Traces of the Shadow

By Stuart Gunn

Stuart Gunn knew two things were certain in his life - that he would be a professional drummer, and that he would find true love. What he didn't know was the path he would take to get there, because you can never be certain where the hand of fate might lead, or the consequences of choices never made. Life can come really fast and death feels close behind, when it comes from both the real and ethereal. Experiences in life can change you in ways you never imagined. From the innocence of childhood to the budding young man, this story, based on true events, captures the essence of a boy trying to find himself in the midst of the deep shadows of pain and confusion, when everything from what he wants, who he wants to be, and the purpose of his life seems impossible to figure out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644244234

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Traces of the Shadow

Stuart Gunn

Copyright © 2019 Stuart Gunn

All rights reserved

First Edition

Those who tell the stories rule society. —Plato

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2019

ISBN 978-1-64424-422-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64424-423-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part Two

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part Three

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Part Four

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Part Five

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

About the Author

Prologue

Iwent outside to let the sun warm my body, to feel something other than the sickening feeling grinding at my soul. Nausea crept over me as I looked around, because everything looked the same, yet everything was different. My house, the trees and the sidewalk were no longer familiar friends. The mountains appeared older, disconnected and more distant. The grass seemed lifeless, the sky, the air, and the soil looked different under the sun that seemed now like it hung differently in the sky. I was no longer connected to a reality that kept me in check, and life—my life, felt dirty and worn like an old boot.

Like a contagion, I was infected with thoughts I didn't dare to acknowledge. Except in that moment, I realized, for a while now—longer than I cared to admit before now. But now I could feel the thoughts covering me like a creeping shadow, and I found myself at the sharp edge of a serious choice…

Part One

Chapter 1

Igrew up on a quiet little street in a new housing development, in the small town of Grandview—a small quiet town nestled at the bottom of the foothills in central Utah. Ours was a peaceful religious community where nothing shocking ever happened. The serenity of our place in the world was only ever disrupted by our taste for danger and getting into trouble.

I am Stuart Gunn, and I'm going to tell you my story, but before I get to the blood and bone of this tale, I am going to give you some background so that when we get there, you will understand why I did what I did. I am the fifth of seven children—four brothers and two sisters. When I was very young, our house was only the second one built on the block next to an old country house a few lots over, so our house was surrounded by fruit orchards and hayfields for miles. Some of these fields had old barns decaying like rotting skeletons in the sun. There were plenty of places to explore and find mischief. Soon though, more construction and more houses were built, and a boy my age moved into the neighborhood.

He was my first best friend. His name is Trent Flinders. A sandy-blond-haired kid with hazel eyes, that could spot adventure in any corner of the block and he had a nose for trouble. As we grew, he and I were always about the same height and build. The only difference is my hair was totally blond and my eyes are blue.

Trent lived across the street and a few houses to the east. He and I were inseparable from the time we were about two years old. We were so close in appearance, thought, and deed that we were often confused for the other when neighbors were accusing us of taking candy bars out of the construction workers' lunchboxes or starting the hay fields on fire or splitting another kid's head open with a rock because he was on our dirt hill…we were occasionally mistaken for twins, and though we were playfully troublesome and mischievous, we were like tender saplings in the greenwood and our innocence was as pure as the golden dawn of a spring day.

I would say, without bragging, that I was that kid in the neighborhood that was good at everything. I could make the winning three-point jumper at the buzzer. I could pull the football in one-handed in a full-on horizontal dive to score a touchdown. I was the pitcher on our neighborhood softball team, and the catcher on the little league baseball team. I was a fast runner and could hit a home run. I knew how to freestyle on my bike, and I could do tricks on my neighbor's skate ramp… I could do it all, and I was good at it all, but nobody ever noticed me because as good as I was, Trent was just that much better… So I guess I wasn't really that kid, Trent was. Trent was the kid that was good at everything. He was smart, funny, charismatic and girls loved him, and he was my best friend.

Yes, Trent and I were close, like brothers. At one point, I never thought anything could ever change between us. We would always be the best of friends.

