhelming.

Dalton drove towards town. His mind ached with tiredness and his eyes itched. But, he couldn’t go back to sleep, not with the banging and the sounds of moaning and whispering, urgent and whiny.

There was a twenty-four-hour gas station that sold beer and wine. He could get a bottle of cheap stuff, drink it and at least get a couple of hours of rest. That’s when he saw it.

Across from the gas station, down the road, there was a building that he’d never noticed before. It was a large, old brick building on the edge of the campus, and it was open. There were lights in glowing yellows and golds and they beckoned invitingly.

He loved libraries. Perhaps a good book would help him sleep. He pulled up and looked at the wood and glass door. The sign hanging in the window said, ‘Open’ so he put the car in park, and turned off the ignition. The windshield began fogging up almost immediately. His breath was just humid enough to condense on the cold glass. He was about to rub a spot clear, then thought better of it. The night was cold, and it would clear soon enough. The chilling effect of autumn was upon him.

The man climbed out of the car and walked slowly to the front door. Maybe someone had forgotten to turn the lights off and turn the sign around. This appeared to be a college library and didn’t they close at a decent hour? It was almost four o’clock in the morning.

He pulled on the handle and the door opened. A puff of warm air greeted him. The gentle glow of the gleaming light invited him to enter. He stepped inside.

For some reason, Dalton felt especially comfortable in this space. His distractions, annoyance, overall feeling of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, dissipated. His emotions floated away as he looked over the booklined passages on his left, and then on his right. More carrels of bound titles were ahead of him as well. There were carts of books. Large stained and varnished card catalogs loomed in the far distance, promising even more books. As his eyes swept the magnificent expanse, he could see, and smell, the tomes as they waited for reading. This place was patient and kind.

In the back of the building, behind rows of stacks, there was a desk and behind it was a lone person. His head was lowered, scanning something, oblivious to the embarrassment of riches which surrounded him. The librarian guy didn’t look up as Dalton approached. The man was completely consumed by what he was doing, reading, caring for his books. Books.

The books mattered. Dalton ran his fingers over the first line of title he saw. The book was called, Oak Savannahs and Their Environments, by Reed Parker. There were other books about gardening, flowers, horticulture, raising vegetables, designing landscapes, and even preserving the fruits of a garden. It was amazing to see the plethora of books in the entire line of cases devoted to growing plants and things. This section merged into another series of books dedicated to biology and animal husbandry, as well as animal behavior.

As he looked around, there were old wooden shelves along every wall, stacked with books, loaded, overflowing. It was unlike any library he’d been in for years. This was remarkable.

Throughout the stacks were sconces, bathing the bindings with light that made the titles stand out. The light was different here, with fewer shadows, and glistened on spines that ached to be opened, like aroused virgins, hoping their bindings would be creased, at last.

He couldn’t stop looking around, taking it all in. Behind this desk, as Dalton neared, the librarian’s features became evident. His forehead was unlined, cheeks pink and healthy, with the kind of glow youth gives young men. The librarian moved in front of a computer screen, and now his face was bathed in gentle green light, eerie and wan. Yet, it was still calm and youthful, a gentle smile on his lips.

Dalton passed more cases on his left and right. These had books on subjects that ranged from religion to psychology, history and the arts. Along a far wall behind the desk with the young man, was a separate room, large, but sectioned off from the rest of the library. There was a sign hanging from the ceiling. It announced this area as, “Fiction/Literature” and was mostly dark, unlike the areas he walked through. That section seemed closed, and Dalton didn’t know why it would be.

“Welcome!” a voice boomed. The librarian had climbed down from his stool and had pushed his glasses up his nose as Dalton approached. “How is your night going?”

Dalton didn’t know how to respond to that question. It seemed like a perfunctory question, posed as a greeting and not an inquiry. Yet, the man seemed too eager for a librarian working an overnight shift. Unless he was really bored. Dalton hadn’t seen another soul since walking in from the front door.

“Hi,” he answered and waved a little. “I’ve never been here before.”

The sound of his footfalls over the last few yards was barely noticeable. Since the place was utterly silent, those soft, almost imperceptible sounds matched the beating of his heart.

