It began on any ordinary day in December, but ended differently from any other. Only when the shadows were darkest was when it came out, and when night came, it disappeared into the darkness leaving no trace. It started on a day all kids look forward to, but after the incident, children only looked forward to any other day. It began the day school let out for Christmas.

The year was 1967. Buffalo was the coldest of cities in the times of darkness. Winter came quickly, and left slowly. Every child sat in their seats anticipating the moment of freedom, when the final bell would ring, and the cold of winter would fill their bones on the joyful walk home. Thoughts filled their heads of break with no work to burden them. But none of them had thoughts of what would actually happen. When the joyful moment came, the children all hurried out of their wooden desks to gather together their winter supplies. Cheerful chatter filled the one hall of the small school house. Amidst all of it was one small boy, who would change how they thought of the winter.

"How about we play some hockey?" Billy Hanson asked the fellow upper graders, the sun already setting on the five of them, including the boy. That one small boy who would change the winter break for everyone. His brother David was in the eighth grade, and as a dog had to follow its master, the boy had to follow his brother. The small boy's parents were both working to pay the bills in their home, so the small boy had to follow his brother around to his activities. As the older boys agreed, the small boy looked at his feet, only hoping to make it to his small home, the only place he felt comfort. The boy struggled with anxiety and at the hearth of the fireplace was the only place he felt safe. He would never experience the warmth of it on his small body again.

As the boys made their way down to the lake, the small boy stayed behind, sitting at the base of an old, barren tree. His brother noticed but didn't push for the boy to come any closer. He knew that once the boy was set on something, he didn't change his opinion. As the older boys hurried down onto the ice, the boy sat, unmoving. Everything changed when his hat blew from off of his small head.

As the boy sat, propped against his tree, a large gust of the cold New York wind blew past, shaking the bare limbs of the resting place of the boy, but more significantly blowing his small knit cap from his head. It took the boy a moment to notice, but as another gust blew past and iced his ears, he finally took notice of his unprotected head. Scrambling from his rest, he spotted the source of warmth in a pile of branches, come from a recently destroyed tree in yet another blizzard. The low sun in the sky cast long shadows across the ground as the boy trudged through the deep banks of snow to reach his hat. He finally reached the brush pile and reached out to snatch his cap. Yet another gust came, blowing the cap just out of his reach, and he had to climb over the pile to get to it.

Climbing that high took the breath out of his young lungs, and he sat, resting at the top of the pile. It was only when he looked up that he noticed it. A shadow. Not like any other shadows, but the shadow of a man. A tall, slim man, with a very tall top hat. One arm hung from his side, but the other was empty. The small boy sat, staring at it, thinking it something of his imagination, when it took a step. The jerky, limp continued toward the small boy. The boy sat petrified in fear, the dark form continuing toward him unwavering in the large gust of wind. Other shadows shifted and shrank, but the one of the man stayed constant, slowly limping closer. Coming to his senses, the boy started making his way down the other side of the large pile. A branch snagged his winter coat, the only one he had, and he struggled with it, panicking and trying to yank it free. Sharp breaths came from the boy's mouth as the shadow approached him. Closer and closer and closer. Until the boy was enveloped by the sheet of darkness, high pitched screams echoing from his vocal chords as his air was cut off. Until he couldn't scream any more, and the shadow left, the boy's limp body tumbling down the pile, nothing left but the small, raw bones, skin tendon and skin still coating them.

At the bottom of the pile, at the bottom of the hill, the boys playing hockey paused, hearing a scream. David, fearing for his brother, frantically looking for his younger brother. The tree that he had sat at was empty. As he still looked on, a small, knit cap drifted down the hill, carried by the wind, and landed at his tightly tied skates.

The second account of the 'shadow man' as the newspaper would call him in the future, happened only three-three and a half to be precise-days later. It started with a teenager, and ended in another death. After the death of the small boy, multiple suspects were put on trial, but what happened with the teenager, would take all suspicion away from the suspects.

Tom Anderson was a troubled young man-his father was an alcoholic and his mother had died at birth. And as it went so many times, he fell into addiction. First it was liquor that he found in the cellar. Next it was hard whiskey. Crack cocaine followed in order, and Tom was way deep in trouble. He had murdered a neighbor's cat, while high, and when approached, struck the owner, leaving permanent wounds. Thoughts of suicide constantly flickered on and off his mind, an attempt going wrong. One fateful day, the man met his fate, and never even stood close to the powder of cocaine again.

It came on December 17, 1967. Tom would have been fresh out of school, if not for dropping out two years earlier. He was at the bar, Localman's Tavern, trying to get away from the world. The bartenders knew he was underage, but they also knew what would happen if they refused him a drink. Bar fights were common for Tom, and he was almost always the victor, sending his victim to the hospital most of the time. Curly, the owner of the tavern, and a short old man with graying hair knew that. Tom slammed his large mug down on the table, almost falling off of his stool with the effort.

