Ghosted

GHOSTED

Phaedra Weldon

Copyright © 2013 by Phaedra Weldon
All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design Copyright © 2013 Design by Trap
Door

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This book is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of
fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are
fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is
purely fictional. This book, or parts thereof, may not be
reproduced in any form without permission.

1

She walks out of the apartment building to my
right, just a few feet up from where I will be when she's gone. Her
walk is beautiful, as is the cadence of her long black hair as it
sways from side to side across her back. I can tell from her
clothing she would never look at me on the street, or grant me an
audience for a drink if we met in a bar. I am one of the walking
ghosts that surround her, the ones she never sees. Her attention is
riveted to the phone in front of her and its screen tags her as a
beacon, someone who is not paying attention.

My watch tells me it's just past midnight. The
cold is not only felt in my thin boots as it makes small icicles of
my toes, but in the bite of it on my nose, and the evidence in
front of my face, and the faces of everyone on the street. My
breath is visible in the air. Puffs of ghosts born and
extinguished. Though at that time of the day, when the sun gives
over complete control to the moon, there aren't that many people on
the street. Smart people are inside and warm in their beds, and not
roaming the streets like me.

I idly watch her as she walks, and her gait
takes her further up the sidewalk where she turns the corner to the
right and disappears. I will see her again because I have to make
that same right. My apartment is another block down this lonely
path. I hope I'll get to see her continue to walk as I open my door
and step inside.

But when I make that turn and expect to see
her, she's not there. The sidewalk is empty, and the street lamps
overhead illuminating the deserted road don't reveal any moving
shadows.

There aren't any apartments except the one
where I live, which isn't really my apartment. It belongs to a
friend who travels the world, writing about different places on a
blog she started as a lark. It became her obsession as well as that
of an entire army of travelers who feed her website with donations
that keep her from the work-a-day world I live in. I am a carpenter
by trade.

I stand outside the simple door to the loft
and watch the empty sidewalk. Worry and apprehension crawl up my
back when I think I hear something. It could be a cry of help, or
the meow of a cat looking for a handout.

A loud noise breaks the darkness and
apprehension becomes a blanket that covers my shoulders and
sharpens my senses. Again I hear the sound of someone—is it a
muffled cry?

I am not a fighter, but I have been known to
fight. Bullies left me alone in school because I proved one day I
was not an ATM machine. Jimmy Simms is indeed better looking today
because of my right cross. He is also one of my closest
friends.

But like all descent human beings, I am a
prisoner of my conscience as it gauges what I should do. Logic
tells me the woman with the phone did not disappear voluntarily,
and given the type of neighborhood I live in, there were plenty of
predators who would view her as prey.

I set my purchased meal on the ground and
crouch as I move in a much quieter fashion along the brick wall of
a building. There is an alley a few yards ahead of me. Many bus and
train commuters use it in the mornings and evenings to cut through
from the station to their homes, and there are many who lurk in
that area to find the last one out of the station. The lone
rider.

The low hanging fruit.

My fear response says not to get involved. To
just go into the loft and ignore what could be happening to that
woman.

But I have never listened to that part of
myself.

I press my back against the wall and focus my
hearing on the sounds coming from the dark alley. If I lean forward
and peer inside I will see what is happening. So I do.

A predator has the woman on her front. I see
this because the street lamp above me casts enough light into the
alley. He is on top of her and he is raping her. His attention is
focused on his kill.

And on his dick.

I believe I have an advantage in this
situation. I move slow as I turn that corner and keep myself in the
shadow of the building. Neither of them see me as I move behind
him. I see her face. He has shoved something into her mouth and he
is holding her hands at her wrists behind her. From his fumbling, I
believe he hasn't been able to achieve his goal.

There are plenty of things I can use as a
weapon on the ground. The most prominent is a pipe that does not
belong there. I use this same alley every day so I know what bits
and pieces of trash find its way there. I take the pipe in my hand.
It is burning cold and I do not have gloves.

With careful footing I creep up behind him.
She sees me seconds before I swing and bash the monster's head. He
makes a gasping noise as the momentum of my attack takes him off
balance. He manages to roll over and face me.

And he is visible in the light.

His clothing is clean and he wears a new
ski-mask to block his features. And his shoes—they are the real
mystery. I may not have money, but I see it. Every day when I build
closets, or when I see my own family admire my father's
things.

This man does not belong here.

He reaches into his leather jacket. I believe
he has a weapon so I do what my Karate instructor in college told
me to do: I move into his personal space. My moving in forces him
to move back and I have the upper hand.

So I take it, and I swing. Several times. He
tries to tackle me and I grab hold of the mask.

It comes off. I see his face.

