Only a Shadow

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Visit lifelock.com slash podcast. Terms apply. Welcome, friend. Follow me. We're going somewhere dark, somewhere dangerous. Most people would never dare enter the place we are going. There's no telling what horrors we'll find, what terrors we'll uncover. Don't say I didn't warn you. We might discover terrible monsters lurking there. Be careful, they could follow you out. Or maybe they're already inside you. Are you afraid? Good. Now you are ready to enter the Warning Woods.

Lincoln Radell lifts his cat off his chest with his left hand, holding the book he's reading open with his right. His cat, Doyle, named after Lincoln's idol, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, is annoyed at being disturbed. He'd already shown great displeasure at Lincoln's orange book light by curling to face away from him, and now gives Lincoln a judgmental stare as he slinks to the foot of the bed. Sorry, kitty, Lincoln says.

Apparently I have to pee again. Doyle isn't listening. He's already made himself comfortable at the foot of the bed, curled into an overlong sea. Lincoln sets his book down beside the cat with the attached light pointed at the wall. He could shut it off, but he's only going to be gone a few seconds. The book light needs to be charged soon anyway.

He'll probably plug it in next to the bed before he falls asleep. He comes back rubbing his shirt between his fingers where he'd failed to dry them on the towel next to the sink. His hands smell like his soap, which to him smells like dead flowers. He takes a step toward the bed, bringing his knee up to swing it onto the mattress. He stops cold. He's detected something in the corner of his eye. His head turns automatically.

His eyes focus on the shape they warned him about, and he freezes again. His book light glows the hue of a vibrant sunset on the naked wall next to him. In the very center, of the orange semicircle stands a tall shadow. Lincoln's eyes flick from the shadow to the booklight and back to the wall, but he sees nothing between them that would explain the shadow's presence.

The light is not very bright, so the narrow, bell-shaped shadow is poorly defined. Its caster must be closer to the bed than the wall to cause the shadow to distort this way. Still searching for the trick of the light, Lincoln presses his hand deep in the mattress, then releases it, causing the book to shake ever so slightly. The long, skinny neck of the book light bends quite a bit, though.

and as the light shifts on the wall, the shadow remains precisely in place, unmoved and unaltered. Lincoln's hope that a smudge of chocolate or something else stuck to the light is causing the shadow dissolves. He hisses at Doyle. He wants the cat to wake up, to step right into his arms so they can slink out of the room and, well, whatever he would do next is irrelevant because Doyle never responds to him.

Lincoln expected this, but it was worth the shot. He can't just leave his cat in the room with whatever's casting that unmoving shadow. The light switch is right next to his elbow, but he's scared to flip it. He's paralyzed by whatever is maybe in front of him, somehow casting a shadow without reflecting any light, just swallowing it. At least right now it's stationary. What if the overhead light is what triggers it?

or the ceiling fan which always seems to turn on with the light regardless of how Lincoln remembers leaving it. He whispers to Doyle again, and is humiliated in front of the invisible apparition once more. He lets a silent sigh slip between his lips, then throws the switch. The overhead light turns on and, sure enough, so does the fan. Lincoln doesn't wait for a reaction.

He dives onto the bed, wraps his hands around Doyle's waist, and draws him backward. Doyle's claws catch on the comforter and drag it with them. He lets go after it slumps off the bed. Lincoln sets his cat down and shuts the bedroom door, gripping the knob tightly in case something on the other side grabs it, tries to follow them into the hallway. But the doorknob remains still.

and the only sounds he hears are the ceiling fan's hum and the light tink of its beaded drawstring against one of the light shades. These are familiar sounds. They're comforting. Doyle is glaring up at him. His bleary eyes clearly hate the light in the hallway when Lincoln turns it on. He just wants light, as much of it as he can get right now. I'm sorry, he whispers to his cat.

Doyle remains as still as the shadow, his green eyes daring Lincoln to make his night any worse. Lincoln sighs. All right, okay, just let me check it out.

