The Shadow Anthology

Chris

Damian Milbrey was the only child of a countryman widower. He lived with his father in verdant solitude among the many animals they owned. His father possessed acres of land and, though he had been born of a humble background, was an extraordinarily rich man. However, his stagnant mass of wealth scarcely served a purpose.
Christopher, or more often; Chris Milbrey wasn’t an extravagant man. He rarely made purchases on a whim, though when he did, they amounted to little. He found all the many whimsical things which could be bought with money pointless, contemptible and vile. On the contrary, he would occasionally allow himself to pilfer a particular, though rather obscure item for a sole purpose; spite.
Clarice was also not a woman of insatiable want, though she had always been more understanding of people's needs for more comfortable items. Many times, Clarice had provoked Chris into buying benign intricacies which he deemed frivolous and droll. A pretty fan in her hand and a feather pillow at her feet began to infuriate her husband. These nagging concerns and impetuous wants became irritating through the years until she harmonised with the pigs. Even though she was born into an astoundingly wealthy background, he was never satisfied until she had completely submitted to his desires. What he wouldn’t give for her to complain one more time.
The relations of Clarice had mostly been greatly opposed to the marriage. From their first meeting, Chris could tell how much they belittled and patronised her for laying with someone of his lowly class. Even before their meeting, Clarice had spoken many times with her parents about becoming an actress, dancer or painter.
They had been crushing her dreams and it wasn't until Chris came along that she thought anyone would ever actually think that she could make it in this world. Clarice had a beautiful mind to her. The woman’s words warped the air as she spoke, her vivacious voice sparking silence to surround her syllables. Her relations thought it a waste for her not to become a doctor or lecturer.
The only relation that neither opposed the matter nor the couple was the woman's aunt. She saw only Clarice’s potential as a person, not an academic. The aunt passed alone in the world. She had kept the largest estate of the whole family. Her death, though expected, saddened Clarice. The enormous fortune which she received in accordance with the will could never soothe her heart, nor her husband's; as the loss had struck them like a dagger to the soul. However, they now possessed enough money to create their own lives, free from judgement and disgrace.
Chris felt his soul split in two as he watched his wife die in labour. In the following weeks, there were many times that the man almost committed his body to the same fate. He ascended to the roof of the house one night. His feet shook on the quaking tiles beneath him as he clambered with fear to the precipice of his design. The wrath of the sky tore open the clouds and unleashed rain. He refused to look up. His gaze was fixed upon the pigs beneath him. Their mud would surely drown him if he let it. Lightning vivisected the air before him, butchering the pig beneath him.
Chris fell back and rolled off the roof, harpooning his cheek on a loose nail. Soaked in mud, cocooned in a carcass and gushing anguish from his skull, Chris cried. His cry was pathetic and timid. The rain sobbed harder than this man. He eventually mustered the courage to flee the infected corpse and drag himself home. Entering, he saw the crib. The duty he owed to his son and wife was all that kept him alive at this time. He vowed never to leave Damian to fend for himself again.
Buying acre upon acre of land did nothing to console him. They had already begun the construction of their house and farm. They had begun to cultivate the fields. The animals had already been hand-picked by the couple themselves from all over the country. The plans for the nurseries had been drawn up and now lay on his bed in place of Clarice. Decaying, cold and corpse-like, Chris cradled them in the night.
With a loss so devastating, the man required a crutch. He had his son, but he refused to offload all his problems to a child. He already had a reason to live so now all he needed now was a hobby. Chris needed something to pass the time so he would never have to think about his own scathing life. He burned for somewhere to vent his intangible rage.
“Those people managed to make our lives a living hell. Maybe, if she wasn't so stressed... If her family; her own family didn't cast her out! If they didn't cast her down like me... She suffered for so long and I could never have helped her! It was the doctor’s fault. No, her parents; her brothers and sisters. Her own family rejected her! They let her die!” He stepped back at the force of his words. “How can you do that to your sister? To your daughter?” A spark of ingenuity ignited his mind and a demonic smile possessed him. “They wanted her precious money. They've always had too much money, it's no wonder they're all so...” he paused. The demonic smirk became a devilish grin. “Maybe...”