I was about to enter kindergarten when Joshua moved into a house kitty-corner from my backyard to the west. He was slightly older than me, had light-brown hair and brown eyes that seemed to see deeper meaning in everything. We played together on occasion. He was a good kid. He would often choose to go home rather than get into the kind of trouble Trent and I would often find ourselves in. I liked Joshua, but he seemed to live on a little higher spiritual plateau.

When we were in the third grade, a boy whom we went to school with and had known for a whole school year moved onto our street. His name is Kyle. He was taller than me by about two inches. He had a long nose, brown hair, and caramel-colored eyes. He was annoying. He was just a little too competitive, when in reality, he couldn't compete. He was knock-kneed and lanky, without bodily coordination. I once blew past him while he was trying to guard me playing football, and he got upset that I ran too fast, as though I was supposed to hold back to make things more equal. It was weird; he tried to make me feel guilty because he couldn't keep up. But he was like that. He often told stories about things he had done to prove that he belonged in our group. I constantly thought he was making things up because he would tell outlandish tales of things like while he was visiting his dad in southern Utah, he was dragged by a horse through a bunch of sagebrush while he was trying to break-in the horse. He said he got bucked off, and his foot got hung up in the stirrup. Someone else had to come and rope the horse to stop them and that he almost died from being trampled.

Of course, his story could have happened and probably has happened to someone he knew, but it could not have been Kyle. He was about ten years old at that time! I couldn't imagine anyone allowing him to attempt the task of breaking in a horse at his age. I asked him to show me his bruises or scratches he may have gotten, but he couldn't produce any evidence. Kyle was annoying, but, nevertheless, we accepted him as our friend. Although, despite my efforts, I never really got along with him all that well, or that is to say, I never really connected with him.

Trent and I were close friends, and I think Kyle wanted to be that close, and he often tried too hard to get close like Trent and I were, which made it harder for me to get along with him. Because what he was doing seemed to backfire on his efforts, he was often spending time in his old neighborhood while Trent and I were off in the weeds, causing trouble.

One summer day, as we were approaching our fifth-grade school year, it was late in the afternoon when Trent and I went to an empty field behind his house to play. Trent had swiped some M-80s that his dad recently brought back from a business trip to Wyoming. We took them to the field to light them off. We brought some of our action figures and buried the M-80s in the dirt to light them off, as we staged battle scenes for our action figures with live ammo. We would light the fuse and run behind a wooden pallet to wait with anticipation for the loud boom! The dirt would explode, the action figures would fly, and we would laugh hard until our guts busted with pain. These scenes conjured images of fighting heroically in some war in a far-off land. We felt alive and free like a mountain breeze. Trent and I were always having so much fun that we never thought anything bad could happen. It never entered our hearts or minds that true evil was out there, that hurt and pain ever existed. Life was good!

Our courage that day grew congruently with the level of destruction our little bombs produced as we tried for more and more creative ways to make our action figures go flying. We were in the process of staging our last bomb when we heard a distant bang! Similar to the noise we were making but just further away. We looked at each other and wondered warily what that could have been. Not knowing of anything we could have done, we shrugged and continued on with our mission. After the blast report of our final bomb echoed and died, the fleeting silence was replaced by the approaching wail of a police siren, and then another and another.

M-80s weren't technically legal in those days. Trent and I exchanged a shocked and fearful expression, knowing we were busted! Someone called the cops, and they were coming to haul us away!

We knew we were done for. We raced wildly to the other end of the field to hide in a ditch overgrown with weeds. We wouldn't go down without a fight; they'd have to send dogs out to find us.

The sirens grew louder and louder as did the sound of our hearts pounding in our chests, and soon, in the pale light of the fading sun, the bright blue and red flashing lights looked ever more ominous to our fate.

