The Dublin Man

The music selection was mostly safe.  Nothing as jagged or broken as Brit Punk, and nothing as asymmetrical as Prog or Art Rock.  Most of the albums were ripped from the top 40 charts; a few outliers such as easily recognizable classical composers, the occasional Indie name, and nostalgia fuel - for those who insist on remembering the 80’s.

I scanned the list again to see if I was willing to add anything new.  I was cramped in a pressurized cabin with approximately fifty people I didn’t know thirty five-thousand feet over the Atlantic.  I was feeling adventurous.

The music was really just to drown out the monotone buzzing white noise of the engines.  I kept my eyes affixed to the screen embedded in the chair in front of me, as to not look right to the man who appeared to be traveling for business, or left to a woman who appeared to be relieved that her young children on the opposite side of the aisle had finally fallen asleep.  My other hand idly rocked the a plastic cup to near tilting point - a cup whose only contents were the last remaining drops of the ice cubes that had been there.  I shifted in the seat trying not to bother or occupy the space of the two passengers that I was wedged between.

The steward stopped by with a trash bag and rubber gloves.  He smiled and asked in muffled sound if he could take my trash.

It’s mine, I thought as I passed him the cup with a friendly smile and a, “Thank you.”

Fighting my now unoccupied hand from tapping out a beat and bothering those around me more, I began to pick at a small clump of grime that was left under my finger nail.  Maybe I could find something to watch in the movie section?  But what if I didn’t have time to finish?  I looked out the window, bending forward to see out the small slit that was left by the passenger in control of such things.  He looked at me incredulously and then opened the shield a bit wider.

It was still dark out.  All I could see was the wing bowed upward from air pressure.  The ultramarine expanse of water was gone, given way to clusters of glowing yellow stars, scattered below the plane.  Flipping over to the map screen, it appeared that I had lost track of time on the flight.  I let a bit of self-congratulatory pride come over me.  This wasn’t so hard.

A friendly tone announced that someone was about to speak over the intercom.  I popped one of the ear buds out to catch the pilot saying, “…should just delay us approximately ten minutes.  In the meantime, please keep your seat belts fastened, and we should be arriving in no time.”

I could feel the airliner bank, a slow and broad left.  I tried to not cross the borders created by my armrests as the plane moved.  My eyes locked forward onto the screen in front of me.  Ten minute delay, plus the map estimation of fifteen minutes.  Did the map already know about the delay?  How off was the map versus the pilot?

Another soft and lazy bank.  Beyond the stars, I could see a bright nova, distant from the center of the galaxy that was Dublin.  An orange glow illuminated the space around it.  Flood lights surrounded the glow.  Several helicopters patrolled around the glow, piercing the darkness with powerful lights. 

Maybe five minutes off the ten minute delay?  Had more time passed?  Had less?  We appeared to be lower in elevation than we were before.  Was I just imagining that?  I dared not ask.  I didn’t want to seem anxious.

The rhythm of questions to the music occupy my time.  I had arrived at Dublin International.  The sitting and waiting had given way to the standing and shuffling of customs lines, which snaked and bulged in the maze defined by the fabric ribbon.

I tried to find room in the lines.  A jumble of families, businessmen and women, tourists, and locals.  As the mass would slowly shift forward, I practiced my answers in my head.  Reciting my name; reciting my purpose; reciting if I had anything to claim.  I mentally checked my luggage just to make sure I really didn’t have anything.

The customs agent waived me forward, “Passport.”

I handed her my passport, already open to the picture.

“Name.”

“Daniel.”

“Last name.”

“Burr.  Is my last name.  Daniel Burr.”

“Reason for your stay in Ireland?”

“Pleasure.  Just visiting.”

“Do you have anything to declare, Mr.  Burr?”

“No.”

With practiced efficiency, she entered the information into her computer, found an empty page in the passport (which wasn’t hard considering that it was otherwise empty), and stamped it.  She handed the book back to me, “Welcome to Ireland, sir.  Next, please.”