Chris became sure of what he had to do and then spent days persuading himself it was his only viable option; it was justice. Ideas warped into rules and laws in his head. He hired an army of lawyers to serve his every need, of which there was only one. They kneeled to a simple farmer who ordered the incarceration of every single Ario. He demanded they never be freed. Chris composed his requiem and readied the orchestra.
It took years to compile enough evidence for even one person, given the case had to rob them of their freedom forever. Though over time, one by one the Arios fell to scandal. This remained only the beginning of the man's revenge. To follow this, he ensured all their possessions were to be put up for sale. This sale would be televised like a flare, warning the other members of the family who, in turn, heightened their security. This hunt perpetuated for many years until Chris died in his home as an old man with his son by his side.
The only aspect which would differ each event from any other was the crescendo of his grand scheme. Chris knew these people before he had them studied and monitored so it was but a small matter to distinguish the most treasured item from the rest of the useless rabble at any given sale.
Chris would arrive at this sale intent on buying something which he already knew was there. Once it was in his clutches, he took it back to his home where he would destroy it and convert it into a piece of furniture nobody would ever bat an eyelid at. This was his justice. This was his victory.
The man knew how he would be perceived. Even from his desolate castle, Chris heard the rumours. He was cruel, careless and sociopathic. To silence these whispers, he rebranded his events as charitable. The proceeds were scattered like seeds between the charities of the world. Chris cared little for the people he was helping. He received no righteous thoughts and very few indignations from his competent conscience.
With and despite all this, people thought the house cold and loveless. However, this unceasing act of retribution brought contentment back to the farm. Chris slept sound in knowing he was the vigilante for his late wife, Clarice. Damian may have grown up without a mother, but he had an ever-present father whose love was sublime, unwavering compassion. The boy matured as both parents had hoped. He was alone on the farm and taught by his father until a tutor was required. As he grew, Damian became wise in all manners of the mind, but most of all he was a good person who knew his own heart.
The house, though not primitive, was somewhat rustic in parts. This morning, Damian had convinced his father to uproot all the cameras which were constantly surveying them, as the teenage boy grew desperate for privacy. Downstairs there lay a seemingly ancient fireplace on a thick, carpeted floor. The kitchen table was modest and wooden. Rising stairs paved the way for a warm wooden floor. Only three rooms stood upstairs; two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom was tiled, clean and pumped with parching water. Chris' room was homely and disarming. It was comprised of nothing but a mirror, carpet, radiator and bed.
Damian's room was similar in style, except his father had begun to acknowledge not everyone could endure such a subtle home so Chris gave his son a finer bed. The shallow bed begat bewitching bedposts and a pale pall mattress. In the evening, Damian stood at the bottom of the stairs and searched around awhile with his foot, kicking it about the place until he found the first step. As he often did, Damian gripped the bannister like a mechanical clamp for fear of falling because of a misplaced step. The boy often thought himself fragile at night.
Moving his fingertips against the walls, almost caressing the stone, he soon found his door and opened it with nought but a whisper. He dragged his feet across the sleek, varnished, wooden floor. Reaching low for his bed, Damian relinquished a quiet sigh of relief as he remembered the soft touch of homely warmth and comfort. He then submitted to the embrace of his bed’s soft heat and allowed himself to be carried to sleep by his comforting room. Damian's muscles were released from their tense state over the following minutes as he hummed himself to sleep. He dreamt of wild flying animals which he rode out at sea. He conjured wizards, witches, puzzles and mazes. The more bizarre his world became the more he relished it.