He rubs his eyes and scratches his head. It was only a shadow, he tells himself. And he's got to go back in eventually. He's only wearing boxers, and all his clothes are in his bedroom. He shoos Doyle back a few paces so he can get down on the floor and peer through the crack under the door. He strains his eyes to look around the whole room, though he's not sure what he's expecting to see.

or what will finally assure him the room is empty. Doyle falls pathetically to the floor behind him, arching his back and straightening his legs before going limp. Fine, says Lincoln, standing. He stretches out his hands and tilts his head both ways, as if he's ever been able to crack his neck. He's seen a hundred UFC fighters do this routine on TV just before a fight, but doesn't realize that's where he's borrowing it from.

He grabs the trim next to his head with his right hand and the doorknob with his left. He looks back at Doyle, lying like roadkill. You better get ready, he says, no longer whispering. He says, the devil might be in here, kitty. Or, I don't know, could be the ghost of my great-great-grandpa, or, I don't know, it kind of looked like Aunt Belinda a little bit. He squints. What's that? I already said the devil. Oh yeah, that's right.

He grimaces, then squeezes his face as small as it will go before his eyes pop open and he cracks open the door. The ceiling fan's spinning shadow gives him a minor heart attack, but he realizes what it is quickly enough not to scare Doyle. He says, I don't know, looks pretty empty. Doyle blinks. Lincoln stays outside the room, putting only his left hand inside to find the light switch. It's always higher than he expects it to be.

He grits his teeth and flicks the switch down. The lights go out. The fan begins to slow. The book light is still on and looks far dimmer than it really is before Lincoln's pupils adjust. It's bright enough to light up the wall, though. It paints an artificial sunset once again, but this time, there is no shadow. Lincoln decides neither the shadow's presence nor absence could have soothed him.

Now that it's gone, he's split between a belief that he imagined it or that its caster has moved to another part of the room or apartment. Doyle, get in here, he hisses, whispering again. He flips the light on. then off again. No change. Doyle hasn't moved. Lincoln flips the hallway light off, testing whether that will spur the cat into motion. It doesn't.

Lincoln also realizes the hallway light might have been altering any shadows that might be present in the bedroom. He checks. The shadow is still absent from the wall. He sneaks toward the bed and slides the book lights clip off the book. He waves it around the room like a wand, like he's Harry Potter warding off a Dementor.

He makes two full rotations before he's confident every shadow he casts is from a natural source. At the end of his second rotation, movement in the corner of his right eye makes him flinch away and shout, but it's just Doyle. finally risen and ready to return to bed. Lincoln can't find where he left off on the page. He realizes he must have been distracted while reading before. By what, though?

He can't remember what he was thinking about needing to pee. That had been part of it, in the background for sure. But no, it's obvious when he remembers it. He can't believe he didn't recall his thoughts right away. He'd been thinking about the reading at the library tomorrow. He hates doing live events, and live readings might be his least favorite type. There's a reason he doesn't record his own audiobooks.

The event tomorrow isn't just any reading at the library, though. It's being sponsored by the little hole-in-the-wall bookstore that sold his first self-published novel when no one else would. He has to do it for them. He just has to. He chooses a paragraph that starts with words he doesn't recognize and works his way back up the page until he finds a familiar sentence. He begins to read. He begins again.

He chooses a paragraph that starts with words he doesn't recognize and works his way back up the page until he finds a familiar sentence. He begins to read. He begins again. He chooses a paragraph that starts with words. and they blend into a sentence of his own mind's creation. Left unattended, the sentence starts a whole new story that has nothing to do with the words his eyes are skimming on the page. The sentence becomes images in his brain.

He thinks he should be writing himself a note in which to capture this blossoming story, but as he reaches for his phone to type it in, his book closes without the bookmark in. He furiously attempts to find the right page before the last thing he read slips away. By the time he finds it, the shine has worn off his new idea. The images are faded black and white. It wasn't that good anyway, he tells himself. He places his book on the nightstand.