To our surprise, the first emergency vehicle was an ambulance followed by a fire truck and then two police cars. We watched them come to the house at the edge of the field and rush out of their vehicles. We were certain they would rush the field where we were hiding, but they ran into the house instead. We peered through the dry weeds to watch the paramedics and we were scared. We thought that maybe we had done something to cause this, but couldn't think of anything we could have done. After a frightful time eagerly observing the scene from behind the cover of weeds, our hearts pounding so forcefully that we could scarcely breathe, we finally realized that it had nothing to do with us. We were relieved, and came out of our hiding place to watch with our neighbors gathering to see the commotion.

It was strange and unnerving. Nothing like this had ever happened in our peaceful little world. Our minds and imaginations flared with horrific thoughts and of stories we might have heard when someone was trying to scare us. Every awful thing we could imagine came to mind—thoughts of someone having a heart attack, maybe someone fell down the stairs or choked on a chicken bone—but the boom—what was the boom? Was this an accident or was it intentional? Maybe it was masked burglars breaking in trying to rob them. The thought of someone doing something with a purpose was the most frightening. Life for us was far too perfect for our young minds to grasp something that horrible.

In a state of blind shock, we both decided to go home and leave the frightening scene, but being safe at home could do nothing to suppress the images my boyhood imagination conjured. Thoughts of wild animals and even Bigfoot bounced in my head all night like a tumbleweed tossed in a whirlwind. I didn't sleep well that night not knowing what happened.

When Trent and I talked the next day, neither of us had learned what had happened, but everyone on our street was talking about it, wondering for themselves what it could have been. We heard that someone died and that it was an accident. We asked around the neighborhood, but nobody knew for sure. It wasn't until I was having dinner with my family that my dad explained the truth of what happened. The couple living in that home were in their mid-fifties, had two daughters that were grown and moved out. Nobody could explain why, but the man decided to put a shotgun in his mouth and pull the trigger. My dad said the man tried to make it look like an accident by pulling out his gun-cleaning equipment but that it was definitely intentional. No words can describe the shock followed by emptiness and sorrow as my father told us the news. I didn't even know the man. I had maybe seen him once or twice outside his home working in his yard. I never spoke to him, but his death had the most sickening and profound effect on me that day. I had never yet heard of anyone I knew dying, let alone someone taking their own life. I just didn't understand how or why a person would do that, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

That man's house was on the edge of the field where we spent many days through the years playing, racing our bikes, digging holes, lighting fires and causing trouble. There was nothing wrong with the house necessarily; in fact, it was ordinary and well maintained, but soon after the incident, the widow moved out and the house took on a haunting shroud of gloom. Even on the brightest of days, it seemed ever dark and ghostly—soulless, like covered in a creepy shadow.

The house itself seemed to have died also. Even the bushes and grass slowly slunk into the dreary ambiance surrounding the house. Though we knew the house was empty, we dared not go near for fear that whatever happened there would rub off on us. The man ended his life in the laundry room just inside from the garage. Just knowing what happened in there made it difficult to even look long upon the house…for now it seemed cursed.

Chapter 2

Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, and before we knew it, our fifth-grade year was over. We were again enjoying the carefree summer days of boyhood adventure, riding bikes, playing on the playground at the park, and finding mischief everywhere we went. We even started taking an interest in girls, which was something we were always mildly aware of, but now suddenly, it was definitely different.

Heidi was a tall and skinny girl with long, straight brown hair and green eyes. She lived in the middle of our street, between Trent and me. Even though we had known her for years and played tag a hundred times at the park or kick the can with her around my house, she was suddenly causing feelings in us that we had never before experienced. All the boys our age were competing for her attention and making fools of ourselves in the process. We would say hi to her and then do some trick on our bikes or something dumb like that just to make her look. She was shy and smiled back, but nothing we did ever got us the right attention.

One day, Kyle said, I'm gonna grow up to marry that girl. His confidence seemed unjustified. He had none of the strength or skill that Trent and I possessed. (Because we all knew that's what girls wanted.) He could never win her over.

Ha! I scoffed. You? I chuckled at his audacity.

Well, why not? he questioned me shamelessly.

Um, well, I began, but I knew I couldn't finish the sentence without crushing Kyle's feelings with that kind of honesty. I left it open for his own interpretation.

