Friend

                I have worked at the same café on Guisarde Street since I was sixteen years old. We make everything here; pastries, pies, sandwiches, coffee, we have it all. I’ve seen many people come and go from my spot in the back where I make all of the breads they eat, but I have never seen a guest so dedicated to a bistro as the elderly gentleman who has come to sit on our terrace as the sun rises, and stays until just before when I lock the door at the end of the night. I’m not sure when he arrived, but he has become a regular staple of our patio seating. The morning baker, Annabelle, who makes wonderful rhubarb tarts, sometimes sits and jokes with me after her shift is done and I’ve come in to take over for the evening shift. She is always mean to the old man, who she is certain is a German spy, come to wreak havoc on our quiet town.

                “I’m telling you,” she said, kicking her feet under her seat on the oaken prep table. “One day, I’ll catch him speaking into his lapel and then I’ll know. You’ll be sorry when they come and I’m long gone and you’re sitting here moaning ‘Oh, that Annabelle, she is so smart, I should have listened to her when she told me he was a spy, now I’m probably dead,’ and you’ll wish more than anything you’d listened to me.” She covered her forehead and leaned back swooning as she imitated me.

                I gave her a wry smile and nudged her off the table, wiping it down before sifting flour across it and rolling out a stretch of sourdough. I had always thought that the old man looked to kindly to be some sort of spy or anything like that. I suspected more likely than not he was homeless, and our patio was simply a nice sunny place to rest his old bones during the day.

                “I don’t think so,” I said as a kneaded my hands through the dough. “I think he sits there every day because it brings back happy memories. This is an old café, maybe he used to come here with his wife, and now that she’s passed on, he sits here and remembers old times.”

                Annabelle walked around to the other side of the table and placed her braced her hands against the table, squaring her shoulders with mine. “Henry,” she said solemnly. “You need to lighten up.”

                “And you,” I retorted smugly. “Are here a half-hour past the end of your shift. Get out of here and let me work.”

                She narrowed her eyes at me and turned in a huff, pulling her jacket off the rack near the door and pushed out into the rest of the restaurant. I watched her go for a moment before turning to look through the pass and out the front window at the man staring into space on the patio. He wore thick darkened spectacles which hid his eyes, and a long tan wool coat hung draped across the back of his chair. He wore a simple white dress shirt and a blue argyle sweater vest, with a pair of brown corduroy pants above dress shoes. It sounds nice, but it all looked weathered, like it was the only outfit that the man had worn in years. The shirt and sweater were fraying, the shoes were worn, and the pants were covered in patches. The tan jacket behind him had holes around the bottom and various dark stains covering it.

                Hank, the owner of the shop, rapped against the frame of the empty window in the wall. “Come on, we’ve got hungry people here,” he called through the pass. “You don’t have time to watch her leave every day, lover boy, let’s get a move on.”

                I glared at him but pulled my attention back to the bread. Hank was built like a circus strong man, bald head and mustache to match, but he was nice enough. He’d hired me seven years ago when I started and has kept me on, so I have to give him some credit. I respected the man.

                As the day went on, I gazed from my spot in the kitchen. It was Friday, so there were two other cooks rushing around the kitchen with me. They were nice enough, but also kept to themselves. Towards the end of their shifts, Hank walked into the kitchen.

                “Hey, you three,” his booming voice rang out from the swinging doorway. “After your shifts are done, what do you say we head to O’Hara’s and grab a couple beers.” He paused and looked at me. “I talked to Annabelle on her way out, she said she’ll be there.”

                I felt my cheeks begin to burn. This was not the first time Hank had done something like this, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last. “I’ll be there,” I managed. “I was going to say I would be there before you said that, but I’ll be there.”

                Hank grinned and the other two had a chuckle at my now flushed red face. They nodded in agreement and Hank spoke again. “We’ll meet there after everything is all locked up here. I’m out for the day, so I’ll see you there.”

