The disc came in a red shiny padded envelope that was clearly meant for Christmas, even though that was over two months away. It was unmarked other than my address and the postage, and my first thought was that it was some kind of junk mail—some new software or a DVD sampler for some subscription service that hadn’t heard of streaming yet.
And when I opened it, there was a DVD inside—not something professionally done with a label or anything, but one of those recordable discs that someone had written on in black marker. It just said “Home Security Vids”. Folded neatly inside the jewel case, like liner notes for some low-budget garage band, was a letter written in cramped handwriting on a single sheet of spiral-bound notebook paper. Several white tags fluttered away like confetti as I slid the paper free and unfolded it, the scrawls of blue ink pulling me in as I put the envelope aside and sat down.
Hello Mr. Brewster. You may not remember me! When I was 15 I had to go stay at Parkview Home for Troubled Teens for six weeks. This was before I got diagnosed and got on the meds to help me manage my bipolar. I had a real hard time there, both because I was so lonely and because I was so scared I was crazy. You were one of the counselors there at the time, and you were always real nice to me. We only talked a few times, but you made me realize it was just my chemistry that was off, not me being a kook. I don’t think I’d have made it without you.
So first of all, thank you for that! I was so happy when I tried looking you up online to see that you’ve got a big practice in Denver now. I’m sure you’re still helping people now just like you helped me. I’d like to see your office sometime, but Denver is far away and I know you’re real busy anyway. Still, I wanted to say thank you and congradulations on all you’ve done!
But I’m also writing because I need your help. I don’t have many people here that I trust, and those that I do…well, I don’t want them looking at me like I’m crazy if there’s no reason to. I know this doesn’t make sense HAHA. I need to get to the point.
I think someone has been coming in my house when I’m asleep. Coming in and messing with me. At first I thought it was my imagination. But then I started feeling strange. Weaker and less somehow. And I swear, I can see it in my shadow. It took me awhile to notice, but I think it seems lighter and thinner than it used to look.
Oh BOY, you’re saying. This is a crazy one here! Get the butterfly nets, right? No, please listen to me. I know how this sounds. I do. And I’ve been doing really well for the last twenty years on my meds. I have a job, I date people, I have friends. I tried to ignore this for a long time, but it kept getting worse. I kept getting worse. And I was scared I’m either crazy or someone really IS coming in and hurting me somehow. Making me sick.
So I got a security camera and set it up. I didn’t want to have it in my bedroom where I change and stuff, so I put it out in the hallway and checked it every morning. The first few days, there was nothing on it. Just a boring hallway.
But then last night, I saw them. Five dark figures coming down the hall and going into my bedroom while I’m asleep. And even with the night vision on the camera, I couldn’t tell anything much about them other than their faces. Their bodies were just long and billowy, like they had on robes or ponchos or something? But their faces were glowing. Not a lot, not enough I could see who they were really, but kind of like a glow stick a few hours after you snap it. Maybe it was the camera making it look like that, I don’t know. But that’s what I saw.
Or I think that’s what I saw. That’s why I’m sending you this. It’s the video from the hallway. I don’t trust showing it to someone in my life in case there’s nothing there. And I’m not trying to take up a bunch of your time and worry you with my problems. Just please watch it. Please watch it, and if you see what I saw, please write it on the bottom of this letter and send it back. I’m including a stamped envelope with my address so you can just drop it in the mail. The disc you can keep or throw away.
I know how all this sounds. I do. And I’m going to move the camera into my room tonight, but I don’t want to wait to send this to you. Please respond when you can. Thank you again.
I just want to know I’m not crazy.
Sincerely,
Marty Langdon
I reread the letter and then looked inside the padded envelope again. He was right. There was a small folded cream-colored envelope with the same handwriting on the front. Marty Langdon in Baltimore, Maryland.
I tried to remember him from my time working at Parkview, but nothing came to mind. It’d been so long ago, after all, and I’d worked with so many kids and adults since then. Still, his letter touched me. I was already running through possible diagnoses and scenarios in the back of my mind, but all of that could wait. For now, this Marty Langdon needed my help. He needed to be heard.
So I put the disc in my laptop, checked it for viruses, and then hit play.
The entire video was only three minutes long, and the first two were just of an empty hallway lit in the ghostfire glow of infrared. Then a shape began swimming out of the green-tinged dark at the far end of the hall. It was a person in…was that a mask? It was hard to be sure. Some kind of mask or facepaint that gave a slight luminescence but not enough for me to make out much detail, even as they drew closer to the camera. Behind them, I saw another, then another figure come into view. The fourth stepped from the shadows even as the first stopped at a door further down the hall and opened it wide. In a matter of seconds, five figures of light and shadow had appeared and disappeared into what I supposed was Langdon’s bedroom.
My first thought was that it was a prank. But why? It seemed unlikely that someone would target me specifically, and if it was random, how had they known who I was? What I did for a living and where I worked twenty years ago? This Marty could be behind it himself, of course. Even if everything else he’d said was true, this could be something he staged, and I’d learned a long time ago it was folly to try and apply logic to an illogical mind.
