The whole ensemble is the color of carnival asphalt, worn by thousands of feet, spills, and vomit.
Everyone looks away, especially me. I think we’re all sharing the same collective thought—this guy has no business here. He clearly can’t buy anything, and only paying customers can use the restroom. The only question is how long it will take for the proprietor to ask the man to leave, or call PD.
Before any of those much better outcomes have time to manifest, the grimy non-patron moves in my direction.
I look away. We all do. That’s the rule: don’t make eye contact, and the crazies will leave you alone. Pretend like they’re not there, and if they try to talk to you, ignore them. The whole time you know they’re boring into you, eyes full of intensity and desperation. But I will not make eye contact.
My peripheral vision sends me bad news. The urban castaway is halfway across the cafe, making a beeline for my table. And while the golden rule is ‘no eye contact,’ it’s also a fact that when their backs are turned, everyone stares at the crazies. And I can see it now in the faces of the patrons. They’re watching this stranger quite nervously. He’s not making the awkward situation any better by talking to himself. He mumbles and growls unintelligibly. He twitches his fingers along with the left side of his face.
He’s got to be mentally ill, and who knows what’s going on in his untethered mind.
I give up the whole ‘checking my phone’ act and just stare nervously at my hands, now wringing themselves together, betraying my discomfort.
He’s right on top of me. He’s stopped at my table, towering over me. At this point, I know that his attention is fixed on me, him and everyone in the cafe.
I look up and make eye contact.
Before I can think of what to say, he slaps his grimy hand on the table, causing me and everyone in the restaurant to jump in their seats. He yanks the opposite chair away from the table and tumbles down into it, never breaking our eye contact.
His face is deeply creased from years of alcohol, probably drugs, loads of cigarette smoking, and extreme exposure to the biting cold wind of the city. The stubble on his face is blotchy, and it’s hard to tell where the five o’clock shadow ends and the dirt begins. Before he even speaks, I smell alcohol and rotten teeth on his breath.
“Well, well, well,” he says in a strange sing-song voice. But says nothing as a follow up.
“Can I help you with something, sir?” I ask in the most non-threatening and respectful tone I can manage. It doesn’t come out very well. Respectful and humble are not my most glowing qualities.
“Oh, yesssss.”
It’s super creepy the way he’s dragging out his words. He’s deranged, clearly, and my eyes shoot a pleading desperate glance at the cafe owner, who’s standing behind the bar with a cell phone in his hand. I’m guessing he has NYPD on speed dial, with Maltino’s being just two blocks up the street from the park. My glance is sufficient to trigger his call to the police.
“Ohhhh, yesssssss,” the man hisses at me. “You can help me more than you know… Henry.”
What the heck?!
“Do I know you?” I ask as I take a closer look at his face, mind reeling to make a connection.
“I should think not, think not. No. NO. NO!!! Why would you know me? Little old me? No. It’s I who knows you! You and that scrubby little teacher friend of yours.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. I think you need to leave.”
The man’s eyes flicker. A brief rage flashes across his pupils and for a few seconds, his irises turn as yellow as a dirty lightbulb.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and the achy fear grips my shoulders and punches me in the stomach.
“Your time is coming, Henry Halfmoon. Your time. Your time is coming… your time is NOW!” The man’s hand is suddenly on me, wrenching my hoodie in his grimy fist and pulling himself across the table.
“You can’t run. I’m always with you,” he breathes rot-scented words into my face. “Me and my friends.” The foul breath pulses from behind his grit teeth as he growls with every word.
I hear soft gasps behind him, as alarmed customers abandon their lattes and danishes, and slink out the door. Thanks for leaving me here with this electric-eyed lunatic. It takes a village to abandon a child.
“That’s enough, sir! You need to leave, now!” The cafe proprietor is at my table in a flash. “I’ve called the police.” The warning is enough to turn the man’s head. But it’s not until the cafe owner puts his hand on the filth-ridden shoulder that the creepy lunatic finally releases his hold of me. The vagrant turns his head to the heroic cafe owner, then tucks his chin briefly, leans over, and vomits all over the proprietor’s shoes!