                The rest of the night passed swiftly. I had to admit, I was looking forward to seeing Annabelle and the rest of them outside of work. I’m not what many would call personable, so I’m not placed in charge of planning such outings, but I will jump at every opportunity to go out on these occasions. I have always been impressed by the way the time begins to shuffle by when you wait in anticipation for a coming event. How the seconds spread thin as the clock ticks down to the moment you’ve been wishing for approaches. That was how I sat when the end of the day was slowly marching towards me. Being a restaurant best suited towards luncheon meals, no one is ever in the café seating or terrace as closing time approaches. Every night, when the sun dips low and nine o’clock arrives, I lock the ancient front door and follow closing procedures, counting out the days earnings and sweeping the floors.

At the end of the day, I collect a bag of the left-over bread that wouldn’t last the night and bring it out to the two police officers who walk by on their nightly rounds through our town. Tonight, when I locked the door, they weren’t waiting at the edge of the patio yet, so I walked down as the sun finally dipped below the horizon and stood by the terrace gate, waiting for them. As I did, I noticed the old man posted in his corner, his motionless body starkly outlined against the streetlamps.

“Good evening, sir,” I said to him, deciding to approach after so many months of seeing him sitting in the same spot. As I approached, I noted the man’s thick black spectacles still shone in the streetlight, sending reflections dancing across a seeing cane of a blind man leaned up against the table beside him.

“Hello,” the stranger rasped. His voice sounded like it had to pass through a filter of sand before coming out; like it hadn’t been used in decades.

I didn’t like how the blind man’s head had snapped to directly face me, or how it felt that through the opaque sunglasses we were making eye contact. “I’ve noticed that you’re here every day, but I’ve never seen you order anything. I figured I’d give you one of the rolls I made, so you can sample the wares and perhaps get one in the morning. The morning baker makes wonderful rhubarb tarts.”

“How kind,” the man said, taking the knotted dinner roll from my hand. A strange wet hiss slinking around the end of his words set me ill at ease. A smell leaked from the blindman’s mouth, something akin to that of someone who depends on mints for their oral hygiene and instead of smelling better it just smells sweet.

At this point, I heard the telltale clicking of boots striking cobblestone and turned to see Jacques and Maurice, the police officers, rounding the corner and making their way towards the bakery. Maurice was a young woman with curled hair which bounced out from under her officer’s hat as she strode along in front of her partner, who was a much older, portlier man with long-turned-grey mutton chops and a bald spot which he hid underneath his cap.

“Henry, old boy, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, eyes gleaming as he looked over the bounty of the bag I’d given them tonight. The breads and pastries I gave them were supposed to be for all the officers in the station, but I had my doubts many of them made it to the end of the block.

“I’m going to O’Hara’s tonight, mind if I join the two of you on your walk ‘til the end of the street?” Maurice nodded in approval through a mouthful of pastry. As we began walking away from the shop, I saw the old man’s head turning out of the corner of my eye, as if he were watching me through the shaded lenses.

It was a quiet walk to the pub, with the two officer’s filling their mouths as we meandered down the quaint street. I myself had taken one of my sourdough rolls to chew on as the sun set. We parted ways at the pub marked by the forest green “O’Hara’s” painted on a carved wooden sign above the door. Bidding farewell to my bread thieves, I entered the pub.

I have always found bar atmospheres smothering. The dim mood lighting coupled with the smell of booze and tabaco always made me feel like I was wading into hazy trenches where my assailants challenged me with charges of drinking contests. A cheer went up from a corner booth as Hank got up and staggered over to me, wrapping one burly arm around my shoulders, and using the other to slide a pint of something frothing into my hand.

“Henry, I’m so glad you could join us. Ya know, we was puttin’ down money to see if you was gonna show or not,” he hiccupped and began walking me back to the booth. Hank’s New York accent got thicker when he drank. “Cross over my mutha’s heart, I put my money on you, kid.”

The lighthearted scowl and quick shake of Annabelle’s brown hair indicated that this was not the truth. Hank practically threw me down and pulled the attention of our other coworkers away.

“You vote for or against me?” I asked as I sat down.

“Never doubted you for a second,” Annabelle said as she grabbed a beer off of the tray in the center of the table. “How’d closing go?”

“Same as it always does. I gave Maurice her daily gift from you,” I said, trying to find a position where my hand wasn’t resting on a moist surface. “I finally talked to the old man on the terrace when I was locking up.” Annabelle raised her eyebrows at me. “He seems nice enough. Blind man, so I’m betting my guess was right.”