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On stage the next day, Lincoln doesn't even remember feeling nervous about the reading. His audience is rapt. They're engaged. They laugh at his little jokes and gasp at the surprises he pulls from the page. He has a wonderful time. Cheryl, the bookstore owner, sits beside him as he signs copies of his latest novel and whatever else people bring him afterwards. She smiles at the woman he's handing a book back to before touching Lincoln's arm and saying,

Mr. Raydel, you don't know how exciting it's been for me to watch you grow. Aw, thanks, Cheryl, he responds warmly. The next person in line steps forward. Lincoln asks for his name and scribbles an inscription on the title page with his signature before handing it back with a smile. Cheryl says, You're so much more comfortable as a writer now. I always thought you were good, but maybe you think so now too?

Lincoln laughs. Yeah, I guess so. I don't know. It just feels more natural these days. The ideas kind of come on their own now. The next person steps forward, but Lincoln does not immediately greet them. He's noticed something odd far behind them. Through the open auditorium doors at the back of the room, he sees the automatic sliding door at the library's entrance opening and shutting repeatedly with no one near it.

There's no one that might be setting off the sensor, telling the door to open. Every time it closes, it immediately opens again, though. The woman standing in front of him patiently clutches her copy of his book near her stomach and bounces on her heels. When she's been staring at him long enough to feel uncomfortable about it, she follows his gaze. Oh, she chuckles. Looks like the door's glitching. Glitching? Yeah, something like that, says Lincoln.

He smiles at her and offers his hand for the book. He gets her name and opens to the title page, but before he starts scribbling, he looks up at the door again. He knows the woman is probably right, that it's just some random malfunction. Cheryl comments about it too, after a small crowd of librarians and patrons gather around the door. Who's going to be the first to try going through? Cheryl laughs to Lincoln.

Hopefully none of them, he thinks to himself as he hands the book back to the woman in line. But out loud, he says, someone's got to be able to shut it off, right? Cheryl says, I'm sure somebody's on their way.

The next person in line wants to buy a copy of Lincoln's new novel to have it signed, so Cheryl's focus switches to him. While he waits to sign the book, Lincoln watches the crowd around the chomping door. It might just be his imagination. but he swears it's closing faster than usual. It's really slamming shut, and almost immediately after retracting all the way. There's daring laughter out in the lobby. Lincoln remembers this sound from his youth.

It's the sound of someone being goaded into a stupid action. Sure enough, a teenager in a white hoodie with a black backpack steps out of the crowd. He walks backward toward the door, laughing and waving at his buddies who are taunting and cheering for him. A library staff member steps forward and puts a weak arm out to stop him. He sidesteps and waves her off with an I got this smile, then leaps through the door right before it slams closed.

The crowd erupts with applause as he bows on the other side. Again, Lincoln might be imagining it, but he swears the door picks up speed. The teenager in white goads his friends to jump through as well. but they're laughing and shaking their heads no. To show them how easy it is, the teenager in white leaps back through. This time, he seems to forget he's wearing his backpack. The door chomps closed on it.

knocking him off balance. The backpack catches on some part of the door when it jerks back open. The boy is ripped backward. One of his shoes flies off, nearly tripping one of his friends when they rush forward to help. One of them is reaching for his backpack strap when the door slams closed again, ramming the teenager in the white splattered red hoodie into the side jam. His friends grab his arm together when the door yanks him back. He's screaming.

getting everyone in the building's attention. The door slams again, impossibly quickly, before his friends can pull him free. His eyeballs bulge at the helpless crowd after the door crushes his head. against the jam. Lincoln jumps up. His jaw snaps shut when someone touches him on the shoulder. The teenager in the white hoodie, standing in front of the table, starts as well.

retracting the book he's holding out for Lincoln to sign. Lincoln looks to his right and sees it's Cheryl who's touched him. Everything okay? She asks. Lincoln smiles apologetically at the teenager he's just killed in his mind. The teenager grins and steps forward again. As Lincoln signs his book, he tells Cheryl, all good, just spaced out for a second.

He'd seen it all, though. He can still vividly remember the teenager's popping eyes and the blood oozing down his white hoodie. That is his gift, he supposes. The ability to see every detail of an imagined scenario. He just wishes he could turn it off every once in a while. Sometimes his imagination makes the real world feel pretty mundane.

