by Phil Tucker
Raising her hand to stop a passing woman in a rumpled business suit, Maya stepped forward and then stopped. Choked. The words wouldn’t come out. The woman, not slowing her pace, gave her a wide berth, eyebrows raised. Maya put her hand to her throat. She turned to a gangly white kid walking by, skateboard under one arm. Again the words stoppered up in her throat. The kid looked at her curiously, but he didn’t stop either.
Sudden tears welled in her eyes. It wasn’t over. She wasn’t free. A tan Cadillac pulled up next to the pavement a few paces ahead of her, and the door swung open. Helpless, lost, suddenly without the will to move, she watched a skinny white man get out, big nosed and with curly hair down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a scuffed dinner jacket that hung open to reveal a white wife beater, low slung jeans, and sported cheap tattoos all over his body. Music was pumping out of the Cadillac, catchy and with a good beat, and the young man yelled a goodbye in through the window as it pulled away.
Turning, he saw her. He was ugly, she saw, eyes small, nose too long, skin sallow and, on the whole, looking kind of effeminate, despite the tattoos, the clothing. He stared right at her, his eyes dark, and then cracked a lopsided grin that completely transformed his face.
“What you crying about, huh?” The tips of wings extended from each side of his wife beater, hinting at some tattooed bird over his chest.
“I’m just so tired,” she said. “I just want things to go back to normal.”
“Hell, ain’t nothing in the world that’s normal, girl. You just got to go with the flow, know what I mean?” He gave her another grin, and then turned to walk away.
Maya paused. Something. Something. Hands flew to her throat, and then she yelled after him, “Hey! Wait a second.”
He stopped, stood still. He could have just looked around, but he seemed to like doing it more dramatically. Spun around on his heel, stared at her. “Sorry,” he said. “I already have two girlfriends. And I’m actually not joking.”
“No,” she said, trotting up. “You can hear me.”
A beat. “Yeah,” he said. “But are you saying anything worth listening to?”
“Hey,” she said, jerking up her chin. “Watch it.”
He smiled again. “Just playing. So look. I’m going to walk this way. Nice and slow. How about you go that way?” He pointed in the other direction. Winked at her. “Take it easy.”
Maya tried to think of something to say. And instead saw Tommy Rawhead watching her from across the street, open razor in his hand, standing head and shoulders above people who ignored him, walked around him without giving him a glance. His bloody pate gleamed wetly in the dying sunlight, and his idiot grin radiated malice and delight.
Maya took a step back, and then, not knowing what else to do, ran after the tattooed man. Grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey-“
He spun out from under her hand. “Look bitch, enough is enough—“
“Just look over there,” she said, and something about her voice stopped him. Still frowning, stepping away, he glanced across the street, froze. “Do you see him? You see Rawhead?”
“Rawhead,” said the guy. He blinked once, twice. “You mean the tall dude, bleeding from the head, holding a straight razor? Coming this way? Yeah. I see him. Friend of yours?”
He was taking it remarkably well. “No. No no no. Please. I need help.”
“And what do you want me to do about it? Bitch slap him with my dick?” They were both backing away, neither taking their eyes off Tommy.
“I don’t know! You can see him though, you can hear me talk, please—“ But she didn’t have time to say anything else. Tommy lunged forward, scattering people before him who screamed and fell with looks of utter confusion and fear on their faces. His straight razor came whistling in at them, but the tattooed guy grabbed her hand and yanked. Maya stumbled back, and then they were running.
Down the sidewalk, people yelling and jumping aside. Leaving 4th Avenue behind, running along Atlantic, Tommy hooting and giving chase, his long ungainly steps keeping stride with them.
Maya looked over at the tattooed guy. His weasely face was strained now, his lips pulled back from his teeth, and she saw that he was grinning. “What you smiling at?” she yelled at him.
“I smile when I’m scared!” He yelled back. A bus roared past them, shuddering and causing the air to quaver and vibrate. There was a bus stop ahead. “Come on!”