“Well, you are in for a treat. This is the Pillsbury Community Library. Are you a resident of the county?”

Dalton considered, then answered haltingly, “I live down the road, so I guess, yes. The answer is ‘sure’.”

The young man smiled and continued as Dalton finished up the last few steps. “With a driver’s license or a utility bill, we can get you a library card and begin your exploration of the extensive collection we have surrounding you.”

Boy, this guy was eager to explain things. His puppy-dog excitement was admirable, which seemed strange. However, the place was deserted. This far into the building without seeing the evidence of another person confirmed it. No wonder the guy was thrilled to see someone else, even a middle-aged man who’d wandered in from the street. He ventured a statement, just to gauge the librarian’s response.

“I was driving by, and saw you were open. I stopped out of curiosity.”

“Good, patrons like you make our work a joy.”

“I had trouble sleeping,” Dalton said. He smiled and watched for a reaction. For some reason, he was feeling especially nervous now, anxious even, but the librarian appeared to respond quite naturally.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” The young man swallowed, and then smiled again pensively. “We have lots of reading material. Anything you’re looking for in particular?”

The kid was certainly pleasant, helpful. His smile was warm, if a bit nervous. Dalton figured his tired brain probably was playing strange tricks on him. He answered honestly.

“I like old hard-boiled detective stories. I have all the Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler books, and I am familiar with more recent stuff that’s similar.”

After saying this, Dalton realized the kid behind the counter couldn’t be older than twenty-five or so. This probably sounded like nonsense to him. He was pleased when the librarian’s face lit up enthusiastically.

“Hard-boiled crime mysteries are my favorites. Have you read any Carroll Daly stories? His novels are okay, because he’s basically the father of the bad-boy detective genre of the era in his short stories. We have a copy of the ‘Black Mask Revealed’, which includes several of his short stories including the first story of the genre, introducing Race Williams. It’s amazing. You can see how later writers emulated his novel’s character sketch.”

Dalton was taken aback. Not only did this kid understand his favorite style, he seemed to know something about the history of it.

“I’ve read a couple of articles about him, but I’ve never actually read a story by the guy.”

The young man simply popped with excitement. “You will love it. Let me find the edition for you. I’m sure you’ll adore reading it.”

Dalton followed the young man, noting features he probably shouldn’t have at his age. The kid was the age his children would be, if he was a ‘family man’. He was in his mid-twenties or so, with an impossibly slim waist, a round bottom and wide shoulders. His black hair was straight and sleek, practically shaved short on the sides and back, with a swoop of bangs in the front. His facial hair was light, wispy and still rather thin in places. He also seemed a bit familiar. Had he met the kid before? It seemed unlikely. Maybe in a picture somewhere.

The young man turned as they approached the section he’d noticed before, dark and labeled as the fiction section. He flipped a switch and light flooded the stacks. It was the same golden light spilling over the rest of the place. These fixtures hung down and interspersed with fans, their broad, black blades churning slowly after the lights were turned on. The young man reached into a bookcase, and his fingers danced through the spines looking for the right volume.

He turned and grinned, his dark eyes danced in the light. “It’s so good to find a patron who loves the second wave of murder mysteries. I’m working my way through the eras, and this is my favorite so far.”

Dalton looked at the kid’s chest, and found his name carefully etched on a plastic tag pinned to his shirt. It said, “Spencer” and fit the interesting and unique character of the young man perfectly. He jolted awake, seeing the book thrust at him, the kid’s smile beaming, looking for some approval.

“I told you we had a copy. Read it, and tell me what you think.” He paused as Dalton took the volume from him. “You know, I have a theory. The writers who invent a new genre or idea aren’t necessarily the best at it. For example, Poe created the idea of a detective using his mind and deduction to solve a mystery. I read the Dupin stories, and they weren’t that good. Oh, his ideas are brilliant, but the character is pretty contrived. It took Doyle to make the detective a master of the story and have a life of his own. Then, Christie really took it to the next level. Poirot’s world is a special place and his sub-characters really build the entire mystique.”

