Suicide Man vs. the Shadow

The pages were strong in his grip. Each word pulled him from the demon within. Each chapter unravelled the bad thoughts—the final thoughts.

Markus Welby had just turned 28, finished a five-year Psychology Degree at Traymore University, and landed a cozy job as City Director of Mental Health. Other offers, most promising big money and prestige, were tossed in the waste bin by his TV chair, along with endless junk mail. Director of Mental Health was a new position that oversaw Traymore City’s community centres.

Congressman Mitchum had reluctantly searched for loose change in his leather couch to fund the 40K a year position after a string of suicides had plagued the city and spawned an angry mob of horrified mothers. An angry mother can change the world.

Markus had watched it play out on Tray TV, the local network. And he couldn’t wait to finish his finals to apply. All they promised was an alley window, a basement office, and an old black rotary phone that linked him to Trudy, the administration lady.

  Why the rotary phone you might ask? More like why not?

Markus turned the page and continued reading his latest book find—Blind Courage. The books kept him balanced. They were his medication, his D.O.M.H. It takes one to know one, he thought. Markus rested the book, pages down, on the arm of his old green Lazy Boy and poured himself a cup of strong black coffee. The harsh taste reminded him that life wasn’t all bells and whistles. Sometimes it was tasteless and disappointing. But he could add sugar and milk, or even a flavoured elixir, anytime. It reminded him there was always a choice. 

Growing up with Alice, his child psychologist, had taught him to face problems head-on, not jump like a scared kitten. She taught him that everything had an answer. And choosing right would always be a challenge, and a challenge was real. It had sustenance. 

Markus’s apartment was sort of empty. Unopened boxes from last year’s move were scattered; unhung pictures leaned against toddler handprint walls; suits framed with plastic hangers hooked over horizontally mounted hockey sticks. And a single picture of Markus and his sister Debbie, a selfie taken at the park, rested on the old coloured TV.

Markus sipped his coffee, set it down, and flipped the pages under his nose, quelling the tempestuous urges stirring within. The summer holidays were the worst. but a good book, lots of coffee, and Turkish custard was bound to get him through. 

Markus turned the page as the distinct sound of a stone smashing through a window froze his eyes in place, and his ears perked. 

A hot humid stream of air slithered through the broken window and coiled around Markus’s neck, turning his head. As the humidity contrasted with the cold air, water dripped down the glass pane to the sill. Markus searched for the stone but found nothing. He clenched the book in his left hand, his finger marking the page, and looked out the window. No one was foolish enough to brave the heatwave. He shut the inside window, deciding to fix it later, and sat down to finish the book. As he opened it, his thumb brushed against a one-inch hole drilled through the right-side pages and cover. Puzzled, he looked at the floor and noticed a knot of splintered wood. He bent down and grasped it, unveiling a metal object—a bullet. 

It wasn’t long before Markus stretched his upper torso out the window and inspected the house next to him. It was a bullet, and it had to have come from the Zoo (the halfway house next door). There were always cops and trouble over there. Sure enough, he found a hole just like the one on his floor, through the dirty white siding. Against his better judgement, nose posy took over, and he found himself ringing the dusty old doorbell next door. No one answered. He knocked and buzzed for what seemed like a lifetime until the door creaked open. 

“Hello?” I’m your neighbour. Is everyone Ok?” He waited as silence summoned him.

Mind your own business, he thought. It’s just a stray bullet for now. But stupid curiosity drew him. He opened the door and stepped into the long wooden hallway. Junk mail blew past his feet and out the door. He faced his reflection in a twelve-pained glass door leading further inside. As if in a dream, he continued. Classical music echoed from a room at the end of the hall, next to Markus’ house, where the stray bullet hit. 

Just as a cat may sense danger or even death, Markus turned the antique grass knob and opened the door, expecting the worst. And fate hadn’t disappointed. It was the tennis shoe kid. The drug dealer who skipped high school and went straight to high. Markus had avoided him like the plague. Even Tennis Shoe’s own dog hated him. He was bad news. 

Tennis Shoe’s stiffening fingers gripped a pistol under his indescribable void of a face. The bullet hole in the wall was behind him, beaming sunlight amongst the blood splatter. 

Shadow had taken his life. 

Markus reached for his texting and calling phone—no data for this guy. Data was how Shadow found you. And once Shadow hooked you with his long black talons, it was over. Just ask Tennis Shoe. As he pressed 911, he stumbled and caught his fall with his hand on Tennis Shoe’s shoulder. 

“Do you need the police, ambulance or—”

Markus’ head began swimming like a bird underwater, the room turning and churning. Dark electricity surged through his fingers into his conscience, like a chill before COVID rampaged through your body. The storm halted, and Markus knew he was looking through Tennis Shoe’s eyes. In fact, he was reliving the man’s life. Tennis Shoe came from a prestigious family. He had a family? He was in love. He wrote music. Markus couldn’t understand how he ended up at the Zoo. How could someone go from winning to losing in less than twenty years?

