Author's notes: Here is a not-so-little one-shot I composed based on William Hughes Mearns's poem, "Antigonish." Though the name of the poem itself may not be familiar, the lines very well might ring a bell. Please, read and review!
The Man Who Wasn't There
A One-shot
Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
I wish, I wish he'd go away. . .
When I came home last night at three,
The man was waiting there for me,
But when I looked around the hall,
I couldn't see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door. . .
Last night, I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today,
Oh, how I wish he'd go away. . .
William Hughes Mearns, "Antigonish" (1899)
"Mommy, I saw a man yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that," little Danny Fenton said, scrunching his freckle-dotted nose. "He was on the stairs."
"Did you, sweetie? And what was his name?" asked Maddie, smiling. Danny had an imaginary friend, like so many children his age. Jazz even had one a year or so ago. What was his name? Albert? Charles? Louis? She couldn't even remember. . .
"I don't know," her son replied. "I didn't like him."
"Oh? Why not?"
"I was trying to sleep, but he wouldn't leave me alone, and he kept looking in my room and stomping up and down the stairs."
Perhaps this was a dream of Danny's, and not an imaginary friend after all. Even so, it was both amusing and unsettling hearing this story from her five-year-old son. Amusing, because children could think of such fantastic things, and unsettling, because the idea of a man peering into her son's room was slightly disturbing. "What did you do?"
"I told him to go away," Danny said decisively, "and then I didn't see him anymore."
"Well, that was very brave of you!" Maddie commended, grinning wider than before. She pulled her child into a hug, saying, "And if you see that man again, you just tell him to go away, and he'll go."
"Okay, Mommy," Danny agreed, giggling.
Ten years later, Danny returned home from an exhaustive night of ghost-fighting. He phased through the wall to his room, changed into his human form, and lay on the bed, shutting his eyes for only a moment. . .
Thump, thump, thump.
Danny sat straight up, eyes wide. What was that? he thought.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
The thumping was coming from the hallway. Danny carefully crept out of bed, and silently went to the door.
Thump, thump, thump.
Danny's breath turned into icy mist.
Thump, thump.
Danny's black hair turned white, his cerulean eyes became an unsettling neon green, and, suddenly, one could see right through him, as if he were hardly there.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
The racket was coming from the stairs. Danny phased through the door and saw. . .
Nothing.
Danny glanced about the hallway, floated down the staircase, and carefully observed the darkened living room.
Nothing.
Where'd it go? Danny thought, frustrated. If it left, then it could be anywhere. Looking for it could take hours. . . He groaned at the very idea of it.
Creak. . .
Danny spun around in midair to face the stairs. For a moment, he supposed there was nothing there, and then he noticed an outline in the shadows, something deeper and blacker than the darkness surrounding it. The silhouette was watching Danny – the boy knew it very well –, but there was something unnerving about it watching him. There was also something oddly familiar about the Shadow-thing, something chillingly memorable about it. Danny stared at the Thing, rummaging about in his mind for any remembrance of it. The Thing's form began to refine and sharpen, began to pronounce its features, and though it still consisted of shadows, Danny recognized it.
Him.
Danny had seen that man before. It was many, many years ago, yet the ghost boy still remembered that man – the Man Made of Shadows – watching him as he slept, clomping up and down the stairs, hissing unintelligible words. Now, the Man sat on the stairs, watching him intently – at least, it seemed so, because Danny could not see the Man's eyes.
"Who are you," Danny asked, "and what do you want with me?"
No reply.
"You're smaller than last time," Danny noticed aloud.
A word popped into his head. Feed.
"Feed?" Danny echoed.
Fear was the second word to appear in Danny's mind.
"Fear? I'm not scared of you!" Danny exclaimed, practically laughing. He wasn't afraid of this creature, though he was a little confused as to what it – or he – actually was. Obviously, he was a ghost, but Danny had never encountered anything like him, save for Johnny 13's shadow. Was this being a shadow of a ghost instead of an actual ghost? Was he a ghost made of shadow, or did he merely appear to be a shadow? Was this a new sort of ghost? Had this ghost, over time, become a shadow, a mere echo of his former self? Had the shadow-person actually been alive, or was he some sort of spiritual being, like Clockwork and Frostbite?
And what did this apparition want with him?
The Man's form seemed to dissipate, but only slightly. Still, however, the Shadow-man stared at Danny.
"I told him to go away, and then I didn't see him anymore."
"Well, that was very brave of you! And if you see that man again, you just tell him to go away, and he'll go."
"I want you to go away," Danny said resolutely. "Go away, and I don't want you coming back here anymore. Get out of here. Go to the Ghost Zone or wherever you were before. I don't want you here! Go away!"
The Shadow-man disappeared, evaporating into nothingness.
Bang!
The front door slammed shut – it was a dramatic exit, a final display, the sort of exit when one grudgingly leaves for good. The Man was officially gone.
After that night, Danny never saw the spirit again, but he did find an interesting thing while researching different sorts of ghosts. He read of the "shadow people," dark spirits comprised of negative energy – beings blacker than night, moving with the shadows –, and the memories flooded into his mind.
Maybe, Danny thought, they feed off of fear.
Luckily, he wasn't afraid. Not anymore.
Last night, I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today,
Oh, how I wish he'd go away. . .
Author's notes: I study the paranormal. It's one of my favourite subjects, along with literature. I found this poem appropriate for a fan fiction, and I found the "shadow people" to be an appropriate sort of ghost for the work. Here, I've taken some creative license, and the "Shadow-man" feeds off of fear. His form almost decays when he can't feed. It is said that children are very likely to see ghosts as well, and who scares easier than a child? At any rate, please review! I'd love to get some feedback on this one!