“Esmeralda,”Giselle Paramore, ’24

The night was relatively crisp despite it being spring. Even though it was chilly, people still populated the skinny roads. The street vendors are most profitable the minute the moon rises. For it was something about moving in the dark that’s exhilarating for the town folks. The further one ventures into the city, night clubs open up and drugstore lights are in full bloom. Walking past bars you could hear the contagious, boisterous laughter of the paterons. And not too far from the bars, the drunkards kicked out from said bars, talking about who’d keep them company for the night. The smell of alcohol, cigarette butts, lust, and sweaty bodies polluted the city air. In alleyways, people covered in dark cloaks attempting to make a profit for themselves reside there. Selling antiques, clothes and shoes taken from dumpsters, or drugs. Then there are the homeless, forever hopeless and penniless. Just a few miles from the glitzy and glamorous “main city”  is another sector often never spoken of. 

A sector of black and white with only greywater and fishermen. Although its appearance and fishy smell isn’t tourist material, the most noticeable thing about that place was its bland food, often used for hangovers. Besides the obvious decay of the sector over, lack of sanitation, the spread of new drugs, and poverty being at an all time high, this city needed more than repairs. It needed hope. What a silly idea for the feeble-minded. Continuing into the city, streets grew colder, the street lights flickering more frequently, and the woman became alert. She’d stop and just listen, were there footsteps behind her, the sound of breathing? If it remained silent, she would keep walking. It wasn’t the fear of being a woman, alone in the dark. It was the fear of what lives in the darkness that scared the woman. Clutching onto her purse a little tighter, her breathes a little faster, her steady pace. It was the little things she did. Heightened sense of sound, the potent smell, the small puddles of backed up sewed water she’d step on. 

She’d just want to leave as quickly as possible. It’s only temporary, she’d tell herself. It’s only temporary. But something was out there, she knew it. It was a presence that’s only sensed never seen. As if someone was watching her. There was nothing in her peripheral vision. Part of her was itching to find out what it was. To see the truth with her own two eyes but her better half objected to that idea. It’s best to avoid going home the usual route for now, if she’s being followed. Her body reacted faster than her brain could register, her head turned to look behind her steadily. Only to be met with a strong breeze slapping her in the face. The breeze wasn’t just a breeze but a scream. A warning. The hairs on the back of her neck spiked. Goosebumps crawling up her back, she wanted to run away. But took a few steps backwards before resuming to walk away. It’s only temporary, it’s only temporary. That was the one thought preventing her from stopping. She’d soon be somewhere safe and warm. 

At the end of the street, she turned right. If she’d continue down this street, she’ll wound up at the cemetery. There have been stories about that cemetery. People get snatched up and are never heard from again. So, she opted to take a shortcut to get away from the cemetery.  She took another right into a narrow alley. Above her were the lines of clothes left out to dry. 

Click. Clack.

Click Clack. 

Click. Clack.

The woman’s shoes weren’t excessively loud but it was the one prominent noise heard. She kept walking, consistently looking around her. The alley lacked any sort of light, leaving her to rely solely on the moonlight to help guide her to safety. 

Click. Clack.

Click Clack. 

Click. Clack.  Drip.

Click. Clack. Drip. 

It was faint, but sound nevertheless. And the dripping hadn’t stopped. She did her best to ignore it but it was troubling her. What could possibly be making that noise late at night? She learned from her previous mistake, don’t look back. Don’t stop. So she continued, it wasn’t a very far walk to her house. It isn’t far. 

“Almost home” she whispered to herself. 

Her mind in a frenzy, demanding she’d run home. But her body physically could not move any faster. She was a shivering mess, thankfully the fear hadn’t paralyzed her. Creeping up closer and closer towards her house, the dripping became louder. Making its presence known. Maybe it was an air conditioning system leaking or clothes that are still wet hanging on the line. There was nothing to fear. Nothing. 

Click. Clack. Drip.

Click Clack. Drip

She’s not going crazy. It’s just an endless drip.

Click. Clack.  Drip.

Click. Clack. Drip. 

Caressing her hair, smoothing her nerves and fear. The only thought clouding her mind was what was making the drip. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal, it didn’t matter yet it does. What if the dripping is coming from her house? Or a neighbor’s house? It couldn’t have been, her air conditioning system was just fixed two days ago and all her clothes were inside her home. 

Click. Clack. Drip.

Click Clack. Drip

What was making that sound? Just what in God’s name was making that sound!

Click. Clack. Drip.

Click Clack. Drip.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She stopped all movement of her body. Her breaths slowed down, fear subsided. Who knew such a sound can drive one to madness, leave one in disarray. 