The weight of chains bound Markus. He was at a funeral. Tennis Shoe was alone. He was the only attendee. The priest couldn’t hide his judging look. His gateway expression led Tennis Shoe on his journey of self-destruction. 

Help me! The ghostly voice of Tennis Shoe roared through Markus, zeroing his conscience as he collapsed to the floor. All he could taste was iron.

* * *

Markus awoke in the hospital three days later. They explained what happened to him. An FBI agent cleared him of any wrong doing. A detective questioned him about the string of suicides that plagued Traymore City, but realized Markus didn’t know anything. Markus wanted to explain his own struggle with Shadow, but concluded that would just complicate things. And all he wanted was to get home and fall asleep in his Lazy Boy. 

They offered a taxi ride, but Markus decided to walk. He needed to clear his head and wear off the medications. He purchased a hot dog and a soda and continued home. The sun was beaming and the air was thick and hot. Sweat dripped down his forehead and salt stung his eyes. He looked and felt like sh*t.

A beautiful young woman approached, walking the opposite direction. A gust of wind carried her perfume, paralyzing Markus’ nervous system like candy. She rolled her beautiful blue eyes and pouted her red lips. The sun umbrella in her hands flew into the air and sunk between them. Markus picked it up and handed it to her, smiling crazily.

“Here.” He said, at a loss for words.

She smiled, wrapping her fingers over the handle and slowing to caress Markus’ fingers. “Thank you. I’m Susan.”

Markus looked like a surprised puppy. “Markus.”

“Well thank you Markus. It appears shivery hasn’t died after all.” She blocked the sun and smiled. “Can I buy you a coffee? It’s the least I can do.”

Markus agreed and they enjoyed a half dozen coffees at a cafe, while they talked like old friends. Markus hadn’t felt that good ever. And he didn’t want it to stop.

They agreed to exchange numbers, and Markus wrote his cell number on a napkin. Cursive was almost a thing of the past, and he struggled to get all the letters proper. He held out the napkin as Susan grasped it, and their fingers touched. 

* * *

As the first one’s and zero’s, of what is now the internet, were born, so was The Shadow. 

As every computer connected to the information-storm known as the internet, disinformation and misinformation began festering like a poisonous fungus. Libraries and book stores were being replaced by a seducing, malicious digital nightmare in plain sight. Flash forward to 2024, and if you weren’t careful, you could end up like Tennis Shoe.

Markus understood as each information-click of data entered the ethernet, The Shadow spawned, like a malevolent coral reef in the murky waters. It became a shadow of everything evil. It continues to evolve. It will never lay dormant. Ever.

Markus cancelled his data years earlier, knowing the dangers at his fingertips. The Shadow grew stronger with every hour he had hovered over the screen like a zombie. Self loathing rooted in his mind like the first step of the devil. He had contemplated jumping out of his second story window, but resisted it—sometimes gripping the railing to the second floor, like a passenger clinging to a seat when a giant hole in the plain was sucking everyone out.

His childhood anxieties made him the perfect dinner for the big bad wolf, The Shadow. But he was strong, his right foot planted firmly in Alice’s office—her comforting voice calling him out of hypnosis. She was devine. She reminded him of Susan. The young woman he had just met.

There had been twenty suicides in Traymore, and Markus new it was the Shadow. He couldn’t call the FBI and say, hey, by the way, our adversaries are highjacking the internet and brainwashing our citizens to commit suicide. Could he? They would think he’s nuts, or bring him in for questioning. And he didn’t need the heat. People can solve their own problems, he thought. 

Markus understood what was happening. He knew the internet was infecting the world’s population. The internet was evolving, using people as ones and zeros, as pawns in its dark game. Markus noticed the tombstone eyes that were walking the streets. They weren’t eyes of emotion or control. They were hypnotized, under the control of The Shadow. It was no secret that adversaries such as, China, Russia, North Korea and Iran, we’re manipulating our internet daily—hell bent on destruction of anything free: our conscience, our economy, our happiness.

For nineteen years Markus doom-scrolled the internet in search of The Shadow, finding him in videos, articles, photos—The Shadow forming like a digital bat, it’s red eyes staring at him, threatening him. Markus pictured Chinese terrorists finger-tapping their computers while chained to a desk, working 20 hours a day, meeting their quotas of digital mayhem. He imagined Russia brainwashing innocent people, with videos and articles, programed to persuade citizens to vote for Russian allied politicians. 

What bothered Markus the most, was that the internet could be used for good things—make people happy, enrich their lives, solve humanity’s most difficult problems. But, for some reason, evil was easier, quicker, cheaper. 

Text and call, nothing more for Markus. He couldn’t stop a storm like The Shadow. No one could. 

Markus realized he wasn’t in the cafe having a coffee with Susan, anymore. He was staring at her pale glass figurine, as if in another dimension. In contrast to her pale gloom, Susan’s left eye turned blue and stared into Markus. A magnificent bright light appeared as a small sphere between them, enlarging with every second, until they vanished. 