Maya ran. The sunlight was suddenly lurid, growing red. It was getting closer to dusk. She didn’t want Tommy chasing her in the dark. People yelled as the guy shoved them aside, knocked them down. The bus pulled over to the curb, and an old man jumped out in a spry manner, nearly tripped and then walked off, cursing. A couple of people got in, the doors started closing.
“Hold the bus!” yelled the tattooed guy. “Hold it!”
The doors closed. Opened again. They reached it, clattering up, both out of breath, and threw themselves onboard. “Go!” he yelled at the bus driver, who stared back, eyes wide. Her new friend yanked out his wallet, plucked out two dollars and waved them in his face. “Please?”
There was a clicking sound from outside, and then they both turned to stare out the window. The doors had closed. Tommy was standing outside. He reared up, straightening his back so that he stood some seven feet tall, and then pressed the tip of the razor to the first window. Stared at them through the glass.
Maya and the guy stared right back. The bus pulled away. Tommy pressed the razor tighter against the glass. It began to squeal as it cut a deep scratch into the window. Down the length of the bus it went, leaving a wavering undulation of white distortion in its wake. Everybody in the bus clamped their hands to their ears and stared round in confusion, trying to see the source of the sound. Nobody stared at Tommy, who was left behind.
“My name is Kevin,” said the tattooed guy. “Kevin Jones. I’m not tripping. I’m not drunk. Which could be the problem. So what the hell was that about?”
Maya curled her hair behind her ears, and realized with a pang of horror that she’d dropped her purse somewhere. She groaned inwardly. After holding onto it for so long. “I’m Maya. That was Tommy Rawhead. He’s some kind of monster, or bogey man, or something. Nobody else can see him except me. And you, apparently.” She stared dully toward the back of the bus, wishing there was a rear window through which she could check on Tommy.
“Right,” said Kevin. “Sure. Why not? I’m going to take this bus down to Grand Army, and then I’m going to catch a cab to the closest liquor joint. I think I need a therapy session.”
“How come you can hear me?” asked Maya. “Or see Tommy?”
Kevin shrugged a skinny shoulder. “I used to see shit all the time when I was a kid. Guess I’m regressing.”
“What kind of stuff?” Maya asked, and then screamed as the rear tire of the bus blew completely and the bus lurched down and to the right. A horrendous shrieking of breaks filled the air, the driver spinning the great steering wheel to the right, and they slammed to a halt, people reaching to steady themselves and stare in shocked surprise out the window. More yelling. The doors opening, the driver rising to his feet.
“No!” yelled Maya. “Don’t open the door!”
The bus driver jumped down onto the sidewalk. Tommy came dancing into view, staring through the windows at them.
“Fuck this,” said Kevin, and turned to the far window. Grabbed the emergency release latch, and yanked at it. Ropey muscles flew into sharp relief across his shoulders, and then the glass popped out and fell away. “Come on!” Without waiting he clambered out and dropped to the road.
Everybody was staring at her. Tommy pressed a huge, simian palm against the glass, leaned in and grinned. He was playing cat and mouse with her again. Not knowing what else to do, Maya clambered out the window right after Kevin and began to chase him down the street.
Kevin was laughing. Curly brown hair thrashing about his head, he ran ahead of her, his scrawny form knifing through traffic. A red hatch
back came screeching to a halt before him, the backend fishtailing, and without slowing down he leapt and slid across the hood, denting it and tumbling off the far end. Maya ran after, trying to catch up, but he was already up and running again, clawing the hair out of his eyes. The doors to the hatchback opened as two guys spilled out, yelling after him, but then she rounded the car and they were left behind.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw Tommy loping down along the sidewalk, keeping pace, broad shoulders swaying with each swaggering stride. He cut and sliced at things as he ran, severing a support strut to an awning so that it collapsed, dragging the blade along a brick wall so that brick chips and dust flew out into the air, startling the hell out of two women pushing baby strollers. Maya cut to the left, away from Tommy, and saw that Kevin had already gained the far pavement.