In the rancid puddle he creates on the floor, the contents of his stomach are on display; I’ll spare you all the details because it’s, well, puke. But scurrying in the chunky up-chuck are about a dozen living roaches that came up with the rest of it, out of the guy’s rotten mouth.
I’m on my feet in a flash and beating it to the glass door and to freedom. You’ve heard of the fight or flight instinct?
Well, that’s a bunch of B.S. It’s all flight.
My heart pounds in my ears so loudly I almost can’t hear the ruckus behind me. The cafe owner is shouting, and from the banging and scraping of the metal table and chairs, I’m guessing it’s turned into an altercation.
The homeless man raises his bewildered voice, “Get your hands off me! What are you doing? How did I get in here? Stop! Help! What did I do wrong? How did I get in here?”
His tone changes completely, and he sounds honestly frightened. The ache from my shoulders and stomach is gone. Something has changed. But I’m not sticking around to find out. And though the homeless man is now wailing in confusion, clearly frightened, he’s not as frightened as I am.
There isn’t a homeless person in New York that can run faster than I. And today, I prove it. I’m headed past the park and within minutes, I’m crossing the campus and bolting down Waverly. I pass the girls’ dorms and the social sciences building. My chest burns, the icy air stinging with every gasp for breath. When I hit Broadway, I hook left and dash for the subway steps. I jump on the northbound Q-line and watch the platform as the doors shut. The psycho is nowhere to be seen, and I decide to hide in the crowds swarming Times Square.
There are plenty of Starbucks on the strip, and PD are always there in full force. I think the bright lights and near-at-hand caffeine dispensaries will keep me both alert and awake until tomorrow night.
But tomorrow night, I’ll have to go back to the arch in Washington Park. I’ll have to go back to his territory.
I’ll have to go back to where the thing stalks me.
When the train makes its stop at Times Square, I quickly deboard and scramble up the station steps, ascending into the mass of tourists flowing up and down the strip.
Until now, I’ve never noticed how many homeless people lurk under scaffolding, along the shadowed spaces of shopping store walls, and behind the entrances to better-lit walkways.
But none of them have glowing eyes.
Chapter 3
I hit an ATM and grab forty bucks before ducking into Starbucks. I’m still rattled, and I have zero appetite. The image of the homeless man’s crawling vomit rolling over and over in my thoughts ensures I won’t be eating for a while. The place is packed wall to wall with tourists. How do I know they’re tourists? Easy. They’re all wearing the same thing. They’ve heard that the New York natives wear a lot of black. They’ve probably watched some YouTube videos and gone shopping before jumping on their flights to the city. And like the horde of hive-minded narcissists they are, they all collectively purchased the same item, thinking they’ll fit right in—the puffy coat. Yes, the official attire of New York’s tourism economy: a black North Face heavy winter coat with horizontal seams. Throw in a black beanie and a cheap scarf, and you’re one of us. Congratulations, you predictable shill
s.
My Americano serves me well as I wrap my trembling, frigid fingers around it. I don’t drink much of it. I dare not put anything on my stomach right now, but the smell is comforting, and the warmth is welcomed. I scan the room, looking for any ‘crazies’ that may be lurking, but there are none. I’m a paying customer, in a room of paying customers. And puffy coat or not, I feel a kinship with every patron. My nerves settle, and I try to make sense of what happened back there at Maltino’s.
How did that guy know my name? I’ve never seen him before in my life. I’ve never had an encounter like that with a homeless person since I came to New York last year. It wasn’t normal. He wasn’t normal, not for your average panhandler. I list out the stranger set of facts in my mind, while staring into the drink hole of my coffee lid.
He knew my name… my full name.
His eyes flashed like dirty yellow lightbulbs.
He vomited live roaches.
I felt the same sensation of fear I get when…
“Holy Crap!” I say aloud, but no one turns and looks at me. It’s noisy and crowded. Maybe because I’m talking to myself and not wearing a puffy coat that I’ve been singled out by the room as ‘one of the crazies.’