The front door of Milbrey Cottage began to open, inch by inch, until it was fully agape and bore all to the night. The moon ignited the shadows of the house, freeing them to run and dance in disguise. The wooden staircase felt a sturdy pressure. The brown bannister began to whiten with winter frost. There was almost a creek on the bottom step, but the weight shifted so the second step felt a grim pressure. Mass movement continued in this manner until the last step was given back to gravity in the latest hours of darkness.
Damian's door was wrenched open over hours with even more of a hush than Damian himself gave out. But now the door was open, and all sounds of the wilderness could be heard by a finely tuned ear. The cold cast its shadow into Damian's room and covered the first wooden floorboard. Though soft and low it made a distinct sound, one which Damian could recognise.
He opened his eyes a fraction like a thief glancing through a keyhole, but clenched them immediately after, locking them shut. He moved his sheet away from him as he slid to the opposing side of the bed. He launched his sheet toward the door, though where he heard it hit was neither his door nor was it his wall. This was something new. He backed out of his bed and toward the wall, spreading himself across it like plaster. Though the boy’s lips were frozen with terror, his body was fortuitously nimble.
Inch by inch he worked his way around the perimeter of the room. As he neared the door, he leaned on his bed for support. There he felt an unfamiliar pressure on the bed. The springs were slouching. Clutching the door frame, which he prayed was open, Damian permitted himself to step into the bare hallway. Moving on instinct, illuminated by moonlight, he used scarce and rapid movements until his face successfully greeted the bathroom door. Once inside, he locked the door and sat himself parallel to it, against the toilet's edge.
After a half hour of discomfort and insomnia, Damian slept once more. As he drifted into the sound, deep sleep, the door handle on the bathroom began to turn. These movements were so small; they were undefinable to the naked human eye. The chilling air was more patient now. The lock was caressed open from the outside. The door opened to reveal a tense, sleeping little boy.
Chilling air crossed the threshold and entered the room, though even this wouldn’t wake the boy now. Damian slept far too soundly to be woken up by anything less than a scream or his own name. Fortunately for him, he was about to receive the former in the form of a rooster waking both him and his father. Chris was first to stir however and shouted for the latter.
Damian forgot what had taken place in the night and was curious as to why he was seated on the bathroom floor as cold as ice. After sensing his surroundings, he was also curious as to why the door was open. For some reason, he could at least remember he had shut the thing. A rather simple question received a rather simple answer when his fully-clothed father made himself known.
“Damian, what are you doing leaning on the toilet blue in the face? Never mind, we don't have time for the answer. Anyway, be ready to leave in five. We're headed to an auction today! Oh, it's been ages...” He reminisced out the window, glaring at the sun. “Today’s guest of honour is your grandfather.” He mocked the word and Damian sniggered. “I have to say he wasn't a nice guy-"
Damian playfully cut of his father with muffled laughter, “Dad we go through this every time! I understand! I get it! You just go on and on with these lectures about horrible people who I’ve never even met! I'm going for you but, in the nicest way possible, I don't really care.” With both rants finished, father and son shared a laugh.
Chris left down the stairs and concluded with “Alright, come on you've got four now.” The pair departed in the morning and returned in the evening. They bid the house good-day with new wood that was formerly a treasured picture frame, but was now to become a renewed floor board in Chris' room. Damian ignored the obscurity of this. The content of the former object would become a placemat for meals. Though Chris was displeased with the luxury such an item brought, he was satisfied with the work he and his son had undertaken that day.
When they reached the farm, wood in tow, their view was littered with unimaginable gore. Every field was painted with the blood of slaughtered livestock. Intestines were strewn wildly across the savage battleground. Every family of every breed had been mercilessly murdered.
Thoughts raced around Chris's head until his flailing and roaring accusations led him to the conclusion that it could have been none other than the former family of his beloved Clarice. All who had known the couple also knew of the livestock’s importance to the couple, who had chosen the glorious beasts themselves. Though Chris' heart had been severed in two before, it had now been wrenched from him entirely. He vowed to see out the suffering of every last Ario. Damian had lost his father.