Shadow Casting - Paul Kane

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They leave me virtually alone in the day you see, my new masters, so I’ve had plenty of time to conduct research in the vast library here.

      What Lynch failed to tell me about the French architects who constructed this house was that they were both members of a universal group called “The Order of the Shadows” —devotees of the black arts who follow what is known as the left-hand path.

      They needed an isolated spot, not just because they failed to fit in on these shores, but also to keep their bloodthirsty activities a secret. Rituals they used to call forth unfathomable things in the dead of night. Things that remain here to this day.

      Sir Horace Fenshaw had been the first writer to encounter the men, and in exchange for ideas for his narratives, in effect his fame, he gave them money. A donation to the Order. But exposure to the demonic forces caused him to die prematurely, as no man can listen to the voices for long before insanity claims him. However, prior to his death Fenshaw was charged with finding a replacement, someone to write in his place, using his name—a new cipher for the tenebrous ones to exploit.

      And so it continued like this, a small army of writers—one following the next—for almost fifty years. Then a new pseudonym was adopted: James Weir. A second cover so more stories could be sold and the Order would become strong. This name would be used for another five decades, until it was time for Herbert Lynch to emerge.

      I have the “privilege” of being the last man to assume his identity, the latest addition to the list. In one joyless moment the other week, I even went so far as to sign the books I’d brought here myself. I am being used as a tool for evil, just like the man who greeted me when I came here: David Kramer.

      There is nothing I can do about it; I cannot leave this place, cannot make contact with anyone on the mainland. All I can do is write more frightful stories (stories I now know to be true!). At night, always at night.

      Jack sometimes comes to the island. I see him through the window as he leaves me supplies and takes away my latest manuscripts to be published. But he never comes in. He, too, is one of their servants, I have learned.

      If my predecessor is anything to go by I have but five more years of this left, before all my energy is sapped, my hair turns silver and I become completely unstable—so far gone that the only way to end it all will be with a bullet. I’ll have to send for a replacement first, of course. Someone worthy. By that time a new pseudonym will have been chosen by the Order. The successor to Herbert Lynch who will take his work well into the new millennium.

      I’ve already written more text than I care to remember—every day losing another piece of myself in the pages. The spark of life that was once present in my eyes is being extinguished over time.

      And in case you’re wondering what I set down on that very first night when the demons took me, changing me forever; well, it was the account you now hold in your hands: my story. I don’t expect any of you reading this will believe me—indeed, the Order wouldn’t have let it be published if they thought that. But I know the truth. I can vouch for its authenticity.

      I suppose that’s what scares me the most. When I realise people will look upon it as simply entertainment, like I once did. As fiction, and nothing more. My God, if you could only experience one hour—one night—of my life as the Shadow Writer, shut away here all alone ...

      But then, if you’re reading this, if you’re a devout follower of “my” work, maybe one day the summons will come.

      Then you just might get your chance.

      STROBE

      Plink-plink, plink-plink ...

      The room is such a mess. But he doesn’t care. Stepping over the empty tins, the discarded crisp packets with cockroaches crawling around inside—he hasn’t eaten since last week—over the puddles of puke and urine and faeces, Lang throws down his muck-stained duvet on the floor.

      He moves like a zombie: an uncoordinated, unfeeling, undead, unperson.

      Lang no longer swears allegiance to this realm. Another holds sway over him. He knows what he must do, though for some reason he has put it off for this long—perhaps so he could make peace with the demons he’s leaving behind him.

      Last night he spent several hours just staring out of the window. Not really looking at anything, but seeing it all for the first and last time. Just a smoke and mirror trick, so complex and yet so fucking simple.

      There’s music coming from somewhere else in the house, one of the other squatters’ rooms. Probably Damien’s: he was the one who’d jimmy-rigged the electricity in this place. An abundant source and no bills at the end of the quarter. In a way, he was the one who’d made—or would make—Lang’s transition possible.

      The thumping beat reminded him of his inauguration, when he first moved down to the city. Before, he’d led such a sheltered life in some ways. In others: not. There hadn’t been much to do of a weekend out in the rural backwash, and all the time the wonders of an exotic nightlife were awaiting him. That and something else ... an awakening.

      Denver—named after John—was the first friend he’d made after starting his course. He was a mature student in his late twenties who’d never done a day’s work in his life. School, then several meaningless college courses, had been his route into higher education, so he’d told Lang. “And I still don’t know what the fuck I want to do with my life, apart from be eighteen till I die.”

      Then there was Adele, the other panel of the triptych. Originally from Lyon, she’d adapted to life in this country like a monkey to space travel. Denver introduced them and the spark was there from the start, especially when Lang heard that French accent. She called him “Robere” instead of Robert and his heart was hers to do with as she pleased. Luckily there was two-way traffic on the road.

      It was whilst in the company of Denver and Adele that he came face-to-face with his destiny. They took him to Babel’s, the club that had launched a thousand disc jockeys. Walking past the two bouncers at the door, Lang felt his stomach lurching, doing gymnastics, and as the three of them made their way into the inner sanctum, the reality he’d known for almost two decades was systematically stripped away.

      Rhythm pumping, bodies thriving, strange colours ... Denver shouting something he couldn’t quite catch, then disappearing, only to return moments later with some drinks. Lang sipped at his; Adele leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

      They dragged him into the pulsating throng, but on the way he lost them somehow. Sweat and gyrating flesh funnelled his way to the very forefront of the dancefloor, metal cages hanging above him to the left and right. In confusion, he turned.

      And then it happened.

      He awoke in the blinding white toilets, one of the bouncers from the door standing over him. Lang’s eyes were watering and his mouth was dry. Then Adele and Denver were there with him, arguing, Adele crying also, bending down to kiss him again ... And suddenly he was in an ambulance, being whisked off to hospital.

      Denver told him on the way that he’d collapsed, freaked everyone out around him. When Lang had started fitting, the management suspected drug abuse. They usually turned a blind eye—how could they not? almost everyone in there was on something—but in this case they’d been forced to call the authorities ... which was why there were a couple of policemen waiting for him when he arrived at hospital; and why the doctors kept asking him what he’d taken, and Adele kept demanding that Denver tell them what he’d slipped in the drink; and why they tested Lang’s blood, drawing off a test-tubeful, which made him want to throw up.

      But it wasn’t drugs. They could find no trace of illegal substances. For a while he’d been a conundrum, and then they diagnosed his condition, after cocooning him inside an MRI scanner for what seemed like aeons and conducting untold, incomprehensible tests.

      He had epilepsy—photosensitive epilepsy. That’s why the lighting at Babel’s had affected him so.

      It was news to him.

      They

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