The City that Haunts.

That’s the thing about this city, it haunts everyone who lives in its limits. The woman in apartment 23A couldn’t go out of her apartment for a week without looking at the reddish-brown stain on the road. She would start hyperventilating with tears streaming down her face and scream “Milo!”. The blood stain was washed away after a couple of heavy rains and a city cleaner. She doesn’t cry anymore, but she will still stand hovered over where that spot was for a few seconds before going on her way. I knew how painful it was losing a pet. I lost my dog Rover at the age of eleven. Rover was the same age. But there was no blood stain to remind me of what happened. He died peacefully in his sleep and was buried under the willow tree. Death doesn’t haunt you in the country. Instead, it becomes part of nature which embraces you everywhere you go. 

Marge, my forty-three year old coworker always asks someone to walk her to her car at night. We work in a mall where the parking lot is well lit and there are mall cops at every entrance. One night, as I walked her to her car, she said, 

“I’m sorry I keep asking you to do this. I just don’t feel safe.” 

I debated on telling her that the only way to get over her fear was just to do it, but instead I replied, 

“It’s okay Marge, I don’t mind.” 

“You see,” Marge clutched her bag close to her chest, “I used to um, work on the streets. A girl like me, who comes from nothin’, normally isn’t able to get away from that life so easily. So at night, I still feel like a man is going to grab me or grope me.” 

A single tear fell but I didn’t let on that I knew she was crying and she didn’t let on that she was. 

“Wow. I’m so sorry Marge. I’m glad you got out.” 

We stopped at her car. I gently put my hand on her arm.

“You’ll always be safe with me.” 

She gave me a small smile and nodded. 

“This city is beautiful and cheerful in the daytime. I can go on walks by myself in the parks and feel as if I'm a bird in a tree. But nighttime is when this city’s monsters come out of their hiding. That’s when people’s past haunts them from every eerie shadow and darken alley.” She looked around and shuddered. 

  “Get in, I’ll drive you back to the front door.” 

Normally, I would refuse. I didn’t mind the peaceful nighttime walks. But I knew it would make Marge feel better. 

“Thanks.” 

One day, when I was at the free clinic to get my flu shot, the nurse had a small badge attached to her nurse ID that read, “Ask me why I became a nurse.” I quickly realized it looked like I was staring at her chest and she had seen me doing so, so I asked. 

“So, um why did you become a nurse.” I pointed to the badge. 

“Because of my son.” She smiled as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my arm. 

The cuff got tighter and tighter until I was sure my arm would burst. Then, all of the tightness went away and my arm breathed a sigh of relief. She took the blood pressure cuff off, put it back in its place and sat down on the stool in front of me. 

“A lot of nurses have these badges in hope to inspire someone to become a nurse. You can never have too many nurses. But I wear this hoping to prevent something.”

She paused. 

  “My son, he was only fourteen years old. His father left us when he was thirteen. No child support, no birthday cards. He just dropped off the face of the earth. We lived in a nice house outside of the city in a suburb where the lawns were cut and the children were inside when the street lights came on. Even though they could have easily continued playing into the night. I worked part time at a boutique just to have something to do while my son was in school. My husband paid the bills. Life was good. But my job at the boutique was not going to cover the mortgage and food and the other bills. I had to sell the house and move into the city where I could find an affordable apartment. The profit I got from selling the house was just enough for the move in fees and to cover two months rent. I had to work three jobs. One job was for paying rent, one was for paying for food and clothes and the other was to save up enough money to buy a house and get the hell out of that apartment. My son had a hard time with the move and leaving his friends he had known his whole life. It was hard for him to make friends in school and I could tell it was taking a toll on his mental health. So you can imagine how relieved I was when I caught a glimpse of him talking to some boys outside of our apartment.”

She took a deep breath. Her voice was steady but you could tell she had rehearsed this. 

“When I went to wash his clothes I realized that he had three bandanas that were exactly the same. I hadn’t bought him any bandanas and I knew his school had a strict no bandana policy due to their gang affiliation. I didn’t realize it was that bad. I didn’t have time to do any research about the area before I moved in. I called into work that night and waited up for him. My fourteen year old who used to come in before the sunset now came through my front door at midnight. I asked him where he had been and he shrugged me off. I held up a bandana. 

“Thanks for getting me these dish cloths.” I said to him. 

He snatched it out of my hand. 

“Where did you get that?” His face was red and his hand was shaking. 

“Are you in a gang?” I asked the question I didn’t want the answer to.

“Why are you going through my stuff?” He said. 

“Why are you not answering my question?” I was so angry, but I tried to keep my cool. Going off on him wasn’t going to help the situation any. 

“It’s not so much of a gang. It’s just a group that hangs out after school and we wear those bandana’s as a kind of uniform.” 

I tried to argue with him. I tried to tell him how dangerous this “group” of his was. When he didn’t want to believe me I pulled up pictures on my phone of dead gang members. Some wearing the same bandana he had on. I knew he was always queasy with blood and death, so if he was still that way with those pictures then there was some hope left. He ran to the bathroom puking after the second picture. I stood outside of the bathroom. 

“I’ll tell them I resign tomorrow.” He said when he came up for air. 

“Good. Then come straight home and pack. We’re moving in with grandma for a while.”

The nurse stopped talking.

“Wow. I’m glad you got him to leave the gang.” I said, rubbing my hands against my legs and replaying in my head how awkward that sounded. 

“I didn’t.” She stood up and went back to her computer on her portable desk. 

The silence in the room was deafening. Was I supposed to ask what happened or was she going to tell me? 

“The police came to the apartment. The first afternoon I ever had off since moving to the city.  They said that they found my son’s body under a bridge. One bullet to the back of his head. They needed me to come to the station to identify his body and tell them any information I had. I told them everything. I hugged my son’s cold stiff body. A state marshal came back to my apartment with me. I had an hour to pack up all of our belongings and then they were going to put me in witness protection. I only had to be in it for a few years since they didn’t use my name in the trial against my son’s killers. I found out that my son never mentioned me. The killers thought he was some runaway from the suburbs. In those few years I went to school and got my nursing degree. I still have nightmares about my son. I still wish I would have never moved to the city. But I know now that the reason all of that happened is because I was supposed to prevent other people from making the same mistakes I did. To warn people. To tell my story in detail to anyone who wants to hear it in hopes that it haunts them half as much as it haunts me.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I don’t think she expected me to. She smiled and told me to have a nice day and then she left.  

Walking home, I thought about all the tragedies I had witnessed or heard about in the city. There was no murder or prositution in my small town. The killer was too much alcohol or cancer from cigarettes. I didn’t know how people with such a horrible past could even survive or be able to live in the city that haunts them so much. The city had been nothing but nice to me, with the exception of a few rude people or creepy glances. But the more I heard the horror stories, the heavier I felt. I don’t think it made them feel any lighter, as if they were getting rid of the burden they carried around. I think by telling their stories, they dispersed ghosts that attach on to the listeners, so every time you see someone wearing a bandana, you pass a dark alleyway or even see a reddish-brown spot on the road, you will always be reminded about the horrors this city has.