The Shadowed Writer: An interesting and Objective Story

(1807–1898)

And now the object of this obscure tale (as I may call him), and whom I will not name for reasons that will presently appear — this personage was evidently in some way, horrified at what had happened to him; and he began immediately to show signs of great uneasiness.

He grew pale, and looked about on all sides with an expression of the deepest anxiety. He asked me why it had happened, and whether I knew any thing concerning it; but before I could reply he suddenly exclaimed: "Oh no!" and then leaped up so quickly from his seat that he almost fell over backward. He seemed greatly agitated — indeed, so strangely excited that I was somewhat alarmed myself. With a hurried step he ran to my side and whispered in my ear these words:

"Don't move — don't stir. You are not hurt? Did you feel anything?"

In vain I endeavored to reassure him, or even explain to him that I had not felt anything — nothing whatever; nor did any one else seem to be aware of the cause of his agitation. But at last, we succeeded in pacifying our strange companion sufficiently to restore him to his usual calmness. And here is the substance of what occurred just as he related it to us while sitting beside the table on which lay the manuscript of the story he began reading aloud to the room –

_Dariusz

"It was dark," said he, "and it was raining hard.

There had been a heavy gale during the night, and rain fell steadily and heavily until three o'clock, when it ceased abruptly without any interval between the first and second showers. The streets were all empty, and the shops were closed, although there had been business enough going on before the storm, and I saw no reason why they should not open again in the morning. It made little difference to me, however — I had finished my work and was ready to go home. My employers would give me a month's wages if I left early, and I was anxious to get away before their arrival.

I went out into the street, and walked slowly along until I reached the corner nearest to my own house. On turning it, I could spot the silhouette - the shadows - of two men who were hurrying in the same direction towards me. They wore heavy cloaks to guard them against the rain, and carried umbrellas under their arms; and although I had never seen either of them before, the manner in which they spoke to me was almost of a familiar tone.

We met each other on the pavement, and one of them spoke to me in a low tone, saying, 'Be careful, friend — take care!' I took no notice of him, and continued my walk. When I reached the corner, where I turned into another street, there stood still another man, with an umbrella in his hand, waiting my coming. He had evidently overheard what passed between me and those men, for he looked at me intently, and said something more which was lost to me in the noise and bustle of the rain. Still, I walked past him with my head bent forward, paying no heed whatever to his warning; for I was sure that he must have meant mischief, and the idea of danger made me shudder inwardly. He, however, stepped lightly after me, keeping pace with my swift strides , until at length I stopped under shelter of a doorway and waited for him to catch up. Then I turned round, and faced him, saying:

"Is your message worth anything to me?"

His eyes opened wide in astonishment and alarm as he heard the question, and he answered rather hastily:
"I fear that your safety depends solely upon your compliance with my instructions. I cannot answer that question, for I am forbidden to do so, yet I shall try my utmost to help you. Do you know where the place where the book is hidden?"

This was an unexpected inquiry, and I looked at him curiously enough, thinking perhaps he might have mistaken me for some ordinary shopkeeper.

"No, I do not." I replied "but I can assure you that I have no wish ever to discover the hiding places of books."

He seemed rather disappointed at hearing the truth, and he said in a more natural tone, "Then you must come with me, and I am afraid that you will not be very well treated if you refuse to accompany me to where you think the book lies hidden.'"

"What a strange experience," caught in Aunt Hartley, as she sat on the far end of the library, looking at the pages of the manuscript lying before him. "Of all the other queer stories he has told us, this has got to be one of the most queerest! Ha, I suppose you all have already heard all about it?"

"Why yes, we have Alice!" said Mr Sherman. "He ranted all about it at Supper last night in our place".

"Yes... I believe he also forgot to mention that the man whom was following him was suppose to be dead?" added in Mrs Sherman.

"Oh, how perfectly acquaint Mother! You've ruined the entire story for everyone now!" raged the personage - Mr and Mrs Sherman's son.

Mrs Sherman then laughed, and said again thoughtfully: "But of course, this does not mean that there is really any connection between all the stories he has written. After all, it is simply just coincidence; the same coincidence that has brought together most interesting events in his career." She paused, then said smilingly,

"I wonder if he realised himself how remarkable it was that he actually found himself being followed by the ghost of a murdered man who died only a few hours ago, and whose body he had later discovered in the garden!"

"You don't think that he actually believes it himself - or thinks it possible?” put in Mr Sherman and soon everybody in the room began laughing.

"Mother!! Father!! Seize your ghastly rants at once! You... you just don't understand genius of my writings!" exclaimed the personage "But fear not, soon you'll see... You all will!"

"Oh, I'm certain we've already seen it all my dear." replied Aunt Hartley.

"Ah, if only he were more like his brother, Mathew - a music composer of such high calibre and not some cheapskate, dried out, spontaneous fiction writer!" scolded Mrs Sherman.

"Mother, I am trying..." the personage spoke lowly.

"Hmm... not nearly enough, it will seem..." scuffed Aunt Hartley.

"Good lord, here we go again. Please don't start with me Dear Aunt. I am in no patience to argue with you today" the personage replied to his Aunt with a slight tone of anger in his voice.

"Ha! As if I would waste my time with the likes of you. Oh my dearest boy, believe me when I say that I have no time to waste upon a shadow"

The contentious remarks from Aunt Hartley continued and soon, vulgar exchange of words followed, filling the air with its vile and grimy scent of violence and distaste. I, however, was nevermore interested in the conversations and sat silently on my sit as I watched these mad dogs, go at each other's throats.

Ah yes, I'm sure now you must've realized, the true object of this tale of which I had hinted to you earlier in the beginning. Yes! It is no other than our "cheapskate, dried out, spontaneous fiction writer" - the personage! Yes unfortunately, our object is a washed up writer, a mere shadow of his former self whom is destined now, but not forever, to live this life as the black sheep of the family, the scapegrace child, the ghost amongst the living.... The Shadowed Writer.

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"Oh my dear, please do tell, to whom are you speaking to?"

Oh, no one really Mrs Sherman, I'm just rambling nonsense to myself as usual...

Thanks for reading and keep exploring!