What Haunts Me (2 page)

We'd been drinking at one of the local bars and were walking back to our motel. It was a misty-rainy night and the visibility was hardly fifteen feet. I was walking with a friend named John, but the others had gotten quite a bit ahead of us. We could hear them, but they were just shadows in the dark drizzly rain. John had grown up on Coronado and it had been his idea to come over. He was a tall lanky guy with an obvious lisp that most of us didn't even notice anymore. I had an umbrella with me, one of those long jobs with a pointy brass tip on the end. It wasn't raining hard enough to justify using it for its intended purpose, so instead I held it downward, allowing the brass tip to tap the sidewalk as I went.

We were in a residential neighborhood. There were well manicured homes of all sizes on either side of the street, and as we passed one of the smaller ones, John pointed it out and said he had been born in that house. Looking toward it, I noticed a woman of about thirty standing just off the sidewalk on the grass. Her appearance was right out of the 1940s; her dress hung below her knees with padded shoulders and semi-tailored waste line, Mary Jane shoes, hair neatly done up in side rolls. Yet, it wasn't the vintage apparel that stood out so much; it was that she was untouched by the light rain that was coating everything and everyone around her. Of course, it was also the Harry Potter glasses that she wore, and the fact that she seemed to be intently focused on John.

For no other reason but instinct, I raised the umbrella and gently jabbed it at her as we walked past. A look of horror filled her face, and then she swirled away into a grey mist, just like the ghost, or whatever he was, had done when I was a kid at Bobby's house. Now that I remembered it all, it occurred to me that John didn't have a lisp…anymore.

These weren't the only memories that resurfaced, but they were the most vivid, and I couldn't explain why I was all-of-the-sudden remembering these things; perhaps the fever had brought it all on. More importantly, why would I, without provocation, go around poking at people…ghosts…visions? I was feeling pretty confused so I decided to call my dad.

My dad was a spry and active sixty-eight year old, but I still worried about him. The best way to assuage my concerns was to talk to him via video chat every week or so. As was our routine, I sent a text message to his cell phone, asking him to log into Skype. In ten minutes, I was seeing my dad through the monitor on my laptop. He looked good…the quiet life agreed with him. His thick grey hair was neatly combed, his face clean-shaven, and he was wearing a crisply pressed button down shirt. I thought perhaps that I had caught him as he was going out for the evening.

“Hey, Dad, is this a bad time?” I asked

He smiled. “Nah, always a good time to talk to you. I am expected at the Moose Lodge for potluck tonight, but I have a few minutes before I need to leave. How are you George, you look a bit…pale?”

Dad didn't usually mince words and I was pretty sure I looked worse than “a bit pale.” I smiled and said, “Yeah, been sick with the flu or something, but I'm on the mend now. How are you?”

He arched an eyebrow, an expression that meant he didn't completely believe me, and said, “I'm great. Did I tell you about the fish I caught at the lake last week? Damn big one— twenty pounds at least; had some of the neighbors over for a barbeque on Sunday to help me eat it. Probably the last barbeque of the year since it's starting to get chilly out. So what's wrong, George?”

I smiled again and sighed. “Dad, remember our old neighbors, the Wrights? Their son Bobby was a pal of mine.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “I think so. Didn't they live down the block? Two kids…the dad was a teacher, I believe.”

“Yeah, that's them. Do you remember their little girl? She was sick or something. I remember mom saying something about an accident when she was a baby.”

I wasn't completely sure that I saw it, but I thought he stiffened at the mention of the little girl: or was it the mention of her illness? He seemed to shake it off and then shook his head and said, “Can't say I do remember her, but then I don't recall the family much, except for the boy that you played with. Why do you ask?”

I was almost positive that he was lying, which was something he never did, a least not to me. I decided not to ask about it, and instead I said, “No real reason. Just had these weird dreams while I was sick and Bobby and his sister were in them. I remembered there was something wrong with her…and then there wasn't. You don't remember that, Dad?”

