The Black Hoodie

Mrs. Ling, Jocelyn Ling, walked on the dirty sidewalk, making sure to avoid any gum. She was wearing her nice clothes today, Mrs. Ling. She had an interview but no car, so walking would have to do. It wasn’t necessarily a crowded street, that day. The skies were darkening, so Jocelyn was mostly alone. A few dog walkers here, a food peddler there, and most of them walking quickly so, Jocelyn assumed, they could finish up, close up shop, and get home before the rain. Mrs. Ling jogged along the sidewalk, toting a black bag above her shoulder and her best shoes on her feet. Jocelyn, only twenty, didn’t live in the best part of town. She hadn’t been able to go to college, so it was the best she could do to arrange a hurried wedding and get a dump of a house. Her husband was nice, however. Orion would be done with his shift in the firemen’s tower, probably reclining on the couch with a beer. The clouds above groaned, thundering their complaints from the weight of the water. Jocelyn reached for the umbrella she usually kept in her bag, but it wasn’t there. “Dang it,” she muttered. She had taken the stupid thing out for Orion’s sake, he had to go out in the rain last week. The skies protested again, and Mrs. Ling felt a splash of water hit her arm. “No,” Jocelyn growled. Hoisting her bag higher up her shoulders, she began to run. The skies let loose their anger in the form of heavy droplets and thundering. Jocelyn began to pant, she hadn’t been planning on running. Her deep black hair, inherited from her mother, dripped in Jocelyn’s face. “No, no, no!” the girl yelled at the world. She was wearing her nice work clothes today! Now they’d have to go to the dry cleaner for sure! The interview would be straight ahead now, her house to her left, but there was no use going to anything work related now. Jocelyn turned the corner, coming up on her house. A quaint thing, made of bricks and spray paint, with a small garden flourishing near the front steps. Mrs. Ling had fostered many flowers in that garden, it was a pet project. Right now, her latest attempt at plant life, a cluster of camellias, drooped their withered leaves to the ground. From the ground they cane, and to the ground they would return. Mrs. Ling dashed up the front steps until she was at the front door. Mrs. Ling hurriedly jammed the keys in, and stepped inside to the warm and dry home. Orion!” she called. Her Asian husband walked from around the kitchen. “Wow,” he said, his eyes searching the wet mess. “You’re sopping wet!” Jocelyn sighed. “I know.” “Alright, well, go ahead and change. I’ll fetch you a towel...” Orion walked away, making a path to their bedroom. Mrs. Ling refused the tears which welled in her eyes and hung up her coat. She’d have to cancel the meeting now. She’d never get the promotion, they’d give it to someone else and not herself. Pindiprolu or Ginny, maybe even Thomson from the next door cubicle. Jocelyn kicked off het shoes and turned to look at the rain. Jocelyn opened the door, and that is when she first saw him. Standing in the middle of the road was a figure. The figure was shrouded in black, wearing a dark hoodie. The hoodie must be getting soaked in the rain, but the figure didn’t move. It just stood there, hood down over the face, arms folded into the pockets, staring, watching. “Sir?” Jocelyn began, her eyebrows scrunched together in apparent confusion. The man, the woman, the black hoodie, looked up. Jocelyn still couldn’t see its face. The figure began to walk, not answering Jocelyn’s hesitant questions. He disappeared around a corner, and Mrs. Ling saw no more. A feathery towel fell onto her wet shirt. “Here you go. Why is the door open, you’re letting the chills in! Come on, honey, come in and sit down.” Orion kissed her cheek and shut the door firmly. Jocelyn blinked and swallowed, trying to fend off the feeling she’d just seen something very important. Orion tugged on her hand, and the young Mrs. Ling sat down, absorbed in a plethora of thoughts. That same night, Mrs. Ling had an incredibly unsettling dream. In the dream, she watched her husband sleeping. Above him stood the cloaked figure. Black hoodie. Suddenly, her husband’s chest stopped rising and falling, and he lay still. The black hoodie looked up and touched Orion’s cheek. Then it disappeared, leaving Jocelyn to wake up in a cold sweat and with the feeling of something being horribly wrong. Orion was still sleeping, alive, it was the first thing Mrs. Ling checked. But something seemed off about the little bedroom. Sort of like somebody really had been in it, but just left. Yet that was crazy! Wasn’t it? Jocelyn succumbed to sleep again, and in the morning, woke up and remembered nothing. The next day was uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary. Mrs. Ling woke up with no memory of last night, sipped some tea, went to work, where nothing unusual ever happened, then came home to kiss the Mr. Ling. But in bed, Jocelyn couldn’t help but feel yet again that something was wrong. The very last day of Jocelyn Ling’s life began normally, as the worst days often do. She made a cup of coffee, not dark, a latte, and ran out, late for work. She passed the hot dog vendors, the tea shop, the china store with the pretty blue plates. She ducked around the going to work crowds, the bikers, the members of her neighborhood’s gangs. She mostly kept her eyes on the ground, but once, near the police station, Mrs. Ling looked up. Then she saw it. Black hoodie. He lifted a covered arm from the pockets, revealing a black glove. He held the pointer finger up over the hood, where his lips would normally be. “Shhh,” the wind seemed to whisper. Suddenly, Jocelyn’s arm got goosebumps, and the sun seemed to hide in the sky. The Black Hoodie nodded once, twice, then dissolved into the darkness of an ally. Mrs. Ling blinked and rubbed her eyes, but she couldn’t have imagined it. “Twice, now,” she thought. Like I said before, Jocelyn did not remember the dream, only the accompanying emotions of fear and anxiety. Mrs. Ling, feeling offset and nervous about the Black Hoodie, hurried to a police office. Bursting through the doors, Jocelyn blurted, “I need to see the chief!” The secretary slid her pointed glasses up her nose. “Appointment?” she asked in a nasally voice. “I-I don’t have one, but...” The secretary rolled her eyes. “I’ll go get him, he’s free anyway. You kids always think you’re so entitled to an appointment. Well, you’re not. Just be glad he’s free now-!” The secretary stood up, still grumbling. “Thank you, miss,” Jocelyn murmured. But when the secretary had disappeared, when Jocelyn was the only one in the room, she felt an icy cold hand on her wrist. “What?” Mrs. Ling began. A hand slid over her mouth, silencing her words, which, of course, turned to shouts. A cold voice replied, “I told you not to tell anyone.” A whisper in the wind. Jocelyn whimpered as the knife came out. When the sectarian came back, there was nobody left to bring to the chief. No fingerprints were ever found to match the bleeding knife. No DNA, no hair, nothing. The perfect crime. Even the security cameras didn’t help, they blacked out as soon as the secretary left. A day later, a grief stricken Orion Ling died as well, in his sleep. The police investigated for a while, but the case of the killer went cold. Nobody ever found Jocelyn Ling’s murderer. But like all the murder stories, that means one thing. If the Black Hoodie wasn’t ever found, it’s still out there. Waiting, wishing, whispering in the wind. Nobody will ever believe you when you say you saw him. And that, dear reader, is the cautious tale of Jocelyn Ling.