September 20XX
Seems like my life as a bum proved to be another burden to others these days.
Why do I say that?
Because again, due to my supernatural tendencies, I have unwillingly unlocked another gate to the ‘other side’.
Life with Frederick was fine. Easy-peasy. I only need to feed and clothe myself and entertain only his emotional needs, which were not many. All I need to do is shower him with a little love and attention, and the occasional visits to the park to play swing with him and be the best friend and lover he ever had was all it took to keep him happy. Playing swing at the dead of the night was the best where the world seemed to be ours and no one would ever bother us.
Just a few weeks ago, I volunteered to become a member in a daycare unit under the homeless shelter in exchange for decent meals and a nice change of clothes. Homeless people came in with their children to let me look after, and as payment, I get a warm bed to sleep in with my Frederick and I get fed well.
Life in the shelter was fine.
Until I heard the recent rumours.
Though not very noticeable, there had been a rather disturbing string of disappearance among our occupants in the shelter. Some of our regulars stopped showing up, and some of our long-time residents plus a few workers have gone without a trace. Some say that the bums have reverted back to the life of scrounging around the streets and that the disappeared workers had left without giving their two-weeks notice possibly because they couldn’t handle the tough life.
I was thinking the same thing as well; until I heard an urban legend that began to spread among the little kids in daycare about what could possibly be the reason for this mysterious disappearance.
It turns out that there was a haunted flight of stairs that led towards the balcony of the shelter. By day, you will see that there are only 12 steps, but by night, there will be 13 steps, and it’s usually only visible to bad people. Whosoever goes up that flight of stairs and lands his/her foot on the 13th step, he/she would find him/herself standing in a roomful of blood and will drown forever in their sins, never to return for eternity.
I decided to give the urban legend a try. After making sure all the kids are taking their nap, Frederick and I went up to the said flight of stairs that led to the balcony. The door towards the balcony was sealed due to a faulty lock and no one can go up to the attic unless you bring a bulldozer to ram the door open. The flight of stairs looked innocent enough, but Frederick’s face told me otherwise. I assured him that I will be alright as I counted the steps up towards the balcony.
“9, 10, 11, 12! 12 steps. Nothing out of the ordinary,” I commented. I double-checked again as I went down the stairs and still, it registered 12 steps.
It really didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Everything was fine and dandy. But the troubled look on Frederick as he looked up the flight of stairs reminded me that sometimes, nothing is what it seems. I have to keep a lookout just in case.
For the next few days, the disappearance phenomenon continued. When the supervisor and head honcho of the homeless shelter Mr. Trent disappeared, everyone started to become concerned. They called in the police to investigate this matter (I had to keep a low profile so as not to let the police recognize me if my parents ever made a missing person report) but there was not enough leads to go for. Lesser and lesser bums came in for fear of being the next victim and I was soon running out of kids to look after. I wanted to leave since I was no longer needed, but Frederick persuaded me to stay and investigate this matter on, saying that since there is nothing humanly possible to be done, it had to be something else.
I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t love Frederick so much.
I decided to check on the missing people’s background to try and figure out if anything in their past had to do with their disappearance. The shelter was very systematic and required the bums and the workers to fill out an application form before entitling them to regular or permanent stays and to work, and it turns out that they had rather tainted past ranging from armed robbery, minor arson, breaking and entering, and Mr. Trent, the so-called esteemed saint of the shelter, used to be a notorious assaulter who had spent most of his youth in jail and anger management programs for his outbursts. Seeing their records reminded me of the urban legend the kids used to tell me.
It is only visible to bad people…
I knew then that it had to do with the fabled 13th balcony steps. I quickly asked Martin—an old shelter volunteer worker who looked like he had been in here since the dawn of time—about the history of this shelter. He didn’t want to say anything at first, but after my persistent persuasion, he told me that before this place was turned into a shelter for the homeless, it used to be a juvenile centre. He and his band of misfits use to do time for gang assault and other crimes such as petty robberies, playing truant and collecting protection money from people. He showed me a picture of him and his band of misfits and I could tell from their trademark leather jackets, half-torn jeans, smokes, motorcycles and that crazy 60’s, 70’s bad boy hairstyle that if they were still able, they might just wreck havoc throughout the streets like the good old days.
Life in juvie was tough when you have wardens that whack you with belts and iron rods whenever they feel like it, and instead of rehabilitating you, they torture and abuse you physically, mentally and sexually. He and his band of misfits had their share of being sodomized by the wardens once too often.
