The 5th street bus stop was nearly deserted in the middle of the afternoon. Lysa and one other person stared ahead and dutifully ignored each other. Drizzle misted over small shops and mid-size apartment buildings. A gray sheet that muted the passing cars and gave the day a kind of stillness.
Lysa closed her eyes. She pressed her forehead to the metal frame of the stop and slumped against the plastic wall. Her skin prickled with an uncomfortable heat, and she suppressed a sneeze.
She wished she had remembered her headphones. She wished she was as bold as the guy next to her. Next to her, the standing teen in baggy clothes was listening to something on his phone for the both of them.
A cover of Simon & Garfunkel played alloud: And the people bowed and prayed to the neon god they made.
Mid-size Sedans zipped past with drivers trying to beat the rain. The bus stop was the only one on this side of downtown—it was a small city to begin with. And a rather unloved city central. Paper cups and take out wrappers cluttered around their feet. The bus schedule was covered over with stickers and graffiti tags, half-erased curse words, and A + T = Love.
She groaned and blew her nose. You'd think the rain would wash away allergies, but hay fever took no prisoners. Lysa adjusted the strap digging into her shoulder and made a little prayer to Bus 202. Bless me with your headlights. Grant me your sticky floors. Baptize me in stagnant lukewarm air.
The music blared: the sign flashed out its warning in the words that it was forming
Lysa sneezed twice in a row like she was headbanging along. Her eyes water and she wiped at them with her last tissue. Her mother’s afternoon call would be coming at any moment: how was the audition?
Well, mom, the good news is that I have more time to take up a second hobby. Suffering and binging Golden Girls. Lysa wanted to clutch her guitar case to her chest and curl up around it like a small injured woodland creature.
The teen’s music cut out. Lysa glanced in his direction. He swore under his breath and adjusted the volume, banging his iPhone with one hand.
Lysa sneezed, throwing her head all the way forward. She wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands and something caught on the corner of her gaze. Stickers plastered the edge of the bench. Most of them were band stickers or brands she didn’t recognize, but others were handmade. There was one in a bright turquoise Sharpie. The label read LYSANDRA. A prickle went down her spine.
The letters were large and geometric–stylized handwriting like the “S” elementary students would practice over and over their notebooks. She reached for her phone to take a picture. Her full name didn't pop up in many places. Not on novelty mugs or license plates or merch at Disney World, much less on a bus stop bench.
The music came back on at full volume and both of them jumped. Lysa shot the teen a tight look. He sheepishly fiddled with the side buttons. She might have asked him what was up–but strangers didn't really do that. He would probably ignore her anyway.
A few raindrops plunked against the bus stop roof. Lysa turned back to the LYSANDRA sticker. Energy sparked through her fingertips. There was an arrow pointing down to an Adidas sticker down below with a large handmade sticker underneath. She felt awake for the first time in ages. Pulling back the sport’s sticker, the same turquoise letters looked back at her. She ripped it away in one big yank and a message appeared: YOUR SHOE.
On command, Lysa looked down at her soggy converses. The laces of one were undone. “The fuck,” she heard herself mutter. She looked around for a hidden camera or the sneaky smiles of a familiar face. The fuck.
Lysa kneeled to tie her shoe. The leg of pants grew damp and her thoughts churned. At least two people knew she had an audition downtown. Mike maybe? His weirdo friends?
Head bent and mind elsewhere, something rumbled past leaving exhaust in its wake. Lysa jerked to attention. The tail lights of the 202 faced her, driving off.
“HEY!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “Stop! Hey!” She ran into the street and waved both arms like a drowning man. The bus must be on a time table—it had already been 15 minutes late. It kept on driving. The blood drained from her face.
Absolutely not. No. No way. Lysa sank back in her heels. She had missed the afternoon bus.
Lysa yanked out her phone, pulled up a .gov site, and tossed her head back. The drizzle kissed her cheeks. There wouldn’t be another bus for an hour and a half. Of course this would happen. Cosmic karma for a mediocre band audition if there ever was a thing.
She shoved her phone away and turned on her heels. Walking would take half the time of waiting. Plus, the bus stop had already done enough damage.
