The Haunts

Early around noon, Levy woke up with a startle and looked at the digital clock on his nightstand. He eyed the open window to his room. During the night, the curtains got sucked outside, and now they were flapping away like laundry in a storm. He tried to recall what had happened last night before crashing, but nothing surfaced. His hand lightly touched his bandaged head wound, which his mother said was healing nicely and added that soon the stitches would be gone and might have a tiny scar. But even though that sounded positive enough at the time, the simple fact that he had his arse handed to him by a bunch of Neanderthals in his own neighbourhood was traumatizing enough. After his mother had gone downstairs to make some tea, Levy nudged Sheryl and said, “Real luck is avoiding the whole escapade by not getting my arse kicked.”

Sheryl brushed the hair away from his face and said, "Poor Levy, you may be a guy, but you’re not the fighting type.”

Some of the younger kids in the neighbourhood headed home for lunch. From next door, Levy heard his little neighbor’s kid, Martin, toss his bike down, followed by the slam of a screen door. It was time for Levy to get up. He had spent too much time lazing about, and the day was partially over. He groggily noticed that he was partially dressed and that his Doc Martens lay faithfully beside his bed. Without pause, he slipped them on and walked over to his leather jacket perched on the door hanger. On its back, it had a half-stitched, half-bobby-pinned faded black and red print of the Psychedelic Furs. It had been a t-shirt once, but after a past event in avoiding an ass-kicking, it was just another salvageable souvenir from his lonesome adolescence by another school bully nicknamed Big Jerk Johnson, who just happened to be on the High School Football team and had called Levy a fucking fairy in the boy’s change room just after gym class. After the two exchanged some harsh words with each other, Levy managed to avoid a beating but instead ended up getting his best shirt quite literally ripped off his back. He recalled the rest of the guy’s buddies jeering at him, calling him a loser and a fag. He remembered one of the art teachers coming over and taking him aside after telling the others to head to their classes. Later that day, a few of the students present got placed on probation, but the Jock that had initially ripped Levy’s shirt managed to avoid being punished for the entire season, all because their school needed him as their champion player.

That person, Levy remembered, just happened to be one of Conrad’s little buddies. So the bully cycle from High School continued until he found himself wondering if attending was genuinely worth trying to scrape up a grade point average high enough so he could attend some higher learning. Either way, Levy was not so much gifted with a handicap that people felt sympathetic for; it was that he happened to be just odd enough to be at the bottom of the pecking order.

Levy stomped down to the first floor. With him descended a funky combination of teen sweat, masked behind a cloud of hair spray, deodorant, and a profuse splash of cologne. Downstairs, the house was dead silent aside from the occasional sound of the fridge humming to life and the insistent tick of the kitchen clock. With an apple held in his mouth, he looked at the clock and cursed. He had to hurry if he was going to get anything done today. He quickly looked into his wallet and was relieved to find that his student bus card was still there, along with a few bucks left of his monthly allowance. He then checked his back pocket to see if he had his jackknife with him or not, which he did. The package of slim cigars was nestled in his jacket pocket, along with a lighter. Before he headed out the door, he stole a quick glance in the mirror to remove the clean bandage that had covered the two stitches he got from the beating and made a face. How can such a little cut bleed so much? He threw the bandage in the garbage. Levy then went back to the mirror to check his teeth, combed a hand through his black-dyed hair, and then left for the bus stop.

Walking past a low-income housing community occupied by seniors, parents, and disorderly children, he noted old postings of missing pets and kids in the surrounding neighbourhoods. Many were taped onto streetlights, littered on post office boxes, faded copies on people’s living room windows, and even stapled on dilapidated fences. There were photocopied pictures of children too young to run away and others just old enough to do so. But most of the missing postings, thankfully, were composed primarily of missing pets—small dogs and cats that had to give their owner the slip or had merely ventured too far and gotten lost. Levy had remembered hearing of some residents finding coyote tracks throughout some of the nearby parks. A prime suspect of why some of the local pets had gone missing, but not reason enough for the disappearance of children, especially those that happened to be close to Levy’s age or just a few years younger. Some of the postings of the children looked pretty recent, but most were faded and weathered by years of neglect.

His thoughts gravitated toward the strange bag lady from the night before. He shoved his hands into his coat pocket, unsure of what to make of it all. Was it just a bad dream? Was he that tired enough to have such hallucination so detailed and scary? He shrugged and chewed on his lower lip. Anything was possible, he supposed. He pulled out the pack of slim cigarettes and sniffed the package to see if Sheryl had playfully substituted the tobacco with something a little more hallucinatory. Perhaps even as a joke, He mused. But her father is an officer. Levy smelled the package again for anything other than a sweet tobacco aroma. They seem perfectly fine to me. Levy coughed as he slid one cigarette up to his lips just as a bus pulled up to the curb beside him.

It never fails. When I go to light a cigarette, the bus I’m waiting for at the stop pulls up. Levy smirked as he slid the cigarette back into the pack and then tucked it away in his jacket pocket.