I shuffled forward, simultaneous grabbing my bags and stuffing the small book into a safe pocket until I could find a spot to organize.  Once done, I departed the terminal.

The outside air was hot with exhaust from the cars and buses dropping off and taking on passengers.  I crossed into the arrivals area where numerous taxis were waiting and was quickly greeted by a cabbie looking for a fare.  The man snapped up my luggage and loaded it into the trunk while I took a seat in his cab.

Giving him the address to the hotel, the Slan, we departed.  I watched the early morning scenery go by.  The sun had begun to raise, casting the landscape in a yellow-orange light.  My idle drifting broke when the driver said something muffled by his accent.

“Sorry?” I replied, leaning forward so that I could hear better.

“Returning or visiting, sir?”

“Visiting.  For a week.”

He asked another question in a language too fast to be English.  I asked him to repeat what he had said again.

“I said, have you been to Ireland before, sir?”

“No.  First time.”

“Come to see the sights, sir?”

“Uh, yes.  Well, relaxation, really.”

He spoke again in the fast language, nodding in understanding.  Another question, and another request to repeat.

“How was your flight, sir?”

“Fine.  I suppose.  Delayed a little, but fine.”

“Was it the crash, I wonder?”

“The what?”

“The crash, sir.  They said it was a small plane.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Probably didn’t want to scare the passengers, yeah?  It happened about an hour or two ago.  They’ve evacuated some of the neighborhood just to be safe.  Fires and all.  From the States, sir?  What part?”

“Oregon.  A small town called Tigard.”

“Haven’t heard of it.”

“It isn’t very remarkable.”

The small talk continued.  The language that seemed like English, but not quite, remained a problem.  As we got closer to our destination, the talk died off; either due to running out of topics, or because he grew tired of me asking to repeat himself.

He pointed out the Slan as we got within sight.  The large red-bricked building looked to be an old home that had been converted into a hotel as the city had modernized around it.  The garden in front was small, similar to the parking lot.  I wondered how anyone was expected to park there and still leave when they wished to.  My decision to not rent a car was even more justified.

I left the fare and a tip with the cabbie, and then brought my baggage up the uneven steps.  At the far end of the hall, the concierge, a woman in a sky-blue vest, sat at a table slightly out of place in the hall.  She looked up from her work and smiled politely, “Hello, sir?”

“Good morning,” I said as I sat my baggage down, “Room for Burr?  I’m a bit early.”

“You are,” she said.  A beat of silence.

“When is the room open, again?”

“At noon, sir.”

“I’ll return then.”

“If you wish, you can leave your bags here.”

The sleep lost on the plane would have to wait.  I left my large bag with the concierge, took a tourist map of the city, and set out to occupy my time.  Much of the surrounding area was neighborhood more than anything else.  I took the first opportunity to slip into a corner shop to buy what amounted to breakfast.

Finding a place in a small public park, I sat and ate the food while watching the new culture pass by - largely ignoring man on the bench with a sandwich and some yogurt.  It was fine; despite watching them, I was largely ignoring them as well. 

I picked at the dirt and grime still under my fingernails.  In the back of my mind, I could still hear the jet engines several miles over the rolling dark blue.  The feeling of the keyboard under my fingers as I ordered the reservations and plane ticket still reverberated through my hands, the ‘F’ and ‘J’ keys still jabbing back into my index fingers.  It was going to be a hot day.  I was told Ireland was cool this time of year.  Today was hot though. 

Time passed and I could finally gain access to my hotel room.  My bags were tossed and unopened in one of the corners, and I slid onto the bed.  Jet engines hummed against the hull of the hotel room baking under the afternoon sun.  The clock face told me that I had not slept for nearly twenty-four hours, now.  Or was it only sixteen?  My temporal math was failing me.

The heat lasted into the evening, where I found myself walking near Trinity College, trying to quiet my stomach and find the patterns of Dublin.  The night was a wave of others drinking and wandering their way home.  An echoing sound in my mind, burnt in a never-quieting voice.