“That’s a front and I will put money on it.”

I smiled as she elbowed me and raised the beer Hank gave to my lips and choked when I discovered that Hank had created one of his disgusting boiler makers, a pint of beer and shot of whiskey, and given it to me. He looked over his shoulder and winked when he saw me retching.

I cannot handle my liquor. As the rest of them laughed and carried on while I spent a good portion of the remainder of the night staring off into space, half full mug still gripped in my hands, willing myself to keep my stomach in line with steady breaths as I struggled to finish the drink. At the end of the night, I left the now nearly empty mug on the table as we all staggered out the front door at closing time, Hank hollering some old war song as he pulled along the other two under his arms heading home. He lived with his wife and daughter a few streets over, but the other two would have to free themselves of his arms eventually when they wanted to return to their homes in the opposite direction. I hollered a goodnight at them, and they all raised a drunken handed solute as we parted ways.

“So, tell me about your new friend,” Annabelle said, speeding up to walk beside me.

“Hm? Oh, yup, yup,” I nodded my head. “Nice old blind man on the terrace.” I took in the scenery around us for a moment. The streetlamps reflected off of Annabelle’s hazel eyes and the cobblestone felt foreign underneath my feet. I swished my feet in wide arcing steps and looked up to the sky. It was clear tonight, the stars shining brightly in spite of the lamplight around us.

“Are you good?” Annabelle asked, eying me as I swayed with my neck craned back and mouth open like an idiot.

“I’m- hmph- I’m going to walk through the park,” I said. “I’m gonna look at the stars in the dark.”

“The park?” Annabelle said, smile pinching at her cheeks as she walked out of the range of my swinging legs.

“Yup. Park. I like to take a detour home and walk alone through the park on nights like this, when the sky is clear. Gets me away from the lights of town and stuff. And it’s between here and my apartment; it’s more of a short cut, I guess.”

Annabelle held the bridge of her nose. “Right. Walk alone in the park.” She sighed. “Great. I’ll just start heading home then.”

“See you tomorrow,” I said sashaying off towards the park. Behind me I heard her swearing something under her breath about also being friends with a blind man, but I wasn’t sure.

I walked the path in the cool shade of the moonlit park. Fog drifted up from the ponds, picked up by the gentle breeze that stirred the tree limbs around me, and pulled the fog swirling around my feet. I picked up the pace, my addled mind unnerved by the stiff breeze and now unable to shake the though of something hiding in the bulrushes, waiting for the opportunity to leap out and drag me into the swampy pond. The smell of lilacs drifted up from the fog and filled my lungs with its cloying sweet scent, tugging at my senses while the fog clung to my knees and pulled at my movements. I stood for a moment and looked up to the stars as the mists twisted around me, gazing up at the outlandish new galaxies my intoxication danced in front of my eyes.

My trance was broken by the sharp sound of a tree branch breaking behind me. I clumsily spun to face a twisted oak tree behind me. For the briefest of moments, I could see behind it a tall, slender figure, with a long hand stretched around to grasp the side of the tree, and a head protruding like a distended limb from the back of it. But then it was gone, disappearing into the bark. I spun and tore across the graveled pathway. I was unsure of what I had seen, but I would rather be a fool that jumped at shadows than a dead fool.

I ran until I found the doorway outside my building and rushed up to the second floor where my flat was. I fumbled with the keys in the lock and let myself in, slamming the deadbolt into place behind me. I stumbled into the bathroom and vomited into the bathtub. I washed it down the drain and went to my kitchen for a glass of water and stared out my window in front of my sink. An icy shock rolled through my body. Again, for only a short moment, I had seen a face staring at me through the window, inches from my own, only a thin pane of glass separating the us. It had been starkly outlined against the light streaming in from the streetlamp outside the front of my building, but I could make out a saccharine grin covering the lower half of its face. I stumbled back after the face had left and ensured I had locked my door and scuttled into my bedroom. I pulled my curtains shut and hid under my blankets like a child. I wasn’t sure what else to do; I didn’t want to go looking for it.