He's glad the teenager is okay, though. The one in the real world, anyway. Lincoln returns to his apartment early in the evening, questioning whether he wants to order delivery for dinner. He could cook. He should. But he wants to take a stab at writing that scene with the rapid sliding door at the library. Also, he's hungry. Why not let someone else cook so he can spend that time exploring where that scene might take him?

He unlocks the door and expects Doyle to try to escape like he almost always does, but his cat isn't there. Doyle, how's Ty sound, huh? He calls into the apartment as he slips off his shoes. Doyle? He stops to listen for the cat. Hearing nothing, he peers around the living room couch and sticks his head into the kitchen. It isn't the first time Doyle failed to come to him. The cat does what he wants to, but Lincoln worries all the same.

This is true fear, he thinks to himself. The fear of harm coming to something you love, not some impossible nonsense like a sliding door crushing someone's skull. That kid's weight would have stopped the door instantly. That's a good point. That scene's probably not even worth writing. Psst, psst, psst, Doyle! He tiptoes toward the bedroom. Sunset casts the room in a dull orange glow that makes Doyle's black shape difficult to make out.

He's lying on top of the vent next to the bed, sprawled and unmoving. Hey, kitty, Lincoln whispers, wanting to avoid startling his poor cat awake. He edges closer. Still, Doyle does not respond. The fluffed fur on his back is vibrating in the warm air. It's the only part of him that's moving at all. No, don't go there, Lincoln whispers. He clenches his eyes shut and opens them to the real world.

Doyle is walking a figure eight through his legs at the front door. You can smash up teenage boys all you want, Mr. Radel, Lincoln says, imitating Cheryl's voice. But don't you dare lay a finger on that kitty of yours.

He follows Lincoln inside. That night, almost the exact scenario from the previous night repeats itself. As he flushes the toilet, Lincoln tells himself he needs to start remembering to drink a glass of water half an hour earlier so that he doesn't have to pee right when he's settling in. He re-enters the room, trailing the scent of his dead flower-smelling soap again.

There's his book at the end of the bed. Somehow the book light is pointing at the exact same place on the wall as the previous night, but this time there is no shadow. First he's relieved, then his nerves tingle. He wonders if, maybe, the shadow might be lurking somewhere else inside his home. Stay here, Kitty, he tells Doyle, who's already done listening to him for the day.

He dog-ears his page and slips the book-lights clip out as he closes the book. He shines the light around the room, but like the previous night, he sees nothing. He slips through the door and shines the light around the short, dark hallway. He beams its orange glow into the bathroom. He lets himself experience the tension of pulling back the shower curtain before a false reveal.

when the light reflecting off the mirror opposite the shower casts his own shadow against the shower wall. It's a cliche moment he would never write into a story, but it's twisted fun for him to titillate himself with. Now he's in the living room. The wall's here. are too far apart to illuminate all at once. Similarly to how he scanned his bedroom walls, he sits in the middle and rotates all the way around and never detects a shadow.

An alertness starts deep in his belly and grows. He thinks the shadow must be somewhere close. He doesn't know how, although, yes he does. This is his world. If he says the shadow is here, then it must be. But where? It's not in the kitchen, either. He's about to give up when another cliché presents itself. He looks toward the living room curtains.

always drawn shut over the sliding glass door because he hates how anyone who walks by the building can see straight into his apartment through it. He doesn't shine the light on the curtains. Just looks. Stares. He tells himself, no, the shadow shouldn't be lurking behind the curtains because it would be so much scarier if he had to go to bed wondering if it was waiting somewhere he didn't notice. Or perhaps it had been following him around the whole time.

keeping out of the light. He tries to replay the scene again with this new angle, but his mind is too focused on the curtain. It's so obvious, so corny. but he's drawn by the gravity his mind puts on the scene. Letting his light dangle down at his side, he walks across the living room. The curtains are resting two inches in front of the door, so there's no way someone or something

could be hiding behind them, except, perhaps, a massless shadow. He points the booklight forward and pulls one curtain back slowly. He sees only his own reflection. He closes one hand over the end of the booklight, killing his reflection. There's still a face on the glass, though. No, behind it. Before Lincoln really gets a clear look at it.

