by Foxglove Lee
Underground Spirit © 2018 by Foxglove Lee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design © 2018 Foxglove Lee
First Edition May 2018
Underground Spirit
Queer Ghost Stories
By Foxglove Lee
Chapter One
Whitney’s stomach growled as she approached reception.
Too bad there was only one way in and one way out of the law firm where she worked. Back when she was a student lawyer, she’d served time in a much larger firm. There, lawyers could slip out the back unnoticed. Here, she had to contend with Norma’s nosiness. Almost made Whitney wish she’d brought lunch from home. Except that she was a truly hopeless cook. Couldn’t even make a sandwich without setting the curtains on fire.
If she wanted a bite from the food court in the underground, she would have to pass by Norma. No other option.
So she got out her phone and pretended to be engaged in a highly lawyeristic conversation.
“That’s right,” she said loudly as she tromped past Norma’s desk. “I’ll be sure to fax that signature to you ASAP.”
“Whitney!” Norma said in a stage whisper.
“Yes, I’ll get right on that.” Whitney went on with her fake conversation. “The client will be informed post-haste.”
Norma stood from her chair, waving both arms over her head. “Whitney!”
Whitney pressed the elevator call button. “Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention.”
“Whitney, hang up!” Norma pleaded, speaking at full voice now. “Don’t go down! It’s important!”
Important? Could be a genuine client call. That would certainly be more important than a fake one.
“Okay,” Whitney said to no one. “Thanks for calling. Talk to you later. Bye-bye.”
Norma continued to wave her over.
The elevator opened and Whitney almost got in.
“Whitney,” Norma pressed. “Get over here. This is serious.”
Tucking her phone in her purse, Whitney returned to the receptionist’s desk and asked, “What’s going on, Norma?”
“That!” Norma said, pointing to the television mounted in the corner. It was tuned into the 24-hour news channel, but the partners didn’t like the idea of newsy noise pollution, so the volume was on mute and closed captions raced across the screen.
Whitney should have known better. Norma was cutting into her lunch break, wanting to chat about some stupid thing on the news. Why oh why hadn’t she boarded that elevator?
“Well?” Norma asked. “What do you make of that, eh?”
Whitney hadn’t made anything of it yet. Her stomach twisted into a knot of hunger. But when she looked at the television, there was a familiar scene behind the broadcaster. She recognized his surroundings. She passed by there twice a day, getting to and from the subway.
“Is that…?” Whitney mumbled.
“It’s right downstairs!” Norma told her. “Girl, you won’t believe me when I tell you. You know the escalator between the atrium level and underground?”
“Of course.”
“Lady on there wearing a long scarf, scarf somehow gets caught in the escalator, starts strangling her, she can’t get it off, drags her down into the mechanism…”
Whitney was suddenly thankful she had no food in her stomach. “The lady… this lady… is she okay?”
Whitney knew the answer to that question even before Norma said, “She’s dead.”
“Good Lord.” Whitney took a seat in the waiting area and stared at the TV. On the news channel, she could see the familiar escalator blocked off and forensic investigators scurrying around to collect evidence. They’d obviously removed the body already, but Norma’s description painted a graphic image in her mind. “Oh, that poor, poor woman. You would think… you would think there’d be fail-safes in place.”
“They’re looking into all that,” Norma said. “Seeing if maybe the escalator hadn’t been serviced in too long, all that sort of stuff.”
Whitney breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so nauseated. She wasn’t good with blood, even the thought of blood. This was really too much.
“Maybe I won’t go downstairs after all,” Whitney said meekly.
Norma seemed to understand, because she said, “I’ve got a box of soda crackers stashed in the kitchen. Why don’t you go munch on those, eh? Settle your belly for now.”
“Thanks,” Whitney replied, offering Norma a gracious smile. Maybe the receptionist wasn’t so bad after all.
Chapter Two
At the end of the workday, Whitney packed up her things. She was bringing work home, as always. Tonight she felt especially weak from lack of food, but every time she thought about eating, her mind switched over to the image of this complete stranger with her head caved in, scalp chewed up, hair matted with blood.
Oh Lord, what an awful image.
She couldn’t switch it off, couldn’t get it out of her mind. She wasn’t even sure where this picture had come from. The news broadcast hadn’t included a picture of the victim, or even a name. They couldn’t do that until next of kin had been contacted. All they released was that she was a young woman in her twenties. Maybe that was enough for Whitney to feel close to her.
“Wait up!” Norma called as Whitney strode toward the elevators. “I’ll ride down with you.”
Whitney had been so distracted she hadn’t even attempted to avoid the woman. “Thanks for the crackers,” she said. “They really helped.”
“Crackers are good to have on hand,” Norma replied, grabbing her bag and rushing toward Whitney.
Here was a woman clearly used to people running away from her. But she could really move when she wanted to. She waved goodnight to Akhifa, the assistant who took over at reception after Norma was done for the day, and joined Whitney by the elevators.
