Das Toddesschatten // Anthony Glackin

            Townsend sat upright, suddenly wide awake, in the middle of the night. Cold sweat drenched his brow and stuck to his skin, somehow impervious to his attempts to wipe it from the creases above his dilated eyes, which strained to see even the slightest indication of movement in his room. This task was futile, though, as the dark room was lit only by the dying embers left in the fireplace from hours ago, still trying to keep the house warm. Despite their best efforts, his body had suddenly become enveloped by the cold.
            Through the quiet, still night the old man heard nothing but the groan of the house as the wind pressed against the wooden slats that made up the roof, and the faint ticking of his wound pocket-clock: tick… tock… tick… tock… tick… tock. He knew what time it was without looking at his pocket-clock and without raising a lantern to the old, broken grandfather clock that stood like a sentinel in his living room. It was hiding time.
            Townsend threw the covers from his pajama-clad body and slid out of bed, grabbing his pocket-clock as he crept across the room. He grabbed a match from the chest of drawers and lit his only lantern, casting dancing shadows onto the walls of his humble home. Looking at the shadows, Townsend was reminded of the dark history of the place in which he resided, which had been passed down through generations of family members in a valiant attempt to keep the rest of the world safe from the terror within.
            Das Toddesschatten, his grandmother had called it when she had been the owner and resident of the house many years ago. It was an ancient evil, one that was as old and unforgiving as time itself. None of the family had ever seen it and lived to tell about it, though every inhabitant of the house had felt its presence, and not one of them doubted its existence. Townsend thought of all this as he quickly and quietly made his way to the sanctuary, a secret room built long ago to keep those in the house safe from the evil presence that visited one night a year.
            He pressed a small button in the base of the old grandfather clock and stepped back as a section of floorboards was released from the floor, opening up to expose a cold, damp room that was lit only by the light from the cracks in the floorboards above and the burning lantern in Townsend’s hand. Slowly descending into the dimly lit room, Townsend replaced the floorboards carefully so as to ensure that there was no evidence of his presence underneath them. He crouched in a corner far from the entrance and reached into his pocket for his clock, which he would need in order to tell when the time had come to extinguish the light from his lantern and wait for the danger to pass.
            He felt his left pocket, and then his right… but there was nothing. He felt the breast pocket on his shirt… and again, nothing. Frantically, he extinguished his lantern, deciding to leave the pocket-clock wherever he dropped it rather than risk retrieving it. The house was again silent, except for the ominous tick… tock… tick… tock… tick… tock of the grandfather clock, which Townsend noticed sounded much closer than it had in past years.

Heat Causes Split Ends
Riley Custer // photography


            Before long, Townsend felt the familiar sensation that came with knowing that Das Toddesschatten had begun to descend from the attic. The wave of anxiety was so strong that Townsend felt compelled to leap from his hiding spot and run for his life, though he knew such a mad dash would prove fatal. Next came dread, engulfing his entire being as though even his muscles and bones were aware that they were but two feet below an entity that would show them no mercy. Finally came the physical effects, one by one. His hair rose on end, then sweat broke out across his entire body, dripping into his eyes and making it nearly impossible to see. The tremors came next, his body shaking as the temperature in the room seemed to drop well below freezing. These feelings had become familiar to Townsend due to years of hiding in the sanctuary on haunting night. However, the next sensation he experienced was entirely new, as he felt for the first time during the haunting night a sense of absolute and indescribable terror, as though all fear in the world had been fashioned into an arrow and shot directly into his heart. He heard a pop, saw a shadow cast into the sanctuary room, and suddenly the entire world went dark.
            It was four days after the Eve of Halloween, and the people of the town had begun to worry. The nice old man who lived at 14 Bellin Drive had not been seen or heard from in days. None of the villagers had encountered him at the market, the bank or even the pub. The police were called by friends and neighbors, and after the fourth day of silence from the house and its inhabitant, they decided to investigate.
            They found the door unlocked and the house undisturbed. The bed was made, the fireplace dressed with fresh logs, and a vase of wildflowers placed on the kitchen counter. The police searched high and low without finding anything of interest or suspicion and were on the way out when the head detective paused on the front door’s threshold.
            “Quiet,” he barked, “something is wrong here!” His seasoned ears had picked up on a barely-perceptible tick… tock… tick… tock… tick… tock coming from somewhere in the living room. He slowly moved back into the house, listening intently for the noise. As he approached the grandfather clock, it became apparent that the noise came from elsewhere, as the clock showed the time but did not make a sound. However, when the head detective stooped over slightly, he could hear the same tick… tock… tick… tock… tick… tock emanating from somewhere beneath the floorboards.
            Excited to have a lead, he leapt up from his crouch, and as he did his foot brushed the button on the side of the grandfather clock. The floor sprung open, casting a beam of light on the cold, lifeless body of Mr. Townsend, whose face was frozen in a look of sheer terror. Just three feet in front of him lay a golden pocket-clock, which was just close enough to the entrance to betray the presence of the secret room to the house above.
            Tick… tock… tick… tock… tick… tock.





Author:

Tony Glackin is a sophomore from Moville, Iowa. He is majoring in Mathematics and Education. In his free time, he likes to exercise and cook.






Artist:

Riley Custer is a junior year Biology and Studio Art student from Gilbert, Arizona. Her favorite mediums are linoleum block printing, charcoal, and photography. When not in the studio, you can find her outside or watching Parks and Recreation with her cat, Newt.