I worked security at the Gable-Waterman Buildimg downtown on Fifth South Street. I knew Mr. Lucas for twenty-five years then. Often, he would make late night visits for office work. At the same time I was finally reaching my golden year - stretch, grinding away and pulverizing the last bits of my unexceptional career in the security industry - that point in time we all reach where you would so love to ordain all the world with the disjointed enjambments of all your self - perceived ‘wisdom’. Moreso, you only want to find a thing to do with your boredom and moroseness of age.
One night, very late or very early, Mr. Lucas came into the building. We were on such informal and friendly terms that I often would withhold demands that he even sign in. Everybody liked the amiable Mr. Lucas. Some even joked that with his tan skin, bright teeth, and golden hair, he was Odysseus incarnate. This night, however, something was different about him. He came in, dressed as usual in a $1,500 suit, and passed by me without even saying ‘hi’. The only difference was that his tie was loose and crooked, as if it had been tugged at.
He looked forward, then back, then all around with a detached air, and again, this routine repeating itself over and over for maybe three or four minutes; I myself continually attempted to communicate with him through a dark, impenetrable veil of indifference, nothing of which showed the slightest effect. He peeked through every window, sometimes clinging, other times caroming from one to another like an eight ball, mumbled and heaved, and went on chasing his tail. His eyes were darker than usual. A sheen of sweat glistened across his face. They bulged. Almost seeming to need to cry. He looked like a worn-out, frightened spirit shoved into a suit.
Eventually, he got on the elevator, but the frightful languish of his eyes startled, even haunted me, then and there. The way they seemed corked deeply into their sockets. The wasted shadows around them. The way he ignored me, but acted absolutely frantic, paranoid, irresolute, and how he had affected an expression of terror which could only have said to any eye “they’re coming to get me and I must escape”.
After a while, I began to get concerned. It only gnawed at me, only intensified more and more until I began to put together little shreds, for instance - he seemed only to be an image. Much like an amorphous glob, which had conformed to his likeness, etched him as a three - dimensional entity, yet still remained a roaming shadow. Sounds were missing, as if he were a muted television character jumped through the screen, the silence corresponding with his footsteps. The nonexistent musky scent and the nonexistent breeze as he flashed past me, and, finally, the nonexistent chime of the elevator.
I called his office up on thirteen over and over. I went outside and looked up at the building to catch a view of his office light overlooking the river. It was pitch dark. The entire floor was pitch dark. Once I had rounded the corner of the building and approached the turnstile, I saw that it was still spinning as if just used. He must have left. That explained why his light was off. He just needed to grab a thing or two, was probably stressed, and a tad moody.
In the morning, my boss approached me at my desk. He asked if I had seen Mr. Lucas. Mr. Lucas’ wife was concerned, and so was his family. The police had even gotten involved. I told him, of which I assumed might have given them all a mighty sigh of relief, that Mr. Lucas came by last night. My boss glinted and arched his brows at me with perplexity. I asked him what was wrong.
“What’s wrong, Jim? You look kind of, I don’t even know-“
“Well, did the man say anything to you?” I went on describing his bizarre actions in detail, which only succeeded in mystifying him even more.
“Show me the footage.” Gladly, I did. And from there nearly succumbed to asphyxiation through shock. Clearly, I could be seen nodding. Clearly, I could be seen speaking. Clearly, the elevators had parted. Clearly, finally, the turnstile had spun. The common denominator to each of these acts was this - Mr. Lucas himself never once showed up in the footage.
In the end, police collided headlong into one roadblock after another until he was given up for dead, and he, his world, and his case all went cold. I heard they had a mock burial for the man eventually. Nothing of this typical, modern idealist of a man was so striking. He wore a suit like others, went to work like others, and supposedly had a family like others. There was nothing exceptional nor diminutive about him.
I don’t know what I saw that night, but it seemed to conform to nothing and everything at the same time - vampirism, ghosts, demons…all I can say is that deep down, I knew that for a man so courteous, selfless and friendly to drop all of his most inherent, unconscious, inhibiting qualities like a ten ton anchor was proof - proof that something beyond the boundaries of all conceivable, tangential experience was happening to him.
What frightens me is that he looked so terrified. What frightens me more is the mystery as to why I was the one to have been given the curse to see it. I really, really don’t want to die. But now I’m aware of things I never was before. Of eyes, of whispers stitched into the wind, of shadows that move and tease. It’s a prelude. I know that this is true. A prelude to running? Hiding? Or, perhaps, even pursuing.
Years had passed, and a small article caught my attention - a story on page three of my local paper, titled, ‘Woman Has A Rendezvous With Her Brother - Her Dead Brother’. The sister of Mr. Lucas had claimed that somewhere in the Appalachians, in the valley of the art of moonshine, she met a man in a café so remote it practically ran on the fuel two - dozen people; that is to say, the entire town.
She said that the waitress brought her a warm slice of cherry pie a la mode. The waitress told her it was sent to her by a man seated in the back booth.
“He waved at me, the stranger. I waved back and shouted out ‘thank you’. He stood up the color of ash and stepped into the light, and I nearly screamed. He held me, took me by my hand, and led me to a booth where no employees or patrons could hear. And from there, he expounded all the secrets and mysteries of all life and existence, rattling them off fluently as a linguist. He also told me to keep it to myself”.
“So then, Ms. Lucas, tell me, why come forward with such an amazing story, if, in fact, you knew in advance you would exclude us from hearing all pertinent details?”
To this, she had no immediate response. I pushed harder.
“How do you know it was your brother? How can you know it wasn’t someone who looked like him? Or, perhaps, your grief has so affected you that you might have been dreaming?
To this Ms. Lucas replied with earnest and emphatic assurance - “I could never repeat something so frightening, however, he asked me to come forward for one reason - to serve as a warning.”