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Picture Credits:
He had a comfortable, roomy one bedroom apartment in Upper Manhattan. It was a typical bachelor apartment, if a one bedroom is typical. It was stately, spacious, modestly furnished with high ceilings and ornate molding. Carved, wooden pillars accented the entranceway to the foyer. There was an arch leading to a hallway which connected the bathroom. Here were marbled, mosaic floors with a huge tub that had the old style lion's paws for feet, besides a deep white porcelain sink. The large, multi-paneled windows faced the courtyard and the front street. It was cheerful, bright, airy. It was his home for the past nine years.
On a typical, uneventful weeknight, early in an uneventful, routine week, he came home from work, exhausted. After a hasty dinner he decided to go to bed early so he'd be refreshed for work the following morning. He fell fast asleep.
It was around one o'clock in the morning when something nudged him as he slept. At first it was a gentle tap, a subtle push, ending in a shove. He swore to himself that someone was in bed with him. Laying on his side, he brushed his arm back instinctively, trying to stop whatever it was. Groggy, he woke up gradually, still elbowing thin air! Naturally he was dreaming, he reasoned, or maybe it was his cat Oliver in one of his playful moods. "Get lost you pest," he muttered, weary and only half awake. There was no one there. He shrugged off the whole thing and soon was asleep again.
It wasn't too long afterwards that he was awakened again. There was a buzz in his ear, an imperceptible whisper. At first, it seemed far off and faint, then a heavy breath trying to form words, but only managing to confound him..."Psst, psst, psst," and more unintelligible gibberish, but just loud enough to be annoying. He opened his eyes and lay there trying to make some sense out of this formless breath which was more dreamlike than real! He couldn't tell. But, he noticed there was also a trace of a perfume, a fragrance familiar, yet he couldn't quite identify. He was wide awake now, the scent gone and the whispering had stopped. "Go to sleep you fool," admonishing himself.
More time passed. A couple of hours perhaps. By this time he was a little more than disturbed and couldn't fall back to sleep as easily as he had done earlier. "Please, no more hallucinations," he scolded himself. Trying to sort things out in his mind, there came the beginnings of a headache, from sleep deprivation he thought. He desperately tried to reassure himself that everything was all right. But he still felt uneasy, on edge, like something pricking at his skin, irritating. He just couldn't settle down.
He then turned to some soft music on his CD. It was soothing and helped him relax somewhat. It's the sort of thing you do to try and fill an empty void, where music becomes a substitute companion. He was sound asleep again. Later the CD turned off by itself. The room was quiet again.
It was around four-thirty a.m. when the bed became a deep-freeze. It was like icy fingers poking him with the atmosphere becoming heavy and oppressive. His breath was steamy. He wondered how the weather could have changed so drastically. It was autumn! He began to shiver, teeth chattering. The blankets weren't enough, obviously. "What the devil is going on here?" he said aloud.
There was an eerie, yellowish light flooding the room. Perhaps it was moonlight filtering through half-opened Venetian blinds. No, the blinds were closed tight. The mystery deepened. He was desperate for answers. Many people have experienced a premonition, a feeling of dread, that something bad was about to happen. It can be very disquieting to say the least. He had a premonition. Fear suddenly gripped him. The cold became unbearable and he sprang to his feet tossing off the covers in anger. Apprehensive, his heart was pounding, racing.
Turning towards the entrance to the bedroom, there was someone standing in the doorway, motionless! It was a shadowy yet distinct figure. Solid. Yes, it was definitely solid, not a silhouette. This figure had depth, weight. Although its features weren't discernable, when it turned slightly, the outline of a man could be determined. He was tall, maybe six feet, heavy set, with short cropped hair, a pot belly and a rather Romanesque aquiline nose. It was a man for sure, with limbs, a shape, standing there, manacingly.
Startled, our unnerved hero instinctively backed away toward the wall, frantically searching for a weapon of any sort, a broomstick, a heavy ashtray, even a shoe, anything to give him a little courage. He was completely overcome with fear. It must be a burglar or worse, some lunatic who had broken into his apartment. His thoughts were racing. He began to panic.