Markus squinted his eyes. He was standing next to Susan as she turned the key in her apartment door. Her perfume entangled his senses. She hooked her sun umbrella on the hallway coat rack, turned on the lights, got a cold beer from the fridge, and sat at the kitchen table. She reached for a beach towel on the table and pulled it back, revealing a rusted old pistol. Four silver bullets shined next to it, like towers of mercy. Or so she thought.

After loading the weapon, she opened her tablet and began surfing the internet. Dark thoughts appeared in her history, and she tapped them. The screen filled with a funny cartoon bear swirling in a vortex, until it exploded. Susan’s eyes became vacant, and ones and zeros, forced their way into her mind. She was a zombie. 

Markus almost puked. He was standing above her, and he couldn’t do a damn thing. Someone on the other side of the internet was programing Susan. Unless he could do something, it wouldn’t be long before that pistol was the last thing she remembered. 

This had never happened to Markus before. He hadn’t entered someones state of mind. Why now? 

It suddenly occurred to Markus that his encounter with Tennis Shoe might have changed him somehow—giving him the power to seek other suicide seekers, like him. He lost three days. He had been in a coma. And he was never the same. Why did he have to go into the Zoo? Non of this would have happened. None of it!

None the less, there he was, standing over someone who sparked him, stimulated every cell in his human body. And he was in it. The Shadow was responsible. How could he defeat it? He was just a psychology graduate. And 40k a year wasn’t going to pay for this, pay for a war with Shadow. 

Markus watched Susan’s tablet play a video of a bat hanging in a cave as it grew in size, until it was staring at him, haunting him, threatening him. Markus’ heart rattled like a stalled truck going the wrong way on the highway. He was scared. 

“Hello, Suicide Man.” A chilling voice said in Markus’s interior mind. 

No one new that name—no one but Alice. And she never told anyone. Because, Markus’ family had died in a plain crash, when he was a child. There was only one explanation. It was him, The Shadow.

“Long time no see.” The voice trailed like a lion’s deep roar. “Would you like to play with me?”

That voice haunted him as a child—almost taking his life. Susan’s kitchen, like an old black and white Polaroid picture, smelled of earth and mould—of death. Her blue eye was the only beacon of hope. And it followed Markus, helplessly.

“You hold no power over me, Shadow. Your digital tentacle stops here.”

The Shadow laughed like Jabba the Hutt. “Remember the scars on your wrists, Suicide Man?” He tapped them on the book shelf against the wall. “Pistols are so much easier.” A tall black creature, wading in cold air, walked to the kitchen table and spun the pistol. It scratched the formica and stopped pointed at Markus. “Come on. I dare you. Just point it, and pull it. And it’s over.” It’s elongated face revealed its crooked teeth. “You know you want it.”

  Markus hadn’t lost control. He was piecing together the puzzle. He was inside Susan’s state of mind for a reason. Tennis Shoe had mysteriously passed this gift to him. How? That was the million dollar question. But, why, was more relevant. Markus understood his role in the game. He was the voice of the undead—the suicide seekers. He was Suicide Man—the protector. And his soul purpose was to defeat The Shadow.

Markus handled the pistol and pointed it at The Shadow. The internet ghost swirled like black smoke, reshaping directly before the pistol. It smelled like rotting earth. Markus nostrils closed, his heart thrashing. He felt dirty, like his spirit was covered in cotton candy. The pistol shook in his hand, slowly tipping it’s barrel under Markus’ chin. 

“Slowly, Suicide Man. Slowly.”

Markus felt Shadow’s cold hands on his wrist, forcing it back, forcing his trigger finger closer and closer. 

“Slowly. Carefully.” 

Susan’s blue eyes strained behind her pale China figurine facade. She was trapped inside, like a sea crab. If she could only help. 

“Slowly. Carefully.” The Shadow hissed.

The weight of chains bound Markus in his dark thoughts. Just pull the damn trigger, he thought. The Shadow had been his biggest fear. Markus could simply boom into the fabric of the universe, and let the world (that abandoned him as a child), destroy itself. 

“Click. Click, Suicide Man. Click. Click.”

I need you! Susan said telepathically to Markus. Help me, please.

Like smelling salts under a boxer’s nose, Markus jolted and fired the pistol at the Shadow, forcing him back into the darkness. It screamed and flailed, revealing its weakness, it’s cowardice. Markus pulled the trigger over and over, until Susan grasped his hand. As she stood, the pale China imprisoning her broke and fell to the floor. Colour filled the room like blood refilling exsanguinated veins. She grabbed his cheeks and kissed him.

* * *

Markus walked through the Traymore Church doors and entered room 217. The sign on the glazed pane of glass read, TALK BEFORE YOU ACT! Markus’ FBI contact followed him inside and sat next to him. A circle of suicide seekers held coffees and smoked cigarettes.

In the aftermath, Susan convinced Markus to publicize his gift, and he became Suicide Man—a hero to the suicide seekers. Shadow Man will forever exist. But now he has an enemy. And humanity has become stronger. 

What are you watching online?