This story is long and detailed, a bit old. I’ve jotted and recollected the events the best I can.
I suppose, to start, I hadn’t always considered myself a follower.
Deep into the night I would wander as a grown woman, the city lights streaking upon my facial features, for all the eyes in the windows to gaze down upon. I know they see - but I had no understanding of one far beyond a man. Now, a man, I’m well used to one. I’ve known man my whole life, and one is in fact the reason why a pocket knife remains in my handbag. I anticipate the movements in the shadows by the side of the jazz club, yet stroll by in an almost ladylike fashion - traditionally and aimlessly.
I recall walking down the stairs to the subway station, with the intent of heading to my small apartment - it calls me from the city’s bright lights in favour of a cute, small dimness above my kitchen counter, a comfortingly claustrophobic sensation.
I apologise for the verbosity, I’m a poet in my spare time.
I’d noticed no one down here, it was drab, dingy and dimly lit. And it is generally not very comforting in this part of town. I had regretted being in this area, knowing full well my idiocy and manic depression would likely swing me right back around here in a few weeks time. I heard some clatters in the distance that reverberated the length of the tunnels, and clasped my fists to pay no attention, yet doing so by that action alone.
I felt opposed to sitting down on a bench nearby until the flickering light above it settles itself on. I stood there for a minute to ensure it wasn’t playing a trick on me, and I had a seat with roughly five minutes until the train was to arrive.
My breath readied itself, no alcohol in it. Tonight was calm.
BZZT- (click)
With a sound similar to that, the light above me shut off completely. My body was shrouded in darkness as the other fluorescent tubes remained aglow. Things felt quite uncomfortable. The clattering was heard again, and I could not tell if it was louder that time, or my discomfort made it feel that way. That was a sober thought I didn’t have often.
From the distance shuttled the train’s noise, in through the path of the underground station, the doors stopping in front of me. I boarded it, did not look left or right and took a seat directly to the left of the entry.
When I looked to the left, I saw two people. One was closer to me, and quickly switched his glance awkwardly, previously situated at or around me. An older gentleman, with a white beard obscuring part of his neck, wearing a small hat. He seemed traditional - but the other one I saw? Leaning at the back of the compartment, far away from myself, they had appeared as if they were a black mist of darkness, as if every piece of clothing on their body was the harshest shade of black you could find, with no true distinguishable feature about themselves, apart from some hat atop his head which I could barely make out from where I was sitting. I thought a fedora, but it did not stick out very far.
The bearded fellow walked over and sat across from me. I was not sure what to expect, but my heart rate suggested it likely wasn’t good. He opened his mouth and spoke.
“It’s lonely down here sometimes, honestly.”He seemed relaxed as he said it, and the tone was as if this subway was his home, and he’s just lounging on an armchair in his living room. “I’ve seen you down here a few times. Last time you didn’t look so good.”
My face flushed crimson with embarrassment. I’d have preferred to forget last Monday, when I was groggily slouching onto a seat on what I believed to be an empty compartment. For some reason, I had trusted it more than a taxi that night. Perhaps impaired judgment, or perhaps a wise decision. The night typically decides that, not me.
“Y’know, I’m around here a lot, and I just want to be sure. Are you doing okay?”
I was a bit taken aback. I had never seen this man before in my life, and here he was trying to check in on my well-being, or so he says, given that he’s noticed me before, perhaps making note of my sobbing last week, like he’d see me again. I didn’t say much, instead, looked at the ground, and as I started to mumble an answer, maybe he began to realise how uncomfortable I felt. He continued to speak.
“I know I’m a funny looking guy, but I know some guys around here that are funny deep down, if you catch my drift. Just take care of yourself late at night. It’s not safe around here sometimes.”
I made note of it. “Thank you,” I responded. “Pardon me, I’ve never noticed you before.” My guard still up, I engaged in conversation with him.
“I’m pretty quiet, I’m not a howler monkey like some teenagers a few blocks over. How the hell their parents let them out that late is beyond me. But I’m just old, so..” A generational thing, he seems to imply.
“I get lonely down here, honestly. I just figured I’d make conversation with you since I don’t do so very often with a lot of people. Nice to meet you, I’m Paul.”
