Last Night
© McLean Swanson
Writing is calming, writing is cooling, writing is therapy. I need to write, now, I need to.
Last night my English workshop let out at 11:13 PM.
As I left class and stepped into the chilly night air I could see my breath before me, rolling out of my mouth like smoke erupting from a volcano, like cold air pouring out of a refrigerator. I stood with one hand wrapped around my messenger bag's khaki-colored strap and the other tucked away in the front pocket of my jeans, mesmerized by my fading breath against the black sky.
Jeremy, a colleague from my English workshop, stepped out behind me. A white earbud dangled in front of him while the other shouted into his ear. Attached to the other ear was a cell phone. I caught a few words as he passed by, “…some piss-smelling homeless dude was bugging me earlier. I told him to get lost…” he said into the cell. Jeremy was a smart-ass with rugged good looks and a knack for portraying “damsels in distress,” in his epic short stories. I figured he was bound to write sketches for shows like Saturday Night Live or Mad TV . He walked off into the night in sandals and jeans, gesticulating over the phone.
The bus stop was through the parking lot and down a block to my right. According to the schedule pinned to the bus stop sign's midsection, my next ride would be arriving at 11:33 PM. I had twenty minutes to kill and had nothing to keep me busy—my iPod was back at my apartment, charging its battery on my desk. I made my way through the vacant parking spaces and stepped onto the sidewalk when I noticed something unusual about the bus stop ahead.
Apart from the buildings on campus and the faraway intersection, the only light shed on this portion of street came from the lone bus stop and its single fluorescent bulb. The light hung ten feet above ground in the corrugated overhang's rafters, shooting its beams out at such an angle that the shadows of those waiting for the bus stretched across the sidewalk. And last night, there was a shadow.
No one had ever waited with me at the bus stop this late, and I wasn't prepared to enjoy the company of anyone who would, either. I'm not much of a social butterfly and have only a small circle of close-knit friends that have been together since the beginning of high school, so I'm not accustomed to talking to strangers.
But this, this was different.
The shadow became clearer as I drew closer to the bus stop. The stop's washed out colors reminded me of the bright but foreboding hospital wings in low budget horror flicks that fascinated me when I was younger. The yellowed “I'm lovin' it.” advertisement caged behind a thin sheet of plexiglass separated me and the stranger. The ad sagged with the weight of time like skin on a wise man's face; its golden arches set against a sea of red lay hidden behind a display of colorful words spray-painted by someone with a rebellious streak.
I crossed into the light, glanced at the intruder, and sat down on the nearest edge of the bench. He wore dark denim jeans and a tattered black pullover sweatshirt. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and his fingers intertwined. His greasy ear-length hair draped down around the sides of his face, and his ashen grey eyes had the haunting look of calculated coldness as he stared off into the night.
I checked my watch, 11:20 PM. Thirteen more minutes until the bus arrives and I can escape. He knew, somehow, of the unease he was choking me with. I could read it in the gradual up-curving corner of his mouth—he was enjoying it, relishing it. I imagined that this is what it feels like to be at a funeral when you know that the one responsible for putting the man in the wooden box is standing next to you. A creeping terror inched its way through my entire being, chilling me to the bone and raising gooseflesh from my skin. Those thirteen minutes felt like an eternity.
I looked at my watch again, 11:23 PM. Only three minutes had passed. I looked to my left, nothing but darkness, and to my right, beyond Tattered Sweatshirt, a distant and deserted intersection. I looked down and the icy fist that held my spine tightened its grip, sending a shockwave of fear down to my hands and feet, jolting my nerves awake—his shadow was darker than mine.
“You anxious, boy?” he said, his voice huskier than I imagined; it sounded reminiscent of Nick Nolte's grainy smoke-lined baritone from Cape Fear .
“What?” I asked, caught off guard by his casual manner. My tongue was dry and it stuck to the roof of my mouth like a magnet stuck to a refrigerator door.
“I asked you if you were anxious. Now, are ya, boy ?” he turned to face me.
“Well, uh, no. I'm not anxious,” I licked my dry lips.
“You coulda fooled me. That's the second time you checked your watch in the past five minutes. If you'da asked me I woulda said you're anxious, scared, even.”
“O-okay.” I managed. I don't stutter, but his eyes coated my mouth with a thick layer of invisible peanut butter. I couldn't swallow it.
“There's no need to be scared, boy,” he said, “what's your name?”
I swallowed hard and my throat made an audible click, “Alex,” I said,” Alex Gosselin.” I didn't lie, I felt that he would know.
“French, isn't it?”
“Yes, i-it is.”
“Name's Lucius. Pleased to meet-cha.” He leaned over and stuck his hand out, waiting for mine. I hesitated for a moment but returned the favor and clasped his outstretched palm, gripping firmly to reassure myself. After a few shakes he didn't let go; his hand tightened around mine and he pulled himself closer, sliding across the bench, his darker shadow following suit. “You've got a firm hand there, boy.” I could smell his cold and rancid breath as it passed by his chapped lips—a fetid blend of stale booze and rotting meat.
