It was the same street, the same time, the same everything; even the streetlight went out as it usually did when she got near, almost as if it could sense her approach. Why tonight, she did not know, but the feeling of hair raising on the back of her neck, goose-bumps on her flesh, a sense of a dark stranger following her, the potential for a violent act, all were running through every fiber of her being. She had heard the sound - footsteps - but nobody was there. She had smelt the smoke on the air - cigarettes - but the street was deserted, windows were closed, and no unattended butts were in sight. She was scared.
She had passed the streetlight. It had begun to flicker back into life as it always did. The garbage cans were on the street. Tomorrow was the pick up day. She expected to see a stray cat or dog rummaging through the trash, any sense of life, any sense of comfort, anything that would prevent her from being alone. She heard the sound again: a light rhythm, a soft tread of sole on sidewalk, it was close. She turned and saw nothing. Then the smell of burning tobacco: who was following her?
She turned the corner to be greeted by more trashcans. The street was deserted, not even a car would venture out to give her some security. She felt in her purse. Amongst the combs and compacts, appointment book and pens and pencils, the tampons, she searched. Where was it? Then it was in her grasp. See pulled it out to see a dead screen. She pushed the button; it flickered on and then off again. She had forgotten to charge it. No communication, no lifeline to help, no voice on the other end to even help her make it through the dark garbage strewn streets.
Everything was quiet. It was her imagination. She had never felt this way before. Never been frightened or scared before. These were her streets, her home; nothing affected her in this way. It was the man that had entered the building as she was leaving. Their eyes met just for a second. Had he been smoking? Did she remember the sound of his feet? No, just the eyes, and the sound of the doors opening and closing. She had never seen him before. Maybe it was all in her imagination. Maybe it was the eyes. Clear and dark, a sense of power, domination, he had not said anything, just brushed by her as the doors opened and closed. He had been dressed in a long, black duster or raincoat, a black fedora, no facial hair. She had not noticed his clothes, only a faint hint of Old Spice. Was he following her?
She dropped the phone back into her purse and reached for her keys. The small canister of mace was attached. She took it out and placed it in her coat pocket, her hand surrounding the canister, re-familiarizing itself with the procedures to use it. It was still quiet, and there was nothing on the wind.
She walked two more blocks - halfway home - and was settling in to an overactive imagination. Still, there were no cars, no strays, nothing. Even the storefronts were darker than usual. Something was happening, but she passed it off quickly until she smelled the same tobacco again. There was a pay phone on the next corner. She would call for a cab. Only three more blocks to go, but she wanted piece of mind, safety, to be home.
The footsteps were there. The smoke was stronger. She turned to look behind her. Nothing. Just a few more steps and the security of the phone; it was quiet again.
"Yellow Cab, can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm at the corner of 15th Street and Broadway. Could I please have a cab pick me up here?"
"We can have a cab there in a few minutes."
"Thank you, and if you could, please tell them to hurry."
"Yes, ma'am. Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Just a little nervous."
"I'll tell them to hurry."
The smell of smoke had returned, and the soft step had become a hard, fast trot. She turned in all directions and saw nothing. Was she losing her mind?
She had passed the streetlight. It had begun to flicker back into life as it always did. The garbage cans were on the street. Tomorrow was the pick up day. She expected to see a stray cat or dog rummaging through the trash, any sense of life, any sense of comfort, anything that would prevent her from being alone. She heard the sound again: a light rhythm, a soft tread of sole on sidewalk, it was close. She turned and saw nothing. Then the smell of burning tobacco: who was following her?
She turned the corner to be greeted by more trashcans. The street was deserted, not even a car would venture out to give her some security. She felt in her purse. Amongst the combs and compacts, appointment book and pens and pencils, the tampons, she searched. Where was it? Then it was in her grasp. See pulled it out to see a dead screen. She pushed the button; it flickered on and then off again. She had forgotten to charge it. No communication, no lifeline to help, no voice on the other end to even help her make it through the dark garbage strewn streets.
Everything was quiet. It was her imagination. She had never felt this way before. Never been frightened or scared before. These were her streets, her home; nothing affected her in this way. It was the man that had entered the building as she was leaving. Their eyes met just for a second. Had he been smoking? Did she remember the sound of his feet? No, just the eyes, and the sound of the doors opening and closing. She had never seen him before. Maybe it was all in her imagination. Maybe it was the eyes. Clear and dark, a sense of power, domination, he had not said anything, just brushed by her as the doors opened and closed. He had been dressed in a long, black duster or raincoat, a black fedora, no facial hair. She had not noticed his clothes, only a faint hint of Old Spice. Was he following her?
She dropped the phone back into her purse and reached for her keys. The small canister of mace was attached. She took it out and placed it in her coat pocket, her hand surrounding the canister, re-familiarizing itself with the procedures to use it. It was still quiet, and there was nothing on the wind.
She walked two more blocks - halfway home - and was settling in to an overactive imagination. Still, there were no cars, no strays, nothing. Even the storefronts were darker than usual. Something was happening, but she passed it off quickly until she smelled the same tobacco again. There was a pay phone on the next corner. She would call for a cab. Only three more blocks to go, but she wanted piece of mind, safety, to be home.
The footsteps were there. The smoke was stronger. She turned to look behind her. Nothing. Just a few more steps and the security of the phone; it was quiet again.
"Yellow Cab, can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm at the corner of 15th Street and Broadway. Could I please have a cab pick me up here?"
"We can have a cab there in a few minutes."
"Thank you, and if you could, please tell them to hurry."
"Yes, ma'am. Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Just a little nervous."
"I'll tell them to hurry."
The smell of smoke had returned, and the soft step had become a hard, fast trot. She turned in all directions and saw nothing. Was she losing her mind?
* * *
"I'm here, but I don't see anyone?"
"It was a lady who placed the call. She seemed scared."
"I got out and looked around. Nobody."
"Probably just a prank call."
"Too bad we don't have some of those CSI guys working with us. Somebody left a half-smoked cigarette still burning on top of the phone."
"It was a lady who placed the call. She seemed scared."
"I got out and looked around. Nobody."
"Probably just a prank call."
"Too bad we don't have some of those CSI guys working with us. Somebody left a half-smoked cigarette still burning on top of the phone."
copyright 2006 Fear Knocks
Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
Mike Rotch
Mike Rotch is a writer and a man of all seasons, especially Fall. He currently works as a computer programmer and loves all things Java. He writes poetry on Quantum Mechanics and jams in his garage band - Bedhangers - every chance he gets. This is his first attempt at writing fiction. Nice work right out of the gate, Mike!
