Chapter 3: No Shadows, Only Fear

Grandpa said, "It’s coming down out there, son. You sure your wife’s alright? Those back roads get nasty in a storm."

His voice was careful, neighborly, but his grip on the countertop made his knuckles pale. Even he knew how slick and dangerous those country roads got when it poured.

The man smiled. "She grew up around here. She’ll be fine."

He sounded sure, but something about the way he said it sent a shiver through me—like he knew something we didn’t. He went back to his soup, unfazed by the rain battering the windows.

Just as he finished, a bolt of lightning flashed, turning the whole store inside out for a second—shadows leaping across the walls. The street outside was empty but for the rain and wind-whipped trees. My heart thudded as I blinked away the afterimage.

I looked down—and saw the man had no shadow.

A cold sweat broke out on my neck, and the world seemed to tilt sideways. I wanted to scream, but my voice was buried somewhere deep in my chest. The man’s feet seemed to hover just above the linoleum, his boots ringed by an impossibly dark puddle. My stomach twisted and a metallic taste filled my mouth.

Around here, folks always said only ghosts cast no shadow.

Grandpa used to warn me with stories told around campfires—about ghosts on lonely roads, spirits at funerals. The rule was simple: if you see someone without a shadow, you run. All those stories hit me at once, my mind spinning.

Could this man be a ghost?

I ducked behind Grandma, clutching her arm tight. I didn’t dare say a word—everyone knew ghosts had sharp ears. If they figured out you’d spotted them, they’d drop the act and come for you.

My hands shook so bad I nearly dropped my lucky quarter. I pressed into Grandma’s side, hiding my face in her sweater, praying the man wouldn’t notice.

Grandma felt my grip and scolded, "Danny, why are you squeezing my arm so hard?"

Her voice snapped me back. She pulled me close, frowning, and I could feel her pulse racing under my fingers. I wasn’t the only one afraid.

The man’s gaze flicked to me, cold and unfriendly.

His eyes narrowed, and for a second, I felt like he could see straight through me. The air grew colder, the lights dimmed, and I wished I could melt into the floor.

I looked up and met his eyes. At first, they seemed normal, but staring longer, his pupils were so deep and black they didn’t look human.

He didn’t blink. His gaze was intense—like staring down a wolf in the woods. I couldn’t move or breathe. His smile widened, but it never reached his eyes.

He smiled at me and asked, "Sir, how old’s your grandson?"

His voice was too smooth, almost taunting. He leaned closer, elbows on the counter, as if sharing a secret just between us.

"Six," Grandpa replied.

He didn’t look at me, but I could tell he was watching for my reaction. His tone was too casual, his jaw tight.

"Same age as my daughter," the man said, grinning, his chipped teeth showing. His words hung heavy in the air. I glanced at Grandma, who was staring at him, eyes wide.

Grandpa forced a brittle laugh. "What a coincidence."

He wiped his hands on his jeans, not meeting the man’s eyes.

Another thunderclap rattled the shop, and rain poured down harder.

Water beat the glass, running in streams. The sound was deafening, like a thousand hammers on a tin roof. It felt like the world was being washed away.

The man glanced outside, looking anxious, muttering, "Why isn’t she here yet? If she’s any later, she won’t get in."

He drummed his fingers on the counter, eyes darting from door to clock. His shoulders hunched, and for the first time, he looked truly worried.

Grandpa and Grandma traded anxious looks, her hand finding his, gripping tight. The air was electric, the tension thickening with every tick of the clock.