Dalton didn’t really understand the young man’s ramblings. He read lots of things, but preferred to read the hard-boiled stuff. Noir writing created a world that was so raw, real, and made his heart race. That’s what he liked about the genre. Hammett and Chandler were masters at creating the scaffolding of a story that a reader could fill with his own imagination.

“I’m sure I’ll love this. I’m glad I stopped.”

The young man looked pleased, but at the same time, his features showed, he was worried, like he hadn’t sold Dalton on the merits of this place. “You know, we have a first-rate history section as well.” He stopped and tapped his finger to his lips. A bright smile lit his face. “In fact, we have the morgue from an old newspaper that shut down several years ago. It was the primary source for news for this region of the state. If you’re into that kind of thing, it could be interesting.”

“This will be fine,” Dalton assured the librarian. Spencer insisted on showing him more of the library, which gave the older man time to enjoy looking at the young librarian. In fact, he was beginning to feel like a dirty old man as he tried to ignore the firm curves and the lovely edges of the man. He was also quite charming, even a little old-fashioned. He remembered an uncle of his using some of the same verbiage. Of course, it also reminded him a little of Bauer.

That happened quite often. He had the unfortunate habit of seeing his husband’s attributes in others, during his illness, and then afterwards following his death. It pained him to know his mind was that needy, looking for Bauer where he could not exist, not anymore.

Driving back to his home, he recalled the young man’s exuberance, his passion for the subject he thought they shared, and wondered. Finding Spencer and such a lovely old library made the night feel less oppressive and he almost forgot about the night noises until he got home again.

It didn’t feel quite as bad, or as loud.

***

Dalton awoke the next morning, a little sore and still tired, but more rested than he’d been in months. The wooly feeling in his brain was gone. In its place, he was more interested in doing something with his life.

He saw the unstained, new baseboards and thought he should get a brush and get started. Dalton noticed the primer Bauer had applied to the walls in the foyer, and he wanted to paint them, covering the surface with a lovely, satiny finish. For the first time since moving out here, he felt like working. He saw the unfinished projects his deceased husband had started, and he wanted to finish them. It was like a breath of fresh air, or a second chance.

The morning went quickly, and by lunch, Dalton felt hungry, really starving for the first time, in quite a while. The refrigerator held the kinds of foods single people ate. He had eggs and bread, cereal and milk, some sandwich meat, a few pieces of fruit, and several bottled waters. He’d been fine with such things, but today they weren’t enough.

These weren’t the kinds of food he needed. After painting the entryway and tacking more baseboard around the dining room, he was famished.

He decided a shower and a quick, but hearty lunch, was in order. The shower was invigorating. He realized his ribs were evident, as he soaped up. Dalton had always been a hearty man, generously proportioned and battling his weight. Now he was surprisingly gaunt, not exactly skinny, he was in his fifties, so it was more sleek than thin.

His hunger pangs prompted him to finish toweling and dressing. In short order, Dalton was in the car heading for town and a good hamburger. That’s what he craved. A burger and fries, maybe even a shake or, a malted. He loved the slightly salty, rich, creamy taste and the satisfying feel of a malt, decadent and delicious.

The King’s Diner was exactly what he’d wanted. After a refreshing salad with a tomato-ey French dressing, a big burger, California style, with onions, lettuce, and tomato, and a hot fudge malt to wash it down, he was now full, happy, and feeling somewhat content. This was an alien feeling. He remembered when Bauer was alive how this was his normal state of being. That’s what love did to you, it gave you such pleasure, then, if you were unlucky, it was torn from you.

“Fucking-A,” he muttered.

The waitress, Lucy, looked over at him, shocked.

He shook his head and mouthed, ‘sorry’.

She didn’t react until he gave her an exaggerated ‘sad face’ and then she smiled and walked over.

“Are you ready for the check? You were hungry.”

Dalton nodded and reached into his pocket. “I worked hard this morning. I’m trying to get things ready for guests.”

“Are you a contractor or something?” she answered, taking the credit card from his fingers. “My boyfriend pours concrete.”

