Elise Warner -- The Crone
I sank down on a bench in the park—grateful for the chance to rest my feet. It was a long walk from the subway station to the park where the van stops for our group of nurses and aides. We work at the Bright Vistas Nursing Home. My so-called comfort shoes pinched and my tootsies felt swollen from working extra hours the day before.
Three of the aides I worked with were out sick—the flu season had begun—and I needed the overtime. I might be an aide now but I wanted to become a nurse; I constantly thought about investing in my future.
A scarf protected my neck from the chill October wind that forecast the winter to come. The aides that usually rode the van with me hadn’t arrived yet. I glanced at my watch … ten minutes to go. I placed the bag with my Halloween contribution of orange glazed doughnuts by my side and glanced around the park.
A few, brave joggers still going around the track had almost reached the exit on the other side. In the distance, I could see the old man with his walker, he always left about the time I arrived. A group of teen-age boys hung out near the last benches in this section of the park, played loud music, tossing candy corn at each other, each trying to top the other.
I was alone, no one sitting nearby, except for someone who slumped two benches away, so wrapped up I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Somebody sheltered in a grimy quilt, a hat, and who knows what else. A shopping cart that had seen better days, filled with newspapers, boxes and rags was propped against the side of the bench. I wondered if he or she was homeless and stayed on that bench all day and night? I didn’t remember seeing a homeless person in that spot before.
I checked my watch again. Just two minutes had passed. Where were the other aides? Mattie was usually here before me, Glynis inevitably arrived at the last minute.
Cold penetrated the thick soles of my shoes … well, it wouldn’t be long before the van arrived, and the driver would have the heat on. The Home was always warm to keep the patients comfortable. I looked at the pile of rags on that bench again. Whoever wore them hadn’t moved. Was he or she breathing? Should I check?
I am an aide, I told myself. Nursing was part of me … a big part of my life in the future, and a human being that might need my help was sitting a few benches away. Breath … in … out … go.
“Hello? Are you all right?”
No answer. No movement that I could see. But maybe there was movement beneath the rags. I should find his… her hand … find a pulse. I reached out to move to lift … then pulled back. The smells, the dirt; I wanted to run away from the bench; wait for the van by the entrance to the park. Stay by the curb until the van came. I couldn’t do that. I had to help this poor creature. Perhaps he/she had trouble hearing. I tried again, “Are you all right?”
A gust of wind blew leaves in my face. Why did I feel shaky? Bitter cold, that’s what it was. I was an aide; I was used to handling difficult situations. I bent down and screamed, “Hello?” Then lifted the corner of the quilt where I thought a hand might be; a pulse to be found … perhaps the poor soul was dead?
Curved—a claw—sharp and pincer-like at the end of bleached bones. It came towards me and I retreated—the bones followed then plummeted to the hard cement in front of the bench. I thought the bones would splinter but … the digits pointed towards me then rose and moved a few inches. I backed away then saw the quilt begin to rise until it towered far above the bench; I turned and ran—faster and faster. I heard the bones rattling behind me, the sweep of the quilt scratching a line in the leaf strewn path, scattering pebbles and stone. The specter gained on me. A shrill scream pierced the air; it came from me. My heart began to hammer … I feared I was taking the last few breaths that would allow me to live on this earth.
I could see the exit now; just a few more yards. The van … the van … please be early. The wind whipped my scarf, it recoiled, then returned and slashed my neck over and over again. The wind … or was the apparition following me?
My body met the gravel and I sprawled against its sharpness, throbbing with pain, the taste of blood in my mouth, the wetness of fallen leaves, the cold penetrating every fiber of my being, the fright that kept me from trying to rise.
Mattie called my name over and over. Telling me to get up. Feeling for a pulse. Fishing out her cell phone and calling for help. I tried to tell her to run before she was caught by the specter. “It’s just a pile of rags,” she said. “Don’t worry, help is coming and I’m with you now.” I heard the strident sound of an ambulance in the distance then passed out; when I woke, I was in a hospital speaking to a psychiatrist.
The boys turned off the music, wound up the ropes, and walked towards the bench. “Quite a Halloween joke,” one of them said. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done it.”
“I hope she’s not dead,” the youngest added.
“C’mon. How many people die of fright?” The first one looked worried. “Besides everyone knows it’s Halloween and expects jokes.”
“I think you’re rationalizing,” the third boy said.
They reached the bench with the shopping bag. “Hey, she left her bag of goodies. Doughnuts. She knew it was Halloween. You can relax now. It’s not our fault.” He reached Into the bag, pulled one out and took a big bite then reached for two more and handed them to his friends before he stuck his hand in once more and found his hand drawn into the bag.
“What’s going on?” He raised his voice, “C’mon, guys, help me. Something’s pulling my hand.”
They grabbed his hand and managed to pull it out. A piece of bone where a digit should be. The rest scratched and raw. He gaped at the empty socket and screamed.
“Let’s get out of here.” They grabbed his arm and began to run.
They could hear the rattle and crack of bones, the sweep of rags, smell the hot breath of brimstone growing stronger. Feel shivers streaming up and down their flesh as they stumbled sure they would be safe if only they could reach the exit, but the gate to the park swung shut and a voice in the wind screeched—"Trick or Treat.” DSS
Elise Warner of Jackson Heights, New York, writes that she loves "animals, sweet potato pie and travel." She is a free lance writer whose articles and fiction have been published in magazines and the Washington Post. She has been a singer, actress and stage manager.
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