Having returned to my room, the clock face read after ten P.M..  The stiff bed refused to give way to my weight.  From my broken and twisted spot, I could see light from the courtyard through the sheer fabric covering the window.  Still shadows that overlapped and formed shapes to my tired eyes.  Voices could be heard from the shutter - left open to kill the heat which refused to die.  The voices were calling to each other; searching for something in the night.  A dog began barking in the distance.  The wind pushed the blotchy shadows on the sheer fabric.  They shrank in volume - ever so slightly - and then they stopped.

The morning came too soon.  My back was bent and stiff.  I was tied into the yellow sheets from my restless shifting.  Some of the heat had finally dissipated.  A shower washed away the sweat, and breakfast provided by the hotel swept aside the sleepless miasma.

Little was on my schedule for the day.  I decided it best not to waste my time locked away in a hotel room.  The city (at least what part of the city my map covered) was a web of streets exploding out from the river.  My restless mind explored the unfamiliar bending sidewalks, parks, and stretching residential areas; patterns that - while different - were welcoming like those in Tigard.  There were few other pedestrians about.  It was a work day, after all.  Those that I did pass kept to themselves.

Around noon, I stepped into a pub.  Cheap smoke made my tired eyes water.  Despite how Westerns may have informed my youth, the patrons seemed entirely disinterested in my presence.  I slid into a seat at the bar where the tender nodded at me, “drink for you, sir?”

I went with something other than Guinness, something local to another county; a faux pas if any American is to be believed, but the bartender didn’t appear to care.  I was disappointed that the only food available were either salted crisps or salted peanuts.

Munching on deep fried potato bits, my eyes began to explore the room.  Each group of customers spoke and laughed.  Some about politics - work or government - some about friends, others about current events.  The plane crash that had supposedly delayed my arrival floated between the various tables, drawing the focus to itself with the precision of an egoist.

Even the television was fascinated by the event.  Cameras were trained on armed soldiers patrolling the crash site’s streets and ushering away reporters who were a bit too curious.  The entire area was designated an “air traffic-free” zone.

“Does the government always have soldiers guard plane crashes?” I asked the bartender.

He looked at the television, “I imagine they’re just being a bit cautious.  A bit over the top, mind you, but still cautious.  Worried about terrorists and all that.  It is one thing after another, though; what with the prison break a few weeks back, and all.”

“There was a prison break?”

“Yeah, a few got lose.  Had a man hunt for a little while.  I think the lot of them have been caught, though.”

“This weren’ no normal crash,” an older, chubby man near me at the bar chimed in.  I laughed to myself at his accent, “No small planes fly over that town.  Small planes don’ do that kind’a damage.  Had the dogs out, they did.  Lookin’ fer som’n’.  Governmen’ don’ look for bodies like that.  Governmen’ don’ care ‘bout bodies.”

“You’re drunk, old man,” the bartender replied.

The old man waved his hand dismissively, “Mark my words, they’re looking fer som’n’.”

The two began talking on other topics, a new law that affected tax for small businesses.  The conversation was too local for me to understand.  Finishing the drink, I paid and departed in search of more than just thick alcohol and paper thin potato slices for sustenance. 

I found the city’s street names frustrating.  Each road ended at the block, becoming a new name entirely.  I wasn’t certain if my sleeplessness was getting the best of me; preventing me from understanding the patterns of the area.

A local restaurant suited my appetite-less hunger.  In a moment of social engagement, I asked the waitress if there was anywhere that I should visit.  She seemed annoyed by the question, but not wanting be rude, she shrugged and recommended the College.

Venturing back out, I wandered around the campus of Trinity, aimless in direction not sure of what I should be seeing.  The square felt unwelcoming to tourists, with pole and chain protecting the well manicured grass.  The old buildings framing the entry arch intimidated and reminded that this was not a place for gawking and snapping pictures.  As I continued along the path that I had chosen, I looked for something that I, a person not of this place, was supposed to do.

Like the entry and much of the rest of the campus, the Library acted reluctant to acknowledge itself as a tourist hot spot.  Roped off areas prevented people from passing certain points, or getting too close to some of the very ancient books.