This time his brows furrowed suspiciously. “Nope, I remember them living in the neighborhood, then they moved. Mr. Wright was transferred to a different school or something. Probably just something your mind made up while you were ill, boy, nothing to worry about.”

I wasn't sure what I had expected from him. Was I hoping that he'd confirm that little Camille had been ill and then she wasn't? Because let's face it, that theory was insane. I didn't see a point in asking about my college buddy…Dad had only visited me in San Diego once, so I was sure he wouldn't remember him.

He was still looking at me suspiciously and I realized this call had been a bad idea, so I said, “Guess you're right, it was the fever—brought on a bunch of strange dreams about stuff from years ago.” I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

Dad peered through the digital miles at me, then said, “Well, I should go, don't want to keep the ladies at the lodge waiting.” He winked. “Besides, it's poker night, so I want to be sure I'm at a good table. Some of those folks cheat, and I seem to always get stuck with that crowd when I'm late.” We said our goodbyes and disconnected.

My thoughts drifted back to my youth. Were there other incidents of the vintage-clothed Harry Potter people? None came to mind specifically, just that feeling that I had been seeing these people everywhere, all my life. Of course, I hadn't remembered any of it until today, which didn't mean a whole lot, since logic dictated that these were most likely old memories that appeared in my dreams, became warped by my fever, and then resurfaced in my waking hours.

The whole thing was making me tired, and because I was feeling better, I knew I would want to get into the office tomorrow to get caught up. I made something to eat and retired to my bed in the hope that sleep, sans the strange dreams, would be the only thing plaguing me for the next eight hours.

The following morning I was up before the sun and sitting at my desk by 7 a.m., an extra large coffee at my side, plowing through the gazillion emails that had come through in my absence, all of which purported the utmost urgency, most of which were not urgent at all. By the time I'd finished with the emails, my assistants had arrived and were more than happy to dump the work load back in my lap. The day was busy and I didn't get out of the office until six-thirty that evening. It was Friday and I was glad. I didn't intend to work the weekend…after all, I was still recuperating and needed to rest. I also didn't have any weekend plans, which was fine too.

I stopped at the market and deli a block from my house and picked up a variety of sandwich fixings, pasta and potato salad, and a six-pack of beer. The busy day had kept me from thinking about my “memories” or whatever they were, but as I left the market I was instantly reminded of them. A woman in her mid-thirties stood across the street, decked out in the high-fashion of the 1970s, complete with bell bottoms, a floppy hat,
and
round-rimmed glasses. She was glaring at me, as if she knew me. A truck roared past and then she was no longer there. I walked home in a bit of a daze. Of course an outfit like that wouldn't be abnormal in San Francisco, neither would the glasses, but the truck had only been between us for a second or two, surely not enough time for her to simply vanish. That's when I decided I hadn't really seen her at all; it was a nasty side-effect of my flu and nothing more.

The quiet evening did me a world of good and when I woke up on Saturday I felt like a new man. I decided to put on some shorts and a sweatshirt, grab my tennis racket, and head over to Lafayette Park, an eleven and a half acre park in Pacific Heights located on a hill between the streets of Washington, Sacramento, Gough, and Laguna. The views were spectacular on a clear day. It had both treed and open spaces, and if the weather was nice and sunny, the hillside facing Sacramento Street was loaded with sunbathers, mostly women; that view could be pretty spectacular too. It also had two tennis courts set up as first come, first serve. I played there as often as I could, usually catching the winner of the last set as my competition.

That's where I'd met Greg. He was a fiftyish man with a lean athletic body and darkly tanned skin, lined with more wrinkles than he should have had for his age. He was also a darn good tennis player and usually gave me a run for my money. He was there that day, just finishing up a set with a nice looking young lady. I moved into the court and took my seat on one of the benches along the chain link fence, which was proper etiquette in alerting the players that you wanted the next game.

