by Andrew Pyper
“Follow me,” Ivan says, and starts out toward the nearest doors to the underworld.
On our walk out of Rosedale’s labyrinth of old-money chateaux and new-money castles, enveloped in a cold-hardened March darkness, Ivan tells me he’s never hit a jumper. For a subway driver with his years of seniority, this is a rare claim. Not once has one of the bodies standing behind the yellow warning line on the platform made that incongruous leap forward. Yet every time his train bursts out of the tunnel and into the next station lit bright as a surgery theatre, he wonders who it will be to break his good record.
“Every day I see someone who thinks about it,” Ivan says as we cross the bridge over the tracks. “The little moves they make. A half step closer to the edge, or putting their briefcase down at their side, or swinging their arms like they’re at the end of a diving board. Getting ready. Sometimes you can only read it in their faces. They look at the front of the train—at me behind the glass—and there’s this calm that comes over them. How simple it would be. But in the next second, they’re thinking, ‘Why this train? If there’s another just as good coming along, why not wait? Make sure everything’s right.’ I can hear them like they’re whispering in my ear.”
“And then they change their minds.”
“Sometimes,” Ivan says, spitting over the side of the bridge on to the rails below. “And sometimes the next train is the right train.”
We walk on toward Yonge Street where it breaks free of the downtown stretch of head shops and souvenir fly-by-nights, and heads endlessly north. Ivan talks without provocation, laying out his thoughts in organized capsules. Even when we come to stand outside the doors to the station he continues on, never looking at me directly, as though he has memorized this speech by heart and cannot allow himself to be distracted. It leaves me to study his head. Hatless and bald. A vulnerable cap of skin turned the blue-veined white of Roquefort.
And what does Ivan tell me? Things I would have already guessed, more or less. Son of Ukrainian immigrants. His father a steel cutter with a temper, his mother an under-the-table seamstress, mending the clothes of the neighbourhood labourers in their flat over what was then a butcher’s, now an organic tea shop on Roncesvalles. Never married. Lives alone in a basement apartment, where he writes in the off-hours. Meandering stories that follow the imagined lives of those he shuttles here and there under the city.
“This is the first time I’ve been with people in a long time,” he says. It takes a moment to realize he’s talking about the circle. About me.
“It’s hard to meet strangers in this town,” I say.
“It’s not that. It’s that I haven’t allowed myself to be around others.”
“Why not?”
“I was accused of something once,” he says. Looks at me straight. “Have you ever been accused of something?”
A rip of freezing wind comes out of nowhere. A furious howl that leaves me with instant headache.
What I took to be Ivan’s shyness has dropped away. He reads my face, numbed by the cold so that I have no idea what shape my features have taken. What I do know for sure is that, all at once, the fact that nobody has come in or out of the subway in the time we’ve been standing here makes me more than a little uncomfortable.
“I suppose I have,” I say.
“You suppose you have.”
“I mean, I’m not sure what context–”
“The context of being accused of harming someone.”
Ivan steps away from me. He had meant to have a normal conversation with someone who struck him as normal too, but he’d lost his balance on the home stretch. Yet it’s not embarrassment or apology that plays over his face now. It’s anger. At me, at himself. At the whole accusing world.
“Better start home,” he mumbles, leaning his back into the subway’s door. The warmer air from underground moans out through the gap. “I can get you on free if you want.”
“No, thanks. I like to walk.”
“On a night like this?”
“I’m not too far.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Close enough.”
I could tell Ivan where I live, and I almost do. But I just wave vaguely westward instead.
Ivan nods. I can feel him wanting to ask me to keep the last part of our conversation to ourselves. But in the end, he just slips through the door and stands on the descending escalator. His head an empty cartoon thought bubble following him down.
I walk to Bloor and start west, past the funny-money block of Gucci and Chanel and Cartier, then left at the museum. Entering the university campus at Harbord, the traffic is hushed. I’m alone on the street, which invites the return of a habit I’ve indulged since childhood. Talking to myself. Back then, it was whole conversations carried on with characters from the books I was reading. Now I restrict myself to certain phrases that catch in my mind. Tonight, it’s some things from Angela’s reading.
Dirty hands.
These two words alone frighten me.
Fear made them see the town, the world, in a way they’d never seen it before.
I try to leave these incantations behind in the dissolving fog of my breath. Work to turn my mind to real concerns. No progress on my writing to speak of. The thinning thread that connects me to my job. Dark feelings that have me wondering: Is this it? Is it days like this that start the slide into a hole you can’t climb out of?
A smell that soldiers and surgeons would recognize.
Last night Sam awoke from a nightmare. I went to him. Stroked the damp hair back from his forehead. Once I’d settled him down, I asked what his dream was about.
“A man,” he said.
“What kind of man?”
“A bad man.”
“There’s no bad man in here. I wouldn’t let anyone bad in this house.”
“He’s not in this house. He’s in that house.”
With his that, Sam sat straight and pointed out the window. His finger lined up with the neighbour’s house across the street. The window where the shadow had stood a few nights back. Looking out.
