Shadow of Death (Tales from the Crypt #39, December/January 1954)

Come with me to a lonely corner in the downtown business section of a large city. Overhead, the last fading star is finally retreating before the advancing light of dawn and the sleeping city is awakening to the sounds of jangling alarm clocks. But long before the city's office workers and busy housewives have risen from their warm beds, Ezra Morton has been on the job. There he is now, unlocking his little newsstand and swinging wide it's doors. Notice how Ezra labors, wincing in pain. Yes, dear reader, Ezra is an invalid, a crippled newsdealer. Ezra Morton is paralyzed from the waist down. Notice the bundles of morning newspapers stacked on the curb beside Ezra's newsstand, ready to be untied and laid out neatly on display. See how Ezra struggles, bending in his wheelchair and lifting the heavy packages.

Now see the dark and deserted subway kiosk nearby, into which, in a few minutes, the office-bound secretaries and the factory-bound laborers will begin to pour, armed with the newspapers they have purchased from Ezra's stand. Now, Ezra is ready for them. For the parade of humanity to rush by his stand and toss it's copper pennies upon his paperweights and eat away at the stacks until only a few last battered copies remain. See how he smiles. Yes, dear reader. Ezra smiles. He smiles because he is content. For this is his life. All that matters to him. This little newsstand with it's few hundred daily paper sales is Ezra's castle. It's meager profit is the line drawn between independence and starvation for him. So Ezra smiles. But Ezra does not smile for long. Suddenly, Ezra catches sight of a figure standing near the subway kiosk.

EZRA: "Hey!"

A man clutching a stack of newspapers under his huge arm.

EZRA: "Hey, you! This is my spot. How about it?! Find your own spot!"

MAN: "This is a free country, buster! I'll stand where I like!"

And now the people are beginning to hurry from all directions toward the subway entrance. And the big man with the papers under his arms hurries to meet them on strong legs that are not withered and paralyzed as Ezra's are.

MAN: "Paper, lady! Paper, mister! What'd ya read?"

Yes, Ezra does not smile. Fear grips Ezra's helpless body. That man, that man with the papers and the healthy legs is stealing paper sales that ordinarily would be Ezra's.

MAN: "Paper, lady! Paper, mister! Here's your change!"

EZRA: "Paper! Get your paper here!"

Ezra begins to do what he has never done before. He calls out, trying to attract attention, calling for sales, imploring, reminding the mass of humanity with healthy legs that it has always bought it's papers from him.

EZRA: "Papers! Morning papers! Get them here!"

MAN: "Mornin'! Paper, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am!"

But the sleepy-eyed people are blind. In their rush to catch their trains, they do not notice that they are buying their morning papers from someone new.

EZRA: "Please! I've had this corner for eight years! Those are my customers you're stealing! Please find your own corner!"

MAN: "Do me somethin', gimpy! G'ahead! Paper! Morning paper!"

And now, the morning rush hour is almost over. Ezra's paper stacks stand high and hardly touched. The man with the healthy legs waves to Ezra.

MAN: "All sold out, gimpy! S'long! See you tomorrow!"

The man moves off. Ezra stares at the unsold papers piled upon his newsstand counter.

EZRA: "*choke* I'll...I'll never be able to sell these now."

All day long, Ezra sits in his wheelchair trying to sell his papers to the few who straggle by his stand.

EZRA: "Paper! Get your paper!"

Finally, darkness begins to fall. Sadly, Ezra ties his unsold papers into bundles and deposits them on the curb for the trucks to pick up when they deliver the next day's edition.

EZRA: "*sob*...*sob*"

The next morning, the man is there again, hurrying about on his strong legs selling his papers to the unaware parade, while Ezra cries in vain.

EZRA: "Get your paper here!"

MAN: "Mornin' paper, lady! Thank you."

The days pass. Every morning, the man is there, stealing sales from Ezra. And every night, Ezra counts his unsold papers and ties them into bundles.

EZRA: "I'll...I'll never make enough to live on this way!"

A week goes by. Two. One morning, a truckman who delivers Ezra's papers warns him...

TRUCKMAN: "If you can't sell more papers than this, Ezra, we'll cut you out of our delivery route."

EZRA: "I'll...I'll try. I'll do anything."

But what can Ezra do? What can a cripple do to a man with a healthy strong body? The trackman leaves. Ezra sits with his head in his hands.

EZRA: "If...if I weren't paralyzed...if I weren't crippled and helpless, if I were strong, I'd show him! I'd...*sob*"

Above, the sky is just beginning to grow light. The glow from a nearby streetlamp casts Ezra's shadow up against his newsstand.

EZRA: "I'd...I'd...*sob*...*sob*..."

Suddenly, Ezra's shadow lifts it's head from it's hands. It rises from it's wheelchair, wavering. It glides off down the deserted street on unsteady legs. It slides across brick walls, board fences, hesitates before a hardware store. It reaches in, plucking the shadow of an axe hanging in the window, lifting away the shadow of the shovel standing among the garden tools, back across board fences, back across brick walls to a familiar corner where a familiar shadow stands with the shadow of a huge bundle of papers under it's arms. Ezra's shadow lifts the shadow of the axe it had stolen and brings it down upon the familiar shadow with the papers under it's arms. The shadows of the papers scatter across the building wall as the figure crumples, spurting a shadow-fountain from it's wound. Ezra's shadow peers at it. The crumpled shadow stirs. Ezra's shadow lifts the axe shadow once more.

Now Ezra's shadow drags the lifeless shadow down the alley between the buildings, depositing it in an empty lot beside a faded billboard. With the shadow-shovel, Ezra's shadow digs a shallow shadow-grave beside the billboard and pushes the lifeless shadow in and shovels the shadow-soil in upon it. Then, Ezra's shadow returns to the newsstand where Ezra still sits with his head in his hands.

EZRA: "That's...*sob*...that's what I'd do."

And Ezra's shadow assumes Ezra's position as Ezra hears...

CIVILIAN: "Hey! This guy's dead!"

EZRA: "Huh?"

Ezra rolls his wheelchair to the crumpled form of the big man with the healthy legs lying among his scattered papers.

EZRA: "What happened?"

CIVILIAN: "Heart attack looks like!"

Later, the morgue wagon attendants lift the body of the man who almost stole Ezra's business from him. As they carry it to the waiting truck, Ezra gasps...

EZRA: "Good lord!"

For, although the morning sun is shining brightly, the dead man's body casts no shadow.