Greg and I played two sets before someone else arrived at the courts, and since he had efficiently destroyed me, I was the one out. I shook his hand, said my goodbyes, and headed back home for a shower. Before leaving the park, I stopped at the top of the hill and took a look around; it was a beautiful day and I could see for miles. There were a few dog walkers in the park and an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench nearby, his short sleeved shirt exposing his clearly disfigured left arm, which he held close to his side.

As I began my descent toward Washington Street I saw a woman pushing a baby carriage. She was wearing a black calf length dress with a white pinafore, a black beret or bonnet of some sort, and a black cape of all things. Although the carriage looked new, its style was old-fashioned… not the current popular stroller style, but an actual carriage that a child could lay down in. The bassinet and rounded hood were black, white rubber tires surrounded wire-spoke oversized wheels, and the polished chrome framework sparkled. The woman pushing the carriage reminded me of the ugly baby-snatcher in
Ghost Busters II
when young Oscar was stolen from Venkman's loft. When she turned her head, she looked right at me through her round Harry Potter glasses. She appeared frightened at the sight of me, and she immediately glanced at the carriage and then past me to the bench where the old man sat.

Some sort of strange instinct kicked in and I suddenly knew I needed to catch up with her. I began to jog down the short hill, and when she saw me coming she sped up a bit and headed toward Gough Street. I was faster and the carriage was slowing her down. As I caught up with her I reached out with my tennis racket in an attempt to get her attention. It went right through her, and like my memory/dreams, she, along with the carriage, began to disappear into a swirling grey mist.

I stood transfixed for a minute, not sure what had just happened. Finally I shook myself. Perhaps I was still sick and the exertion of the tennis games was causing a relapse. I turned back toward Laguna Street and began to walk home. Halfway through the block I saw the old man walking down the hill. I glanced at him and at first didn't see it, but when I turned back to look again, I realized that both of his arms were perfectly normal, and swinging aimlessly at his sides.

By the time I got home, I had
almost
convinced myself that I was imagining these things. After a shower and some food, I began to pace around my apartment, trying to figure out what was happening to me and why. There were definite commonalities with the fever induced memories or dreams and the woman I'd seen in the park that morning. First, the eye glasses and vintage clothing; I had no idea what they meant, but there it was. Second, a person with some sort of ailment or deformity was always in the vicinity. Third, if the apparition was around a sick person and I poked it, it disappeared, along with the nearby person's affliction. Of course there was the man in the lobby and the woman across from the deli to consider as well…neither of them seemed to be related to a sick person, but that didn't mean there wasn't a sick person nearby that I hadn't noticed. These apparitions looked real, but what were they? Ghosts? Poltergeists? Demons? They seemed to be hurting people, but I didn't know much about the paranormal; perhaps they were a combination of all three. More importantly, why was all of this suddenly surfacing? Why did I subconsciously know that I needed to poke the demon or poltergeist to be rid of it…or was I killing it? Why did it feel so real? What was all this pacing and thinking doing for me? Not a damn thing! Because there were no such things as ghosts or poltergeists, or whatever label my brain was trying to pin on them.

I walked over to the liquor cabinet in the corner of my living room and pulled out a bottle of Bushmills. I realized it was still morning, but I needed a swig of some good old fashioned Irish fire water to help calm my confusing thoughts. I didn't bother with ice, just poured two fingers worth and gulped it down, which nearly caused me to throw-up. After a minute the burning stopped and I could feel the warming effects of the liquid gold as it mellowed me out. I felt better, and maybe a little buzzed.

If this was really happening—and I was beginning to believe it was at that point—was there a way to test it? I thought about going around the city finding people with problems, and if a bespectacled, vintage-clothed person was in the vicinity, I could give them a good jab and see if the afflicted one was suddenly healed. I didn't actually think that was a reasonable idea, but it did seem like the only way to test my insane theory. So, I decided to take a walk and head down to a busy area of town where I could observe large crowds. Fisherman's Wharf seemed like a good start. I didn't actually have to wait that long though.