It's already vanished into the dark of night. Wait, why is it so dark? Lincoln wonders. Where are the street lamps? He blinks, and the streetlights are on again. No shadowy figure could be hiding under their amber beams. It would have to have faded out, vanished that way, thinks Lincoln. He closes the curtain and turns away.

On his way to bed, he tries to recall the shape and geography of the face behind the glass, but it's too hazy. It never fully formulated in the rush of the moment. Now he's having trouble imprinting something onto it. He thinks, oh well.

I can figure that out as I go if I end up writing it. He types a note to himself about the curtain scene. He ends it with, notably cheesy, only use in story that gets too heady and audience needs a break. Then, Setting his phone aside, he watches Doyle's side rise and fall until his eyes are too heavy to keep open.

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He's in Jordan Creek Mall in Des Moines, reading an excerpt from his new novel at Barnes & Noble for a small audience of spacey-eyed Midwesterners clutching drinks from the Starbucks in the back. It's too bright for his dark words to reach out and grab them. These are his fans, presumably, but they all look ready to line up for the signing and go home.

A latecomer causes a mild disruption Lincoln pretends not to notice by focusing intently on his pages. He continues reading without looking up. It's so much easier if he doesn't look at the glassy eyes staring at him. He knows it can't be his writing or the story. This book has been well-received by audiences nationwide. The back cover boasts accolades from Josh Mallerman, Stephen Graham Jones, Paul Tremblay, and Grady Hendrix.

A wheezy shout erupts from the front row. Lincoln stops in the middle of a word and looks up. Though he missed the actual occurrence, its aftermath tells its story well. An elderly man is trembling and tugging his button-up shirt away from his body. His wife is folded over him with one of her hands up his shirt, swiping at his skin. There's a steaming brown stain down the front of his shirt.

and an empty Starbucks cup in his wedded lap. He breaks past the phlegmy barrier in his throat and starts howling, for some reason staring right into Lincoln's eyes. He's holding perfectly still now. his only movements caused by his wife jostling his frail body. The whole time, his eyes never leave Lincoln's. Lincoln breaks his eyes away, unable to bear the uncomfortable staring any longer. The rest of the audience is watching him.

waiting for him to carry on. Should he? They're so ready for him to be done. His gaze meanders to the back row where that latecomer caused the mild disruption. He's sitting in a trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He looks, Lincoln can't help but think, similar to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's most famous character, one of, if not the most famous character of all time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

There's even an empty pipe protruding from under the hat, which hides the man's face completely. A superfan? Lincoln wonders. thinking of all the interviews he's given in which he's discussed how Doyle's ability to always bury the truth in an inch of loose dirt right under the reader's feet, and yet still surprise them over and over again, inspired his own unique brand of horror mystery stories.

Perhaps this latecomer dressed up to impress him. Sure late Holmes tips his head back, reaching a gloved hand up to take the empty pipe out of his mouth. The face he shows Lincoln. is the face he saw outside his sliding door. It's not as hazy, but still unclear, like his brain is refusing to interpret what his eyes are telling it. It has a bluish hue.

Its skin like plastic wrap stretched over a long skull. Its eyes are like orange ping pong balls with tiny black dots in their centers. Its mouth, relieved of the pipe, curls into a lipless smile. and it points at the man who spilled hot coffee on himself. It puts its hand on its belly and mimes deep laughter. Lincoln keeps reading. It's all he can do.

He knows he's imagined this scenario. His mind is inventing the sights before him and blending them with reality, like the teenager getting smashed by the automatic door. Lincoln turns on his stool, switching which ankle is crossed over which knee to pivot away from the imagined figure in the back of the audience. But it doesn't vanish. He starts hearing its laughter.

It begins faint and echoey, but slowly becomes louder than Lincoln's own voice. It's low and mechanical, like worn-out brakes grinding on a bumpy road. Lincoln starts reading louder, faster too. to reach the end of his selected chapter. All the while, he's trying to erase the man in the Sherlock Holmes getup and the howling coffee victim whose eyes he still feels boring into him. Do you seriously mind?

