The Downtown Haunting

“Shit!”

 He was late! John rushed down the street, jacket flapping in the wind. How could he work late on his anniversary?

“Molly will kill me”, he mused to himself, almost in jest. He loved that woman, not least for her kind and forgiving heart. Thankfully, it was just work, not the squash club.

John couldn’t recount how many earfuls he’d gotten from her for staying for ‘just one more game.’ He smiled. Earfuls, he thought playfully, if you could call them that. He pondered back to the way her blue eyes sparkled as she lost the determination to tell him off, seconds before the hint of a smile would begin to curl her lips up on the left side. Then how the kids would join in. “Ezra and Eva, our little E’s” he called them, always goading their mother to tell him off properly. His mind softened with the thought and a warmth filled Johns heart as he strolled down the street, almost forgetting that he was in a rush.

Lost in thought, daydreaming about the wife he was rushing to see, he collided heavily with a man on the street. Disgruntled the man locked eyes with him for a second and paused, as if weighing up his options. John was quick with an apology however; and accompanied with his kind, self-assured smile, he could soften the heart of even the most sour soul.

The man didn’t seem convinced by his charm, but chose to say nothing at the encounter, instead grumbling to himself as he passed by.

A kind soul, it saddened John to see the old man stroll away clearly angry. He would’ve pondered on the mistake longer were he not in such a rush. It was strange, but in the burnt orange of the streetlights, the man almost reminded John of his father. A perpetually angry man, who was not too fond of John. Almost as if he resented him for being born, and wasn’t shy of letting him know it; with words or otherwise.

John stopped himself before he could think back to his childhood, memories that brought him nothing but pain.

Instead he chose to ground himself by taking in his surroundings. He found himself in front of the electronics store, a large cathode TV quietly shouting the news into the night

“Riots in downtown Portland” flashed in big white type against a red background.

He sighed; he couldn’t even remember what the riots were about, they’d been going on so long. He resolved to spend more time with the E’s. They’d know. At least Ezra would. He spent all his time on the damn phone, it was a miracle the bill wasn’t higher. But at least he knew what was going on in the world. For a 17 year old he was so in touch with current events, always talking over Sunday dinner with this political news, or that movement coming up, eyes glistening like his mothers.

John smiled again, content in the knowledge his family was waiting for him at home, and his beautiful wife was waiting for him at dinner.

“Dinner!” John snapped back to reality, smile still wide on his lips.

He turned ready to jog to the restaurant, but something wavered in the corner of his eye shrouded in orange light.

As his gaze left the monitor John saw him. Clear as day standing in the store smiling.

His father.

The store was clearly closed, no lights inside except the dim glow from the television but there he stood. Older, and more decrepit than John remembered, pale white skin clinging to gaunt cheeks, wisps of white hair floating in an invisible breeze, but it was his father nonetheless. The taste of leather and salt filled his mouth.

John took a step back, foot slipping off the pavement. Eyes shot down as he found his foot submerged in a puddle. Looking away for less than a second when he looked back his father was gone. He felt his heart rise to his throat as panic rose up from a hidden well within him. A well he didn’t know existed. He turned, head down, determined to get away from whatever it was he saw.

As he paced away, heart hammering, his mind raced. The last time he saw his father he was in his casket, hair still dark black, and while he was always a slender man his skin never clung to his bones like that. “Is this what you look like after 3 years in a grave?” John thought to himself as the panic sunk its long claws deep into his brain. “How could he be back? And why? Why now?”

 “Don’t be stupid!” John yelled in his head “People can’t come back from the dead, and how would he have even gotten into the store?”

John giggled at himself.

It was surreal, that the notion of questioning how a zombie would enter a locked store was the thing that calmed John down, but he’d take what he could get at that point.

He took a second, hands on knees, panting as he looked about figuring out where he was. He was so panicked for a moment he just let his feet take him. But more shocking than that is how out of breath he was. For 39 he shouldn’t be this out of breath. Smoking is what put his father in an early grave and despite the second hand smoke he got as a child, he was determined it wouldn’t be the death of him.

