The Light Beside the Sea

The young man shivered in the cold storage unit. He rubbed his hands together briskly in an attempt to stay warm and keep his fingers flexible. He must remain steady to complete the delicate work required. A harsh overhead light flooded the space, illuminating from above, but leaving long shadows on the concrete floor. A work light clamped to the bench allowed him a clear view of the shards of pottery laid out before him. He breathed deeply, willing himself to concentrate. These pieces would need to be matched perfectly if these artifacts were to have any value at all. He’d been chosen for this task because of his craftsman-like ability, his extreme attention to detail and his love of these objects. Each piece brought back, smuggled back actually, under great duress. He had no ethical objections as to how all these pieces, perhaps two hundred when all was said and done, were retrieved from their native country. They would be well-cared for, displayed and lauded. Museum quality pieces, in fact. Far better here in the U.S., being restored in an anonymous storage space than laying in the dust of an illiterate and superstitious population. He was sweating in spite of the cold. But now at least his hands were steady as he gently lifted two pieces that promised to fit together perfectly. Some microscopic shards might be missing, but he was sure he could recreate this precious piece almost as it once was when first made. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve and then rubbed his hands on a nearby towel. He pulled thin cotton gloves over his fingers and with the back of his wrist, pushed his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. He was hungry and tired but he didn’t want to stop. This work was too important. If done perfectly, it would ensure his own success at the university. Nothing would stand in the way of his doctorate now. He moved a magnifying glass on a flexible arm closer, studying the two pieces of pottery carefully. He smiled in relief, even the tiny grooves would mesh perfectly. An odor assailed his nose, breaking his concentration. He looked around the utilitarian space. Was something burning outside the unit, some substance that gave off a strange pungent odor? Who knew what went on in a place like this? A warehouse of impersonal rented spaces. For all he knew, people were living here, hunkered down in gritty storage units. He pushed away the thought that these precious items could be in danger from some idiot. Perhaps a homeless person had started a fire to stay warm. Could be anything. He shook his head to drive the thought from his mind and refocus on his work. The smell became stronger. He pulled his eyes away from the magnifying glass and looked around. He was alone in the small space but couldn’t escape the feeling of a presence nearby. A shiver ran up his spine. Nerves, he thought. He was imagining things, but he hadn’t
imagined that odor. He turned back to his task and shuddered as if fingers had stroked the back of his neck. His heart was racing. He took a deep breath and willed himself to concentrate once
more. He really was imagining things. As he bent to his task, he felt it again. Some . .  thing was here. Something was in this space. His hands began to shake. He gently placed the two pieces of pottery on the workbench and stood up, pushing the rolling chair away. He rubbed his eyes. Was that a sound? Perhaps a rat? He shivered uncontrollably. His nerves were getting the best of him. Perhaps he was too exhausted to do the job he needed to do. He should return in the morning after a good night’s sleep. That, and a decent meal.

He eyes swept the space. The odor was gone now, dissipated. But still. He couldn’t shake the impression he was being watched, that someone or something was close to him. Something quite . . . unpleasant. He pulled off the fine cotton gloves and straightened the small work bench. He couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was spooked. It was more than exhaustion or hunger. Something was wrong. What it was he couldn’t put a name to, but perhaps tomorrow, in the light of day, he could shake this feeling. He switched off the work light and pushed the magnifier away. The overhead light left long shadows around the space, empty except for his small work area and a few crates. Yes, he thought, his imagination was working overtime. There was no one here. No one in this unit with him. He shook his head to dispel the feeling. He grabbed his jacket and backpack, fishing his car keys out of his pocket, and lifted the corrugated metal door to the corridor. Blinded temporarily by the bright neon lights, he glanced in both directions. Empty. Not a soul at this hour. He flicked the switch inside the storage unit, plunging it into darkness and stepped out. He closed and locked the entrance and headed down the hallway to the exit door. A sudden chill ran up his spine. He turned quickly only to face a deserted hallway. He regretted his decision to leave but it was too late to go back now. If he was honest with himself, there was no way he wanted to be locked in that storage room. Not tonight. He had to get out of here. A panicked feeling rose in his chest. He hurried down the long corridor, almost in a trot. He’d be fine, he thought, if he could just get to his car. Only a few yards from the rear exit. It would take only a moment or two. He pushed through the outer door and took a deep breath of the chill night air. He felt better immediately. Nothing was wrong. He was just exhausted. He hurried across the concrete parking area and pushed the fob to unlock his car. He glanced back at the brightly lit doorway he had just exited. A man stood by the doorway under a glaring outdoor light. A large bare-chested man with dark skin, his torso covered in markings, glyphs or tattoos that overran the skin of his body, trailing up his neck, his face painted with black and red vertical stripes. Dark eyes burned deep in a solemn face, a heavy collar of feathers, beads and animal claws encircled his neck. A chill ran through him again. The stranger looked like a . . . medicine man, a shaman of sorts from the jungles he had visited not too long ago. What was this strange creature doing here? In San Francisco? It wasn’t just his imagination. Someone had been close all along, had followed his progress down the corridor. The man’s black eyes stared directly at him. A deep sense of fear overwhelmed him. Panicking, he wrenched his driver’s door open. His world went black as the blow struck. The tattooed man was the last thing he would ever see.