The coffee victim's wife shouts. Lincoln looks up. There are dozens of eyes on him, but not the coffee victims nor the latecomers. The latecomer is gone. Where it sat is now an empty seat. The elderly man who spilled coffee all over himself is convulsing, obviously stricken with some secondary effect of pouring steaming liquid all over himself. His wife has his shirt torn open, and his pale grayish skin is bright pink in the middle.

Is anybody a doctor or anything? A middle-aged man in the middle of the audience shouts. He stands and says, I'll go see if I can find help out in the mall. Should someone call 911? A young woman asks. The wife cries, Yes! Please, I think he's having a heart attack. Might be a stroke, a young man also seated in the front row says. Lincoln doesn't know what to do.

He's still seated on his stool, holding his pages open as if he's waiting for it to be his turn again. A stoic woman dialing 911 steps away from the rest of the audience with her phone pressed to her ear. The bookstore staff are gathering in front of him, forming a semicircle around the wheezing man. Lincoln steals this chance to slip away.

Lincoln is home now. He's in the bath. He's ignoring his phone on the counter and his cat outside the door. He doesn't know what became of the man in the front row. Doesn't care, either. Not really. This is his time to let his thoughts wander without any risks. Out in the world, he's too distracted by his fabrications, creations, and fantasies. He knows that. That's why he's isolated himself now. His phone is out of reach.

his hands too wet to operate it. His agent will have to wait a little longer. Yeah, because she's been so patient all afternoon, he laughs to himself. She wants to know why he bailed on the book signing early. Barnes and Noble. demands answers so does doyle he's been purring and pawing around his owner all evening without being fed and his litter box could use some attention as well still his owner ignores him now bathing behind a closed door

He could once taste the steam on the air, but it has since evaporated. Doyle paces outside the door twice more before lying back down in front of it so that if Lincoln opens the door, perhaps he'll remember him. He knows there's something wrong with Lincoln. He's seen him jumping at shadows. He's heard him getting up at the same time every night and methodically searching the house with that book light, always at some point shouting abruptly before returning to bed.

The air that follows him back in always tastes salty. The air tastes that way now. Like sweat. Like anxiety. Like fear. The door isn't latched. Doyle only hasn't gone in because it is, at least it used to be, so steamy in the bathroom. But it's been too long. He's done being patient. He nudges the door and enters the bathroom. It's not so bad anymore. The steam is completely gone. The air above the bath feels chilly, actually. The only problem is the odor of sickly plants in the room.

Doyle's eyes do not rise to the level of the tub wall in his normal posture, so he sits, perches on his toes, stretches his back, and elongates his neck. Lincoln is gone. In his place. He left a blue, chew-toy version of himself in the bath. The water looks like glass. Doyle meows. Lincoln's legs are folded because he's too long to fit in the tub.

His eyes are open and cloudy. His mouth is open too. His teeth and nose the only parts of his face that protrude above the water. There is another face in the water, Doyle notices as he studies Lincoln's. A reflection. It doesn't look like any type of person he's seen before. Its skin is carved like an anthill. The gaze from its round orange eyes is tangible.

Doyle feels it cutting through him from above. He flicks his chin upward. He finds the source of the reflected face. He tastes dirt on the air and smells sickly plants even stronger. But the thing floating above the bath has no interest in him, and he none in it. So he walks out of the bathroom without looking back. You made it out. Congratulations. If you enjoyed the story, please rate, like, review, or subscribe.

For early, ad-free episodes and behind-the-scenes episodes I call Into the Woods, become a patron at patreon.com slash thewarningwoods. You can also support the show by purchasing merch. The merch store and Patreon links are in this episode's description. To stay up to date, follow me on Instagram and TikTok at TheWarningWoods. And when you feel ready, meet me here for another journey into... The Warning Woods. Thank you for listening. Right now on the Infamous America podcast.

The disappearances started with a mother and daughter. They were followed by two sisters from Texas and then three children from the same family. And in between, according to the lore, there were dozens more during a sensational murder trial. The legend of H.H. Holmes grew from sleazy con man to one of America's most notorious and prolific killers. But how much was true? The story of H.H. Holmes is happening now on the Infamous America podcast.

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