“Did you see the bad man who was there?” I asked him, but he heard in my very question the concession that what I’d just assured him didn’t exist may in fact be real, and he turned his back to me. What good were a father’s empty promises against the bogeyman? He would face any further nightmares on his own.
Blood tattooed on the curtains.
It’s on my shortcut through Chinatown that I start to feel less alone. Not because of the few others shuffling homeward on the sidewalks, heads down. It’s because I’m being followed.
Past the karaoke bars along Dundas, then the foolish turn south straight through the housing projects between here and Queen. That’s when I hear the footsteps echoing my own. There are reports in the City pages of frequent shootings on this very block, yet I’m certain that whatever shadows me isn’t interested in my wallet. It wants to see what I will do when I know it is there.
And what do I do?
I run.
A headlong sprint. I’m wearing the wrong shoes for it, so that within the first block my shins send bolts of pain up to the back of my head. Eyes stinging with wind-burned tears. Lungs crackling like a pair of plastic bags in my chest.
Courage is not a matter of will, but of the body.
I take the alley that runs behind the businesses along Queen. The shortest way to my house. But a dark alley? What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I was running. Past walls and fences built against the rats and crackheads. No light to see by. Just the darker outline of the buildings and the square of black that is the alley opening on to the street at the far end.
I don’t stop. I don’t look back.
Not until I stop and look back.
Standing under the block’s lone working streetlight. My house within snowball-throwing distance. The light on in my son’s room. Sam up late. Sneak reading. And all I want is to sit on the edge of his bed, close his book, turn off the light. Listen to him breathe.
/> He is my son.
I love my son.
I would die to protect him.
These conclusions come fast and terse as lightning. Along with one other.
The alley is empty.
Angela’s Story
Transcribed from Tape Recording No. 2
The girl doesn’t tell anyone what she knows of the Sandman and the terrible thing he’s done. In part, this is because she doesn’t actually know anything about the missing girl, not in a way she could ever prove. Not to mention that a declaration of this kind might just label her as crazy once and for all. She’d be taken away from Edra and Jacob and put in a place far worse than any foster home or orphanage. Someplace she would never come out of again.
But more frightening than even the consideration of being taken away is the idea of hurting Edra and Jacob. Her wellbeing was all they cared about. To show them that she believed in dark figures born in her dreams, a monster who had come from the darkest place to hunt her down, would break both their hearts. The girl resolved to protect them from this no matter what.
For the next few days, ignoring the fact that something was wrong seemed to work. No more children disappeared. No dark figures were spotted in town. The girl’s dreams were the same irrational puzzles that others have, free of any terrible men who do terrible things. It felt like the news of a stranger with no face escaping from the confines of a nightmare was itself a nightmare, and no more real than that.
Then the girl sees him.
Not in a dream, but through the window of her classroom at school. She has been sitting at her desk, working through a math quiz. Multiplying fractions. At one equation more difficult than the others, she raises her head to clear her mind of the numbers atop numbers collapsing into a confused pile. She sees him right away. Standing in the shade of the schoolyard’s solitary elm. As tall as the lowest limb that, the girl knows from trying, is too high to reach, even when one of the boys offered her a boost. The Sandman’s face is obscured by the leaves’ latticework of shadow, though the girl has the impression he is staring directly at her. And that he’s smiling.
She bends over her quiz again. The fractions have doubled in the time she’d taken her eyes from the page, so that the numbers are now a mocking jumble.
He would still be there if she looked. She doesn’t look.
Outside, a lawnmower roars to life. The sound makes the girl gasp. A flare of pain. She feels the lawnmower’s blades cutting into her side, halving her. Turning her into a fraction.
Later, sitting in the back row of the schoolbus on the ride home, the girl tries to remember what the Sandman looked like. How could she see him smile without seeing his face? Was this a detail she’d added after the moment had passed? Was she making him up, just as she sometimes thought she’d been made up? Was she the author of the terrible man who does terrible things?
As if in answer to all of these questions, the girl looks out the schoolbus window and he is there. Sitting on a swing in the playground. His legs held out straight before him, his boots touching the grass border around the sand. A sloped-shouldered man out of scale on the children’s swing set, so that he looks even more enormous.
The girl turns to the other students on the bus, but none of them are looking out their windows. All of them laughing and blowing goobered paper out of straws. For a moment, the girl is knocked breathless by the recognition of how little these other children know. Of what awaits them, watches them. If not the Sandman then some other reshaped darkness.
The bus grinds into gear and lurches forward. Still sitting on the swing, the Sandman turns to watch them go. Even from this distance the girl notices his hands. The fingers swollen and thick as sausages, gripped round the chain. Dirty hands.
Before the bus turns a corner on to the road out of town, the girl squints hard and sees that she was wrong.
It’s not dirt that fills the creases and sticks to the hair on the backs of the Sandman’s hands. It’s blood.
They find the missing girl the next day. Her remains. Down in the trees by the river beyond the graveyard. A place the older kids call the Old Grove, famous for bush parties. Now and forever to be known as the place where a girl, too young for bush parties, was found in pieces, buried in a layer of scattered leaves, as though her murderer had grown bored at the end and cast a handful of deadfall over her just to be done with it.