Dalton didn’t know what the normal response to something that random was, but he decided to be friendly. “I’m at the old Thompson place, out past Highway 14. We’re, I mean, I’m getting it ready for guests.”

She looked a bit lost for a moment. Her face then changed, almost horrified, but she said -- “Oh, that’s nice.” She scurried off to run his card.

Dalton looked out the window at the parking lot. It was nearly empty, except for a couple of trucks on the far side. He then realized his ‘lunch’ was almost two in the afternoon. No wonder he had been starving. The rest of the world ate at normal times. He ate at his own times.

His heart kind of pattered, and he bit his lip.

“Here you go Mr. Dalton. This copy is yours.” Lucy said. She turned, then stopped, and her smile spread over him. “Are you one of the guys who bought the haunted house?”

Her words shocked him at first. He considered how to answer. Any response was inappropriate.

“Are you talking about the Thompson place?”

The waitress halted. She turned. “Why yes, that’s the place.”

“Why did you just say it was haunted?” he asked.

She smiled. After a couple of exaggerated chaws of her gum, she answered slowly.

“That place has been haunted for years. Some guy got killed in it.” Her demeanor changed again, her hips shifted, and now her stance was defensive. “He was young, real young, and it was super creepy. He died from some kind of buried alive thing. According to my mom, though she’s pretty superstitious about things like that, it was super ugly.” Her explanation faded away.

Then, it came back alive. The waitress said, “That’s why he haunts the place. He needs to get out.” Dalton looked up at her, saw her shrug, and then leave.

The relief of a night’s rest vanished. His sense of well-being, the satisfaction of a good meal, and the overall fever of something being missing came roaring back. He signed the receipt, leaving a generous tip, in spite of his mood, and quickly left the place.

As he got into his car, something needled him about her words. “It was ugly,” became a refrain playing over and over in his head. As Dalton drove back home to the place he and Bauer had never shared, those words haunted him.

***

The library was there, in the bright sunlight of an October day, and it didn’t shimmer and blink out. It was real. The building was a lovely dark brown brick with tan sandstone accents. There was an Open sign in the window. It wasn’t a dream.

After the waitress’s words, he tried doing some more painting and found he would forget what he was doing. He had suddenly realized he was just standing there with a dripping brush in hand, staring into space. Dalton realized, without knowing for certain, that the library existed during the day. He wasn’t going to get anything done, if he didn’t check it out. He washed his brushes, and drove to the place late in the afternoon.

He had to see it, to know it was real and what he’d seen wasn’t imaginary.

It was real, brick and mortar, and there were lights on and a woman exited the door as he sat in the parking lot watching.

She was real too. She wore a red scarf over her hair, had a kind of satchel in her hand, and looked determinedly ahead as she walked to her car. Her Jeep Wrangler was black and shiny. Then she climbed in and drove away with purpose. As the woman left the lot, Dalton saw another person, a young man, pushed through the door out of the library. He was real as well, his dark hair glistened from some kind of product, the light jacket he was wearing, appropriate for the cool, autumn weather.

Dalton drove off, squealing his tires on the pavement. His theory was wrong. This wasn’t a dream.

He might be losing his mind.

On the way back to the house, he thought about Bauer and the end of his life. It had happened unexpectedly, which was probably why his feelings were so jumbled.

Jim Bauer’s diagnosis was terminal liver cancer. The tumor had already metastasized by the time they’d identified his problem. Surgeons had removed the mass, but it was too late. They started doing chemotherapy, radiation treatment, and trying to systemically stop the creeping disease that was taking over his body. His life was too precious, Bauer told Dalton. I can’t do it. He’d said. I can’t allow them to rob my last days. He stopped the treatments.

Bauer spent a month working on the house. He got most of the major repairs done or arranged. Then, he’d gotten sicker. It was unexpectedly quick, even according to the doctors. The rashes, the vomiting, and even the horrific nights had made things go from depressing to manic. They told them Bauer had months. In the end, he only had weeks.

As much as he hated thinking about those last days with Bauer, ill, miserable, and frantic with worry, Dalton preferred them to his loneliness now. This empty feeling that he was wandering the earth alone and without a reason for it.