I don’t care. The shills can think what they want about me. The revelation hits me like the smell of that homeless guy’s breath. And it turns my stomach just as effectively.
The thing. The homeless man. They’re the same, somehow.
But how can that be? The homeless man never entered my class. I’m sure of it. And if Shipley knew a homeless lunatic was stalking me, wouldn’t he just tell me to go to the police? Why the special clandestine note on my test paper? And a rendezvous in the park? What’s that all about?
I close my eyes and try to replay the scene at Maltino’s. The fear is easy enough to recall, as is the sight of the filthy stranger and the tussle with the cafe owner. But it strikes me as odd that after he vomited, he shrieked and yelled. I couldn’t recall any details from the moment I jumped from my seat and ran from the cafe. I didn’t look back. But his voice was so… scared, surprised even. Like he’d no idea what was going on. Maybe it was an act, crying ‘foul’ after being manhandled by the cafe owner. That’s typical for those crazy types. Also, being crazy is typical for those crazy types. Maybe he’s schizophrenic, and snapped into an alternate personality after he vomited.
Or maybe that thing was hitching a ride and decided to exit the homeless man with a rancid flourish of cookie tossing.
Possession.
That seemed like the best definition, based on all the movies I’ve seen about it. My peers would laugh at the notion. But they didn’t see his eyes flash. They didn’t hear their name coming from his creepy sing-song voice.
I check the time. It’s been four hours since I arrived in Times Square. It’s night, for sure, but the pulsing and flashing of Broadway’s screens and billboards illuminate the area brighter than a summer day. The wind has picked up, and through the Starbucks window, I see more and more puffy coats, moving in huddled groups, heads raised to the electric lights, eyes full of wonder, and wallets full of plastic.
I’m slowly building my nerve back up, thinking of returning to campus. But not quite yet. The nightmare at Maltino’s is now more of a mental crime scene. I’ve roped off the event from my emotions, picking through every detail like a forensic investigator. My fear can’t touch me unless I recall the eyes. When I think about the strange display of yellow light in the stranger’s irises, I feel the fear punching me in the stomach and my neck ache from the tension.
I can deal with the breath, the filth, the panhandling, and the ‘no eye contact’ game. This is New York. That’s just life in the city.
But glowing eyes? Vomiting up live roaches? Clairvoyance?
Hard pass. That guy was possessed, most likely by the thing that was following me.
But possessed by what? I dare not call or text my mom. I know what she’d say. It’s a ‘demon.’ But everything bad in her mind is a ‘demon’ or an ‘evil spirit,’ or ‘the devil.’ Such is the world view of self-professing Christians, especially Evangelical ones. But there’s so much left unexplained by the doctrines of Christianity, that true discovery, true investigation, demands that I get a broader perspective.
That’s why Shipley’s class is so interesting. It gives me perspectives from other faiths and philosophies. I remember him saying that a look at other religious beliefs ‘helps us triangulate’ what we believe about the universe, and the supernatural.
My mom would disagree. Other philosophies and faiths, and even psychology, can call glowing eyes and clairvoyance whatever they want. It’s just ‘demons,’ to her.
But Shipley will know.
I check the time again. It’s midnight, and I’m getting tired. I buy one more coffee for the road, then head back to the subway. I’m going to see the city. My plan is to keep moving all through the night, and for much of tomorrow. I’ll be at the Arch at nine o’clock, sharp. I need to tell Shipley what happened at Maltino’s, down to the smallest detail. He’s got answers for me. And right now, that’s all I care about.
So I’m going to stay on the move, catching what little sleep I can, from train to train, station to station, until it’s time to head back to Washington Square Park. If I just keep moving, that homeless guy won’t ever find me, and hopefully, the thing won’t either.
If I just keep moving.