Because of where they found her, the police turned their suspicions toward the older boys at school who’d gotten in trouble in the past. Perhaps one of them had been in contact with the girl? Had a crush on her, been following her around? But even the most trouble-prone boys at the school had done nothing worse than pocket candy bars or egg windows on Halloween. It was near impossible to imagine any of them had graduated from such crimes to the one in question.
After they found the missing girl, the talk in town shifted from suspicion to fear. It mattered less who had done this terrible thing, and more that a terrible thing not be visited on anyone else. An unofficial curfew was put in place. Lights burned in the houses through the night. Groups of townsmen—doctors and shop owners and tradesmen and drunks, a strange mix that would otherwise be unlikely to associate with each other—patrolled the streets with flashlights and, it was said, shotguns hidden beneath some of their long coats. They had no idea what they might be looking for. Fear made them see the town, the world, in a way they’d never seen it before.
The second girl went missing the same night the first was found. As the men cast their flashlights over lawns and cellar doors and shrub rows, as the lights burned in all the homes, as most stayed up late, unable to sleep, another girl, the same age as the other, was snatched directly out of her bed before dawn. Her ground-floor window left open. Boot prints in the soil by the trampled rose bush. Sheets on the floor. Blood tattooed on the curtains.
They closed the school for the day. Not that the students would be any safer at home. The decision came by way of the instinct to stop whatever had been considered normal, if for no other reason than to match the abnormality of what was happening around them. Edra and Jacob were glad, nevertheless. It was late enough in the season that the crops (however meagre) were already in. There were no church services on Tuesday. And now they’d closed the school. Which meant that the two of them could afford to stay indoors with their adopted daughter, whom they now wanted to protect as much as love.
It was an odd sort of holiday. They baked candied apples. Played cards. Built a fire they didn’t really need just to smell the cherry smoke through the house. The girl’s thoughts turned to the terrible man who does terrible things only a few times over the course of the entire day. She would sneak long looks at Jacob and Edra, and ventured to think the word family as an invisible cord connecting the three of them.
That night she is awakened by the tap of stones against her bedroom window. She hears the first, but only opens her eyes on the second. There is a rule the girl has arrived at through her experience of being haunted. Once could be anything. Two times makes it real.
She’s aware that she’s making a mistake even as she rises from her bed and goes to the window. What compels her isn’t curiosity but duty. She must keep whatever darkness she has brought to this place from touching Edra or Jacob. It isn’t their fault that the girl they’ve shown such kindness to has let her worst dreams free from her head. They mustn’t see what she is about to see.
The girl slides her feet over the bare floorboards and the whole house seems to groan a warning at her movement. Her room is small. But the effort it takes to reach the window exhausts her. Courage, she realizes, is not a matter of will but of the body.
When she reaches the window she has to grip the frame with both hands for balance. There is the sickening stillness that precedes a fainting spell. She makes herself take a breath. As she looks outside, she wonders if her heart has stopped.
The Sandman stands in the yard below. When he sees her, he tosses another stone up at the glass. It is a gesture the
girl has seen in old movies. A suitor signalling his arrival for a midnight tryst.
Once he’s sure that she’s watching, he turns and walks toward the barn. There is a scuffing slowness to his gait that one might mistake for regret. But the girl sees it instead as an expression of his self-certainty, the ease with which he sets about his actions. It’s what makes his kind of badness so unpredictable.
He reaches the barn doors and pauses. There’s an opening wide enough for him to enter, but he doesn’t. He only wants her to see that he’s been in there.
The man turns, keeping his back to her. Steps around the side of the barn and is gone.
The girl knows what she must do. That is, what he wants her to do.
She carries her boots down the stairs to quiet her descent. In her haste, she forgets to put her coat on, so that when she steps out the back door and starts into the yard, the cold bites straight through her cotton pajamas. A wind dances dried leaves in figure eights over the dirt. The paper shuffle sound covers her footfall, so that she’s able to half-run to the barn.
A step inside the doors and the thicker darkness stops her. She comes into the barn almost every day (it’s where she’s assigned most of her after-school chores) so she could navigate her way around its stalls and tools hanging on hooks without light. But there is something different about the space she cannot identify at first. It’s because it isn’t something she can see, but something she can smell.
A trace of the Sandman’s scent left hanging in the air. Stronger than the hay and mouldy wood and cow manure, even without him here. It makes her cough. The cough turns into a gag. A smell that soldiers and surgeons would recognize, but that a girl like her would have no reason to have encountered before.
She fights her revulsion and starts toward the stall at the far end. This is where he wants her to go. She knows this as well as if he’d taken her by the hand to lead her there.
As her eyes become used to the dark, faint threads of moonlight find their way in through the slats. When she opens the gate to the stall, she discovers that it’s enough light to see by. The girl in the stall looks like her. He’d likely chosen her because of this. She’d known the second missing girl from her class at school, but had never realized the similar colour of her hair, the round face. For a second, she thinks it may be her own body lying in pieces amongst the spattered clumps of straw. Which would make her a ghost now too.