When he parked the SUV near the front door of their, no, his house, he glanced up looking for signs of Bauer’s work, what he’d done in those last days. It wasn’t obvious, at first, but then he noticed the fresh, new wood fastened on the second step on the stairs leading to the porch. On the second story, he could see paint, fresher and more vibrant on the sills around a bedroom window.

Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Dalton felt better now. Jim was here with him. He’d worked on the house, making it safe and secure. His love had prepared things so he wouldn’t drown in the weight of it all. If Bauer was anything, he was loving and considerate, and now he could see things weren’t as dire as he’d thought. The sleepless nights, sounds morphing into eerie hauntings, and the sense things weren’t right, were all in his imagination. Bauer had made things right, before he’d gone. Everything would be fine.

***

The banging of the pipes and the weird, windy sounds were even worse. Dalton tried covering his ears with the pillow, tossing and turning, then looking at the clock again. It was just after midnight. The night was calm and quiet outside. There were no whooshing sounds of the wind, so it wasn’t the weather making those awful noises. The trees were still, not moving about, yet below him were the voices of an old house. Obviously, the pipes were clanking from the hot water gushing through them and the radiators were banging and gasping because of air pockets and the annoying vagaries of physics and metallurgy.

Dalton climbed out of bed, pulled on sweatpants, and stretched. He was so tired. Every muscle ached. That’s when the pipes banged again, even louder, jolting him from his thoughts. A long, low groaning sound came from downstairs. He grabbed a hoodie and put it on. With an exaggerated yawn, he made his way to the stairs.

The house was creaking and settling, he figured as he descended, first the main stairway, and then through the living room into the kitchen. The gloomy glow of the moon made the tile floors glisten like silver. The space smelled of clove and cinnamon from the cider he’d drank before bed. Perhaps the spice was making him wake in the middle of the night, though his stomach was calm except for the tightness of his anxiety.

The steps down to the creepy basement, really a root cellar with cement walls, were somewhat steep. He held onto the bannister as he walked down, step by step, to the concrete floor. He edged to the middle, feeling for the string dangling down. Pulling on it, the room was flooded with light, showing a washer and dryer in the corner, a couple of shelving units, and squatting a few feet away were the furnace and hot water heater. It was a small space, barely fitting in the confined area. The white painted wall only a couple of yards long, cut off half of the basement. That was the cistern, an old archaic water storage system. The water from the roof was carefully funneled to the cavernous container. This had provided soft water for washing clothes and bathing. Well water was fine for drinking, according to Bauer, but it made clothes stiff and soap hard to wash off.

Bauer had explained the whole contraption to him. Before he died, he’d disconnected the down spouting from the cistern, and drained it. The room-sized place was empty now. It was like his heart felt, Dalton thought.

Looking around, Dalton saw pipes running from the furnace and hot water heater through joists in the ceiling. There was a large one that came from the upstairs straight down through the floor. Another pipe ran at an angle, joining the vertical pipe, and these were the combined sewage system. The main pipe was from the kitchen directly above and the other came from the three bathrooms on the other side of the house. It disappeared in the ceiling above the cistern.

Dalton listened for the banging sound, but it had stopped. As he came down the stairs, the clanging pipes had seemed louder. Now it was quiet. There were no sounds except the soft exhale of the furnace as it kicked on. The gas ignited, heating the water, and the pump then sent the warmth throughout the house, like the heart does with blood. The furnace was running now and he could hear the faint sound of water rushing through the system, but no clanking. There wasn’t any banging either.

He'd call a plumber in the morning. Or was it a heating guy? Whatever it was, he had to get it fixed. These sleepless nights were killing him. His tiredness and fatigue were causing him to question if a library was real or if he was being haunted by his dead partner. These things were symptoms of an exhausted mind, and nothing else.

After shutting off the light, he climbed the stairs cautiously and in spite of himself, listened very carefully for the sounds that did not come.

***

Dalton sat in the parking lot looking at the brownstone building in a daze. Once again, he’d been awakened by the sounds of clanging pipes and now there was screeching. He felt like he was losing his mind. Thinking back, he considered the conversation only this morning.