Chapter 4
Thursday evening, 8:55 p.m., and I’m racked by indecision. Do I stay in the shadows while I wait for the professor? The crazies can’t see me if I’m tucked away in the dark. But the thing can, no doubt. Or, do I stand directly under the Arch in the pool of light illuminating both the walking path and the monument? If Shipley doesn’t see me, will he quickly move on? I don’t know, and I can’t think straight about it. I’m exhausted. I’ve only caught little ten and twenty-minute pockets of sleep, darting up and down Manhattan on the Q-line. I’m so tired my legs are trembling, and I'm noxious. It’s not just fear that kept me on the move all through last night and the day today.
It’s also restlessness. I’m on the doorstep to something different. I can feel that whatever Shipley must tell me will set me on a strange course, an adventure, if you will. I’ve been coursing up and down Manhattan like an expectant father, pacing back and forth outside a delivery room door. It’s the same feeling I get while I’m waiting to board an airplane at the start of a cross-country trip. It’s exciting in a way.
It’s also terrifying. The world I’m about to rub up against isn’t normal. It’s paranormal, perhaps. I don’t know for sure, but the city, the campus, and the whole reason I’m even in New York, all pale in importance next to whatever I’m about to explore and discover for myself.
“Mr. Halfmoon?”
I jump at the sound of Shipley’s voice. I’m standing along the inner wall of the Arch, staring at the ground, hands tucked in my pockets, and mind tucked away in my daydreaming.
“Hello Professor. Thanks for meeting…”
“Shhhh! Not here. Follow me.” The world’s greatest history nerd nervously glances left and right, then walks into the plaza area. He moves quickly for a short squatty old man. And he has an odd ‘old man hustle’ about his pace, as if his feet hurt with every step, and Denny’s ‘senior special’ buffet closes in five minutes.
I can barely keep up with him, in fact I’m tagging along behind him as we quickly shuffle single file across the park, then turn right and beat feet against the pavement heading west. Shipley cuts across the street in a flash and heads down MacDougal. I follow and almost get hit by a cab. Horns blare at me. I wave apologetically, then scurry across to catch up with the professor. He bobs and weaves around light poles, slips between pedestrians, and zig zags under scaffolding with the stealthy ease of a cat. He hooks right at West Third and disappears around the corner. When seconds later, I’m at the same corner, I can’t see him, only the neon overhanging sign of the Blue Note Jazz Club. I k
now he went this way, so I move towards the club. But a short arm darts out of a shadowed alcove on my right and grabs me. The arm is covered in tweed, and the sport coat sleeve betrays the night-stalking professor. He pulls me into the shadow and whispers, “Say nothing until we’re inside my room. We can talk freely there.”
The unlit entrance creaks open, and we slip inside. We descend a set of old stone steps into the bowels of Greenwich Village. At the end of a dirty red-brick hallway, he jingles a set of keys and scrapes one of them into a deadbolt. We cross the threshold into an unlit room, an apartment I’m guessing. In the dark, I hear him behind me fidgeting with the lock on the door. Then he flips a light switch, and the lair of Professor Shipley burns into view.
It’s exactly as I had imagined to the smallest detail. The main room, though small, has the look and feel of an ancient library. Every wall is covered in books from floor to ceiling. There’s no wall space for pictures, knickknacks, or fixtures of any kind. There are no windows, of course, as we’re underground. There’s only bookshelf upon bookshelf, interrupted only by a small door (leading to a tiny bedroom) and a fireplace. Next to the fireplace are two wingback chairs, the color of faded burgundy, and next to the more faded of the pair is a small cherrywood end table, upon which is a stack of ancient crumbling hardbacks and a Sherlock Holmes-style pipe.
I knew it.
I spin around and observe Shipley securing the door with five different locking mechanisms.
What’s he so afraid of? I hypocritically wonder. The professor finishes his last lock, ensuring certain death in the event of a fire, and we must get out quickly. But he then does something totally bizarre. With the tip of his right thumb, he traces an upside down triangle on the back of the door. He mumbles something as he does this strange work, but I can’t quite make out the words. It’s not English, but even if it was, it was spoken too softly to clearly understand.
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