“Come on!” he yelled, slowing down only to grab her hand and pull her after him, picking up the pace. He was slick already with sweat, the chill of the winter air seeming to have no effect on his metabolism. Down Flatbush Avenue they ran, dodging pedestrians and rounding mailboxes, crates, newspaper dispensers and bags of trash. Maya’s lungs were beginning to rasp, a hot ingot of pain manifesting deep in her side. She couldn’t keep sprinting for long.
Traffic was thick and fast moving now, and casting a look about she saw that they had momentarily lost Tommy. “This way!” she yelled, and swerved to the left, off the pavement and through a gate in an iron fence that ran along the length of the block. Another church, smaller than the first but with larger grounds, trees bare and stark, the windows lean cuts in the stonework, dark like winter pond water and revealing nothing of its interior.
Kevin ran alongside her as they circled the church, leaving the avenue behind, feet crunching on the thin layer of snow. Round the broad base of the church, past the massive main doors, and round the back. Slowing down, they staggered to a stop. Kevin bent over, hands on knees, head hanging as he gasped for breath. Face slick with sweat, he gasped once, twice, and then straightened, putting his hands against the small of his back as he looked up at the sky, sucking air.
Maya looked about. The church grounds were empty. Buildings reared up around them, making the small lawn seem like a pocket of gray and white amidst the brown stone and brick.
“Can… can your buddy… follow us into a church?” asked Kevin, looking at her through one eye. “Holy ground?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s not here though. So.”
“Yeah.” With one final exhalation he regained control of his breathing, and wiped the back of his arm across his forehead. “Wow. What the hell? I just wanted to buy some condoms and cigarettes. Did not expect to end up running from some psycho killer. You going to call the cops?”
“Can’t,” she said.
“That’s right. They wouldn’t be able to see him. Man. You’re fucked, eh?” And he grinned at her.
Maya looked past him, trying to think. A barn owl flitted down from the sky and alighted on a branch, swooping down silently to then sit and stare at her with dark eyes. It was beautiful, its wings feathered with burnished orange plumage that tended to gold, dappled with soft gray patterns, face white and august, stomach plumed with the softest white feathers. Compact and dignified, it ruffled its feathers once, shifted its weight on its taloned feet, and simply gazed right at her.
“Huh,” said Kevin. “An owl.”
A second flew down. Descended from the skies, wings beating down in a silent whiplash of fury as it arrested its course and landed on the branch of another tree, higher up but still remarkably close. Identical to the first, it could have been its twin. It was high enough to catch the dying afternoon light so that the gold feathers on its shoulders and the back of its head gleamed to white.
“Another owl,” said Kevin, turning to stare at her. She returned his gaze. Shrugged. Then three more owls flew in, a flurry of broad wings, taloned feet extended at the last moment to grip branches, the horizontal bar of the iron fence, the top of an old gravestone standing straight and proud despite the weary passage of the years.
“Okay maybe we should go,” said Kevin, taking a step back. The five owls all regarded Maya with equal gravity, their black eyes gleaming like beads of crude oil in the pallid, flat expanses of their faces. But Maya didn’t feel threatened. They were too beautiful, too composed and still.
Maya took a step forward. She felt as if the moment had taken on the ethereal stillness of a soap bubble, seemingly perfect and improbable and liable to burst and end without notice. Kevin went to say something, stepping after her, reaching out to take hold of her arm, when the last of the owls arrived.
The church yard became a kinetic cacophony of birds, swirling and alighting without colliding with each other, flying in from all sides, the silence growing flurried with the beating of all the wings. Both Maya and Kevin froze. Owls were on the branches of the trees, along the railing of the garden, three atop gravestones. A moment later and all was still again, each owl seemingly carved from alabaster and gold, still and watching her. Eleven, she counted. Eleven of them.
“Yo,” whispered Kevin without moving. “I think this is a little too freaky-deaky. I’m gonna head out, okay?”
The first owl spoke, “Lady, you must attain the park to the south.” It’s voice was cultured, elegant, rich and mellifluous. Tempered, stern.