Removing myself from the campus, I continued to walk the Dublin sidewalks.  As the sun set on the city, the white noise of it’s citizens changed in color.  From a welcoming green to a chattering yellow.  Excitement and potential boiled with the heat of the now gone day.  A heat that insisted on remaining, locked in the old walls and in the dark pavement, ushering patrons inside the bars and pubs.

Even in my hotel room, it remained.  An unwanted guest keeping me up all night with his tales of confessions and empty prescriptions.  Of car headlights through a bedroom window going on a journey.  Of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling never fading.  Of dirt under fingernails and on yellowing sheets.

The shadows of the courtyard beyond my room window, dancing to the light night wind, indistinct and unrecognizable.  Blotches of dark blue paint on the sheer fabric.  The marionette dance was a soft sway to a rhythm of car engines and passer-bys. 

The shapes parted and gave way to a single shadow hunched and deformed.  Its arms held wide on its shoulders.  It moved cautiously at first, afraid to take stage, to be seen by its audience.  But it found the courage that it needed.  The shadow scanned the environment shuffling from dance partner to dance partner.

It turned suddenly; watching the window opposite my bed.  One step forward, it grew closer.  Another.  Its shape became more crisp.  Its broad shoulders and thin waist became more clear.

A dog began barking, followed by shouting.  Not angry, but searching.  The shadow slid into its fellows.  Disappearing, not to be seen again.

I awoke looking at the clock.  Early.  Earlier than I would have liked, considering that my last memory was of the clock reading only three hours ago.  Any attempt at trying to go back to sleep was stymied by the stone slab the Slan considered a bed.

The breakfast nook for the hotel overlooked the back courtyard - the same courtyard that I could see through my room window.  I took note that the walls separating the hotel from the rest of the neighborhood were tall.  Perhaps, too tall for anyone to feasibly climb without the use of a ladder or other climbing aid.

“Excuse me?” I caught the unfamiliar waitress as she came by.

“Yes, sir?”

“Is there a way into the backyard?”

She looked out through the window, “Yes, sir.  There’s a door at the end of the hall behind the front desk.”

“What about from the outside?  Is there any way to get into the backyard from the outside?”

“No, sir.  For the safety of the guests, you can only get to the courtyard through the back door.”

“Is the hotel locked at night?”

“No, but the night clerk is always on duty at the front desk.  Is there something wrong, sir?”

“I thought I saw someone out there last night.”

“I see.  I’ll alert the head staff.  Did you get a good look?”

“No.  Just shadows.  It could have just been my mind playing tricks on me, I suppose.  I haven’t exactly gotten the greatest of sleep.”

She apologized for any stress that my experience may have caused last night and reassured me that she’d be informing the managers.  I thanked her and she went about her day serving the other guests.  I continued to pick at my food while watching out the window.  Uncertain of what I was looking for, but I was determined to find it.

Dublin continued to simmer in the heat.  Much of my time for the day was spent on North side of the Liffey, although, not too far North.  Bachelors Walk gave in to Eden Quay, followed by Custom House Quay.  The street names were maddening, ever changing, and foreign.

The masts are what I saw first.  A black and white hull emerged from the green river.  A tall ship sat upon the water, docked at a broad peer.  The gun ports were closed, they had gone unused for likely more than a century, and the sails had gone missing from the masts.  The only color were the semaphore flags - a communique for only those who could understand.

No other ships were with it, not even personal boats or tourist ferries traveled the water way.  In an old city that had become more modern, the ship was an oddity; alone on the river, in a home that had mostly forgotten it.

I went on my way, crossing back over the river into a more familiar part of town.  Food, wandering, food had become my routine.  It would seem that - even in a place as far as this - I was falling back into my pattern.  Uncertain and direction-less.

The heat of the evening and shins that were on fire returned me to the room.  The clock read just past seven.  My eyes wandered over the blue walls.  While different, they had become very familiar.  Was it the texture that clustered to form shapes?  I could see familiar faces, form stars, and draw maps.  Maps to rough hills and of dark forests, far from roads and the repetitions of the suburbs.

