Footsteps
Ricki T Thues
The shadow hurried ahead of Reggie Stanson with the regularity of shadows. It swung behind him with the coming of each streetlamp. It peered into tonight's memories of smooth jazz and slow dancing, disturbing the singular privacy of a man in his 50s. Stanson's intellect shut the door on the prying of the strange phantoms. Shadows are harmless, even at 1 a.m. in Chicago's South Side.
The ten blocks from the I.C. train station to the apartment were lonely, except for his shadow-companion. Stanson almost enjoyed its company, despite the quiet, annoying unease he felt. He talked to the phantom for five or six rows of tenant houses. The shadow did not add to the conversation, but somehow made Reggie’s musings easier. Escape from Janice, his young, bickering wife, to the Loop and its Jazz parlors had been a relief. “She doesn't like jazz, she doesn't like dancing. I don't think she likes me. She said that she was done with me,” he thought. At least Rush Street is exciting, unlike the solitude of 54th Street in Hyde Park.
Stanson's monologue faded, allowing the soles of his shoes to pick up the conversation. The deserted street mimicked leather-on-concrete words; houses, shadow, houses, shadow. Stanson listened intently to the tap-slap sounds as he watched 54th Street draw nearer. His wife would be waiting. There would be words to endure and a cup of hot tea for comfort.
That comfort was still six blocks away when Stanson noticed an echo in the voice of his boots. He paused. The echo bounced twice, then stopped too. A shock of anticipation made his heart skip a hard beat. He continued walking, and so did the echo. He assured himself that he was alone with his shadow and his imagination. His speeding heart was not buying the argument.
In the next two blocks, the regularity of his footfalls was reassuring to the businessman. His life was, after all, a thing of order. Rush Street had been a bad-boy break in the monotony of his routine. He chuckled unconvincingly to himself. Almost musically, he felt power in the ordered pattern of footsteps. Step, step, step, step, slap, step… Stanson stopped, but a step, step…continued.
Stanson listened, all quiet now. He resumed walking. His shadow still followed him like a careful, watching spy. The stalking footsteps also resumed. “Echoes from these empty streets,” he said, embarrassed. In another block, he stopped again…step, step…continued. One block to go. Unable to move, caught in a sort of trance where a half-second expanded into hours, Stanson saw only two things: the apartment with its locked door and waiting tenant, and the phantom shadow, now stretched out longer than his own along with the stalking step…step…step. The advancing shadow had not stopped…Step…Step…Step. The shadow grew, engulfing him. The only thing louder than the footsteps was the beating of his heart. Panic at the sound broke his paralysis.
Stanson found himself running down the sidewalk. Would the apartment never come? It was only a few houses away. The row of houses stretched before him. Glance back? No. Just run, run. For God's sake, run.
The door. At last, the door. Ring the bell. Is it ringing? “I don't have my key.” Stanson pounded, pounded till his knuckles bled. His heart beat hard in time with the pounding, breath shallow. He clutched at his chest. Gasping for breath, he opened his mouth once more and collapsed.
His next-door neighbor, Bill, saw him fall. “What's wrong? What happened?" he yelled to Reggie, but Reggie did not move. Bill pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. “My neighbor has collapsed. Send help.” Other neighbors begin to gather around. No one knew CPR.
Sirens blared from a couple of blocks away. The ambulance screeched to a stop, and the EMTs rushed toward Reggie.
"Coming through; we're EMTs, give us some air. Come on, clear out." They gathered around the collapsed man and began CPR. Minutes passed, then they all stood up. One of the attendants shook his head at a nearby policeman, then whispered something in his ear.
"I'm afraid this man's dead," said the police officer to the crowd. "Looks like a heart attack. Move along, please.”
A woman came running down the street where Reggie had just come. “Officer, officer--let me through-what happened? Who said he was dead? That's my husband--what happened?"
"What's your name?" He asked, soberly.
"Jan... I live here, but ...is he…?”
"I'm sorry. ma’am. Come with me, please.”
As the crowd cleared and Janice followed Stanson's body into the ambulance, she mumbled to herself, half-convincing and half-bewildered. "Odd," she thought, "I wonder if the old guy saw me trailing him. He seemed happy enough before I turned the corner. He must have felt pretty guilty about sneaking into town to run away from me like that."
As the lights flashed past the ambulance, Jance watched the Chicago skyline in the distance. The tears had dried in thin streaks on her 20-year-old face. If the attendant had looked closely, he might have noticed the streaks were broken by a hint of a smile on the woman’s youthful features. Janice sighed lightly.
Ironically, one of Reggie’s favorite jazz songs played in Janice's head as she remembered the stalking. She mused to herself, “Well, this was easier than gathering evidence for the divorce.”