In the back of the bus, where the seats are tagged with graffiti, slash marks, and stranger’s phone numbers, Levi sat and watched the world pass by. He thought about his father and why the man rarely called or even bothered to come by to see him. Levy didn’t care how busy his dad was. The man could still, at least, make some effort to drop by. Unlike his nanny, who was dying in a hospice but still managed to welcome her grandson’s visits,

Fuck that, Levy thought. I’m going to go and see him right after I see Nana. Maybe even tell him how I feel about his decision to divorce mom.

But the real question that lurked in the back of his mind was, How exactly did he feel about it? Even when his father had come home, it felt as if there was a chasm between them, like some out-of-town guest that was stopping over for a short visit. First off, his father had zero say in Nana’s home. There, he was constantly reminded of his place around her. After all, it was her house, and thus, she enforced the rules. That alone strained his parents’ relationship, and it wasn’t until Levy’s mother had to care for Nana after being diagnosed with cancer that his father came home even less than before.

Levy remembered the day he first wore a skirt around his dad. It could’ve easily been looked like a kilt, but no. Both Levy and his father knew it was a shirt because it was coal black, above the knee, and it had these lovely white ruffles as trim—a birthday present from Sheryl. He remembered the brief but unmistakable look of disappointment on his father’s face. He didn’t have to say that he had disproved Levy’s choice of clothing, but it was apparent in his manner. After that, Levy noticed seeing less of his father at home in that his father dearest had decided to focus more on his career, which led to a lot of absentee birthdays and last-minute changes to their time spent together.

As far as Levy was concerned, he didn't have a supportive father figure in his life. Even his uncle Nigel, who lived in another state, didn’t count.

That left Levy to question his identity—was his lack of a father figure affecting him as a person? Was this the very reason why he felt a disconnection from both his sexuality and his sexual drive? His thoughts gravitated toward his only real friend, Sheryl. She always wanted to play with him, dress him up like a doll, and then parade him out in public. To her, he was the perfect asexual doll. He never objected. In fact, he relished the leather and lace combination and fancied the makeup, the dye jobs, and the asexual hairstyles. But most of all, he loved the attention she gave him. Good or bad, it didn’t matter, so long as he was recognized. One look at his reflection, and he felt something that resembled the love he sought. That was all that mattered.

At the back of the bus, Levy sat with his legs pressed up against his chest and hugged them. Through the window, he watched, disconnected from the people outside, hurrying. For a brief moment, he felt so small and insignificant that it hurt him. But that feeling of self-awareness towards his life could only go so far in comparison to what his nanny was going through. He couldn’t help but feel both sad and helpless in her battle with uterine cancer. He knew she would die soon and that every day mattered more for her than he felt about his predicament. With the back of his hand, he dabbed away his tears as passengers entered and exited the bus. But his interest wasn’t in those coming and going; instead, it gravitated toward a solitary person with her back to him outside in the bustling crowd. The woman’s hair reminded him of his beloved Nana. Her hair looked all silvery white, and the way her tanned, aged skin clung to her bones showed that she too was just a rickety old bird. But as she turned to face him, Levy turned away from the bus window in utter dismay.

I remember now, He held his breath. It’s that old woman from last night. That horrible old bag lady! His mind started to reel as he began to hyperventilate. For what felt like forever, he hazarded another peek out the window, hoping that she hadn’t seen him. Praying that the damned bus he was on would just hurry up, roll out, and create as much distance from her as possible.

Unfortunately, their eyes locked, and she smiled so cruelly at him.

I can see you, little man, she said in his head. Don’t think for a minute that I don’t, because I can see right through you.

Levy squirmed in his seat and positioned himself so he couldn’t see her. Only the back seat of the packed bus was a little higher than the rest of the seats, so Levy felt exposed.

As the bus started to leave, a sparrow struck hard against the bus window right beside Levy’s head. He jumped and craned his head close to the window to see that the old crone had been staring right back. The light started to shift around her. Shadows seeped from her wrinkles, giving her an almost haunting, spectral-like appearance. She then pointed a gnarled finger at Levy and opened her mouth as if to howl profanities at him. A faint grey halo of smoke started to churn around her like a shroud of ghosts. It spread outward, shoving those nearest to her aside. No one else but Levy seems to notice this unnatural event caused by such an abnormal person. She then brought her gnarled and arthritic hands into the air and orchestrated a violent storm to appear overhead—a tour the force just a God-like being could perform. Then, from out of a nearby sewer drain, rats and roaches surfaced like worshipers from the dark crevice of the underworld. They spread throughout a now screaming crowd as the sky above them grew dim with dark clouds that blocked out the sunlight. In the distance, came the sound of rolling thunder, followed by a brief and unexpected onslaught of hail.

The bus where Levy was on, turned onto the on ramp just as the frozen rain starts to pelt its side, and within seconds, it all died away as if nothing had occurred.

Levy looked around to see if anyone else has been paying attention, but not a soul seemed to show worry or concern. In his eyes, they were as oblivious as sheep. Considering that since he was the only one who knew what the Hell had just happened, he started to glean from a most terrifying revelation: the old bag lady was not your typical nanna who made cookies and gave big hugs and happy kisses. Like the bullies throughout his life, she was someone you had to avoid–at all costs; she was the Grand Queen of Bully-Dom.