One day, his leader Jazz (he pointed at a burly-looking man with a huge scar across his face) decided that enough was enough and decided to fight back so that no one had to suffer the same fate as they did. He aided all the juvies to escape and stayed back to douse the centre with kerosene and burn it. He was caught red-handed and while attempting to escape to the balcony, he slipped and fell, broke his skull and died instantaneously. By then, the centre was found of its dirty deeds and was shut down by the government before Mr. Trent bought it and reopened its doors to the homeless.
After hearing his story, I begin to wonder if this could be the possible cause of the recent disappearance. My suspicions were confirmed when I saw an old bum talking to a man who was dressed in a leather jacket and half torn jeans and had the 60’s, 70’s bad boy hairstyle. I nudged a volunteer, asking who that old man was talking to and he told me to ignore him because ever since the old bum came home from war, his mind often went somewhere else and would be seen talking to himself. I wanted to ask if he saw the man the old bum he was talking to, but as the man turned to glare warningly at me, I saw a huge scar just across his face, just as Martin showed me in his picture!
I have finally found out the culprit behind the whole thing. It was Jazz, the leader of Martin’s band of misfits, all along! I wanted to tell somebody, but who would believe me? If I start a scene, there’s a possibility that one of them recognize me and report to the police and take me back to my family. I don’t want that. They’ve already considered me a problem child. They’ve already thought of me as crazy and suicidal. To go back there was not an option I’d like to make.
It was up to me to save the old bum.
Later that night, after making sure everyone was fed and well covered in sufficient blankets, I saw the old bum following behind the man, chattering merrily but silently so as not to wake anyone else. I followed behind him and as expected, he was led to the fabled 13th balcony steps, and it seemed like the old bum knew of the urban legend, judging by his shocked face. Jazz persuaded him to go up and told him not to be afraid of such superstitions, and as they went up, Jazz told him about the history behind the steps. I hid out of sight so as not to alert them and counted the steps they were going up.
“10, 11, 12…13…?!”
I almost gasped out loud as I saw that the urban legend was more than just exaggerated truth! It was real! The old bum was struggling not to take that last step and Jazz began to reveal his true self. Half of his head was gone and he was bleeding from head to toe as he laughed maniacally, pushing him forcefully into a portal that appeared in middle of the 13th step. A river of blood poured out of the portal onto the rest of the steps and I could hear moaning, screaming and gurgling, like the sounds of someone struggling to stay afloat in water. From my point of view, I could make out a few people—or spirits, in their case—bobbing up and down, trying to get away from the murky crimson that surrounded them till no end.
Frederick and I made a mad dash up towards the steps and grabbed hold onto the old bum, trying to pull him out and rescue him from the hands of Jazz. Other spirits swam towards the man to help him pull the old bum back in. A tug-of-war ensued between us and the spirits of the 13th step.
“He’s mine!” Jazz growled. “He belongs to me now!”
“He belongs to no one!” I shouted back. “Keep your bloody hands off him!”
“Did you know what he did? He deserves to be here for killing so many innocent people back in the war! He’s coming with me!”
“Everyone makes mistakes! Everyone deserves a second chance! You have no right to say who does or does not deserve anything!”
“What do you know? You’re just a mere mortal! Let him go! He’s coming with me!”
“Never!”
The old bum screamed in pain as he felt us tugging at him at either end, crying and confessing all his sins he had did back in the war and that he never meant to do any of those things. He screamed for mercy, for Jazz to spare his life. I tried as much as I could to hold on to the old bum and pull him out of that hellhole but two people against a bunch of spirits was really wearing me out.
In the end, Jazz growled in exasperation and said, “I’m tired of these games! You want him so much, you got him! But I’m not leaving empty-handed!”
So saying, I heard the worse tearing sound I’ve ever heard in my life. Jazz, with brute force and along with the other spirits that aided him, pulled so hard at the old bum’s waist that he was split in two, and we both fell backwards with the top half of the old bum squashing us. Jazz laughed and shut the portal, the river of blood flowing backwards into the portal with it, leaving the flight of steps with only the trail of blood from the horrific mutilation. To say that it was as if nothing had happened was not the right choice of words when I was left with the bloody half of the old bum’s body at my feet, his face frozen in a silent scream of death and his entrails all over the place.
I knew I had to leave.
Needless to say, news about the old bum’s death at the balcony steps became the headline of every newspaper, and police are trying to find the killer and me, the suspect of this crime. No one could get into hotter soup than this. At least I remembered to bring along my application form and my other records before I left, or else the police would be on my trail now and I’d end up in the 10 Most Wanted List.
The only thing I can do right now is scrounge up some dough so that I can take the train to anywhere further from here.
Comments