“Bastard.” Lysa kicked a stray scruffy plant. “Unbelievable."
She was going to give her roommate an earful when she got home. He was the only one she knew in the small city and some of his friends had been the “haha just kidding” type. After missing the bus, Lysa had checked the surrounding blocks. The alleyways and bushes and even inside a few shops. Her bus stop mate studied her as she circled the area but didn’t say anything.
Mike’s friends must have run off–the TikTok bastards. The perfect prank caught on tape, and it had actually worked. She’d got down to tie her shoe. Lysa was going to strangle them—the perfect excuse to take her frustrations.
A breeze rustled the nearby forest and Lysa’s eyes watered. She had never discovered what she was allergic to in North Carolina—the grass, the air, herself. It had only been three months, but she hadn’t stopped sniffling since she arrived. The development was deeply uncool for her potential rocker career.
Her shoes slipped off the curb and she sniffled somewhat pathetically. There were no sidewalks on that side of the bedroom district. Modest one-story homes stood on the other side of the road and an old growth forest on her left. The trees were ancient oaks and a few white ash and were nice enough to walk under. They also provided a bit of cover from the drizzle.
Lysa had moved across the country because the tiny city had an alleged thriving creative scene. And the rent wouldn’t put you six feet under all at once. Coming from rural nowhere Nevada, Lysa had imagined a hamlet of artist shops and festivals. Her roommate had worked on Broadway when he was younger—that had to be something. His friends were in a nationally ranked choir. That had to be something. Plus, the bastards were all trying to make it on TikTok.
A constant pressure built in the back of her skull since she got there: Your dream is right there. Why don’t you take it?
Lysa sneezed so hard it threw her neck back. A part of her wanted to start throwing a fit. This wasn't the plan! She considered sticking out her thumb and taking her chances with hitch hiking. Will play Simon & Garfunkel for ride home.
But she wasn't really sure people did that anymore–especially the free ride part.
Two more blocks, she chanted to herself, and two more after that. The misting was becoming a light rain and Lysa pulled up her hood, sneezing into the open air. Something sounded from the woods. She missed a step off the curb.
The noise was soft and muffled and drew her attention.
“Hello?” Lysa surveyed the spaces between the trunks. “Is someone there?”
Unmistakable sniffles answered.
Lysa stepped back and forth in place, looking. A pale white shoulder peaked out from behind a dogwood tree a few paces off. She appeared to be wearing a strappy white dress and was shaking. There was a note of despair in the little weepy noises.
“Can I help you?” Lysa asked hesitantly.
She took a step toward the woman. The woman was facing the opposite direction, toward the road, and not answering. Something stopped Lysa from reaching out. Instead, she plucked out her phone and toyed with the idea of texting her mom.
Hey, mama, since I’m still a child-adult-baby it seems, what do I do with a stranger having a breakdown near me? Keep walking? Poke her with a stick?
Lysa toyed with the phone in her hand, shifting from side to side. She waited long enough for the rain to let up for a moment. She stopped shifting. A tingle went down her spine and glued her heels to the ground. Faint and in the distance, there was something breathing behind her. A sound she could only describe as wet panting.
Her eyes darted around. The forest was empty.
Lysa licked her lips. Hey, you, weepy, do you hear any weirdness?
At that moment, a car alarm went off one street over and Lysa covered her ears. When she looked back, the shoulder had disappeared. She decided the right answer was letting people weep alone in the woods. That seemed to be about right.
Lysa crossed the street and fast-walked with her head down. The car alarm died down by the time she reached the end of the block and Lysa was back to texting her roommate. HOW’S IT GOING? I’M HAVING THE WEIRDEST DAY.
A car whooshed past that went way too fast on a neighborhood street, and Lysa stumbled. “Slow down, freak!” She yelled and a prickle went down her spine. Wet breathing sounded from behind her.
Her chest clenched. She couldn’t deny it this time. There was something there.
Cold rain pattered down harder and Lysa needed to yell. People couldn’t just keep breathing at random women in the rain.
I have a knife! She imagined herself saying. Or at least a very heavy instrument!
Clutching the guitar case to her chest, she began to count down from three. One, two, three . . .
Lysa meant to whip around, but her ankle got caught. She tripped over her own feet and fell forward to her knees.
