The Manhole

The hole, thought Aubree, was on purpose. They had left the damn manhole uncovered again, right in the woman’s way, so its wide, dark mouth could swallow her whole.

Yes, man. She’d fallen in.

Aubree stood motionless with her lantern, peering up at the cavity in the sidewalk way above her head. Snowflakes drifted lazily down, landing on her upturned face. Aubree grinned, then let out a big laugh. Then just as quickly, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes slid side to side, as if the walls themselves might be listening.

Earlier, she had also come through the manhole. Same way. She lowered her chin, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly. Her thoughts wandered back to that particular night...

It was New Year's Eve. The icy wind gnawed through her Caribbean-born marrow as she walked quickly down the snow-covered Manhattan street. On both sides of it, festive lights flashing inside and outside of the stores were like full-on headlamps burning into her eye sockets. The night traffic added to the blinding dazzle. She formed binoculars with the gnarly fingers on both hands and used them to try to block out some of it. Revelers clattered around her, drunk and laughing. She had turned from them, seeking shadows; wanting to slip into obscurity.

Her memory sharpened: rushing down the busy street as a bag lady had come close enough to touch; her plastic bundles rustling like crunchy leaves, then a man running towards her from a side street—too near, too sudden -- she had hoisted her dress and run.

No yellow tape. No Danger signs. No manhole covers. Nothing to stop her. Then the ground had disappeared beneath her feet. A sudden fall. No scream. Just bam! —landing on a mattress heap. She was in the bowels of the city. Subterranean. Invisible. Unharmed. She had survived, again. Like someone with nine lives who was not a cat…

“Help!” a strange voice said, interrupting her flashback.

Aubree’s shoulders jerked up. She clenched her fists. She screwed up her face and opened her eyes. She turned slowly, the light from her lamp scanning the dusty underground space. A woman sat on top of the mound of grimy mattresses, bolt upright, her staring face around the same age as hers.

They set her up. She’s here for something.

“Excuse me?” Aubree said, stopping her thoughts. She kept the lantern steady; her sneakers missing the laces unable to keep still.

“This isn’t funny,” the stranger said. “You’re laughing, but I need help.”

“Help? I didn’t tell you to fall down here.”

“Right,” the woman said. “Please help me to get out!”

Aubree’s chest tightened. Her peace was disturbed by this presence. She wanted the stranger gone. Yet something about the voice pricked at her memory - the idea of helping, guiding, resurfaced faint memories of responsibility she once carried.

“I don’t know you,” Aubree said flatly.

“I’m Hester,” she said, voice clipped, as if saying her name aloud might provoke something she didn’t want.

Aubree studied her: party dress, fancy coat, plenty of makeup, perfect white teeth, an expression of panic and confusion…

“Hester,” she repeated, voice tight.

“Yes,” Hester said. She spoke softly. “You can show me the way back, can’t you?”

Aubree’s mind ticked: Lead, or be trapped. Keep her alive, or keep being disturbed.

Her voice snapped the silence at last. “Follow me if you want out.”

Hester nodded. Her grip tightened on her designer bag as she slid off the mattress; the heels of her shoes clicked softly onto the hard ground.

Aubree walked slowly, lifting the light as they advanced. The tunnel smelled of wet concrete, rust, and the faint hint of oil lamps. Pipes groaned overhead, and somewhere in the dark, rats scuttled, testing the shadows. Aubree moved carefully, now swinging the lantern low, scanning every corner. “Don’t touch anything,” she muttered to the stranger whose footsteps kept pace behind her. “You don’t belong here.

“I’ll be careful,” Hester said. Her voice was calm, a bit musical—a memory of a voice Aubree almost recognized, though she couldn’t place it.

The old, disused subway twisted, narrowing and widening, walls smeared with ancient-like graffiti markings. Aubree wasn't happy, especially when her foot slipped once and she steadied herself on a beam jutting out. She looked over her shoulder nervously, a reflex from years of being hunted, or at least believing she was. But now she chuckled to herself. She had reached a happy place. Aubree saw a home.

Belongings—clothes spilling out of bags, empty tins, a few broken photo frames perched precariously like little sentinels atop the timber. Had the owner abandoned it; given up praying every night, that no one would wander by, swiping what wasn’t bolted down?

She found a crate for Hester. “Sit down,” she told her.

Should she stay here? Let the woman find her own way out?

Aubree’s gray dreadlocks, long and matted, fell forward as she moved, a curtain she tugged over her face to hide her eyes. At sixty, she had learned the weight of survival, the ache of decades spent in and out of gloominess, and the sharp awareness of every noise. She couldn’t remember what it was like to have a friend. Her island blood remembered warmness though, even as winter below ground and the cold of New York City felt like a punishment, harsh and unrelenting.

Hester’s eyes lifted slowly, sweeping the rafters above; the fragile piles of belongings that offered someone comfort. Then, softly, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and her voice floated through the still air.

“You’ll be out of the woods soon.”

Aubree stiffened. That phrase—too gentle, too familiar—echoed something deep inside, something she had buried with her old self. She flinched.

…Out of the woods.

She kissed her teeth. The words spiked into her like glass splinters of memory. Promises she had heard before - a reminder of all the revolving hospital doors she had been forced to enter, the hollow reassurances that crumbled the moment she leaned against them. The words reminded her that it was safer down here, in the narrowness, in the stillness, where nothing was asked of her and no light could expose her. Stepping out would mean leaving herself open. So, she sat still. Silent.

…Out of the woods.

The phrase jumped in her head again. It clung to her, unwanted, but she could not shake it off this time. It settled in her ears; in the part of her head she thought had long gone numb. This time, she listened. It was as if something had come alive; a spark had ignited. She nodded, focusing on the walls buttered by the yellow glow of the lamp, and the path ahead through her labyrinth. And then, before she could stop herself, she stood up. One moment she hated that it had happened and the next she welcomed it.

Above ground, the city hummed faintly from here. She could hear the distant roar of traffic, the music and chatter of partygoers celebrating something she had once liked…

Keep moving, she told herself. Get out of here.

“Time to move,” Aubree said.

The tunnel widened again, opening into a shaft where pale light began to filter down. Voices rose faintly from above. Aubree froze. Now it was only the soft echo of Hester’s coaxing, without her footsteps.

“Nearly there.”

Aubree climbed the ladder slick with condensation, cold air hitting the top of her head, sharp and clean. She shivered. Above, the team of mental health responders waited, blankets in hand, their voices calm, human.

“Come on, Aubree. You’re safe. You can come out.”

Her hands trembled on the rungs. She looked down, heart pounding. The tunnel yawned behind her, dark and silent. No Hester, no shadow, no heels. Just silence and the echo of a voice she had carried for decades.

She climbed fully into the light, winter air biting at her cheeks, warmth draped over her shoulders. Her world below, her sanctuary, remained behind, quiet and empty.

Her small body moved forward slowly, cautiously. She did not reflect. She simply obeyed the steady hands of the rescuers, some of whom were checking if there was another figure left behind her in the underground maze. Nothing. Only a heap of musty mattresses. Aubree was alone.

Step by step, she moved further into the chaotic, kaleidoscopic brightness of the city. Each footstep deliberate, cautious, but certain. A single, thin breath slipped loose, trembling but freer than the last. Aubree survived the tunnels, the darkness, the isolation. Now, she was above ground, safe, guided by a voice that said, Everything’s okay now.