Drip. 

She had felt something wet. Something wet and cold on her head.

Drip. Drip.

Gradually her hand was released from her purse and made its way to her hair. Snaking its way from the ends of her hair to its roots. She touched her wet roots, slithering the wet hand towards her nose. Sniffing the wet substance on her hand, it reeked of metal. A metallic smell but it wasn’t really metal.

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Whatever was on her hand scared her. Frantic, she had no light whatsoever to see what it was. Her shaky hands reached for her wooden beaded necklace around her neck, and clasped her hands around it. Bowing her head and squeezing her eyes shut. The only words she could muster up were silent prayers. 

“Dear Father, please protect me from whatever evil lies within the darkness. Please help guide me to the safety of your lovely arms.”

Drip. Drip.

“For when my time has come and you are ready to take me, please take me to the Heavenly Gates up above” she whispered.

Drip.

She prayed and prayed, as if she was a record stuck in a loop. Tightening her hold on the necklace with every prayer she mumbled. She hadn’t bothered to wonder what metallic liquid was on her hand. Or where the continuous dripping is coming from. She should have no fear as long as she has her God on her side but she was scared. Petrified, frightened even. 

Drip. Drip.

Look up. It was like a voice in the woman’s head instructing her what to do. Releasing the strong grip she had on her beads. And she did just that, tilting her head up ever so slightly. Inching closer and closer upwards until she felt the substance fall on her face. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Her face almost drowned in liquid falling. But in a moment of uncertainty, the moon showed its illuminating light to the alleyway the woman resided in. And only then did she see the cause of the dripping. 

Drip. Drip.

It was the silhouette of a man. And his clothes soaked in a lovely shade of red pinned up to a laundry line. The line bending towards the ground due to the excessive weight of the man dangling from it. 

Drip.

Frozen in fear, all she could do was stare. She started catching more details about him, like his unkempt hair and broken fingers. Why kill someone, she thought to herself. Why here, why now? She was sick, she wanted to look away but couldn’t. She was stuck in place to look at the dead man dangling from someone’s laundry line. But there was something in her peripheral vision. Words on a door.

Drip. Drip.

XV

The Devil

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The devil? Like Baphomet?

Drip.

Let me be the one to break the shackles of oppression and addiction

Drip. Drip.

Let me be your savior, your champion of freedom

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Champion of freedom? Shackles of oppression and addiction? What exactly were they talking about? Does this “savior” have to slaughter an innocent man? Was his life a sacrifice or mere delight? Frozen in fear she could feel the beads of sweat falling down her face. Why couldn’t she just go home safely? Before she could think logically a loud noise was made. It was a broken cry. Grainy and painful, it came from the woman. Her hands launched at her throat, gasping for air she could not take in. Her vision blinded by the tears, she was a shaking, crying mess. A mess who had just witnessed a man’s death, a killer’s message, and the possibility of becoming another victim. She wept silently not only for herself but for the deceased. She felt sympathy for the family, completely unaware of his passing.

Drip. Drip.

“I’m sorry” she cried.

Drip.

Wobbly she backed away from the scene. It all felt too surreal for her. Did he have to die for this “cause”? Who exactly is this “savior”? She hadn’t even noticed she was still walking backwards until she hit the wall. Her mind was puzzled but the cold wall that kissed her back snapped her out of her thoughts. She couldn’t look away from the man, from the way the moon illuminated him to the fact he was hanging from a clothing line. Everything about him, the scene was just too much. She wanted to run, scream for help, anything other than stay here but she physically could not. Her legs practically gave out leaving her clasped on the floor, arms limp, breath heavy. 

Drip. Drip.

That sound would be the death of her. A sound she cannot unhear as something normal anymore. A sound that fuels her nightmares.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

But soon it wasn’t only just the sound of dripping within the alleyway. It was rustling of some kind. It startled her. Should she run? Can she run? Will she get away in one piece? Questions flooded her mind, she scrambled to get up using the wall as support. The noise of rustling only appeared to get louder and closer. She ran. Call it instinct, before she could even process the fact she was in danger, her body bolted. Her purse now gone, heels on the verge of being broken, and out of breath. However she couldn’t stop and won’t stop. Not until she’s safe. She didn’t want to wound up on the news as another victim. While running she prayed in between breaths, praying for her safe travels.

“Dear Father, please protect me from whatever evil lies within the darkness. Please help guide me to the safety of your lovely arms. For when my time has come and you are ready to take me, please take me to the Heavenly Gates up above.”