An argument ensued, and the three of us began to get angry and jealous. Each of us thought that she belonged to one of us but not the others. Trent saw where this was going. Look, guys. It's obvious that we all like her. So we should just agree that it's better to stay friends than let a dumb girl come between us.

And how do we do that? I asked.

Nobody can have her, Trent said flatly. We all agree that she is off limits. That our friendship means more.

We all looked at one another, agreeing reluctantly to the terms of the arrangement. We made a pact and swore we would not go after her for the sake of our friendship.

I remember how upset I got the day I learned that Trent had kissed Heidi in the field behind his house. He asked her to keep it a secret, which made her feel guilty, and she told her sister, who told my sister, who told me what happened. What about the bro-code? We promised never to do anything to hurt the friendship, and there he was, sneaking off behind our backs. I felt betrayed. It was our first real fight; we didn't talk for three whole days.

After that, he swore we would never fight over girls again. I believed him, and we went on about our lives like nothing had happened, and we spent the rest of the summer exploring larger parts of our world. We took our bikes everywhere. We even rode seven miles south to the mall, where we found that's where the girls liked to hang out. And even though there were plenty to go around, it didn't matter that much anyway; they all liked Trent better than the rest of us. I guess I couldn't blame them; he had that effect. Like I said, as good as I was at everything, Trent was just that much better.

Soon enough, though, school started again, and everything was like it always had been. Trent and I walked to school together every day through the field where we would always play, but now, every trip through the field carried a subtle reminder of what had happened, and there, always in peripheral view, was the house, dead and decaying like the body of the man himself decomposing somewhere in the cold and silent ground.

Kyle would sometimes join us in walking to and from school, but sometimes after school, he would walk to his old neighborhood to hang out with his old friends. One day late in September, Trent and I were walking home from school, laughing and joking around with each other, when we saw a dark-haired boy who looked close to our age riding what looked like a motorcycle in our field. It looked like a motorcycle, but smaller, with a boxy frame and smaller, fatter tires.

Trent turned to me. Who is that?

How should I know? I've never seen him before. Looking long into the field, I squinted and shaded my eyes from the afternoon sun.

Let's go talk to him. Maybe he'll let us ride his motorcycle, Trent suggested shamelessly.

We walked through the field to where the boy was going around in circles near the house we feared. Except we were so distracted by the thought of riding a motorcycle that we didn't notice the moving van parked in the driveway of the death house—somebody was moving in. But when I did notice, it didn't take a genius to realize it was this strange boy's family.

I didn't know how much he knew about his house, but I knew what happened there, and I knew that because I knew what happened there, I wouldn't be able to sleep there.

We waved him over, and he pulled up next to us. A small cloud of dust followed him and covered us as he turned off the motor.

Hey, kid, you new 'round here? Trent asked, coughing and waving the dust away.

He looked at us strangely. Yeah, just moving in. He pointed lazily over his shoulder to the moving van in the driveway, eyeing us cautiously.

I'm Stuart. I stretched out my hand to shake his.

He eagerly grabbed my hand. Jake. He smiled. Nice to meet you, guys. Jake seemed like a nice kid. He had dark hair and blue-green eyes. I thought he was about our same age because he was the same size as we were, maybe an inch shorter but basically the same build.

I'm Trent. I live just right there. Trent turned and pointed to his house, just across the field.

Cool. Jake nodded.

Trent studied Jake's bike. What kind of motorcycle is this? I've never seen anything like it.

Jake got off the bike. Oh, it's not really a motorcycle. It's a Tote Gote, he clarified.

What's a Tote Gote? we both asked in unison.

Jake laughed. "It's like a motorcycle, but it works differently. It works on ‘centrifigus' force."

You mean centrifugal force? Trent corrected him. I didn't even know what that meant.

Oh, yup! That's what I meant, Jake said sheepishly.

I've never seen one like this before. Where did you get it? Trent asked, eyeing it carefully.