He straightened up, trying to gauge where he was. But another thought clawed at his mind. Why did his legs ache so much? He felt like he’d run a 10k when he hadn’t even broken into a light jog.

“This bodes well for the marathon this weekend”, he muttered under his breath as he tried to make sense of the shops around him. ‘Rose Park Lane’ the sign said above him. He had no idea how he had gotten downtown but figured he must have blacked out from the shock of seeing his dad. He tutted. Maybe he really would get an earful from Molly this time. He’d overshot the restaurant by 10 blocks.

He smiled, this was just like him. So wrapped up in a daydream that he didn’t know what he was doing. It’s how he bumped into the guy not five minutes ago. A sigh escaped John’s lips. That’s all this was. A daydream. But he really was ten blocks away from where he needed to be, and it was time to get serious. He didn’t want to leave Molly waiting.

As he began to turn to head back the way he came, he noticed he was still out of breath. This concerned John deeply. But a deeper fear began to grip him.

As he completed his turn John knew, he was being followed.

 His father stood there across the street eyes serious, hair wild. He was a few meters behind John on the other side of the road, panting gently. Although he was mostly obscured by the car between them, John felt a menace from his body language. Leaned forward, eyes locked, ready to move. 

His mind flashed back to those years as a kid, he knew those sunken eyes too well. The belt was in the back of his mind, daring him to think about it. John refused. He knew if he thought about the belt it would open the floodgates, he wouldn’t be able to stop remembering. He pulled himself back to reality.

There he was. His father stood there. Silent. The colours of the streetlamps painting his face ethereally orange. As John took a step back, so did his father, fading into the murky blackness behind the car.

First he was a zombie now a ghost? What the hell?! It was too much for John. If he wasn’t running before, he was now. His eyes were welling with tears, but he didn’t know why. Was it because he feared for his life? Because the man who tormented him for so many years was back? Or because he was just so confused?

His mind stuck on the last one. Why was he so confused, and how did he get to town? Did he drive? Why was he even in town, let alone downtown? If he’d parked he’d have parked in the multi-storey on Alexandria, the buses he gets run from uptown. A light drizzle began to fall, pattering against the already slick ground. He found the sound relaxing though his mind still raced, a jumbled spread of incoherence, one thought jumping into five, and five to twelve, each burning the bridge as they lept, wilfully setting wildfires that blazed and cascaded through his head, roaring ever louder, a deafening cacophony of animal screams of terror and pain, and all he could see was flashes of bright white light.

He fell to his knees clutching his head, tears streaming down his face. Why was this happening to him? What did he do to deserve this? As he rocked back and forth, a gentle chill broke through the flames. His back was cold. Pinpricks of rain coalesced through the fabric of his shirt, making the fabric cling to his hunched shoulders. He used the feeling as a tether. Pulling himself out of the chaos of his own head and back into reality. He began to hear the rain again. It was soothing.

Fighting his wild panic, he attempted to pin down his thoughts, “It doesn’t matter how I got myself here. The fact is I am. I’ll figure out this shit when I’m safe.” John was pissed that he’d gotten himself into this situation. Angry and agitated but still able to function. He put his hands down on the pavement to propel him to his knees. He leant forward over a large puddle, and a siren scream tore through his mind.

As he leaned over the puddle, through darkened ripples he saw him again. Face to face. Looking angry now. Clearly whatever ghostly powers his father now had included this. Whatever this was. He stumbled backwards, eyes fixed on the now black puddle. He retreated into the open alley behind him. He could feel the darkness engulfing him, swirling around as he fell backwards. His trousers now soaked through, cold seeping into his bones. He let out a scream; but the voice wasn’t his, it was weak and feeble, choking at the end. More akin to the gaunt face he saw in the water than his own muscular frame. He scrambled back on his hands, his strength failing him, unable to get up. He’d never known fear like this. Not in his two tours. Not in that attempted mugging. Never.