“OW!” she cried out more for the principle of the thing. Her palms stung and the impact rattled all the way up to her jaw.
An animal-panic swelled from deep within. She was down. Her heartbeat drowned out everything else. Focus. Lysa lifted her gaze and then blinked. Raindrops hit her nose. Leaves rustled. A Little Free Library sat in front of her. Her breathing evened out, like being hit by a rubber chicken in the middle of a WWE fight.
Off the side of the road and held up on a wooden pole, there was a bookcase shaped like a little cottage. Flowers grew up around the base. The roof steepled like a church and the door painted a deep turquoise.
The familiarity was undeniable. And across the side were cutesy, sweetheart letters. The paint read: EYES FORWARD.
She crawled to her feet. There was a single book inside the Little Free Library. She cocked her head to the side and listened for any creepy breathing. Or people snickering in the goddamn bushes. Only the rain against roofs answered.
Lysa reached into the tiny library. The book was thin, and the cover was hard backed. Her hands shook as she plucked the book out and ran her hand across the cover.
The title was written in the same hand. LYSANDRA
“Oh no, no,” she muttered and traced the title of the cover. She called out, “If this is a prank,” she kept her eyes forward. “You went to way too much trouble!”
An itch went down to the bone. She flipped to the first page.
Lysa’s throat closed. The page was empty except for bolded messages: WHEN LIGHTNING. Time seemed to slow. The clouds above churned. She flipped the page. TURN TO THE ALLEY. She glanced at the nearest alley, an in-between space for trash and recycling on a dirt pathway. Her breathing heaved. There were three more pages. She turned to the next one: EYES FORWARD.WAIT. it said. And the next one: WHEN THUNDER.
Unreality cottoned the world. She turned to the final page. RUN, LYSANDRA, RUN. The words repeated, EYES FORWARD. EYES FORWARD. EYES FORWARD.
She stiffened. A brilliant flash of light came from behind her. Her nerves were quicker than her mind and Lysa whipped toward the alley. She tensed from head to toe and wanted to throw herself down the path. WAIT. The book had said. EYES FORWARD.
A deep animal-unease kept her from calling out or laughing. The higher thinking kept her from bolting.
WHEN THUNDER. The book had said. And the words were for her.
One Mississippi. She counted, palms itching, barely keeping herself in place. Two Mississippi. The sound of weeping came from somewhere far to her left. A car was parked further up the road and the windshield wipers were going again and again and again. Three Mississippi.
Thunder shook the earth. Lysa ran.
Her feet pounded the earth. She tasted blood. Her lungs burned and houses and streets blurred past. The wood of her jacket fell down and Lysa wiped water from her eyes. She ran.
Barely audible above her own pulse, something was breathing.
Lysa streaked down the alley until she came out another street and kept running. She wasn’t sure if she was going mad or else the inhuman panting shook the air itself. Closer. The cold rain ran down her neck and mixed with her sweat.
Her guitar case beat against her back, and she would have tossed it aside if it wasn’t her whole life. Zig-zagging, houses and parked cars and sleepy streets passed. Her eyes streamed and Lysa didn’t stop until lights came from each window. Two or three cars filled the street and a few stray umbrellas populated the sidewalks.
She skidded to a halt and practically keeled over.
Music played from an open window and people chattered nearby. “Thank God.” She held her belly and bent double. Chest heaving, Lysa’s head spun and her heartbeat slowed. Her shoes were soaked through and rain beat against her neck. None of this was real. The refrain echoed through her. She felt like a ragdoll that had been buffeted in a strong storm.
The temptation to turn around nagged at her. It couldn’t be real.
A warm gust of air blew into her face. Lysa turned to the corner store, a cramped CVS with sliding doors. A high schooler carrying a black case passed, laughing with a friend and Lysa had the sense to straighten up. She made herself stop shaking.
Warmth. Water. Food. She needed to warm up.
Lysa shoved her way into the shop. Her shoes squelched against the floors. A jingle played from the speakers. White linoleum floors, buzzing overhead lights, and neat rows and rows of snacks seemed to smack her across the face. She pinched herself to wake up and sneezed all at once.