Could she be following me, and if so why? Levy looked at the impassive faces of those still on the bus with him. He eyed an old woman with a shawl over her head, hunched over a carved wooden cane sitting quietly at the front side of the bus. He watched as she reached up to pull the cord to signal her intent to leave on the next stop. He kept watching as she made her way to the back of the bus to leave. Once she left, Levy spotted an elderly man approach, and then he reached out to take her hand. Levy looked around at those still present on the bus with him. He watched the bus driver who was a chubby mid-aged man assist a passenger with directions. Content that the old bag lady wasn’t aboard, Levy leaned back with his legs still up and rested his head on his knees, aware that he still had a ways to go.

Upon reaching the Hospice, Levy took the elevator up to his nanna’s room. The music on the elevator was gentle and inoffensive. But to pass the time, Levy added his own lyrics to the tune, making the brief trip bearable. As the elevator doors slid open, he passed a resident patient with a massive egg-shaped growth pushing out of the right side of his shaved head. Trying his best to be as civil as possible, Levy greeted the poor man with a nod, wondering what else he was going to see during his visit.

The room his nanna stayed in appeared comfy enough for those that came to see her. The lights were set just low enough so she could rest. Every section of the room had a bouquet arranged in glass or ceramic vases tagged with condolences from old family and friends that had dropped in. But once he saw her with all of the tubes and wires hooked up to machines that continuously monitored her steadily declining health, it made Levy feel both a little sick and a bit sad. He wanted so badly to tear the IV and the monitoring devices off her and steal her away from all of this. In his mind, she’d hold on to him like a rescued child from a house fire. Levy imagined that as they hid in a healthier environment, her cancer would miraculously disappear. The doctors that had first diagnosed the fatal disease would be forced to admit that they were wrong and she’d be as fit as a fiddle; that she could go back home to stay with Levy and mother again. Yes, in Levy’s head and heart was the kind of miracle he wanted for her.

There, she rested while being fed air through a tube in her nostril and through the tube in her arm some liquid food. A machine beside her bed monitored her heartbeats, while a defibrillator sat just within reach, in case her heart should stop.

Levy wished that his ma could’ve come with him, but she had to work, and he felt uncomfortable being the only one present. It would’ve made the trip here much more comfortable to bear than to sit alone and hold nanna’s weak hand and whisper softly about nothing that would concern her. After all, she was on her way out, while the rest of us had to live on without her.

Levy looked over the flowers and read from the cards of loved ones who had gave their blessing and heartfelt prayers. Off to the side he came upon his father’s frugal bouquet and his attention fell on the cheap sympathy card as if dropped off by one of his father’s assistants who had mistakenly spelled her name wrong.

Levy sat by his nanna’s bedside. He held her hand in his and spoke softly to her. After many minutes of no reply or any other kind of response, Levy started to nod off. His head drooped forwards until it pressed against the bed. After what felt like a few seconds, he woke up to find that he had been drooling in his sleep. He looked over, and to his surprise, she had been watching him rest. He remembered her being the strong one in the family. She had lost her first husband to cancer, and the second one to a heart attack, but never once has she acted lost in the absence of a man in her life. Nanna had the strength of will and loved her independence to the very day she grew ill. She had always been active in the community or church. And so, when Levy saw her in distress, he was beside himself as to what to do.

“What is it nanna? Do you need the nurse? Some water, perhaps?”

“Water would be nice.”

Levy fetched the jug on the nightstand and filled a plastic cup with some water to bring to her.

She sipped through a straw, all the while looking at him with her tired eyes. “Thank you, Levy,” she tried to touch his face but felt too weak to move.

“You need anything else?”

“I dreamt of you,” she laid back, closed her eyes, and gave a thin smile.

“Did you now?”

“Dreamed you were in a terrible storm,” she added.

“A terrible storm, huh?” Levy’s smirk faltered.

“You met that old woman that visited me when I was just a babe.”

“What old woman?”

“You know the one that brings the storms?”

“Nanna, what are you talking about?”

“You know her,” nanna grew a tad annoyed, “you’ve met her more times that you want, so I assure you, she is so dark and powerful. Just…”

“Yes nanna?”

“Don’t give in to her foul power.”

“I won’t nanna, I promise.”

“And whatever you do, don’t you ever let her in, if you do she’ll return. Maybe not now, but she’ll return years later…” her eyes blinked back tears, “she’ll come to take your heart. Maybe even one day she’ll come to take away your soul.”

“You know who she is?”

“She was the oldest among us, and she’s a tricky one; been in our clan for many generations. Some had called her birth mother; others considered her a God. But to me, she had become a lover, a most resentful and hurtful beast.”

Levy leaned back on his chair and watched his nanna who had been quite afraid of nothing her entire life, but now she’s fretting over someone he had thought his imagination running wild. She was talking about that strange bag lady from the night before. The one he would rather forget, the scary old crone that had managed to get onto the second floor to his bedroom window.

No, that couldn’t be her. The one nanna was talking about, was she?