No.  No, I could prove that I wasn’t following a pattern.  I removed the pre-purchased long distance card from my back pack.  My fingers keyed in the numbers.  Silence.  One ring.  Two.  It was always after the third.

“Doctor Preston’s office,” Sarah answered, her alto was warm; I could see her long black hair, draped over her right shoulder.

“Sarah.  It’s Daniel.  Daniel Burr.”

“Hello, Daniel,” she responded.  There was a brief pause, “What can I do for you?”

“Is Michael in?” She politely asked me to wait as she always did.  The hold music was the same alternative rock station that it always was.

“Daniel,” cheerful and greeting as always, “It’s Doctor Preston.  How are you, today?”

“Good,” was all that I could reply, uncertain of when I should tell him.

“Excellent,” he said in the same tone that he first spoke my name, “I assume that we’re still scheduled for today, yes?”

Perfect.  “No, actually.  I’ve already missed the appointment.”

“What?  I thought you were scheduled for one, as always?”

“You’re right; at one.  Where I am, it’s seven P.M..  I’m in Ireland,” I explained.  The joke had failed.

“Ireland?  Really?  This is unexpected, Daniel.”

“You’re surprised.”

“Of course.  I wish that you had warned me a bit earlier, but this is definitely something new.”

“It was kind of a spur of the moment thing.”

“This is a very big step for you, Daniel,” Doctor Preston spoke in long syllables, “A bit impulsive, but still, a very big step.  Tell me, how are you feeling about this?”

I thought about what I had done so far in Dublin.  “It’s been fine.”

“Just fine?”

“I didn’t exactly have time to plan anything.  I’ve mostly been wandering around the city.  I looked at a boat today.  An old sailing ship.”

“I see.  Anything else?”

“Trinity was yesterday.”

“Good.  And how have you been feeling in general?”

“Tired.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a heat wave here.  And the beds are made of drop forged steel.”

He laughed, “I can attest to that.  I don’t think there’s a bed in Europe that isn’t made of solid rock.”

“Also,” I hesitated to speak, “I thought I saw something last night.  A figure, in the backyard of the hotel.”

“Really?  Did you report it to anyone?”

“I did.  I’m not really certain that I even saw anything.  It was just shadows.”

“Well.  Try and get some sleep, Daniel,” he tried to reassure me, “It’s probably just your mind playing tricks on you.  It can do that when it doesn’t get enough rest.”

I confirmed that I would be returning next week, and he reminded me that I could call him any time.  We said our good-bye’s and I hung up the phone.

The heat sat next to me on the bed, chattering away and unrelenting.  Its voice echoed off the shapes and faces around me.  I could feel its hands on my back, chest, and around my neck.

The night stretched and the heat remained.  The window to the back courtyard scattered the ambient light; shadows remained at rest, quiet only by the soft sound of the occasional car.

A wind came.  The dark splotches cast into the room began to move again, panic stricken by a presence.  The rush slowed to a whisper, then nothing.  But one shadow continued to move.  The dancer had returned.  This time it did not wander.  It knew where to look, what steps to take.  It was cautious.  It was calculating.  Its form coalesced; broad shouldered and thin waisted.  It lurked, hunched over, toward the window.  Closer, it drew; taking form once more.  The yellow tint of the shadow became apparent.

My breath caught in my throat.  My arm reached to the phone behind me.  Slowly, for if it moved too quickly, the shadow would know.  It would act.  It would consume me.  Its approach to the window quickened.  The shadow began to reach out.

Something blocked my hand from the phone.  A glass of water fell to the carpeted floor.  It heard the fall, yet it continued, unfazed.  Its prey was trapped.  My hand began to grasp at anything on the nightstand.  Desperately looking for something; the phone, a heavy object, something that would banish the figure back into the shadows.  My eyes did not dare look away.

The figure reached outward to take hold of me.  A broad four fingered hand pressed against the window.  Its eyes were wide dark recesses.  Simultaneously, the shadow and I saw the small window that I had opened earlier to let fresh air in.  It had found a way in.  Its hand began to reach for the opening.