But still. It hadn’t felt fake. Not the letter, and not the video itself. And I needed to start from a place of assuming that whatever had really happened, Marty Langdon needed my help.
Using his name and the address on the return envelope, it only took a few minutes to find a number for him, but it only rang. My plan was to try the number again that evening, and if I still got no response, mail him back the letter with a note telling him what I saw and offering to talk to him if he wanted. But that afternoon I got a call on the office phone.
It was a detective with Baltimore PD. They were just following up on an accidental death case that had happened the day before. A man named Marty Langdon had burned to death, and in looking around his home, they had found a partially written letter addressed to me.
How did it happen? The fire, I mean?
There was a pause, and then:
Well, that’s the thing. We don’t know really. The fire investigator has found no sign of accelerant, and none of the witnesses saw the guy do anything to himself beforehand, so we can’t say it was self-inflicted.
Witnesses? Where did this happen at?
Oh it happened right outside of Penn Station Garage. The guy had driven there, parked his car and got out. According to a family headed home and security footage we have, as soon as he stepped out into the sun, he goes up like a Roman candle. Never seen anything like it.
Oh God.
You’re telling me. I…Look, I don’t think it’s going anywhere, but can I get a copy of that letter and video? Any if he sent you anything else before he died, will you send me a copy of that too? Just trying to be thorough, you know?
Yeah, sure. I…sure. Um, Detective?
Yeah, doc?
What did the letter say? The one he was writing me but hadn’t sent yet?
Oh. Um, let me see here. It was weird. Here it is. “I don’t cast a shadow anymore. They took it.” Guy was a nut, huh?
I think he needed help. He just didn’t get it in time.
Yeah, sure thing. Wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. Just strange is all. Thanks again for your time, and mail me a copy when you can, yeah?
Yeah, I will.
The next day, another envelope came.
This one was also festive—this time with shiny green instead of the deep red of the day before. I debated whether I should even open it at all. Maybe I should just mail it to the detective instead. But then I thought about my conversation with him, and about the poor dead man that had reached out to me for help.
I tore open the envelope and looked inside.
There was another disc in a case, but no letter this time. Just a snowman sticky note on the front of the case with two words scratched across his white belly.
Help Me.
The video was inside the bedroom now, and given the timing, I assumed it was the night after the last video. A couple of days before Marty Langdon burned to death in the sun. The time counter said it was five minutes long, though I don’t see how that’s possible.
The camera had been set up in a high corner of the room, and I could see the man that must be Marty Langdon lying in bed. Despite everything that had happened, real or imagined, he was somehow asleep, and he didn’t stir when the door opened and the figures glided into the room.
They surrounded him—two at his feet, two at his sides, and one at his head. The head of his bed was against a wall, so the figure at his head literally stood over him, straddling his face as he stared down at him. This…what was this? It wasn’t a joke. This man hadn’t died for a joke. So who were they? And what were they going to do to him?
In unison the five reached up and slid away what I could now see were masks after all. Masks that hid a brilliantly blazing light that made the camera switch from night vision to normal mode as they turned their burning faces down to Marty’s sleeping form. I could see some color now, see the tendrils of golden light shot through with something darker as it coiled from their heads and caressed his body. Saw him sit up, eyes wide and blindly staring, jaw slack, as they coiled around him like snakes.
His thin, grey shadow danced fitfully on the wall, and as I watched, it seemed to grow even dimmer, a shade of a shade being slowly consumed in their terrible light.
This seemed to go on for a long time, and then they were done. Marty eased back down into a troubled sleep and they slid their masks back into place. They started to move toward the door when one of them paused. Paused and looked directly at the camera for a moment before lifting a hand in what might have been a wave.
I’ve sent a copy of everything to the detective weeks ago, and while I’ve tried calling him again, I get no response. Not that I have more letters or videos to send him, at least not yet. The camera system I ordered just arrived today, and I’m waiting until nightfall to go out and get it.
It’s just a confirmation, you see. A secondary check on what I already know is happening. Further proof that I’m not crazy when I tell someone that when that shadow thing waved at the camera, it was really waving at me.
A part of me knows this is all crazy. Impossible. Just like a part of me knows that if this is all happening, I should be able to prove it quickly enough.
But I understand what Marty meant now, better than I ever did before. The fear isn’t just about being right. It’s about being wrong. About people looking at you. Judging you. Pitying you for seeing what isn’t there. Being afraid of you for what you believe is real.
So no, better that I use the cameras first. Avoid direct sunlight and get hard evidence to back up my claims before I invite someone over some evening. I’ll serve them dinner and engage in polite conversation, making clear to them that I’m still sane and civilized despite my impromptu sabbatical from the practice. Then I’ll show them some home videos without explanation and see what they see.
Only then will I ask them if they’ve noticed anything.
They’ll inquire, noticed what?
I’ll hold up my hand, perhaps cast in the light from the fireplace, and wave it around to give them a second chance. “Don’t you see?” I’ll ask.
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