He was trapped. The only way out was through this intruder. "What do ya want!" he shouted. He didn't expect an answer, and was hoping this maniac wouldn't talk at all, just go away. He kept thinking to himself, how did this character manage to break in? There were two locks on the front door, one a deadbolt! Still no sound, no movement, not a peep out of the intruder. Paralyzed with fear, our scared roomer couldn't move either. He shouted again, "Get outta here or I'll brain ya!" No reply, no movement. He strained his eyes to get a better look at him. It was then he spotted the paperweight, grabbed for it and hurled it directly at the intruder's head. It passed right through him! It smashed against the parquet floor in the other room. Suddenly the figure turned and floated, yes floated, into the adjoining woodwork. He disappeared!
Rubbing his eyes in disbelief, he said aloud, "Get a grip on yourself." He couldn't move for many moments. He was dazed, shaken to the core, utterly bewildered.
Finally, after a long pause, silence. He figured it was safe to approach the doorway. The burglar must be lurking around the corner of the next room. He must be. He just couldn't have vanished into the molding. When he reached the threshold and peered cautiously around the corner, he prayed he wouldn't meet up with this character. Nothing. Not a trace. He breathed a long sigh of relief.
He tried to steady himself, his hands trembling badly. He could hardly catch his breath, taking a seat in a dining room chair, panting. It was then he noticed, or rather felt, the temperature in the apartment had returned to normal. Normal for this time of year. He wasn't shivering anymore, rather his trembling was from a bad set of nerves. The feeling of being in an icy morgue was lifted. That strange yellowish light was also gone. "Turn on the lights you idiot." Funny how he didn't think of doing it before.
He wasn't about to let down his guard just yet. Getting to his feet, he searched everywhere, under tables, his bed, behind the shower curtains, inside the two closets. He checked the locks on the door. All was in place. No one had come in through the front door. All the windows were drawn and locked. It was his habit since he lived in a ground floor apartment. No. No one could have slithered in through the windows either! How, by all that's holy, did he get in? He turned slowly, scanning the room, expecting someone to leap out at him at any moment. All was quiet, except for an occasional noise from the street outside.
He reached for a cigarette and poured himself a triple shot of bourbon. Sitting down again, he tried to gain his composure. His head ached right behind the eyes, which were bloodshot and weary. The night was nearly gone, and dawn was about to take its place. He just sat there against the table-top resting his head in one hand, dumbfounded, taking long drags on the cigarette. What had happened? Could there be a logical explanation? He didn't think so. He turned on the radio, once again looking for company. Company?
Wait a moment! Where was Oliver? Curiously he remembered his cat would hide whenever there was an unexpected visitor, like the super come to fix a leak.
As he got to his feet to look for him, there he was, crawling out from behind a table at the far end of the bedroom. He was whining loudly, hugging close to the floor, actually dragging himself across the room. The sound he was making was an awful shrill, almost like the wail of a baby crying from hunger. The animal was scared. He then darted toward his favorite corner in a pitiful state of nerves. "You saw it too, didn't you?" That clinched it for him. He hadn't imagined any of it. It was real. But what to make of it? He couldn't rightly say. He poured another glass and drank it quickly.
Thankfully the dawn came. He opened the blinds to let in the daylight. Daylight drives off all demons, even the ghostly kind, which our friend concluded to be what visited him last night. Nothing else added up. Yet he was the consumate skeptic, and wasn't the type to believe in ghosts. Not at all.
Then, as if a spark erupted in his mind, he recognized that apparition at the bedroom door. Of course! The height, the weight, the unmistakable shape, a potbelly, short hair, distinctive nose, even the perfume scent which was a special brand of cologne! It was the image of his own father! His dad had passed away some two months ago. Why wasn't all this clear to him before? He shuddered. He glanced at the cat almost expecting him to say he knew who it was all along. Shaking his head in disbelief, he lit up another cigarette and polished off another shot. His father!
He knew he was in no condition to go to work that day. It was fast approaching eight o'clock. He dialed the office using a raspy, sickly voice and with an exaggerated anguished tone. He told the receptionist that he had a fever and couldn't come to work today and pass the message on to his boss. Fine. That was done. He hopped back into bed, turned down the volume on the radio a bit, feeling a trifle worse for wear! He began to doze off into peaceful sleep.
His headache was slowly disappearing, even with all the steady drinking he had done. So, he was partially awake. It was a little after nine a.m. when the news blared off the radio. The World Trade Center had been attacked. Today was Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Now, he was fully awake, and stunned. How many of his co-workers had gone to the office today, the 96th floor of the North Tower? How many? He sank down to the floor and pounded it hard, weeping along with the rest of New York.
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