Free Ghosted by Phaedra Weldon

 
     
     
     
     
    1
     
    She walks out of the apartment building to my
right, just a few feet up from where I will be when she's gone. Her
walk is beautiful, as is the cadence of her long black hair as it
sways from side to side across her back. I can tell from her
clothing she would never look at me on the street, or grant me an
audience for a drink if we met in a bar. I am one of the walking
ghosts that surround her, the ones she never sees. Her attention is
riveted to the phone in front of her and its screen tags her as a
beacon, someone who is not paying attention.
    My watch tells me it's just past midnight. The
cold is not only felt in my thin boots as it makes small icicles of
my toes, but in the bite of it on my nose, and the evidence in
front of my face, and the faces of everyone on the street. My
breath is visible in the air. Puffs of ghosts born and
extinguished. Though at that time of the day, when the sun gives
over complete control to the moon, there aren't that many people on
the street. Smart people are inside and warm in their beds, and not
roaming the streets like me.
    I idly watch her as she walks, and her gait
takes her further up the sidewalk where she turns the corner to the
right and disappears. I will see her again because I have to make
that same right. My apartment is another block down this lonely
path. I hope I'll get to see her continue to walk as I open my door
and step inside.
    But when I make that turn and expect to see
her, she's not there. The sidewalk is empty, and the street lamps
overhead illuminating the deserted road don't reveal any moving
shadows.
    There aren't any apartments except the one
where I live, which isn't really my apartment. It belongs to a
friend who travels the world, writing about different places on a
blog she started as a lark. It became her obsession as well as that
of an entire army of travelers who feed her website with donations
that keep her from the work-a-day world I live in. I am a carpenter
by trade.
    I stand outside the simple door to the loft
and watch the empty sidewalk. Worry and apprehension crawl up my
back when I think I hear something. It could be a cry of help, or
the meow of a cat looking for a handout.
    A loud noise breaks the darkness and
apprehension becomes a blanket that covers my shoulders and
sharpens my senses. Again I hear the sound of someone—is it a
muffled cry?
    I am not a fighter, but I have been known to
fight. Bullies left me alone in school because I proved one day I
was not an ATM machine. Jimmy Simms is indeed better looking today
because of my right cross. He is also one of my closest
friends.
    But like all descent human beings, I am a
prisoner of my conscience as it gauges what I should do. Logic
tells me the woman with the phone did not disappear voluntarily,
and given the type of neighborhood I live in, there were plenty of
predators who would view her as prey.
    I set my purchased meal on the ground and
crouch as I move in a much quieter fashion along the brick wall of
a building. There is an alley a few yards ahead of me. Many bus and
train commuters use it in the mornings and evenings to cut through
from the station to their homes, and there are many who lurk in
that area to find the last one out of the station. The lone
rider.
    The low hanging fruit.
    My fear response says not to get involved. To
just go into the loft and ignore what could be happening to that
woman.
    But I have never listened to that part of
myself.
    I press my back against the wall and focus my
hearing on the sounds coming from the dark alley. If I lean forward
and peer inside I will see what is happening. So I do.
    A predator has the woman on her front. I see
this because the street lamp above me casts enough light into the
alley. He is on top of her and he is raping her. His attention is
focused on his kill.
    And on his dick.
    I believe I have an advantage in this
situation. I move slow as I turn that corner and keep myself in the
shadow of the