It is not easy being a gentleman without a shadow.

Reggie Upton – formerly Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton – had been without one since magnanimously sacrificing his to the creature known as the ‘Marsh-Thing’, for the sake of his fellow islanders. He thought it would be no great loss. However, for a sacrifice to mean anything, it has, by definition, to be a great loss. Within a very short time its absence weighed heavily on Reggie’s mind. Wherever he walked, light did not follow him properly. He stood out, quite literally – and on Hopeless, that is never a good idea.

Philomena Bucket had been sympathetic from the outset, determined that the shadow should be returned. Pyralia Skant, on the other hand, was indifferent, seeing the sacrifice as being necessary, but even she confessed that the sight of Reggie strolling across a lantern-lit room, perfectly visible while the floor remained blank beneath him, was a trifle unsettling. Granny Bucket muttered darker things about a man without a shadow being halfway to a corpse. Reggie himself tried to carry on with his usual insouciance, though he admitted privately to Drury the skeletal hound, who would be very unlikely, not to say unable, to repeat something told in confidence, that he felt “quite unfinished, “like a boiled egg without a spoon.”

It was Bartholomew Middlestreet who first mentioned the Lamp of the Penitent.

“It’s mentioned in an old document I found in the museum,” he said, as though that were sufficient explanation. It was only when Granny Bucket fixed him with a spectral eye that it occurred to Bartholomew that it might be a good idea to expand on this nugget of information. 

“It seems that it came here with a boatload of monks, centuries ago. The story is that it was lit once a year to coax back the shades of the penitent. Shadows, spirits, the bits of you that slip loose when you’ve been a bit careless.” 

He paused and gave Reggie a reassuring grin.

“If your shadow is still trapped by the Marsh-Thing, the lantern could call it home again.”

“Well, we all know where my shadow is,” said Reggie, brightening. “But where the deuce is this dashed lamp kept?”

“It’s not too far from the Marsh-Thing’s lair,” Bartholomew replied. “And housed in a ruined chapel, dedicated to St Ermintrude.”

“I can’t say that I’ve heard of her or her chapel,” said Philomena doubtfully.

“According to the museum records, she’s quite obscure,” explained Bartholomew. “Patron saint of Marsh Dwellers apparently …”

“And this chapel is out in the marshes?”

Bartholomew nodded.

“Just a stone’s throw away from the Marsh-Thing?” suggested Philomena, warily.

“That would depend very much upon the size of the stone, and who was throwing it,” said Bartholomew, trying to sound positive.  

“Well at least my shadow won’t have to go too far to find me,” said Reggie. 

“You’ve all forgotten one thing,” broke In Granny Bucket, who had been unusually quiet until now.

“You sacrificed your shadow to stop the monster terrorising the islanders,” she said. “It’s unlikely to give it up without a fight.”

The ruins of St. Ermintrude’s Chapel lay where the boggy ground was at its most treacherous. Accompanied by Philomena, Granny Bucket and Drury (who insisted on carrying a femur as if it were a map), Reggie made his way through the reeds.

They found the chapel door half-swallowed by mud. Philomena muttered a charm to coax it open; Granny supplied a glare that would have split granite, and the stones of the ruin yawned like an old and obedient dog.

Inside lay the dust of centuries, perfumed by the stale reek of the marsh. Resting on top of a cracked altar sat the lantern. It was simple ironwork, yet within its glass a faint glow smouldered, though no candle burned.

“The light of repentance,” said Philomena softly. “Or perhaps the light of regret. Those things are not too far apart.”

Reggie, without a second thought, lifted the lantern and raised it high. The glow thickened, spilling over the stone like honey, and although the lamp shone brighter, the chamber seemed to darken. 

And then it came.

Not a shadow cast by Reggie, but a shadow seeking him: a slinking, upright silhouette, moving as though through water, with his own outline unmistakably stamped upon it. It crept from the wall, thin and famished.

Philomena gasped. Granny hissed. Drury barked enthusiastically, attempting to catch it in his teeth.

“Steady on, old fellow,” Reggie murmured, extending his hand. “I believe this one is mine.”

The shadow wavered, as though reluctant, then lunged. It clung to him, wrapping round his boots, his hands, his face, before settling into its rightful place at his heels. Reggie staggered, then stood taller than he had for days. He stamped one foot experimentally; the shadow obeyed.

“By Jove,” he whispered. “I’m whole again.”

But Granny Bucket was frowning.

“When the Marsh-Thing realises his hostage has gone,” she said, “there will be big trouble.”

As she spoke the glow within the lamp dimmed almost to nothing, the last ember flickering against the glass.

For a moment all was still, then the light winked out entirely. A susurrus of whispers filled the chapel, like dozens of unseen voices sighing at once. Something unseen shifted in the shadows beyond the lantern’s reach.

Granny Bucket shook her ghostly head. 

“That lamp loosened more than your shadow, and now the Marsh-Thing is waking up, you mark my words”

They each stood frozen to the spot, wondering what could be done. Every second that slipped by felt like an hour, then Drury barked and Philomena caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. 

The old hound was wagging his tail at something, or someone, materialising next to Reggie. 

“Annie,” Reggie gasped. “Is that you? I thought you’d deserted me long ago.”

The figure standing next to him was that of a short, quite pretty woman in her late thirties. 

In his younger days in India, Reggie had enjoyed a passionate relationship with a mystic named Annie Besant, who had introduced him to various occult practices. Before they parted, Annie taught Reggie how to create a thought-form, a Tulpa, in her image. The Tulpa had been a presence in the old soldier’s life for almost forty years, but since his arrival on Hopeless she had been less in evidence. 

Philomena and Granny saw the thought-form blow Reggie a kiss. Before he could respond she had drifted away like smoke, seeping through the chapel wall, towards the lair of the Marsh-Thing. Reggie stared after her, suddenly understanding what was happening, and aware that his last link To Annie Besant had gone forever. 

They left the crypt in silence, each conscious of the marshes seeming far darker than when they had entered. 

Back at the Squid and Teapot, Drury deposited the femur on the hearthrug and wagged his tail, apparently unconcerned. Granny muttered charms under her breath. Philomena tried to smile for Reggie’s sake. 

“Did you know that Annie was still around?” she asked, cautiously.

Reggie smiled ruefully, and nodded.

“I was being a fool hanging on to her like that, and thinking that she could ever replace the real Annie,” he said. “She was a thought-form, nothing more. And everybody knows that a Tulpa has no proper existence.”

“I don’t agree,” said Philomena. “She chose to take the place of your shadow. That’s not the actions of a mindless entity.”

“But without me she’ll fade away eventually,” said Reggie. “Then that dashed Marsh-Thing will be looking for its little trinkets again.”

“Then we’ll have to cross that particular bridge when we come to it,” sighed Philomena. 

She gazed gloomily out of the window, where, beyond the inn, the darkness seemed to move of its own accord.