When nothing happened, she glanced around the chips and sodas. A bored-looking cashier leaned over a counter and flipped through a magazine. A rack of umbrellas tucked away next to the register and Lysa made a beeline for the display. She pretended to take her time choosing between the umbrellas, eyeing the door all the while.
Did she need to keep running? Or check into a hospital.
The shop remained quiet except for the turn of the cashier’s magazine. Lysa checked her phone and had a few ads in her inbox. She texted her roommate: ARE JAKE OR IAN WITH YOU? The minutes creeped by. Maybe Mike was having a bizarre day too.
Lysa felt the eyes of the cashier on her. She glanced up and the cashier was wearing an expression best described as “flatlining”. Lysa’s cheeks burned. She wanted to mouth, “I’m not shoplifting. I am just experiencing a reality break or a very shitty prank.”
The cashier did not look like the type to accept either of those explanations. Middle-aged and with a taxidermist's gaze, ready to take you apart. Her name tag said “Sue” and she had a heady scent like weed or soil. Sue's stare became flatter and flatter.
A part of Lysa wanted to fling herself at the cashier's feet. Something chased me. I am scared. I am soaked. I’m alone–What do I do? But there wasn’t any good way to start that conversation.
Goddammit, Lysa approached the counter sheepishly and placed the umbrella down.
“Some weather we’re having.” Her voice pitched and she missed her Mother’s Small talk Voice by a mile.
Sue grunted in response. She cut to the chase quickly, “You staying out of trouble?”
The woman rang up the order. “Walking home?”
Lysa frowned. She shrugged. “I missed my bus.”
“Sorry then. Bad luck. 5.87 total.”
Sue studied her as Lysa fumbled with her wallet, completing the transaction. The cashier only kept staring as Lysa straightened up and took her umbrella. Sue’s eyes were pale like cornflowers and unblinking.
“What?” she finally barked. Lysa was going to lose it.
Sue frowned. “I think I have something for you.”
“What?” Lysa repeated in a soft tone.
The woman riffled through her pockets before producing a slip of paper.
“Here.” She pushed the paper toward her. “Hang in there, kid.”
Lysa felt stuck on repeat. She stared at her hand. “What?”
Sue shrugged. “Dunno. Was told to look out for a blonde girl wearing a unicorn shirt. You fit the bill.”
Lysa looked down at her light blue t-shirt that fell down to her knees. There was in fact an enormous unicorn on the front with lightning bolts coming out of the hooves.
“Did two guys around my age give this to you?” The anger returned in full bloom. She was going to divorce Ian’s head from his shoulders.
“Didn’t catch their name. Do kids still do scavenger hunts?”
“Was one blonde and the other really tall?”
Sue shrugged again. She licked her finger and flipped the page of her magazine. “Take it easy, kid.”
Right. Take it easy. Lysa turned around and ripped open the note. She was going to get a heart attack for the sake of bullshit. Didn’t they know she had an audition today? Didn’t they know this was insane?
Her phone rang. Lysa held the note in one hand and jammed the phone up to her ear.
A dial tone answered her on the other end. The note had two words on it: THE POOL.
“I don’t want to do any more scavenger hunt games! I don’t want any more of this!” she burst out, a feverish pitch to her tone. The dial tone answered her. She growled, “Whatever” and hung up.
The rain came down steadily outside and Lysa opened her umbrella. The two teens who passed her earlier were still standing out front of the shop. One of them had dropped her flute case.
“Hey, you wouldn't want to lose this.” Lysa bent down. Messy sidewalk chalk scrawled under the building's overhang. The handwriting was childlike, doodles of butterflies and stars and dragons surrounding it.
Lysa had to tilt her head to read the words: How does the rabbit survive the wolf?
She swallowed thickly and placed a hand on the flute case. The case was cool to the touch. Lysa froze there.
The flute girl’s hands were limp by their sides. One of them whispered, “Do you see that?” Wet breathing came from the street across from them. Every hair on Lysa’s stood on end. Her umbrella fell to the side and rain pattered against her cheek.
One of the teens was weeping softly.
"Laurie?" One of the girl’s shook her friend.
Lysa straightened up and started fast-walking away. Logic butted heads with a sense of gut-deep urgency: Walk. Run. Go.