“The other good thing about crackers,” Norma went on, “is that they’re cheap. I bet you ate, what, twenty crackers at the most? How much do you think that would cost, twenty crackers?”
“I… really never stopped to think about it.”
Whitney couldn’t help noticing Akhifa rolling her eyes at the reception desk.
“Couldn’t be more than fifty cents,” Norma continued. “Fifty cents, seventy five at the most?”
Digging into her coat pocket, Whitney pulled out a pile of coins. “Here, let me cover the cost.”
Norma’s lashes fluttered, like payback was the farthest thing from her mind. “Don’t be silly, Whitney. It’s only a few cents.”
“I insist,” Whitney said, handing over the change.
“Well, then…”
The elevator couldn’t have come soon enough. It was pretty packed, and Whitney just hoped Norma wouldn’t say anything uncouth in front of all these people. When the door closed, she observed herself in the mirrored panel: a tall black woman with strong features and a sleek ponytail that went all the way down to her waist. She was rocking this look, although it was hard to look bad next to a dowdy woman like Norma.
Whitney used to feel extremely self-conscious around short people, because she thought they made her seem extra-tall and thus easier to read. Then one day she spotted a woman on the subway who was so tall she actually had to duck to board the train. This lady was a bl
onde bombshell if ever there was one. You wouldn’t look at her and think she looked mannish. You looked at her and just thought: Wow, that woman could be a model.
That was a turning point, for Whitney. After that, she didn’t feel so self-conscious about her height. Funny how you can learn to embrace something about yourself in a split second. Hardly seems possible, but it happened to her.
Atrium level was the end of the line for this elevator.
“You’re taking the subway?” Norma asked.
Whitney offered a subtle nod. At least she was going north while Norma would be headed east. The idea of riding the rails together made Whitney itchy from the inside out.
To get to the subway, Norma led Whitney down a hallway that would take them to the escalator where today’s tragedy took place.
Tugging gently on Norma’s jacket, Whitney said, “I think I’ll walk outside.”
“Outside? But it’s raining!”
“It’s only a block and a half.”
“No, no, your mascara will run.” Norma clutched Whitney’s wrist like a hawk wrapping its talons around a mouse. “Stay inside. We’ll walk together.”
Whitney should have refused. Should have. But didn’t.
The air felt heavy as they approached the escalator of death. Hard to breathe. Whitney’s stomach turned the same way it had at lunchtime.
As they made their way through the long corridor lined with shops, foot traffic suddenly came to a halt.
“What’s this all about?” Norma asked grumpily.
“There must be too many people trying to get to the subway all at once.”
A very handsome man in a very nice suit turned to tell them, “Both of the escalators—up and down—are out of service after… oh, I’m guessing you heard about the accident this morning?”
“Yes,” Norma said. “Poor girl. It’s a real tragedy.”
Whitney was starting to feel faint. All this thick, hot air. All these people in an enclosed space. She focused on the stranger’s sheer handsomeness. Hopefully that would keep visions of the poor girl’s shredded scalp from her mind.
“Everyone’s being diverted to the staircase,” the man went on. “That accounts for the hold-up.”
Norma harrumphed. “If I miss the start of Murder She Wrote, I won’t be happy.”
The man offered a wary chuckle, and then turned away. Whitney stared at the back of his head. Thick brown hair. Beautiful hair. No signs of a bald spot. What a man.
Anything to keep her mind off the scene that kept replaying in her mind. Lord, why did she have to obsess like this? Obsess over the gory death of a woman she didn’t even know?
She couldn’t remember another time when a news item had captured her mind in this way. She felt haunted, anxious, sick to her stomach. Weak.
When it was finally their turn to trudge slowly down the stairs, Whitney got her first look at the escalator that had taken someone’s life. It was the same escalator she rode daily, and yet now it seemed menacing, like it really wanted to kill someone. And it had killed someone. Would it kill again?
There were still forensic people at the base, and mechanic types too. They’d put up a tent-like thing to block out lollygaggers, but you could see everything from the stairs. Blood? Maybe. Probably. Traces, at least. Whitney wasn’t quite sure what she was seeing with her eyes, and what her mind was projecting onto the scene.
Norma remained uncharacteristically silent as they descended the staircase. But the same could be said for everyone. All these people knew that a girl had lost her life here today. The least they could do was offer her soul a moment of silence.
Every so often, people aren’t terrible. Even in the city.
As Whitney approached the base of the staircase, a strange sort of dizziness overtook her. She reached for the railing, but she was nowhere near it. Her hand whacked the handsome man’s butt by mistake.
He turned around, not angrily, just curiously.
When their eyes met, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m not…”
“You’re not well,” he said, completing her thought.
He turned fully around and helped her toward the railing. Something to hold on to. That’s what she needed. She groped for anything and got his arm. She wasn’t mad about that. She could feel his warmth right through his posh suit jacket. Thank goodness he was there.