“Mr. Dalton, it’s not your pipes that’re making sounds. I checked them real careful, and they aren’t the problem.”

The furnace guy had a furry, black beard, with just enough gray to give him credence. He was pot-bellied, but he scurried down the steps to the basement without hesitation. Dalton watched him crawl into the attic, follow the pipes as they meandered throughout the house. He’d used some kind of device and a bucket on the radiators. He’d tapped on things and tugged. Every few minutes, he’d grunt or sigh, but those were his only utterances until then. The guy seemed very positive, sure of himself.

“It’s loud enough to wake me up at night,” Dalton argued again. He’d already told the man, Vince Graham, the same story a few times.

“Listen, you only get those sounds from two different things. First,” the man held up a finger, “it can be vibrations from the water moving through the pipes and the brackets that don’t hold them tight enough. The pipes will jiggle and make sounds that echo throughout the space. You don’t have that problem. Somebody tightened or replaced these brackets and screws. Those pipes of yours are tight and couldn’t vibrate if they wanted to.”

“I’m not hearing things,” he’d said in response. Graham just shook his head.

“The second way you can get noises is if there’s air in the pipes. If you get air in the pipes, they cause bubbles and when the hot water moves around corners or through the radiators, it can make the metal vibrate. I tried to bleed any air from these pipes, but they’re clear. Somebody already did it. The system you’ve got is perfectly sound. It shouldn’t make any noises.”

“There has to be something.”

The furnace guy shrugged his shoulders. He placed his folded hands on his belly and answered, “These old houses can creak and settle a bit when the weather changes. You’ll get used to it.”

Then, tonight it had gotten worse. There was no way a house could settle enough to make the banging sounds or the wailing he’d woken up to. What was more unnerving was he could hear the sounds come from below his bedroom. There weren’t any pipes or anything underneath his bed. The only thing down there was the cistern. The empty cistern with thick concrete walls wouldn’t screech or clang. There was nothing to make any sounds down there. He’d checked before he finally got into his vehicle and left.

Now he was sitting here gazing at the golden light spilling from the windows of the library. It looked so peaceful and cozy inside. The last of the leaves were falling down in the brisk wind and they swirled in the parking lot. It was lovely, yet also haunting. The brown crackling leaves were dancing and flittering in the warm light from the building, like ballerinas on a stage.

Dalton knew his brain was fried. Now he was seeing dead leaves in October performing for him.

Maybe if he talked to someone, he could get it out of his head and off his chest. Perhaps telling someone about the banging would let him finally sleep. He need to sleep. He was exhausted.

Like in a dream, Dalton climbed out of his SUV and walked up to the front door. He opened it, and the light surrounded him. The warmth enveloped him, pulling him inside. He could smell a hint of coffee, the slightest aroma of lemon, and the faint must of old books. He heard the door shut behind him and the little bell jangled its welcome.

Joe Dalton walked down through the stacks toward the desk. Behind it, sitting like he had before, was the young man. He looked up and smiled a lopsided grin. He was holding open a book, and he jumped down from the stool snapping it shut as Dalton approached.

“You’re back,” he called out across the room. “I was hoping you’d visit again soon.”

Dalton sighed. He now felt a little odd walking in here ready to spill his guts to a virtual stranger about his eerily loud plumbing. Obviously, this young man wouldn’t be interested in hearing about his insomnia or his nightmares about Bauer’s death, finding him dead in a tub of water tinged red with his blood. This young man had better things to do than listen to a middle-aged man whine about how he lost the love of his life. How, in the end, Bauer couldn’t take the pain, so he slit his wrists and left Dalton to clean up the mess, literally.

“Did you enjoy the book?”

Dalton didn’t know what he was talking about at first. Then he remembered the book he’d checked out a couple of days ago. He hadn’t even cracked it open. His obsession with figuring out the house noises had consumed his attention. Finding his voice, he answered.

“I haven’t had a chance to read it.”

“Oh,” the young man answered. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it when you have time.”

Dalton nodded and wiped his cheek.