I leaped back, grabbing at the phone.  My haste resulted in me tumbling backwards off the bed.  A yelp escaped my dry throat as glass shattered underneath my hand. 

Despite the broken fragments lodged in my palm, I dialed the front desk.  One ring.  The figure’s hand began to slide through the smaller open window above it.  Two rings.  The hand was jaundiced and misshapen, long and thin.  Three rings.  The hand began to reach to the latch for the main window.

“Hello?” answered a male night clerk.

“There’s someone trying to get into my room!  Room 143!”

There was silence.  The figure continued its attempt to invade my room.  The latch was just out of reach.  It continued to grasp; unrelenting, determined to claim its victim.

A great light erupted into the courtyard.  A light too bright for its dark, empty eyes.  The shadow was, at once, gone.

There was a desperate knocking at my door.  I became more aware of the pain in my left hand.  It had begun to bleed.  Another knock followed by a voice.  It was calling my name.  It was asking if I was alright.  I adjusted and tried to stand from where I had fallen, careful to avoid further injury from the glass.  I called back, confirming that I was safe.  Finally able to return to my feet, I walked to the door, unlocked and opened it.

“Sir?” the night clerk examined me through round brim glasses, “I came as quickly as I could.”

“Thank you,” I replied, “the light scared them off.”

“Good.”  He saw the blood drip, “Your hand.  I’ll go get some bandages.”

I thanked the man and he quickly ran off.  I turned back to the window, to make sure that the figure had not returned.  My breath wore heavy.  The sweat had begun to evaporate.  For the first time in three days, I began to feel cool again.

The clerk returned with two Garda.  They checked my room and the courtyard as I removed the glass and bandaged my hand.  It wasn’t too deep, so I didn’t think that I needed to go to the hospital, despite the insistence of both the night clerk and the Garda.

By the morning, I and my luggage were in a new room one floor up and facing out the front of the Slan.  The old one had been declared a crime scene.  There was no time for sleep.  There was no way that I could sleep after that. 

The detective stood with me in the hall, taking my description and account of the event.  The night clerk had remained well past his shift.  He and the manager were with us.  I found a safe spot, close enough to speak quietly, but still separate from them.  I must have sounded like a lunatic describing the creature that I thought I had seen.  I tried to make it as human as possible to make it sound like what I had seen was real.

“…It’s unlikely whoever this was will return,” the detective said to re-assure me, “We’ll still increase our presence in the area to be safe.”

“We do apologize for this, Mr.  Burr,” the manager chimed in, “This area has a very low crime rate.  It must have been a lush walking home from a bar.”

“I had heard there was a prison break a few weeks ago,” I asked, “that there was still a man-hunt going on.”

The night clerk stated, “The escapees were already rounded up.  I heard it on the news.”

“Not all of them, I’m afraid,” the detective said as he finished a few notes.  He began to realize what he was saying and corrected himself, “But it was more than a few kilometers from here, so this is likely unrelated.  For now, I would get some rest.  You look tired, Mr.  Burr.  Let us handle things from here.  We’ll be in touch.”

I tried to laugh at his observation, but my body couldn’t make more effort than a smile and a nod.  I returned to my room.  Despite a different layout, this room was just as hot as the previous one, and the bed just as unforgiving.  My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since before the call to Doctor Preston.

Breakfast was over too soon.  The day continued like the previous.  Wandering took me throughout the city.  Any thought of returning to the hotel room to rest was immediately abolished by the thought of yellow hand grasping at the latch; trying to get in to my room.  The thing - a shadow from the outside - and its dark eyes watching me, knowing my presence and knowing my mind, pressing in on my reality.  So much that it becomes me.

Late in the day, some amount of comfort came in another small pub with a dark beer in front me and a bag of crisps - all that I had an appetite for.  I sat at the bar, listening to the white noise of the room.  Conversations overlapped and collided, grew and shrank. 

An older man took a seat next to me and ordered a Guinness.  He and the bar tender apparently knew each other; at least loosely.

“Did you hear about that plane crash?” the old man said.