Oh, they don't make these anymore. They stopped making these long before I was born, Jake explained. My dad actually has two more in the shop behind the house. One of them doesn't run though…keeps sayin' he's gonna fix it.

Do you mind if I try? Trent asked excitedly.

Yeah, sure. Jake pulled the cord and started the motor.

Trent sat on the bike and eased the throttle, but it didn't go anywhere. What's the— he mumbled, looking around for a reason it wouldn't move. How does it go?

Jake chuckled. "It runs on centrifugal force. You crank the throttle and then wait for the gear to engage. It only has one gear, so you don't need to shift or anything, and the break is right there—don't wreck!"

Trent cranked on the throttle, as Jake was explaining how to make it go, and a half second later, the Tote Gote took off. Trent rode around grinning like a kid in a candy shop.

What grade are you in? I asked.

Fifth, Jake responded readily. I sensed that he was happy to see some kids his age. What about you?

Trent and I are in sixth grade this year.

I was supposed to be in the sixth grade, but my dad started me late in kindergarten.

Why? I asked, confused.

I don't know. All my friends my age are in grades above me. He said he wanted me to be older than the other kids in my class. If I would have started when I was supposed to, I would have been one of the youngest, so I don't know.

I chuckled slightly, trying to figure out a necessary reason, my young mind unable to grasp the logic. That's weird, but it doesn't mean we can't be friends, I joked.

Jake laughed and said, Cool! We both turned and watched Trent circling the field on Jake's Tote Gote.

I felt uncomfortable as we both stood there in earthly silence. I knew the awkward silence wasn't because I was uncomfortable with Jake because I liked him immediately. I just didn't know what he knew about the house he was moving into.

So where did you move from? I asked, casually trying to find out what he knew.

Rosewood, he answered mournfully. I loved it there. I didn't want to move. I had a ton of friends, and I loved my house and the neighborhood. I'm gonna miss it.

"Why did you move?"

My dad just got remarried. Said we needed a fresh start somewhere new.

I know how you feel. I wouldn't want to move from my home either, but I'm glad you're here, I said honestly. We can always use more friends.

Thanks, man. Jake smiled pleasantly. That's good to know.

Tell me. I paused for a moment. Then I said cautiously, Do you know what happened in that house?

Oh, you mean the guy who died? Jake deftly jumped right to my point.

Yeah, I answered, shifting uneasily in my own skin.

Jake responded casually, Yeah, my dad told me the story. He said that was the reason he bought the house. He was able to get a good deal on it.

I nervously pried, Doesn't it freak you out?

It did at first, but once we got here, I didn't think it was that big a deal, he explained bluntly.

I thought about it for a few minutes, and I suppose he was right. Maybe if I actually went in the house, I might find that it wasn't as bad as my imagination was making it feel. Perhaps it was my own fear and lack of understanding that made me not want to deal with what happened there.

Come here, he said as he started walking away from me. I followed him as we left Trent in the field to continue his joyride.

Where are we going? I asked apprehensively.

I just want to show you something, he said calmly.

In just a few seconds, we were walking through his garage and entering the door leading to the laundry room. He walked in, stood there with the door open, and waved me in. I'll admit I didn't want to go in, but I didn't want to look scared or weak either, so I walked steadily into the room.

He stood there quietly, just looking slowly from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. My heart thumped hard in my chest. I was standing in the place where it happened—a place that had haunted my dreams since the day I learned of what happened here and how close in proximity I was that day. I could feel something in the air, something all around me. I didn't know what it was, but it was definitely strange.

Come on. I want to show you something. He waved his hand, and I quickly followed him again. As soon as I left the laundry room, that strange feeling left me. He showed me the rest of his house. I didn't feel the same feeling as I did in that one room. I'll admit that walking through the house finally brought a sense of closure to my private fear. But as I walked through that laundry room again, that feeling washed over me like it did before.

From that day on, Jake became one of my best friends. I went to his house often, but every time I walked through that laundry room, I felt that strange feeling—every time.