My mind was ill at ease but sleep eventually pulled me into a restless slumber, my unconscious psyche still running through a fog covered forest, pursued by a creature who’s heavy footfalls were always heard close behind, its sickening breath felt constantly at the tips of my ears.

I arrived looking haggard at work the next day. Grey bags hung below my eyes and my hair was matted down from the light drizzle outside. As I trudged into the kitchen and threw my jacket next to Annabelle’s, she looked up and started laughing.

“Aw, was one drink one drink to many for little Henry?” She chortled.

I groaned and rubbed my sleep-stained eyes. “Leave me be. I didn’t sleep well.”

“I bet not. We need to go out drinking more often, put some hair on your chest.”

“You going to hang around and make fun of me all day?”

“Should you be so lucky. No, I’ve got places to be, you can talk to your new friend instead.”

I looked at her in confusion for a moment before I was able to process what she was talking about. “Right. The old man. My friend,” I gesticulated air quotes and scrunched my neck when I said “friend.” She just smiled and walked away.

I dolefully went to work after she left. I had grown used to her constantly staying late and was going to miss it today. I looked out the window and watched as the clouded sky began to let loose a light drizzle of rain. I noticed that the old man had vanished from the terrace with the arrival of inclement weather.

The day again crept by, hours sluggishly passing like molasses off a cold spoon. I was in a fugue state for the day, trapped between the waking world and the aching grasp of sleep which pounded behind my eyes. Finally, the end of the day came, and I slid my key into the lock, pushing against the door to ensure the aging locking mechanism engaged. The heavy old door was warped against the threshold and needed encouragement to properly close.

It was raining steadily now, pellets of water pounding against the panes of glass in the front of the café, casting a grey-green light across the tables. Thunder curled overhead against the rooftops of the town as the tides a lonely rock as I wiped down the tables, clearing the days grime away from their worn surfaces.

A fog drifted amongst the chairs of the terrace outside while I quietly counted the days earnings at the counter when I heard a noise above the pounding rain. Sounds of something in the kitchen rustling. I wrote down my current tally of the coins and set it aside to return to.

I rounded the corner to the kitchen and saw that one of the windows against the back wall was opened, rain pouring in from outside. I rushed over to it and slammed it shut, cursing as I looked down at the bags of flour that had been ruined by the downpour, a thought which was hurriedly pushed backwards in my mind when I saw one of the bags was burst open as if stepped on, the fine powder turning into putty on the floor, the insides spilling out of the split bag. I returned my attention to the shuffling now coming from the pantry.

The eldritch light from the window behind me cast no light further than the large brick oven that stood in the middle of the kitchen, its mouth yawning as if to swallow me as I crept along the oak table that ran the length of the baking area. Something dropped from the shadows of the pantry and jar of peach preserves rolled out from the darkness to rest against my foot. I jumped two steps back, letting out a small whimper against my will. I bent down to pick up the jar and felt an uneasy pressure building along my spine, accompanied by the senseless need to bolt from the ground and leap from the window, like that would carry me to a safer position than the one I was in. I looked wistfully at the kitchen door and noticed for the first time the tattered wool coat hanging next to mine on the rack.

I turned slowly back to the pantry from which the rustling had stopped and heard a low, wet rasping voice rise from the darkness of the pantry. “Hello there.” Unthinking, I threw the jar in my hand into the darkness and heard it bounce of something soft before shattering on the ground. Something flashed into the light from the window, resting again near my foot. A pair of thick black spectacles.

I looked up, nerves coiling in my stomach, preventing my legs from moving and leaving me cemented in place. The slim figure of the old man leaned to its full height, one hand grasping the upper frame of the pantry door as its spindly frame ducked out of the shadows and into the grey light. It smiled with twisted teeth reaching beyond a natural point as it leaned towards me. My heart throbbed in my throat as I stared up into its face; where eyes should be, instead was a horrible, cancerous-looking growth twisting across its forehead. As it stepped forward, I gazed at the mottled brown-green skin which covered the things exposed torso.

“Hello,” the thing growled as it held the slender fingers of its right hand to where the jar had hit it. The nails took on the appearance of gnarled spikes in the dark lighting and something oozed from between the fingers where the broken glass of the spectacles must have cut its skin. The coarse voice crawled from the depths of its throat again: “Hello, friend.”