The rabbit survives the wolf.
The wet breathing grew fainter as she walked. The sidewalks let out a faint mist that steamed toward the heavens. The downpour beat out the sound of someone weeping behind her. Lysa held her umbrella in an iron grip and sped up.
Her muscles complained after the last sprint. Lysa kept her eyes forward. The road turned and she recognized the street signs; she was only a block away from her apartment. Something buzzed beneath her skin.
She could run home. Give her roommate hell. Jump into bed. There wasn’t any reason to keep playing along. There was no reason to keep running or believing her own weird panicked brain. You haven’t actually seen anything.
The door of a nearby complex was wide open. Someone’s phone was abandoned in the grass. Far behind her was the sound of weeping. And breathing. Lysa made a split-second decision and dashed past her own street. The nearby pool hadn’t opened yet for summer, but she had passed it enough times on her way to the bus stop.
The gate was hanging open and the rain slowed. Wet breathing turned into a low wheeze, a tangible thing that seemed to weigh on her mind like a blanket. Her limbs grew heavy. She tossed her umbrella aside and pushed inside the gates to the pool.
Swaths of concrete and sealed locker rooms greeted her. A heavy black tarp covered the pool and one corner propped open. A warm breeze ghosted over Lysa’s cheek. The wheeze elongated into an inhuman rumble, pressing down on her from above.
Lysa faltered inside of the gates, falling to one knee and letting out a small whimper. Sunlight cracked through the cloud cover. Lysa's shadow grew long and her eyes wide. Hot breath pressed against the side of her ear.
"Help me,” she whispered, keeping her eyes forward. Lysa’s chest rapidly rose and fell.
A head popped up underneath the corner flap. She didn’t recognize the person, a neighborhood kid with more freckles than skin. He pressed a finger to his mouth. A second pair of eyes appeared, an older woman with white curls. She gestured for Lysa, mouthing something.
Lysa lifted the guitar case over her head as if to hide herself and crawled. She lurched and shuffled along the ground. Her shadow grew longer and she wondered if it would stare back at her next, whisper to her, cry out. She wondered where the light was coming from. She wondered where her mother was and if she was waiting for her call.
Her ears rang with the chorus of dank heaving and gentle background weeping. Feverish heat and delirium ran through Lysa. Her heart battered against her breastbone, thrashing to escape. A wounded-animal noise erupted from deep within her chest. She dragged herself across the cement, scraping her palms and pushing forward. The edge of the pool was inches away.
A wet cry sounded against the side of her ear. Her muscles froze. Her thoughts swam. The light seemed to shine from within her skull.
Lysa’s head jerked forward, and she collapsed on the edge of the pool. Someone grabbed her collar and rolled her into the opening. Two or three hands yanked her into the darkened space. The flap closed. Everything went quiet.
The freckled kid held up a phone light and half a dozen people huddled in the dry bed of the pool. Light reflected in their eyes. The scene reminded Lysa of soldiers waiting silent in the trenches. Except they were wearing flip flops and Mickey Mouse shirts and holding plastic wiffle ball bats. Lysa giggled, she couldn’t help it. The world was so small. Someone was playing a guitar.
Disappearances were reported over the next few weeks. Not enough to beat out the usual news of mass shootings or the price of eggs. But several news channels noted an unusual number of missing persons reports. The New York Symphony was missing its first chair violinist. A mother was plastering photos of her son across Facebook. Another popstar was in rehab or had run away from set or was otherwise on the lam.
A small North Carolina city had a particular uptick in Have You Seen Me Posters? A second Roanoke they called it.
Lysa’s mom called twice a day for a while. She cried over the phone, though she couldn’t tell her mom why. There was no explaining. No way to summon the words or order them. Everyone in the pool had the same story as Lysa that day, but no one had any answers.
She retraced her steps though, from the pool to the CVS to the Free Little Library and back. At each one she left a note. Handwritten in chalk across buildings or using a sticker to the side of the wall or a small book she wrote herself.
Gratitude Graffiti, one local paper called it. Thank You's scrawled over town and dubbed quaint. Lysa wrote a new song too and played it at the bus stop, An Ode to Strangers.
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