The White Silhouette

The candles were lit everywhere but the shed. So it was here, the one room without a constant lantern, that the White Silhouette preferred to spend his time. There were, of course, other silhouettes in the house, but not one of them could bear a resemblance to the White. For just as there is dark in every light, there is light in every dark. The White Silhouette was proof of this anomaly. 

A new family had come to settle in the countryside home and the Silhouette’s place of residence: a notable one known as the Fittsburgs. As per the usual, the White Silhouette anticipated this, and even welcomed it, as strange as it sounds. They’ll be gone soon enough, voiced the inner thoughts of the White. He embraced the fact that the family was going to leave, one way or another. They always did.

The first sight coming nearer to the house was a little boy, later to be called Henry, squeezing his mother’s fingers in one hand and a stuffed bear in the other. The boy’s platinum hair and dark eyes intrigued the Silhouette. The contrast between the light and dark glowed in his features.

The second sight following close behind was an older man walking stiffly alongside an infant girl, who possessed light hair similar to that of her brother, but pale blue eyes instead of his dark brown, nearly black ones.

The White Silhouette could only stare from his shadow-touched enclosure.

Henry’s first visit took place later into the willowing night, the very time that the White Silhouette flared brighter than ever. He was simply retrieving an ax for his father, but the White was glad to have a clearer image of the peculiar child. Careful not to be seen, the white shadow stared at Henry. He watched attentively as a look of frustration passed over the boy, who was maybe six or seven, as he searched through the endless contents of the shed.

A noise must have alerted him because the child whirled around so fast that White was sure he had been seen. Hiding against the darkness, he forged himself into the shadows.

As any person, Henry and his sister, Rebekka, grew older. As Henry inched taller in height, his voice grew more resonant yet gentle in sound. The Silhouette greatly enjoyed observing the children's progress in the world.

On the dawn of the Henry’s thirteenth summer, the White Silhouette finally revealed himself to the boy from whom he had kept himself exquisitely hidden. Though he had expected Henry to run away, screaming as he went, the child had always been curious for the few years he'd been unknowingly acquainted by the mysterious shadow in white.

Against the back wall, White stood until the boy entered the room looking at his feet. He must’ve been looking for something along the ground, for he begun to crawl on the floor, his hands skimming along the edges of the bottom shelves. When he happened to lift his head, he saw a white and shadowy figure against the surface. Gulping, he stood up and looked the creature in its face. A light shade of fear flickered across Henry’s dark eyes but quickly overcome by fascination.

Taking a shuddering breath, he whispered in utter astonishment, “You’re real. I can’t believe it, you’re actually real.” The strange response bewildered the White Silhouette. No words came from his mouth of course, but he was shocked, nevertheless.

The boy then did an unexpected thing: he laughed. “I’ve seen you in my dreams, you know.” He lightly chuckled again. “I’ve actually seen you in the corner of my eye and written it off as a trick of the light.”

Suddenly he rushed to the wall. “May I?” he asked, holding his hand as if to touch the mysterious abnormality. The creature tilted his head in the form of an unasked question before silently nodding, curious as to what would happen. Henry seemed amazed that the Silhouette could understand him. Aroused by the possibilities, he stepped forward, placing his left hand onto the sheer brightness, and created a shadow. 

A soft humming noise was the response. The White shut his eyes with satisfaction. A dark spot of the child’s long and slender fingers appeared in the area his stomach would have been, had he been human. A little smile played with Henry’s lips as he retracted his outstretched hand. The shadow remained in its place.

The boy must’ve heard something because his murky eyes were torn from the White to the closed door. The Silhouette sensed it too. Footsteps. He darted from the back wall, quite literally at the speed of light.

Henry’s father had come.

“Henry! What are you doing here?” The man stomped into the shed, anger radiating off him in every step he took. 

Confounded, his son responded. “I-I’m sorry, Father. I was just getting something.” The fear in his onyx eyes was uncanny.

“Well, I believe I told you to go help your mother make dinner. Now, scurry along.”

Impatiently waiting for his son to scramble for the thing he’d been previously looking for, he kicked the child’s foot with a heavy boot. Henry’s face flushed red as he hurried from the shack.

The man, who hadn’t quite earned the title as “father”, collapsed into a nearby chair and reached into his leather vest. After taking a swig of some alcoholic substance in a metal flask, he left.

The White Silhouette, having seen everything, crept out of his corner. That was the first time he’d witnessed the power that Jack Fittsburg held over his family.

And he was furious.

The White learned that the monstrosity of a man beat both of his children, Rebekka and Henry. Rebekka had spent many of her days in her shed, crying relentlessly as Henry comforted her, giving her words of consolations, such as “it’ll be okay” and other phrases uselessly spent, for Rebekka had already given up on trying. Why it had taken so long for the White to register the reason for their pain was a mystery. It was evident that the children’s mother did not know. No matter how atrocious their father was, he was equally smart and manipulative. He never hit them in any area that could be seen by his oblivious wife.

One day, Jack had entered the shack to retrieve something and was thoroughly surprised by a blinding light appearing as if from nowhere. After cursing several unpleasantries, he stormed out, rubbing his eyes as he went.