I felt something loosen in my knees as they buckled. I scrambled, turning and sprinting towards the kitchen door. I could hear the labored breathing of the eyeless creature behind me for a moment as I swung the door open and slammed it in its ugly face. I heard it snarl and recoil as the door made a wet thud against its flesh. I began to move again towards the front door of the shop before the pungent smell of lilacs inundated my senses and my eyes lolled in my head for a moment, the fog which now leaked under the front door of the bistro creeping in to fill my mind, and I saw the groping limbs reach out of the pass window above the front counter, its naked form crawling through the narrow space between kitchen and restaurant, closing the distance between itself and the door; its clawed bare feet throwing the money off the counter as it launched itself, landing on all fours between me and my destination.

Before I broke free of the smell’s trance, the creature reached out with one arm and grabbed my shoulder, nails piercing my skin, and as I tried to pull away it wrapped its other arm around me, pulling me into a crushing hug. I cried out, gazing at the doorway over its shoulder and trying to think of anything to do as I was lifted from the ground, immobilized in the creatures embrace. I felt the side of the its head brushing against my own, my face pressed into the crook of its neck. Its skin was gritty and damp, like worn leather left out to decay, and the putrid smell of rotting flowers made me gag. The creature brought one of its moist hands to cradle the back of my head, holding me tighter against it.

“Friend,” it cooed.

I gave out a final breath, the air crushed out of my lungs against my will. My open mouth caught against the side of the creature’s neck and I bit down. Sweet ichor filled my mouth as the creature screamed. I felt something inside my ears pop as the wail grew higher in pitch and volume. The creature’s grasp released, and I slipped under its arms.

I spat and ran towards the front door, blood streaming out of my right ear, and shoved my key into the lock and gritting the deadbolt against its rusty casing as I strained to pull the heavy door from its warped frame. I began to pull the door open as the creature careened into my back, slamming me forwards into the doorjamb. It spun me around by my wounded shoulder and screeched into my face, spittle flying over its disjointed jaws and covering my face. It spun me again and pressed me into the glass next to the door. The fog both outside swirled, filling my view. The creature palmed the back of my head in a vice grip and slammed my forehead against the glass. The second time it brought my head to meet the glass, a spiderweb of cracks began to network their way out from the point of contact. The third time, I tried to turn my head away, but the creature still forced my head back, this time the breaking glass met the flesh just below my eyebrow and I could feel the soft tissues around my eye begin to swell.

My body went limp as the creature pulled me back a fourth time. I vaguely heard the glass shatter and felt my feet leave the ground. I twisted and impacted on the ground; my back pressed into the shards of glass that littered the stonework of the terrace. Blue and green streaks of light filled the night sky as I gazed up at it, red stars dancing around them. Galaxies expanded and collapsed at the corners of my vision as something gripped my shoulders, pulling me away from the shop as another shape pushed past the fog and through front door of the bistro. The thunderclouds above me resealed around the stars, and my exhausted mind slipped into unconsciousness.

Maurice and Jacques told me it was a break in; someone had slipped through the back window while I was closing up front and rifled through the pantry. They suspected it was some homeless person looking for food or cash. The two of them had been waiting for their daily bread, hiding from the rain under the next-door barber shops awning, when they heard the glass shatter. Jacques had pulled me away from the storefront while Maurice had rushed into the café to see someone leaping out the back window. When they went to give chase, it was gone.

After what happened, I wasn’t sure what to do. I had never known any other life aside from the one I lived. So, I returned to work the next week, after requesting Hank change my hours. He switched them without question. Now I only work when the sun is out, and I return home before sunset to a new apartment above O’Hara’s; I work with Annabelle all day now, something both of us enjoy. The new night hire came in, more than just happy to be here. Quite the people person. Hank told him I had the shift before, and he asked me if I had any advice for him. I just told him to get out of here before the sun sets. Unsavory folk like to walk around. I hope he doesn’t make my mistake. It’s still there. I walk past it every morning, I leave past it every night. I never speak to it; I never look at it. It just sits in its spot in the corner, smiling. Eyelessly watching Annabelle and I leave together every evening. Waiting.