James Swain - Shadow People

“Sitting against the far wall. Whatever you do, don’t turn on the light.”

“There’s a light in here?” Peter asked.

“Long ago, this room was the park manager’s office, if you can imagine him climbing those stairs every day. The room has electricity and running water. It’s quite comfy.”

“Why don’t you want me to turn on the light?”

“Because it will anger my guests,” Homer replied.

“What’s he talking about?” Liza whispered.

“Beats me,” Peter replied.

Peter made Liza stand behind him. With the light of his Droid, he located Homer on the far wall, parked on his folding stool. Behind him stood a mob of angry ghosts hovering just off the floor. Judging from the forlorn expressions on their sunken faces, they had suffered heavily during their previous lives. One member stood out. Tall and thin, with a pinched face and a scowl, he had a bloodstained ax clutched in his hands. The infamous Witten.

Peter wondered how fast he and Liza could make it down the stairs. Probably not fast enough. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends?” he asked.

“These are the ghosts of the park. I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” Homer said.

“I’ve heard of Witten, but not the others. Who are they?”

“Remember, you only get to ask me one question.”

“I know who they are,” Liza interrupted. “Before Washington Square Park was built, this area of land was a potter’s field where the city’s poor and homeless were buried. I read it in a book. Those ghosts are people who are buried right here. Right?”

“There’s more to it,” Homer said.

Peter again studied the ghosts with his Droid. One held a bloody butcher’s knife, while another clutched a thick lead pipe. Their necks were badly discolored and pulled to one side. The city’s criminals were buried here as well, he realized.

“These ghosts are criminals, and were hanged for their crimes,” he said.

“Eek,” Liza said under her breath.

Homer nodded approvingly. This was how the game was supposed to be played. Peter noticed that the ghosts stood behind Homer instead of in front. Clearly, they sensed danger.

But from who?

Certainly not Liza. That left only one other choice.

They were afraid of him.

It didn’t seem possible. They’d all died long before he was born, and nothing in his life had ever touched them. He decided to find out, and took a step forward.

“Where are you going?” Liza said under her breath.

“Just wait,” he whispered.

The ghosts retreated into the wall, making them half visible, half gone. The fear factor was real. It had never been that way before. In the past, ghosts had been his friends, and he’d confided in many of them while growing up. Some deep spiritual change had caused his physical presence to be feared by even the most dangerous of spirits.

“Tell me how to find Selena,” Peter said.

“Selena can be found at the corner of Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue,” Homer replied. “She will explain to you the meaning of the shadow people. Go now, or you will miss her.”

Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue was in the heart of Times Square, and some of the most expensive real estate in the city. No fortune-tellers or psychics could afford to work out of storefronts there. Was Selena a street person?

“Are you sure that’s where she is?” Peter asked.

“Positive. Tell her I said hello.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks for the help. Say good-bye to your friends for me.”

“Have a nice day,” Homer said.

Peter took a last look at the ghosts with his Droid. They had pulled out of the wall, and seemed relieved that he and Liza were leaving. That makes two of us, he thought.

Liza sat in the backseat of the limo with her head resting against Peter’s chest. Peter could not remember her ever looking so vulnerable.

“That was scary,” she said. “What were those things going to do to us?”

“Something unthinkable,” he replied.

“So why didn’t they?”

“I’m not sure. Ghosts are strange. They have the ability to see through things. You know, like when a person lies or tries to pull a fast one, a ghost will know it in a second. The ghosts inside the arch saw something inside of me they didn’t like, and got frightened.”

“Have ghosts ever acted that way before?”

What had happened inside the arch was a brand-new experience. Had his demon come so close to the surface that Homer’s otherworldly friends had wanted nothing to do with him?

“No,” he said. “Never.”

Liza clasped his hand and gave it a healthy squeeze. “Remind me to bring you along the next time I visit a haunted house.”

They rode the rest of the way uptown in silence. Liza still hadn’t run away from him. If anything, she seemed even more committed to making their relationship work. That was good, because he had a sneaking suspicion that there were plenty of other surprises still in store. The limo braked at the corner of 42nd Street and Seventh Avenue, and the driver’s partition slid back.

“No place to park around here, unless I go into a garage, and they’ll charge me thirty bucks an hour,” Herbie said. “How about I circle around until you need me.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Limo drivers knew the city’s streets like the back of their hands, and Peter wondered if Herbie had ever encountered Selena. “Have you ever seen a female fortune-teller working this corner? She goes by the name Selena.”

“Can’t say that I have,” Herbie replied.

“You sound pretty sure about that.”

“Cops ran all the mimes and musicians off. Fortune-tellers, too.”

Peter felt defeated even before he started. Perhaps Selena was inside one of the many office buildings in the area. It would only take about a year to check all of those. He climbed out of the backseat along with Liza. His driver’s window lowered.

“Check down below,” Herbie suggested.

“The subway?”

“Yeah. A lot of street performers work down there. Transit cops leave them alone.”

“Got it.”

The Times Square subway entrance was about as wide a city street. They went down the stairs and entered the city’s noisy underworld. The station was the linking point for five different lines, and contained five different sets of platforms. It was another needle in a haystack, and he approached a pair of transit cops flipping their nightsticks.

“Excuse me, but I’m looking for a female fortune-teller named Selena.”

“Describe her,” one of the cops said.

How was he supposed to describe someone he’d never met?

“She’s wise beyond her years,” he replied.

The cop pointed straight ahead. “I think I know her. She sits by the platform for the Number Three train. Take the escalator down. You can’t miss her.”

They bought Metrocards and followed the arrows to the Number 3. An escalator took them down to the lower level. Beneath a ripped poster for a rap artist sat a sixtyish woman wearing a black dress that could have belonged to a nun, no makeup, her gray hair tied in a bun. The contours of her face said Russian, perhaps Ukrainian. Two empty folding chairs were positioned to either side. Had she known they were coming?

“You must be Selena,” Peter said.

“And you must be Peter Warlock and Liza,” she said, without a hint of an accent. “I was reading a man’s fortune earlier, and you both popped up. Make yourself comfortable. I hope you don’t mind the noise.”

They sat to either side of her. A train pulled in and disgorged people wearing business attire. A particularly well-dressed man carrying a leather briefcase dropped several bills into Selena’s dented tin cup. They were big bills, a fifty and two hundreds.