Henry had returned the following day, hobbling on one leg. The old farmer had accused him of “nearly blinding him” (which was both preposterous and dramatic) and beat him senseless until the only thing that didn’t ache was his spirit, which had yet to be penetrated. His mother, Mary, had of course inquired as to what happened, but the child simply responded that a horse had run him over.

The young boy, soon to be a young man, visited the White Silhouette regardless. Nearly every night, he’d be there to share all of the stories and encounters he’d had already had in his short-lived life. Every little thing he did for his sister or every little thing he had done for others and hadn’t gotten in return only helped to put more weight on his shoulders.

His frustration was apparent, but equally so was his humility.

Furthermore, he would strain through all the horrors and fears that had taken root deep inside of him. Evidently, there were other shadows in his home than the ones in the shed. Each took a different form whenever he slept. Directed by the moonlight, they would surround Henry, threatening to overcome him at last. And with no lantern to distinguish their light breeze, the boy slept every night in turmoil.

It must have been remedial, or perhaps even therapeutic, for Henry to share his life’s tales and misfortunes to the creature that could do nothing but nod at each peculiarity. Occasionally, he would tilt his head, a show of curiosity on his part.

Eventually, Henry started to sleep in the center of the small shed. He’d fall asleep with comfort knowing the White Silhouette was watching over him. 

A fortnight before the boy’s seventeenth birthday, he discontinued coming to the White Silhouette. Feeling rejected, the White remained in a state of hardship and loneliness. After nearly three weeks without seeing the young man, he noticed a wooden cross with a single name etched upon its surface atop the otherwise clear landscape.

Mary Ilene Fittsburg

1838-1875

Despite the doubts after grasping what had happened, Henry did eventually come back. But he wasn’t the same. He didn’t ask questions he knew there could be no answers to. He didn’t recall his life story as if it was a tale, waiting to be released. There was no word to describe his pain, mental and physical, that he felt since his mother had left him.

With no boundaries to stop him in his raging path, along with the broken-heartedness of losing his wife, Jack Fittsburg now beat his children more than ever. He seemed to hold them personally responsible and thought that in some twisted reality, they deserved the ongoing torment they received.

Henry wasn’t quite ready to give up, though. Every night, he’d bring Rebekka into the shack to tell her about some hero in a book their mother had read to him in his recent juvenile years. There were many morals, of course, but a single universal lesson shone from every tale he graciously recited to her: hope.

See, to him, hope was the same in every color. Red, the color of blood. Silver, the color of imprisonment. Even black, the color of complete and utter darkness held some aspect of hope in it.

After the first incident, the White Silhouette never dared to cross Mr. Fittsburg. That is, until one day, he’d had an idea. It was a crazy one, but an idea nonetheless. See, the Silhouette had felt somehow accountable for everything Henry had gone through and sensed that it was only right that he was to be the boy’s guardian.

Formulating the plan in his mind, he took action. The next day, it was done. The two children, one seventeen, one thirteen, rode hand in hand, walking away from their shadow house and even shadowy father. They went to get help, real help, that would help them become successful in life and overcome their emotional hurt. The death of their mother only made them take longer strides for a chance for that life. 

The White Silhouette, distraught, watched as they sauntered away, bruised and aching, into the sun. He was, naturally, overjoyed for them, but it didn't stop the loneliness from already settling into his subconscious. 

He didn’t know when, but he knew that the boy would come back. So, he waited.

40 Years Later

The old man, one that inhabited the house after Jack Fittsburg left, just died. A new family was on their way, as they normally are. The White Silhouette had been waiting patiently for the day that young Henry would come back to say hello to his old friend, but, since the day that he'd left so long ago, he’d been otherwise disappointed.

Over the years that had passed, the White had forgotten what having a friendship binding one to another was like and became bitter in the process. He wasn’t lying when he said that he missed the boy with those unusually dark eyes and the incurable thirst for knowledge. 

The family coming up the dirt road was a small one. Peeking from the window, the Silhouette saw two–no, three,–children trodding alongside two adults, both laughing as they approached the door and twisted the rustic key into its matching doorknob. Suddenly, the older man, who looked to be at least in his fifties, swiveled his head around toward the shack. That's when the White Silhouette recognized him.

Those strangely-colored onyx eyes that had stained the darkness around him with their hopefulness seemed to stare into the very soul of the shed. His flaxen hair, now with inconspicuous strands of gray streaking through it, had been passed to the three children climbing along his legs now.

Immediately, the White fled to the back wall and his shine, which had been slowly turning gray in the past years, flooded back into his white figure. He was practically glowing, waiting in excitement for Henry to enter the confinement.

After what felt like hours, the squeaking of the old hinges signaled the Silhouette that he was here. The door cracked open until there he stood, in the doorway with an exuberant glint in his odd eyes.

Taking a step inside, unable to believe what he was seeing, Henry reached his hand up to match the print he had made all those years ago. He noticed that it too had gotten slightly lighter over the last 40 years. Henry's hands were now grotesquely larger, but they still held the same slender look.

Smiling to himself, he looked up to meet the two little holes that displayed where the Silhouette’s eyes were. He took a breath before saying the life-altering sentence, a sentence containing only two words.

“Thank you.”