As I was locking the door to my apartment, my neighbor, Justine Wilkinson, was leaving her apartment too. She was a wonderful lady who had lived in the building since her twenty-first birthday, which happened to be sometime in the 1950s. Her father was a wealthy business man and had bought the apartment as a gift to his only child. She said he really bought it for her so that he could get her out of his home at the request of his new bride, who was a mere six months Justine's senior. Either way, Justine had lived there most of her life and knew just about everything that had ever happened in our building and all the people in it.

She smiled brightly when she saw me. She and I had become great friends over the past few years I'd lived in the building; she was like a surrogate grandmother to me and I loved her dearly. As usual she was dressed to the nines, wearing a chocolate brown silk dress with matching light-weight wool overcoat, accessorized with tan shoes and matching handbag. Justine had grown up in San Francisco society and still played her hand in all things of the rich and famous. She wasn't a snob by any means but she was rather wealthy, and her companionship (and money) was always welcome at the finest of charity events. Based on her apparel and the time of day, I guessed she was off to some sort of luncheon, probably having to do with the ballet—one of her favorite causes.

I pecked her well powdered cheek in greeting and held the elevator door for her. As we were descending she said, “George, my dear, you don't look very well; is everything all right?”

“I'm getting over the flu, nothing to worry about though. I'm feeling better every day. I'm going out now to get some fresh air.” Justine believed that fresh air was the cure to all that ailed you. She took a twenty minute walk up and down the hills of our neighborhood every day, and swore it was what kept her young and spry.

She gave me an affectionate pat on the arm and smiled. Before she could speak again, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor to let on another passenger. I didn't know our newest edition by name, but I had seen her around. She was in her mid-sixties and lived in the building with her husband. She smiled at us when she entered and greeted Justine by name.

“Good morning to you as well, Annette; how are the grandchildren getting along?” Justine asked.

Annette smiled. “Very well for the most part Justine…well, little Michael is….” She stopped and Justine squeezed her arm gently and gave her a knowing smile. I, however, had no clue what Annette was talking about. Annette smiled wanly in return and then said, “In fact, my daughter is bringing him over now for a bit of a visit. She has errands to run and my husband Fred is suffering from his arthritis today so I asked her to bring the boy here to be watched.”

“That will be lovely dear. A change of scenery will be good for him, and Fred will enjoy visiting with him,” Justine said kindly as the elevator came to a stop on the ground floor.

Annette waved goodbye and headed for the front door. Justine slowed her pace, leaned towards me in a conspiratorial manner, and quietly said, “Annette's grandson has leukemia…it's such a tragedy. I remember when the boy was born, right here in this building to be exact. Annette's son-in-law was overseas on business and Jeannette, her daughter, was staying with them because she was so close to delivery. The poor dear went into early labor, and by the time the ambulance arrived, the baby was on his way. They delivered him right there in Annette's living room.” Justine smiled as if it was a fond memory.

I could see Annette through the glass in the front doors. She was at the curb, helping a younger woman get a small and fragile looking boy out of the car. The child could walk, but he was clearly in a weakened state. The younger woman handed Annette a backpack and leaned over to kiss the child. She then said something to her mother and got in her car and drove away. Annette began to walk slowly with the boy to the building entrance, so I scooted to the front door to open it for her. She smiled and thanked me, and when I turned around, I saw the man from a few days ago. He was standing near the elevator this time and he was staring at the boy. I couldn't say for sure if he had a mean or malicious look on his face, but this time I could feel him, his presence and something else, like a bad energy.

I decided to test my theory right then and there. Justine was still standing by the elevator, very close to the apparition. I moved past her, gently nudging her to the side while simultaneously poking the thing with my finger. He snarled at me as he swirled away. To cover my strange movements, I called the elevator and held the door for my neighbor and her grandson. When I turned around to see if the boy had changed, he was just the same. Well, I thought, I guess that wasn't his demon. Maybe the boy just didn't have a demon.