They were so close to the bottom few stairs, and yet Whitney had to stop when she got to the rail. If the commuters behind her were upset that she’d halted traffic in their lane, they didn’t say anything about it. Not that she’d be able to hear them if they did. Her ears were ringing something fierce.
The handsome man’s eyes widened with concern. Norma stood beside her, gently stroking her back. She felt a million miles away as she gazed over the side of the staircase, toward the out-of-service escalators.
There at the base, a figure caught her eye. Among the workers rushing about, one form stood still. She wore a floor-length dress and a long knitted scarf. Her hair was long too, and dark. And matted with blood.
Her skin was blue.
Whitney found her gaze drawn back to that bloodied hair. She didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t stop herself. Who would possibly want to see a dead girl with a chewed-up scalp?
Not Whitney.
When the dead girl reached out to her, as though asking for help, Whitney couldn’t handle the sight.
She fainted dead away.
Chapter Three
Darkness all around.
Whitney was conscious of being conscious, a state that’s incredibly hard to describe. She was flat on her back. Where? On the ground? On a stretcher? She felt people all around her, hands on her skin. Checking her vital signs. Paramedics? She could only hope so.
A distant yet familiar voice cut through the white noise that filled her ears: Norma telling the paramedics, “She’s one ‘a those transgenders, if it makes any difference.”
“Thank you,” said a compassionate yet professional voice.
“I’m not saying that in a judge-y way,” Norma went on. “Not judge-y at all. Only, I don’t know if there’s something special you got to do with transgenders. Medically.”
Good Lord, that woman! She couldn’t keep herself from budding in.
“Whitney’s a sweet young lady,” Norma continued. “But she doesn’t eat nearly enough. I’m always saying so. And today all she had for lunch was a handful of crackers. I’m not surprised she fainted, not surprised in the least. Probably got some’ to do with blood sugar.”
Letting out a weakened sigh, Whitney forced her lids to flutter. Her eyes weren’t quite open when a man’s buttery voice said, “I think she’s waking up!”
When her eyes managed to focus, the first thing she saw was a turquoise flash. A hand in a glove. A paramedic’s hand. Young black man. Very young. Not that she was anywhere near ancient, but this paramedic looked all of thirteen.
“Where am I?” she muttered, feeling a bench beneath her.
“You’re in the underground.”
Whitney caught a flash of raven hair at her side and nearly screamed.
But it wasn’t a ghost. Not this time. Just another paramedic, a woman with golden skin and shiny black hair. Shouldn’t she wear it up? Seemed dangerous, a paramedic running around with free-flowing hair.
The thirteen-year-old paramedic told her, “You fainted on the stairs. Luckily, your friends were able to get you here, into the underground, and lay you down on this bench.”
“My friends?” Whitney asked. Norma, sure. She’d heard Norma’s voice.
And then, against the bright white lighting of the underground pathway, she caught sight of a smart blue suit, a stylish striped tie, pink lips, a chiselled jaw, great hair.
The handsome man had helped her to safety.
The handsome man had heard everything Norma said to the paramedics.
Whitney groaned, and the handsome man gently asked, “Are you okay? Is there anything I can get you?” He sought
permission from the paramedics. “Is there anything I can get her? Fruit juice, maybe?”
In all her life, Whitney had never been so embarrassed. Well, okay, sure she had. But not recently. Not within the last week or so. Imagine fainting in front of a man as handsome as that. And then he sticks around to call the paramedics!
They asked a few medical questions and wanted to get her to the hospital for observation, but, sitting up, she said, “There’s nothing wrong with me. Norma’s right: I didn’t eat enough today. Then all those people, it’s so stuffy in here, and the sight of blood always makes me woozy.”
“The sight of blood?” asked the paramedic with the shiny black locks. “Are you bleeding?”
“No, no.” Whitney covered her face with her hands. She could feel the heat of humiliation blazing from her skin. “It was all in my mind. I looked at the escalator and I imagined that girl, the one who died.”
She made the mistake of picturing it again, and her head lurched forward.
The handsome man swept in, taking a seat beside her on the bench. Her face bashed his shoulder. “Sorry,” she said. “I just imagined it again, the way she died. Where you two there? Did you see it?”
Both paramedics exchanged a brief glance, and then shook their heads solemnly.
When Whitney assured them she didn’t need to be hospitalized, Norma offered to escort her home on the subway—or by cab, if Whitney covered the fare. She was the lawyer, after all. A mere receptionist couldn’t be expected to pay for a taxi.
“I’ll be fine,” Whitney assured everyone. She told Norma to get going before she missed her beloved Murder She Wrote rerun.
Waving a dismissive hand, Norma said, “Oh, honey, that ship has sailed.”
The handsome man cut in to say, “I don’t mean to be forward, but it sounds like we need to get your blood sugar up. Would it be alright if I were to buy you dinner?”