Literary Crumbs: Poems & Short Stories to Savor by D. Ryan Lafferty

By D. Ryan Lafferty

Looking over her shoulder, Jillian swore she could see the shadow looming behind the lamp post, a black mass with a wicked shape, darker than the night that surrounded her. An oversized flower pot obstructed her view of the sidewalk, and she hurried faster down the street. She stumbled where the roots of an ancient tree lifted the cement. Craning her neck toward the figure, now as clear as day and gaining on her; its face hideous and deformed, arms stretched and grasping at her heels. The shriek, horrible and hungry, sent shivers down her spine. Startled awake, Jillian found herself quite safe and sound in the quiet den of a modern home. “Oh right…” It was dawning on her, where she was, at last. In the strobing of the liquid crystal display of a television set, an image panning silently, the only light in the room; depicting the sheer drop at the Cliffs of Moher in breathtaking high definition. An exhale in exquisite relief, her senses slowly returned, still nearly panting in horror. “Oh, God, it wasn’t real…” Kimmy stirred next to her on the couch, “Hmm… what time is it?” sitting bolt upright, her chin floating like a hot air balloon and her eyes hooded over, nearly shut. “I must have dozed off,” Kim mumbled as she leaned back into the plushness of the couch and slipped again into deep sleep. Jillian rolled her sixteen-year old eyes at her now snoring best friend, “I’ve gotta get home, I can’t believe I dozed off during that awful movie. Mom is going to be furious! I never even called and it’s a school night!” Marius, Kim’s round-bellied tuxedo cat waddled up to the armrest to say his goodbyes. “I’ll see you soon, Mosty,” she said, rubbing his left ear and scratching under his handsome chin; planting a smooch on his little white nose, just starting to turn pink. “Night Night,” she whispered, and closed the door. 

The damp fog of the late October evening felt heavy on her chest. The cold was sobering, but an unreality hung eerily in the night. Strange silhouettes adorning main street dotted the way; scarecrows decorated for the season by local groups and neighborhood kids. In the light of the afternoon, their charm was undeniable, but in the fog and shadow of this mid-autumn night, they took on a more sinister aesthetic. “It was just a dream,” Jillian whispered to herself as she quickly crossed Park Street. Her eyes locked with a stuffed decoration propped up in front of the small brewery, its clownish hand-drawn face was unnerving to her, but somehow kind, in a protective sort of way, like a loving grandfather or doting uncle. It was clad in an old service uniform, Army, she’d discerned from an embroidered tag. The faded nametape read, “Betzer,” and its olive drab coloring looked tan in the orange glow of the streetlamp. She saluted with mock charm.

The business’ windows were black and empty, no longer the warm and festive hub of lighthearted revelry just hours before. In the dark reflection of the storefront window pane, she spied a separate, menacing shadow emerging distinctly from behind the line of cars, she turned dramatically on a dime and found only an empty street; the storefront cluttered with a sea of tables and chairs. The only sound and motion, a solitary windblown dry leaf scraping against the brick-lined sidewalk and a bizarre stone frog decoration, smirking and propped against a huge flower pot. So much like the dream, it unnerved her. With urgency, Jillian resumed her walk, her pace a lively sprint. Passing each lamp post or tree, each with a different scarecrow in different clothes, each with lifeless eyes; silent witnesses to her panic. The unmistakable sound of a large man’s boot clapped on the pavement behind her, twice. Again, she turned, and again a quick motion just out of sight, a rustling like a sack full of straw and then, silence. “I’m carrying mace and I’m not afraid to use it!” Jillian exclaimed to the emptiness around her as she lifted her keys. She could see that olive green cloth from the scarecrow’s shirt hanging on the opposite side of the closest tree even though she’d left that decoration blocks away, far behind. “They must have made two,” she said to herself, “Or else, he’s following me…” she chuckled nervously. 

The minutes felt like an eternity, standing on the empty sidewalk talking to shadows. Jillian stepped slowly backward, like a newborn baby giraffe; clumsy, stumbling, but managing to put some distance between herself and the terrifying unknown. She didn’t dare look away. One step, then another, “WOOF, WOOF, WOOF!” her heart nearly lept into her throat. The neighbor’s dog, left in their alley way, and contained behind the wrought iron gate, almost caused her to collapse. In that one unguarded moment, Jillian had looked away from the shadow, away from the danger. Every fiber of her being told her to run. 

She tore across Walnut at break-neck speed, running toward West Burlington Street with all the strength and energy she could muster. The unnamed shape, just at her heels, it was as if her dream earlier that evening had been a premonition. Two lights up ahead gave Jillian hope, the unmistakable size and shape of a New Jersey Transit bus. The bus meant safety, strength in numbers, eyes to bear witness to her waking personal nightmare. The roar of the engine was music to her ears as she waved frantically in the darkness, racing down the street, but the vehicle never slowed down. Her stomach sank, but nothing could prepare her for the sickening sound of the crash that followed. 

It seems the driver, distracted by some disorderly passenger in the back, was looking in the mirror and didn’t see Jillian signaling for help or the burly man that seemed to have come out of nowhere. He was killed on impact, police say, a murderous convict on the run, escaped from transport to the county jail. He’d already claimed two lives that evening and it appeared as if he was looking for a third. The bus driver swears that for an instant she saw what looked like a soldier wrestling with the man at that last fatal moment, yet with no other witnesses in sight, she chalked it up to her wild imagination running away with her. Oddly enough, there were small piles of straw strewn all over the ground; up and down the street. But the strangest thing of all, in his hand, the stranger held so tightly in his grip, a torn patch ripped from an old army uniform, emblazoned with the last name, “Betzer” on faded olive green.