He quickly retreats and runs down the alley in
the opposite direction toward the train station. Panting, I turn to
the victim.

She's on her hands in knees, sobbing as she
tries to gather her clothing. She holds a shirt to her breast. I
approach her and she screams out at me. "Stay away!"

I put my hands up. "I'm not going to hurt you.
I am going to call the police."

My words surprise her and she sits bare-assed
on the alley filth. Her face is now hidden but her shoulders
tremble. "You…you're not going to rape me too?"

"No. Of course not." I make sure I move slow
so I won't startle her and kneel down beside her, but not too
close. "My name's Daniel. Daniel Grant."

She sniffs. "My name's Caroline Black. I uh…"
She wipes at her face again as I pull my phone from my back pocket,
a much simpler one than the smart phone she had been carrying. "I
guess it was stupid of me to think I….sh-should catch the train
home."

"It's a bad neighborhood for that this late at
night." I dial the numbers and put the phone to my ear. "Just
relax, okay? I'll stay with you till they get here."

She reaches out and tentatively touches my
arm. She is trembling. I balance the act of reporting a crime with
that of removing my jacket as I place it over her
shoulders.

I hang up and tuck the phone into my jacket
pocket. "I am so…so sorry this happened."

"Yeah…but it's not your fault. I uh…God I feel
so stupid."

"You are not stupid. Braver than me." I give
her a genuine smile.

She finally smiles at me through the smeared
mascara and lipstick. She is as beautiful from the front as she was
from the back. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She pulls my jacket around her shoulders.
"Will…would you hold me?"

I do.

And I know that I am not invisible to her. Not
at that moment. But I'm not a cheese ball either. I know that when
this is done, there is the possibility I will disappear again. She
will return to her world, and I to mine.

But at least, for a little while, I am not a
ghost.

2

The police are thorough in their questioning
of me, and of Caroline. I discover very quickly she really is a
daughter of wealth. Her father is Gerome Black, one of the city's
largest bankers and real estate investors. The police ask me if I
would come downtown to the station and give a detailed description
for their sketch artist. Perhaps tomorrow?

I agree.

Because the predator never managed to unzip
his pants, there is no semen. There is only assault and attempted
rape. And Caroline never managed to touch him, or scratch him. The
police collect her clothing for evidence and they give her a
jumpsuit to wear. I wonder if regular rape victims, or attempted
victims, are given as much attention as Caroline Black. One of the
officers tells me his boss is on the phone with the money mogul
himself.

The ambulance treats us both for injuries—I
did not come away from this unscathed. The assailant, as the police
call him, managed a few good hits to my face and a serious one to
my chest. There is a suspicion I have bruised ribs.

"I would suggest the both of you come back to
the hospital. Just to make sure there's nothing broken."

A hospital bill is not something I need so I
decline. But I insist Caroline go with them.

"Daniel, do you have a car?"

"Well yes I do…but it's not—"

She turns to the EMT. "I'm going to stay with
Daniel. He can take me home."

I feel a low level of panic set in when I
realize this meeting is going beyond its initial excitement. With
recommendations about medical procedure an reassurances to the
police I would come in the next day, I escort Caroline back down
the sidewalk to the loft door. My bag of Chinese food rests where I
dropped it.

"That smells good," she says.

I fumble with my keys to unlock the door and
quickly step inside to disarm the security system. I hold the door
open for her to step in, then grab the bag off the sidewalk. "This
place belongs to a friend of mine."

The lower level of the entrance is small so I
lead her up the stairs to the actual loft door. There I hit the
security code and the door opens. Keyless entry.

Inside I toss my keys on the table by the door
and watch her as she shuffles in. Her eyes are wide as I flip the
lights on, and the silence of the place is disrupted by the thunk
of electricity feeding the bulbs hanging fourteen feet over our
head.

"This place is…" She turns around as she looks
everything over. "Is your friend well off?"

"Yes and know. I did all the custom work. It
was just a warehouse space sitting empty when she convinced the
owner to let her buy it. The area is zoned commercial, so she lets
me crash and I keep my workshop here." I hide my disappointment in
myself. I sound like a nervous idiot, babbling. Because that is
what I am.

Nervous.

And an idiot. Girls like her do not care for
the machinations of a simple man like me.

"You…built all this? The loft up there? The
benches around the windows?"

"Yes. And I made the furniture. Chloe's not
really…big into buying things like that because she's rarely home.
But she likes big, soft furniture to sit and relax on. Most of her
time here is spent watching movies, catching up on Netflix." I
wince because I have babbled again.

Caroline follows me across the hard wood floor
to the kitchen. I place the bag of food on the counter and open a
cabinet. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes I am." She reaches up and runs her hands
over the white and teak finish of the cabinet doors. "You do these
too?"