He extends his hand and I shake it, hiding my confusion. As he looks to the side once we’re done shaking hands, I do so as well - directly to that strange shadow person I had seen before. So Paul here says he’s lonely, why didn’t he speak to that person instead? Perhaps he had, already. If he was truly as lonely as he was, would he choose to break off a conversation quickly and easily? He’d cling onto one for dear life. I mean, I know the feeling of full loneliness. It’s a desolate place where you remain with ears covered and eyes closed. The world is spinning past your discretion. You’d look anywhere for some kind of fulfilment. Did Paul here look at the end of the compartment?
Perhaps he does as I do. He keeps his guard up.
We conversed about the city for a time, about dumb construction popping up everywhere out of nowhere, ridiculous drivers, recent downpours of constant rain, mostly in a friendly pessimism that bridles his speech more than mine. Still, I certainly did not trust him. I’ve met those nicer who’ve done as wrong as can be. I got off one stop before my own. I bid him farewell.
“Thanks for speaking,” he told me. “Not often I meet a decent stranger for a change.
”I gave him a small, wry smile. “Thank you too. Have a good night.” As I departed, I looked over to my right. The shadowy figure was still there, with the exact same posture, completely unmoved.. I stepped out into the badly lit station, made an ugly green by the lighting fixtures. The train rolled by, and just before I left, I watched as the compartment passed. Through the window, I could see, the shadow I had seen there was absent. There was nothing and no one there. I looked and could not see a soul around.
I walked up the stairs into the gleam of the night, three blocks from my residence. I walked through the somewhat lit neighbourhood to my somewhat decent apartment on the corner of a somewhat busy intersection, and could see my window from the other sidewalk. I notice the light’s on. Had I left it like that? It wouldn’t have been like me.
Cross the road, head inside, up the stairs, down the hallway, rustle for my keys.. what’s that sound? I hear from the interior of my apartment a very distinct ride cymbal, a very distinct brass section, and even the slightest hints of Charles Mingus’ double bass. Unlocking my door and stepping inside, I come to find the record player is on, and spinning on it is a copy of The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady.
I’m moved. I quickly shut and locked the door, then took the needle off of the LP, then turned off the amplifier. I’m shaking. I say in a slightly hushed voice:
“Who the fuck is in here?”
I quickly scampered to the knife holder near the stove, grabbing myself a large old butcher; my palm had quivered at its attempts to keep my grip steady. I sidestepped across the living area and approached the bedroom door, slightly ajar. With a quick exhale, I lightly kicked it open completely. I poked my head in and viewed everything of the room. Nothing is noticeably out of place. I opened the drawers to my bedside table - everything was intact. Atop the table was this month’s romance novel and.. a sticky note attached to it. That was new.
I looked behind me once more, then took the large note off the book. I needed to ensure everything was secure in order for me to read it. The bathroom and the closets were both devoid of anyone else, let alone any sign of previous entry.
The couch was the first thing to welcome me all night.
The note read:
HELLO I KNOW THIS IS PROBABLY JARRING BUT PLEASE READ
I DO NOT MEAN ANY HARM, I AM NOT MALICIOUS
I DO NOT HAVE A HOME, YOUR DOOR WAS UNLOCKED (to which I cursed in response)
I HAVE TAKEN EXACTLY ONE BANANA AND ONE TANGERINE
I THANK YOU FOR YOUR GENEROSITY
PLEASE DO NOT BE ALERT
I somehow feel compelled to believe the story, yet something felt off. Something was fabricated. This didn’t feel right. No name was attached, albeit understandably. One doesn’t snitch their own break-ins.
PLEASE DO NOT BE ALERT
I was particularly unsettled by that line. It was an odd demand from someone who had just trespassed my fucking home, but it could manifest itself in other methods.. be alert. Alert of something else? Why shouldn’t I be?
My face, tired. My legs, tired. My heart, aching, my eyes, refused to remain awake. I knew I should probably report this to someone. The neighbour, perhaps. I get up from the couch and fall instantly. My world is asleep and the city fades from me.
Morning comes harshly with a cough and a sputter, a strong urge to vomit. Once I finish doing so, I tread back to the living room, my alarm yet to ring off. I turn on the lights, while walking past the record player, I notice the Mingus record is no longer there.
The work day was consumed by relentless thought, none of which was innocent wandering. I struggled to remember the night before at that time, yet one image remained ingrained in me. The person standing on the other end of the subway, a black hole human standing at the tip of the world from me.