A black silhouette stepped round the corner and stood there staring at him. The longer he looked the more imposing he got. John felt like a child again, hiding in the back of the cupboard. The same taste of leather filled his mouth, mingling with the tears rolling steadily down his face. He dreaded the belt. Shoved into his mouth so he didn’t bite his tongue while the real beatings began. He curled up, as he did back then. If he was small enough sometimes he wouldn’t be seen, and they wouldn’t happen. The dark figure took a step forward.

No not this. John covered his eyes. It was over, finally when the box was in the ground. His father couldn’t come back, can’t come back. He’s not here. He’s not here. John glanced upwards. The dark figure was halfway down the alley now. Approaching with all the deliberate movements John knew too well. 

“Dad?”

It was a trick, a trap, his father was calling out to him, to confuse him. He covered his eyes. He was in the back of the closet. Back pushed up against the wall. Here he was alone. Here he couldn't be found.

“Dad is that you?”

It didn’t sound like Johns father, but it wasn’t Ezra either. So why was he calling him Dad. What twisted game was this?

"Dad!" the voice was serious this time.

As the figure took another step, it found it’s face in a beam of narrow moonlight. John could see this figure wasn’t the gaunt spectre haunting him. It was a brown-haired man. John was shocked. He had no idea who this was and yet his presence was heartening. 

None of the squash club guys were this heavy set, and no man he knew had hair as long as this. This man was a complete stranger yet somehow familiar.

“Dad!” the same voice echoed, concern permeated throughout.

Still shaking John raised his head further so he could properly see the man approaching. A tall broad man, with a kind, soft face and piercing blue eyes stood above him, hand extended. John squeezed himself tighter, not wanting to leave the comfort of his own arms.

The man squatted, so that John was face to face with those familiar blue eyes. His wife's eyes.

“It’s ok Dad, I know you get confused sometimes, I’m here to help.” He removed his brown suede jacket and wrapped it around John’s shoulders, perching next to him on the slick ground.

The simple kindness soothed John but it was still a while before he stopped shaking, and longer still till he was ready to stand.

“Here let me help you” Said the kindly stranger, giving John his arm.

John had never felt so weak in his life, he was so tired that he didn’t question following this stranger down the street and getting into his red four by four. He couldn’t acknowledge the pleasant woman in the front seat who seemed to know his name. And he didn’t have the focus to notice the scenery rushing past that should’ve been familiar to him. Instead his eyelids fluttered, too heavy to stay open, too wired to stay closed.

It was this daze that John half roused himself from when he noticed the car beginning to slow and turn off the main roads, and down a dark country road. The darkness engulfed the car, headlights their only source of illumination. This would’ve concerned John had the exhaustion not fogged his brain. Instead he slumped back into his chair, content to watch the fine mist of rain dance through the beams of light, his eyes finally heavy enough to begin to close.

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John woke to the car door being opened by a slender young man.

"Ezra!" John exclaimed, in excitement. However his voice wasn't met with delight, but instead with pitiful eyes.

Just behind him stood a woman, her face creased with deep wrinkles and loose skin. But recessed into her skull were those familiar blue eyes.

This wasn’t the wife he knew, but he knew it was his wife. Somehow. She embraced him tenderly, as a different young man in a white coat came to support his weight.

He didn’t know this place. He didn’t know these people. And yet he felt comforted, and a sense of peculiar familiarity settled over him, as if he'd been here before. As he was lowered into a wheelchair he felt the muscles in his back finally relax, and a gentle sigh rushed out of his lips.

Johns eyes drifted around his new surroundings, muddily wondering where he was. As he approached the door, propelled by the same young man, his eyes rested on a large slate plaque, recessed into stone. Johns heart sank as began to understand. Inscribed on the plaque he read,

‘ Welcome to St Margret's Hospice. Loving Dementia care specialists since 1991.'

When he reached his room, wife by his side, son behind him, he looked into the mirror. He didn’t see his face, only the face of his father, old and decrepit. The sunken eyes no longer angry, instead they pleaded with a quiet sorrow.

A single tear welled up in John’s eye, but he watched it roll down his fathers cheek.