“I did,” replied the bar tender, “Tragedy, eh?”

“Aye.  Finally figured out what it was that did them in.”

“Really?” the bar tender was a bit more interested in the topic now.

“It was a couple.  Man flying the plane was drunk.  They think she mighta’ been asleep.  He probably was too.”

The bar tender made a big show of a sigh, “Damn shame.  Caused a lot of damage to some homes.”

“Aye.”

Their topic changed to the man’s old boss - who would show up to work drunk on occasion.  I finished my beer and left a tip for the bar tender.  He gave me a polite nod as I stepped away out the door.

Night had fallen concrete blue was bathed in golden light as the street lamps flickered on and the roads were empty.  The heat had finally subsided.  The wind gently brushed along my skin, chilling the sinew, causing it go taught.  The sweat that had permeated my clothes and my hair was, for the first time, gone.  Chill gently kissed at my face and neck.

My eyes wore heavy.  Even while walking I could feel the waves of sleep rush over my feet and between my toes; sand slipping out from under me, like hands moving me over the sidewalk.  The darkening shadows beyond the light whispered night tales of grass and sand and a broken arm in a sling.  Pills of fine powdered chiffon chalk staining a wood table.  Shouting voices and headlights filling a room.  Of how cut out stars would glow on the popcorn ceiling.  Shadows in light reaching under the black door.

The amber light of the morning filled my room.  How I had arrived, I was entirely uncertain.  I had fallen asleep so fast that my clothes were still on.  The hard bed was punching at my back, telling me to get up.  I had slept.  Slept for the first time.  I looked out at the window, overlooking the road and other homes in the area.  No shadow would be able to enter my room - no matter how tall the ladder.

Breakfast - despite being the same eggs, streaky rations, toast, and mushrooms as the previous four mornings - was satisfying.  Tomorrow morning I would return to the States.  My adventure was nearly over.  Soon, I would return to the patterns that I had established, perhaps, as Doctor Preston suggested, a little better for it.

The previous night’s sleep found me more aware for the most part.  I could finally keep a single thought in mind.  The morning was cool, but it was clear that it was still going to be hot by mid-day.  I made it my goal to explore the shops near the college, and then explore some of the parks in the area.

I was surprised by the lack of book shops near the campus, but an amount of searching did yield results.  I perused the shop, eventually finding a book on how to speak Gaelic that came with an audio CD.  On novelty, I picked it up.  Upon checking out, the clerk looked from the book to me.  She was quietly regarding me as just another tourist; all native Irish knew how to speak Gaelic.  She quietly rung up my purchase and took my money.  I thanked her and wished her a good day, but she didn’t reply.

My stomach led me into a new restaurant for dinner.  At the table, I opened the book and began skimming - appraising my purchase.  Eventually, the waitress came to my table, catching me unprepared.  She took my hasty order, and I kept trying to absorb the language, trying to gain some grasp on the world around me.

As the waitress passed my table again, I called to her attention.  She impatiently awaited my request.  I glanced down at the practice sentence and began to work the words out of my mouth, “Sen cha-o-ee a b’fu-il tu a d’henim in-niu?”

She blinked at me, “I’m sorry.  I don’t speak Gaelic.”

I looked back into the book, certain that it would tell me different.  Before it could provide the answer, she continued about her work.  Food would eventually serve enough as a distraction from my embarrassment, the giggling book left on the bench next to me, out of sight.

Paid and on my way, I continued to explore the city that was becoming more familiar.  The sun began to dip behind the taller buildings when I was in a park, which consisted of a collection of islands in a sea of green.  The shapes repeated on themselves.  Symmetrical and whole, simple and easy to identify, but still non-objective.

The people began to disappear from view one-by-one.  Groups fell to clusters.  Clusters to pairs.  Pairs to the occasional passer-by or drunk.  Soon, I was alone in the islands of trees and flowers.  The park was still and empty.

A windless rustling of wood and leaf.  A rush of cool running down my spine.  The foliage dancing a jig, reaching their hands out, asking me to join.  Was it there?  Just beyond the threshold?  I was surrounded on all sides, uncertain of which were trees and which were the shadow that was just beyond my window.