"Gimme' some more," He told the tenders, a grogginess accompanying his voice. He was far past being drunk as this was his twelfth mug, but he had no limits. Hurrying, not wanting to upset Tom, one of the bartenders, Marv, hurried to refill his glass. The time it took to wait, was evidently too long for Tom, as he lunged over the bar, snagging Marv's shirt by the collar.

"You hurry up," he snarled into the middle-aged man's ear, a strong scent of alcohol on his breath. Then, just as quickly as he had risen, he collapsed, unconscious from the amount of beer in his body. Marv sighed, this being a regular routine.

"Hurry up, before he wakes," Marv called into the back. Two young cooks rushed from the door, each of them grabbing under one of Tom's hairy armpits, and pulled him through the double doors of the entrance. Not caring about the condition of his state, the burly men tossed him onto the sidewalk, leaving him for a passerby. That was how Tom awoke later that night at sunset, when the shadows are longest.

Tom slowly blinked his eyes, the view already blurry, the alcohol not helping. His eyes went into focus and then unfocused, this pattern repeating itself four or five times before they were finally adjusted. The young man rolled over to his side, hands bracing himself on the ground as he tried to stand up. The drinking proved to be too much for him and he fell back down, vomiting up his lunch from a few hours ago, and landing in it. Trying the best he could while drunk, he wiped the sludge away, missing most of it. Again he tried to stand. And again he failed. He cursed as he landed hard on his elbow, pain shooting up and down his fragile body. By now the vomit was coating his face, and he made no effort to clean it off. One last time, he tried. And for the third time, he failed, landing on his dirty face, bloodying his nose. The man laid there for three minutes before crawling over to a bench to help assist him.

As Tom neared the old, uncomfortable New York bench, he noticed a man of notable character sitting there. His whole body was dark, almost as if he were a shaded-in outline. His figure was tall and thin, a large top hat sitting atop his head. The most peculiar thing about him-besides from the obvious fact that Tom hadn’t noticed- was his mouth. Every part of the man was as dark as a shadow, in fact he practically was a shadow, except for his teeth. Long rows of tiny needlepoint teeth lined the inside of his mouth, almost like a great white shark’s, and a long muscular tongue, shot in and out between each gap, cleaning small bits of meat away. The obvious fact, of course, was that this mysterious man didn’t have a shadow.

Tom approached the man as cautiously as he could, which wasn’t too cautiously, assuming he was drunk. The shadow man looked up, turning his head with a sharp twist, and with a voice that sent shivers down Tom’s back, he spoke.

“Hello, Tom,”

It was a dignified voice, one that belonged in the 18th century, yet there was something unnerving about it, almost as if it were fake. The young man only gazed at the shadowy figure, for peculiar things-such as strangers knowing your name- don’t come as a shock when your blood alcohol level is 0.29%. Tom stared deeply at the man before asking his question.

“Whouldf joue fhlp ee,” Everything came out in a slur, barely recognizable, so he tried again, "Would yous help me et on mine owen feet?” Again, it came out in a slur, but it was at least recognizable enough for the figure to interpret.

“Come again?” he asked politely, at this point playing with the man as a cat plays with a mouse. Tom focused on his speech, and he spoke once more.

“Would you mind helping me get to mine own feet,” he spoke. Kindly, the man rose to his feet, and offered his hand to Tom. The young man, grateful for someone who would help, offered his hand up to the stranger to pull up. Instead, the stranger gripped his hand tightly, and leaned down in Tom’s face, nothing seeming friendly about him anymore. His sharp teeth stretched into a frown that covered up the bottom of his entire face.

“Hello Tom,” he stated again, “My name is Theodore Barkridge, but you may see me as only a shadow. Would you like to play with me? It’s been so long since I have had a play pal.” Tom certainly did not want to play with this strange man he had just met,even in the state he was in, he could tell something wasn’t normal. But something about the way his teeth shined in the setting sun prompted him to say yes. Try as hard as he might, he couldn’t resist. There was just something so tempting about playing with the man.

“Of course,” he replied through gritted teeth. He did not say what he wanted to at all. The shadow man smiled, and his frown turned into a vicious smile, stretching across his face.

“Good,” he told Tom. As soon as the words got out of his mouth, he lunged with his face, mouth gaping large at Tom’s throat, the needle-sharp teeth glinting. Tom thrashed about, but everything about him felt sludgy. The man’s teeth sank deep into Tom’s throat, as he started pumping his jaw up and down, chewing. Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed, breath gone. The man slowly extracted his teeth, standing up and glancing at his prey before the sun went down, and the man disappeared from sight, leaving the body lying in wait for someone to stumble upon.