“The park?” asked Maya.
“Prospect Park?” asked Kevin.
The owls turned their heads, first the one on the far left, and then each in successive order, a ripple of attention diverting, spreading across the church ground. Tommy Rawhead had appeared around the corner of the church. Hunched over once more, he stared somberly at the owls, eyes slitted. Carving a slow, hypnotic pattern in the air before him with his razor.
“I don’t think I can run that far,” said Kevin, beginning to move to the other side of the church. “It’s not healthy to run this much.”
Maya followed him, eyes on Tommy. No matter how often she saw him, the horror of his flayed head didn’t seem to abate. Nor did the look of idiot desire in his eyes fail to chill her. The vacuous smile which surfaced now, the same smile, she was sure, that he would wear as he cut her into pieces.
The owls lifted from the branches, railing, tombstones. Wings extended, pinion feathers long and beautiful, they launched themselves forward to swirl in wide circles in the air, a maelstrom of white and singed orange, of black eyes and outstretched talons. Tommy snarled and lurched forward, an arm thrown up to protect his face as the first owl dive bombed him, talons raking bloody furrows across the flesh of his forearm. The attack was sudden, a dive that corrected itself at the last moment so that the owl swept away. Leaving room for a second to attack, and then a third.
Maya rounded the corner, ran for the gate, Kevin at her heels, both of them shooting glances over their shoulders, but Tommy failed to appear. Hitting the pavement, they began to run once more, not an all-out sprint, but a fast jog, something they could sustain for a number of blocks.
“Grand Army Plaza ahead,” puffed Kevin, “Big space, huge arch. Through that, into the park. What,” he then asked, “Is in the park?”
“Trees?” replied Maya. Kevin laughed, a raucous squawk, and put on some speed, arms pumping. They reached a cross street, Park Place, ran through it, ignoring the blare of horns. The buildings were a continuous brick wall on either side of the broad street, the ground floor an endless row of shops and stores. Copy centers, cafes, bars, hardware stores, cell phone centers and hair dressers. Each with their own faded awning, people milling about, heading home. On they ran, Maya trying to keep up, thanking Tim Tom Tot over and over in her mind for the food he had served her, the sleep she had had in his chair.
“Getting close,” grunted Kevin, who had fallen back, “Look!” Up ahead the road passed between two brick apartment complexes that stood sentinel over either side, and there was a darkness of trees beyond. Looking back, Maya saw Rawhead giving chase. The owls continued to at
tack him, causing him to stumble, but even as she watched, he lashed out with his razor and cut one across the body, shearing through a wing and knocking it to the ground. With vindictive vehemence, he stomped his boot into its body, and ran on. Chasing them.
Adrenaline coursed through her. She pulled ahead of Kevin, who cursed and tried to keep up. The pavement seemed endless, the trees too distant. Past a pub spilling loud rock music into the evening air, past a grocery with its produce sheltered behind a plastic screen that turned the front of the store into a greenhouse. The apartment complexes were getting close. The trees were visible up ahead. Things opened up, and Maya straggled to a stop.
Hands on knees, panting, she looked up at Kevin. “This it?” she asked. “These trees the park?”
“Ha!” he said. “Ring of trees. Around the Plaza. Getting close. Come on.”
They ran. Tempted by a subway entrance. Across roads, into the streets, along a path, past a fountain, then out the other side to run right through the triumphal arch. Broad, stately, impressive, Maya and Kevin ploughed on, Rawhead not far behind. Wanting to scream, breath ragged and red in her throat, Maya ran on, sweat running down her temples, into her eyes, her hair plastered to the back of her neck.
The Plaza was a mass of flat concrete and a tangle of broad, intersecting avenues and streets. Cars converged from all directions, circling and peeling off from the knot that was Grand Army. Huge buildings to the left, great bronze doors, but Kevin, hand pressed deep into his side, stumbled across the streets, onto separating islands, on until they reached the very far side, and then jogged past car barriers to follow a road flanked by tall, Egyptian columns into the park beyond.