My walking pace increased, I was eager to return to the safety of my hotel room.  The pale yellow-orange lights were my only guiding beacons in the night.  The once familiar roads were alien and misleading.  Had I made the right turn?  Had I been walking the right road?  The shadow wasn’t far behind.  I just needed to return to my room.  I just needed to sleep.  Tomorrow, I would return to the banality of Tigard - the stretching and winding neighborhoods - to familiarity.  Just one last night.

I slipped into the open hotel door, free from the darkness of the sidewalks.  The gold light and blue walls were a welcoming comfort.  There was no night clerk that the desk.  The Slan was still.  I took the stairs to the second floor, using the opportunity of the steps doubling back on themselves to watch the door.  Still closed, still safe.

The long hall leading to the room was silent; the whispers from the walls mocking my footsteps on the patterned carpet.  The midnight door leading to my room waited quietly as I pulled the weighted key from my pocket. 

The bolt cracked open, the sound reverberated through the hall.  My eyes followed the sound back down towards the stairs.  The hotel beyond the hall had grown dark and shadowed.  I stood still, watching the hallway entry.  Nothing moved.  Everything was silent.  My hand flipped the latch, allowing me into my room.  The heavy door closed behind me.  I pulled the bolt over, the loud crash signified that the door was locked.  All that could enter now was the light from the hallway, which slipped underneath the door.

The room was quiet.  I began to laugh at myself when I realized the heat in my room had yet to dissipate, despite the cool air outside.

I left the room in darkness as I removed my clothes and prepared for another sleepless night.  I removed the sheets from the bed, casting them to the ground.  As the sheet fell, slowed by the hot air, my eyes snapped to the light under the door.  Nothing.

I continued my preparations for bed in the ambient color.  From the bathroom, I could see the light under the door.  Something moved in it.  I shut off the running faucet to listen.  Nothing.

I stared at the bed, wondering if I would sleep again tonight.  My mind was still, for the moment, despite the fear of the dancing shadow that had lurked outside my window.  The light from the door twitched again.

A form took shape in the light.  A hand reaching to me, standing just beyond the threshold.  It could not enter, though it began to try.  I closed my eyes to see the stars on the ceiling, charged by the lights through the window.  A glow that I could not forget, that would be my safety.  But the shadow was still there.  Reaching for me.

I turned to the phone to call to someone, my only chance to keep the invader out, but the bolt crashed open.  Quicker than I could shout, quicker than I could run or fight back, it was upon me.  Its dark in-set eyes.  Its nose-less face and tiny mouth. 

I struggled.  I fought back.  But its yellow skin was too strong.  I tried to scream, but its hand fell upon my mouth.  A muffled shout.  Its other hand wrapped around my throat.  I was alone.  None would help. 

The thing grew closer.  I could see my mouth-less face reflected in its eyes.  It wanted me.  It wanted my life.  It wanted out.  I kicked and thrashed, but it was too heavy.  In my breathlessness, I could hear the shouting echoed.  I could see the glowing stars casting shadows.  The dirt on my hands and the grime under my nails.  The sprawling suburban roads, turning over on themselves; directionless and without purpose.  The dark forest off the road.  I was wrapped in a yellowed blanket, dirty and moth-eaten.  Bruised and still.  The shadow would not stop until it consumed me.  Until I was it, and it I.

Until it sat on a plane, blue endless ocean beneath.  Flipping through the channels, listening for a rhythm that it enjoyed; one hand balancing an empty cup to near tipping point.  It checked the map.  The icon hovered just beyond the half-way mark.  It was returning to a pattern that I had called home.  It was making plans to continue to visit Doctor Preston.  To chat more with his secretary, Sarah.  It considered a small bit of grime beneath its nails, beneath my nails.

I was still there.  Watching it.  Screaming at it.  Trying to warn the man next to me - next to it - or the woman opposite the aisle that this creature was not to be trusted, but she could not hear.  I was here, alone.  Separate from the world, in shadow.