When I looked over at Justine, she was looking at the boy too. When she turned toward me, I could swear she'd seen what I had done, but then her expression changed to a smile. I would ask Justine later on if anyone else in the building had a sudden and unexplained recovery. Maybe the apparition belonged to Annette's husband Fred; after all, she had mentioned that his arthritis was acting up and that was certainly an ailment. I said my goodbyes and headed to tourist central to find more demons to poke.

I decided to walk to Fisherman's Wharf. It was all downhill and I needed the exercise. I headed east toward Van Ness Avenue and then north from there to the Wharf.

Why I was taking this business seriously, and why did I think these vintage-clothed apparitions were even ghosts? In no way did I feel like I was on the fast-track to lunacy…quite the opposite. In the last few hours I had encountered not one, but two of these things—apparitions or poltergeists or whatever they were—and somewhere deep down inside, something had clicked, like an ingrained knowledge or instinct. I knew what these things were and I knew they were real: and more importantly, I knew I had to kill them. And suddenly I firmly believed that the dreams brought on by the fever
were
actual memories and that I or someone else had locked them up in my head: and now, after years of pounding on the door of my subconscious, they'd finally gotten out.

The Wharf was crowded with tourists, street performers, beggars holding signs, and people hocking their wares. Normally I wouldn't go there if my life depended on it; the city had much more to offer than this place. But I wanted the crowds and there certainly were plenty of them there. I kept my eyes peeled for people wearing round-rimmed glasses and out-of-date clothing. However, I quickly realized that I couldn't go around poking everyone I saw sporting Harry Potter specs or unfashionable clothes. After all, the glasses were still a popular style for the living, and the city was full of eclectically dressed people. After an hour or so, I decided to give up. I'd reached Pier 39 by then and I turned on my heel and headed back toward Ghirardelli Square and the Van Ness Avenue bus stop.

I was approaching the old Maritime Museum building when I found myself stuck behind a large crowd watching a man covered in silver paint. He was performing as if he was a robot— highly amusing if one was into that sort of thing. I edged my way around them onto the grassy area nearest the museum, and as I stepped back onto the sidewalk, I noticed a man sitting on the curb. He was about my age; his hair was long but pulled back neatly into a ponytail. He had an army jacket on, baggy shorts, and one dirty, worn out athletic shoe. The second shoe wasn't needed, because his right leg didn't exist beyond his knee. In his lap was a cardboard sign with black writing that said, “Wounded in Iraq and homeless.” A pair of crutches lay next to him on the curb, and a plastic cup sat on the sidewalk where his right foot should have been resting.

This wasn't an uncommon sight in the city. We had a large homeless population, but it was still heartbreaking. Sadly, I wouldn't normally have given him a second glance, but the girl standing behind him made me look twice. She was in her late teens and her clothes were definitely vintage, but in a not-so-charming 1980s style. Her blonde hair was highly teased and she wore large pink looped earrings, a denim jacket with matching skirt, and pink leggings. To top the outfit off, she was wearing camouflage high top sneakers. Her glasses were more John Lennon than Harry Potter, a bit smaller, but she had a distinctive look that I was beginning to get used to. These ghosts look solid, but there was something in their expressions that gave them away.

I stared for a minute, and then I pulled my phone out and took their picture. The vet had his head hung in what I assumed was despair, but the girl was looking right at me. I pulled a five dollar bill out my pocket and walked over to him, dropping it in his cup while simultaneously poking the ghost that stood just six inches behind him. She grimaced, and then began to swirl away in a grey mist. As she disappeared for good, I stepped back and was caught up by a large rowdy gaggle of teenagers that had come barreling down the sidewalk, forcing anyone in their path to move forward quickly or get run over by their rude behavior. As soon as I was free of them, I walked back to where the young vet had been sitting, but he wasn't there. I made a full circle of the area looking for him, and finally spotted him just outside the crowd of robot-man people. He was standing on two legs and two feet. I took his picture again and hailed a cab to take me home.