Chapter 3

That school year, we all became good friends. It was usually just the four of us—Trent, Jake, Kyle, and me. Jake joined us walking to and from school and hanging out afterward. I liked that Jake had joined our group of friends because, before Jake arrived in our group, when Kyle was hanging out with us, he would basically just kiss Trent's butt and almost completely ignore me, which didn't necessarily bother me, except it just wasn't as fun to hang with Trent while Kyle was there. I liked Jake a lot. His sense of sarcasm always caught us off guard, and he always made us laugh.

Jake didn't have that same sense of competition between friends as Kyle did. It always felt to me that Kyle was trying to edge me out so that he could say he was best friends with Trent, and that was bothersome because I was happy to let Kyle be part of the group, but he needed to know his place, which was lower on the totem pole than me. Anyway, with Jake around, it evened out the field, and Kyle didn't seem like such a jerk all the time.

School was out again. It was now the summer between elementary school and junior high. During that summer, we were invited to go on a camping trip with the Boy Scouts. There were several boys in the troop, including the four of us, of course, along with Joshua, Danny, Dusty, Tim, and Nathan, as well as our leaders Larry and Jim.

Something happened on this campout that I feel I need to share. We had hiked to a cave up the canyon near South Bend to spend the night. It was a steep trail with loose rocks. Our leaders told us to keep on the trail because someone could easily fall a long way and definitely get hurt should they lose their footing. The narrow trail was steep and precarious, with loose and unsteady rock next to a steep drop-off.

Once we reached the cave, we dropped our gear and began the usual routine. The standard practice for our troop was to look around for trash left over from previous campers or careless visitors and clean it up. We would then set up and organize camp. After that, our time was our own, and we climbed around and explored the mountain. After about an hour, we were called back to the cave for lunch.

The cave opened like a mouth, yawning deep, with a giant flat chin in a half circle around the opening, where we all sat near the edge. From the edge, it drops sharply and falls a hundred feet before the decline relaxes into an avalanche bed of loose rock. We sat in a half-circle around the edge, facing the cave entrance. Above the opening, the hillside continued vertically, with rough and pointed rocks protruding like the horns of a dragon. A few pines around the opening clung vigorously to the rocks, with strong and wiry roots penetrating and gripping the rocks.

For a group of young rowdy boys, we sat unusually quiet as we ate. The only thing that disturbed the quiet scene was a small cluster of pebbles rolling off the hill just above the cave opening. It was nothing, really, but everyone stopped to take notice and then quickly resumed eating in silence. A moment later, another handful of pebbles poured off the side of the hill next to the cave opening. We all stopped and looked up again. This time though, our leader Jim looked at me and said, Stuart, go see what's doing that.

Without a word, I stood and began to investigate the source of the small commotion when the quick, loud clamor of a two-foot boulder rolled off the ridge above the cave opening and landed right where I had been sitting. It was moving fast and went by in a flash. The boulder then rolled away off the steep edge, plowed its way through a couple of aspen trees, and came to rest in a pile of boulders five hundred feet below, the sound echoing like a rolling thunder through the canyon.

All the boys sitting next to where I had been sitting broke away in a panicked rush. The boulder crushed a bag of potato chips my mom packed in my lunch. Everyone was astonished with fear and surprise as the strange event began to resonate. Had my Scout leader not asked me to check out what was causing such a small disturbance, I would have been killed by the rolling rock that gave no warning that it was on a sinister path of destruction.

We all stared at one another with shock and surprise. Things could have been really bad that day had I not immediately done what Jim asked. We all had questions, but there was only one question that mattered. Of all the boys in that group, why call on me? What was it that caused my leader to ask me instead of another boy—someone closer? Nathan was certainly closer, and he was the suck-up anyway. Why not him? Why did Jim ask me?

I went to Jim and asked him that very question. He simply said, "I dunno. I just had a strong feeling to ask you. That's all." He shrugged it off like it was no big deal and didn't talk about it again. But that night, as everyone else in the cave was sleeping, I lay there thinking about the quiet brilliance of how an unseen