“Th-thanks,” I sputtered. A wild smile cracked across his face to reveal crooked and neglected teeth rooted in putrid gums—they looked bruised and open sores were oozing amber colored pus. This mouth had never seen a dentist.
“So what brings ya here this fine evenin'?” he asked, releasing my crushed hand, showcasing the night before us.
“I just got out of c-class, and I'm going to take the bus b-back to my apartment.” I've got to stop stuttering, I thought. My hand ached so I massaged it lightly with the other. I looked down at my wrist, 11:28 PM.
Five more minutes.
“Ah, college. Never went, ma-self,” he said, exhaling, “people've taught me more than books ever could've. You'd be surprised by what hides in the depths of the human soul, waiting for its chance to come out.” He stared off into the darkness, and another wave of terror flooded my body—something was amiss.
“What do you mean?” I asked, searching for what felt wrong.
The corners of his mouth curved upwards and split open as he laughed, “I mean what people say when they've nothin' to lose—when their bet's ‘re made, their cards ‘re down, and the odds 're against ‘em.” His eyes moved toward me and he tilted his head to the back with a sickening crunch, he looked like a marionette with severed strings, “Soon, boy, you'll understand.” Turning his head again, he chuckled. He motioned towards the intersection beyond, “that your ride?”
Shocked, I leaned to the side and looked behind him. He was right—two bright headlights illuminating the street and a digital ticker above the windshield that read ARROYO DRIVE signaled the bus's arrival. I checked my watch, 11:30 PM. The bus was early.
“Yeah that's my bus.” I stood and looped the khaki strap around my shoulder and gave him my hand again. He shook and released it, grinned too large of a grin, and said, “See ya ‘round, boy.”
Then it hit me, a final wave of nauseating horror stole the air from my lungs. Had I not stepped in the path of his shadow and felt its penetrating coldness through my pant leg, I wouldn't have noticed what was, or wasn't, coming out of his mouth. There weren't volcanic eruptions spewing from his mangled teeth and gums when he exhaled—his refrigerator breath was missing. His disgusting breath on my face was cold, his breath was cold— that's impossible, I thought. But his shadow was darker than all of the others and I felt ice along my leg as I stood within it.
I stepped up onto the bus and dropped the fee into a slit in the roof of a small metallic box. The middle aged driver with tufts of white hair atop his head closed the doors behind me and I glanced back at the bus stop. Lucius was still there, leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his knees, looking straight at me. He wore another display of teeth and infected gums, he was smiling. The bus driver didn't see him—couldn't see him. Lucius wasn't getting on the bus, he didn't need a ride, he was right where he wanted to be.
I sat hard on a plastic seat facing away from Lucius and the bus stop. A creeping fear still echoed within me, reverberating off of every nerve. I looked through the window behind me as we pulled away from the bus stop.
Lucius was gone.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again, still nothing. The bus driver didn't see him, and now I couldn't, either. Was Lucius real? I began to doubt his existence but I thought of his rancid breath and the piercing chill of his shadow against my leg. They were too clear in my mind for him to have been some ghost conjured by my imagination.
And now this: Jeremy died last night. I woke up this morning and turned on the local news, FREAK ACCIDENT it reported. Jeremy was hit by a bus and then dragged under its wheels forty two feet before the bus stopped. The driver— my driver —was being interviewed, “I was just drivin' down the road here mindin' my business and then outta nowhere this kid jumps in my way and WHAM! ” he slams his hands together in front of the camera, “He kinda stuck to the windshield and slid downward underneath the bus—a wheel caught one of his legs and didn't let go. Man I ain't never been so scared in my life. When he was stuck on the glass I could see his eyes—somethin' was wrong with ‘em. I ain't never seen anythin' like that in a man's eyes before. They looked like death had been chasin' ‘em and had finally caught up.”
My legs buckled and I fell to the couch with the remote still in hand. Jeremy died a few minutes after class ended, minutes after I met Lucius, minutes after I stepped off the bus—the same bus that hit Jeremy.
I was overwhelmed, suffocating from the rush of thoughts, alone in my apartment. I need to write this down , I thought, I need to focus and write this down.
Here I am, sitting at my desk in my bedroom, writing it down, and breathing normally—writing therapy.
***
It's a nice day outside. The sun's golden rays of morning light are dancing through a break in the clouds over the apartments across the street. A raven perched atop a nearby lamppost caws as it spreads its wings, lifting off in silence.
Is that...?
***
A man wearing a tattered sweatshirt and dark jeans relaxing on a bench at the foot of Alex's apartment turned and cocked his head to the side, smiling.
Crooked teeth and amber pus. A putrid grin.
Alex tripped over his desk chair backing away from the window and fell to the carpet with a thud . He scrambled to his feet and ran to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
Outside, Lucius laughed.