“Are you okay?” the librarian asked. “Are you upset about something?”

Dalton didn’t answer. He just stood there, feeling overwhelmed and overtaken.

“Come here,” the young man said, coming around the desk. Dalton watched as he placed the book on the counter. The librarian held his arms wide open, and drew closer to him. The young man looked so attractive and strong. Dalton felt him close in, those arms encircled him. Dalton hugged back, squeezing him tightly.

After a moment, the young man relaxed his arms and pulled back a little. Dalton looked into his eyes, brown and liquid, and saw his reflection. The young man’s lips parted.

Dalton leaned closer and they kissed. At first it was just the press of dry, warm, soft lips together, but the young man’s head moved. His tongue flickered at Dalton’s mouth, and he opened to respond. The kiss grew in passion, becoming more intimate until a thrill ran through the young man’s body. Dalton could feel it pass through and between them.

The young man pulled away. His cheeks were pink and his grin was shy now. He licked his lips and said, “Thank you. My first kiss.”

Dalton closed his eyes and heard the last words from Spencer, “Now I can go.”

Everything went away, and the world went dark. Around him, the air seemed to rush, moving away from him. The warm arms of Spencer disappeared, their heat and pressure winking away. The smell of old leather and dust drifted away. He sensed the world changed, irrevocably. There was nothing around him but the shadows of the parking lot lights and the dark shades crowding them as his eyes closed shut.

***

When he opened them again, he was sitting in his car. The brownstone had vanished. There was a graveyard there instead. He looked around, panicked. There were no buildings around here at all. He looked down and saw he was holding something. It was a book. It was the book he’d checked out from that library. It was from the librarian who kissed him, the one who handed him this book.

There was no library or librarian now. There were only tombstones and brown grass and swirling oak leaves.

He looked around the cemetery through the glass, noticing the names etched in stone. Next to his car was an old stone marker, weathered, and the name on it was, Reed Parker. An old oak leaned over the cemetery, bowing with respect over the graves. Native plants grew crouched at the oak’s roots also mourning the long dead. The morning sun was rising, and given his vehicle’s orientation, it made the markers shine brightly in the light. It was lovely and serene, and Dalton stretched his neck, his back, and finally his shoulders. In his hands was the book, a paperback. It was heavily stressed with bulges and spaces.

Dalton looked down and noticed there was something in the book, a marker of some kind. He opened it and pulled the slip of newsprint out. It was a news story on old paper, yellowed and torn on the sides. The headline read, “Teen Found Drowned in Hazing Accident.” It was dated, 1982.

Dalton blinked, and continued to read.

“In a possible college fraternity hazing episode gone awry, freshman pledge Todd Spencer was found dead in a cistern in the basement of the Sigma Kau house just off the campus of St. Augustus College. Spencer had been last seen with his sponsor, James Bauer. Bauer is being interviewed by the police. Some of Spencer’s family members have suggested this was the fault of the fraternity’s initiation program. The college has denied that any of their fraternal organizations use hazing rituals. They have promised a full investigation after the police investigation has concluded.

The night before Spencer was found, there were heavy rains in the area. The cistern wasn’t in use by the fraternity, according to county records, but a few witnesses have suggested the large, concrete space is used occasionally as a meeting place, for reasons no one can explain. Police believe the water somehow filled the space and drowned the young man. In the meantime, authorities have closed off the fraternity house and the students are being housed in the St. Augustus dormitories. The young man was only eighteen-years-old.”

After a few moments, Dalton turned the ignition, listened to the car start, and pulled out from the lot. He could feel the last remnants of his tears drying on his cheek, tugging on his skin. His husband, his Jim Bauer had been part of this somehow. His death must have triggered something, or else it was his last act of penance.

Had the shade of this boy come back to torment Bauer? Was it not the pain that drove the love of his life to kill himself? Did his husband commit suicide because of Spencer? Dalton wiped the tears from his eyes as he drove down the highway. He’d never know, and that made him shiver. A phrase popped into his head.

Old sins cast long shadows, or so they say. Fuck.

Shade was a shadow that could be quite cold.