One lone thought treads over.. did they fancy themselves a Mingus?
The day came to a close. As does the next. And the next. I soon took the initiative of moving into another apartment, one only farther down the block - apparently online reviews heralded it as better than the one I was currently in. A breeze of monotony led to my eventual lunchtime forgetfulness of the bizarre events during it. But the nights? Far from it. I become thankful of the fact that firearms are an easy deal here, and the landlord permits them on the premises (albeit I am far from proud of my ownership). The box is in the bottom drawer beside the bed. I did not reopen it for those months. The winter passed, spring took its place, the bottle was closed, the sleep was rarely interrupted. The grifter in the old apartment was a remnant of some time ago.
5 P.M. is the time to clock out. The cafe was a warm and welcome smell for the hour or so I remained typing out the pages of word salad. My ideas were clear. My breaths were clear. Still, so was the document by 7 o’clock.
I treaded home. I shut and locked my door, and within seconds I heard a sound. An audible creak of my old, noisy wooden bed - as if it was waiting to do so as soon as I entered. I uttered a “Hello?”, eliciting no response. I became stiff as a statue, and suddenly seemed to recall a few important words:
PLEASE DO NOT BE ALERT
No chances were going to be taken. I grabbed the same butcher knife from the large holder on the counter as I did before. I pulled out my phone and punched “911” into the keypad.
I said out loud, “I will call the police.”
No response to my idiotic quip. Stupid game, stupid prize.
I quickly unlocked my apartment door in case I needed to exit, a thought that only then had hit me. As I headed back to the kitchen counter, I heard a doorknob twist and the bedroom door open very slowly, but very slightly. I was unable to see the door from the angle in which I was standing, but could hear its hinge’s prolonged scream abruptly pause, then continue. It paused again. Then continued again. Then paused for a last time.
Tears began to well up in my eyes from the transient anxiety building inside my chest. I was becoming desperate.
“Pleasejusttakewhatyouwant.” It came out like one word.
Nothing for a moment. I prepared to hit the call button, then looked up to see a piece of paper held up by a hand from the corner of the door. On it were three words that shook me completely, scribbled with a black permanent marker:
DO
NOT
SCREAM
The page remained in the grip of the hand for a few seconds as I tried to comprehend what it said. Slowly from the doorway, and by slowly, I mean very slowly, to the point where it felt like a sludgy fever dream, emerged a sight that.. Well, we live in a day and age where it is inappropriate to judge one for their looks, but I cannot state what I felt when I saw this person standing from me. It was a mix of confusion and horror, and brought me incredibly close to blatantly disobeying the words on the paper.
This person seemed taller than me, wearing a deep purple suit. The hair was greasy and thin, and partially covered the side of the face, wielding a golden brown complexion, if not darker. Their right ear didn’t seem to be there. Their irises blew out white, with harsh, deep purple bags underneath them. I was so transfixed by this, that it took me some moments to realise the gun in their hand - it was mine.
They crumpled and tucked the paper into their breast pocket, then made a motion with their hand like mine holding the knife, and putting it down. Were they suggesting I do the same? I could not find a better option than to oblige. I set it on the counter and slowly raised my hands. I was too terrified to think of the outcome if I was to hit “call”, but my phone’s screen timeout had likely already activated.
“Take what you want,” is all I say. They walked by very calmly, unblinking, to the side of me, towards the door, but then got closer to me. My heart dropped to the second floor, maybe even the lobby. I backed up, and they reached inside the back pocket of their pants, retrieving and placing on my table a small white card, then the gun. They calmly retreated to the door, and opened in a manner that of which had signified they were aware it was unlocked. They disappeared with the door’s closing.
I stood in awe for a few moments. To the peephole I went, and I silently gazed at the wall outside for a few seconds, with no one else visible. I quietly opened the door, and from side to side, saw no one walking down the sixth floor hallway.
I shut the door behind me and locked it. I looked in every location of my unit and found nothing untouched but the handgun, which reminded me to place it back in the drawer. Just before placing it in, I released the magazine from it. It was empty. I soullessly placed it back and closed the drawer. I then sat on my bed (and cried extremely fucking hard).
After letting my tears flow for around five minutes, I got up and walked back to the kitchen. The card was placed on the counter. With some hesitation, I flipped over the blank side and saw only one thing.
A phone number.
Part 2 of this story here.