1. take a right on third street where the road meets the canal and come out near the deli, the one serving hot dogs as long as your forearm. think of iced tea in plastic cups sweating in your hands and to-go containers of onion rings, the breading flaking when you take a bite. keep going. the street will narrow and lower and then rise, split off into a bike path replete with potholes. you can walk there but be mindful of rolled ankles. come up on the train tracks. listen to the train roar; wonder if the barrier will lower in time or if you might see those headlights like suns distracting you from the huge death bearing down. jump the tracks and don’t linger as the train pushes past, its sides tagged with folks’ names and warped drawings of faces. there are city streets ahead and clothing stores, juice bars, a coffee shop you’ve passed through before for cold brew and a trip to the bathroom. maybe there are people there; maybe you’ll hear voices, be warm in the bustle. maybe you will swallow the hunted feeling like a pill and be able to sit, eat a meal and smile at passers-by
2. get to the coffee shop and see that it’s closed. windows are covered; the sign sputters and dies. out back, the parking lot is barren – walk straight down the center. feel the jerky feeling, the off-kilter nerves, that a car might hit you and ignore it. come to the roadway and take a sharp left down lakeshore, bright and wild with bars. you want a beer poured high and sloshed on the table, but the buildings are washed out; you have to squint to look at them
don’t stop
come to the convenience store and walk past. turn your head, peek back, just a little – the neon sign flickers, spilling pink and red –
the light undulates in the darkness and you can almost see it whir, you think, and throw electric spittle along the street. the sidewalk is spotlighted in puddles like a shadow’s inverse. you feel cold. keep going
3. past lakeshore is maple road, a void of street-lights. stay away. some buildings have blown-out windows and meter parking with nail traps to catch tires. there are alleys choked with dumpsters that loom and yowl when opened. you peer down the street and see a possum toeing along a fence, a few birds roosting on roofs. you see high-rises, too, shined like mirrors, and they glint in the moonlight
the moon is only a crescent tonight, a thin creek of light, and you can hardly find it for the clouds hanging like a fog
4. soon you will need a bike. grab one from a porch and hoof it. doorbell cameras might get you but the darkness will wipe your face. take the bike into the street and dodge parked cars. practice braking fast and jumping off. take the bike on a main roadway, king street or south, and avoid the cars speeding and swerving. cross over the bridge and pedal harder. come up on the east side of town, the boring side, all swingsets and dog-houses. ride past a strip mall and see how the chinese joint shut down, how the dry-cleaner’s is gone, how the sports bar is open but empty of customers. think of running in for a hamburger, but
do not stop
look in the window when you pass and see the tables waxed like a long row of marble, the bar counter stretching to some darkness in the back of the room
5. ahead your path forks. there are streets with houses, shut up for the night, and streets with apartments. head for the apartments and watch how windows glimmer like candles in sconces. lobbies are lit and have couches and guest bathrooms. picture sitting for a while, reading something on your phone, and washing your face
the water is cool, sharp enough to wake you up a little
the couches don’t look soft but they are clean and long enough to stretch out. slow down, consider stopping, but don’t. the light is behind you
a chasm
threading slow and sticking itself to buildings. it weaves when you weave. you can see it in apartment windows overlaying other light as though the moon is eclipsing the sun
6. ride through the nest of apartment buildings and see how it becomes more dense. soon there are dollar stores, too, and delis and barber shops and bike shops and check cashing places. ditch the bike among other bikes; wipe your prints before you go. put up your hood, then take it down when it obscures your side vision. make sure your shoes are tied in case you need to run. risk a glance and watch the light behind you spindle, still blocks back but pulsing forward. watch the way it moves like a snake, its guts undulating, and think of your own body propelling
your legs contract and push
your stomach is roiling
you can feel hot breath in your lungs and the lungs are needled, flattened and beat
7. when you don’t see the light, you can imagine it’s not there, but it is. maybe it moves faster, even, like a spider scurrying through dark corners.
8. go farther into the city, where every building is a shined knife. there are cameras trained on sidewalks and parking decks and a scatter of home-security signs. put up your hood and walk fast. when you get to a railing, slide down and land hard; feel your tennis shoes scuff. don’t leave marks. wipe the dirt from your pants. keep walking until you reach a bodega and watch as the camera over the door swivels and finds you
swallows you whole.
if you could play the tape you might see yourself wiping your hands on your front, standing languid; you might see yourself as a shadow sticking to dimmed paths and trying the bodega’s door before continuing on. don’t stop. the bodega fades quickly like sand dragged by the lake. the light behind you shimmers and winks in window-panes and you look away
keep going
the streets ahead are a grid, a maze, and there are alleys tight enough that light gets blocked and blurs to gray
9. when you reach the alleys, they are clustered and haphazard. pick one, skid through. keep your back to the wall. look up as you walk and see a mess of stars, some blinking and others dusky and small
imagine the stars falling, or sinking like pebbles in water
imagine them a spangled veil billowing and floating on the wind, and twisting and flipping, and finally covering the city
they could litter the ground like dead leaves or hold to buildings like dust
think of light bulbs in lamps and imagine them in droves, self-powered and more brilliant. look behind you – just for a breath – and see the light closing in, nearing the alley like a star but not
it dances along walls and sidewalks and sewer gratings
it encircles manholes and seems to seep in before emerging and slithering farther
wonder if it has a heartbeat like yours, a pounding that urges it on. look ahead to the street and keep going
look back again and see the light is passing through the alley like a rabbit under a fence, all kicking legs and lunging gut. don’t watch for too long. don’t look up and see how the sun is still set below the horizon, lying in wait, nor how the night sky chokes out moonlight as though a patch of weeds
10. you have a choice, now.
you can hide: creep ahead and find a corner or crevice, wedge yourself between the dumpster and the wall. sink down, control your breathing. hope that when the light comes its tendrils will pass over the cracks in waves, riding the night breeze. when you see the light, close your eyes; ignore the burn on your eyelids and the electric hum
do not hum along
sit with your back to the wall and hope that if the light finds you it will shrink back upon touching something harder than itself
or you can run, take off for the edge of town. go on foot; this gives you access to stairwells and subway tunnels. slip along fences and jump them when you can. keep to the shadows. the harder you run the louder you’ll be, so jog at first and control your footfalls. stay on the grass, if possible. when you feel the light catching up to you, run harder; outrace the gleam on the sidewalk
the sprinkle of gold. maybe you’ll make it out of dodge and the light will stop or be blotted out by the sun, like a drop of color dissolving in water
11. or, you can
stop.
dig in your heels; close your eyes and feel the dark’s fullness, the way it expands beyond sight. unbutton your jacket, if you have one, and roll up your sleeves. you may feel a buzz in your chest; breathe through it
imagine your heart charged by batteries
your legs will wobble with adrenaline and feel warm, fuzzy, but you have to stay put
don’t take a few steps
do not sit down, or lie down, or yell
your lungs are empty bags. ignore the pins-and-needles jilt, the sharp pain that comes when you try to inhale slow and spit air back out through your teeth
turn around, as quickly as you can, before you change your mind. open your eyes and look at the light. see the tendrils whirling, reaching between buildings and cracks and through open windows; watch how they sluice and spread on glass. watch damage spiderweb the glass, small shatters that turn to
maws
breathe through it. do not run. you may see the light widen or flatten and stick; it may cloak the street and hemorrhage blue and yellow and red like blood. it may come closer to you, so close you can smell the television scent, the hot plastic, the inorganic undercurrent pulsing with static. don’t turn away. open your mouth, bare your teeth. watch the light surround you and envelop you
first your feet, a warmth like bathwater
then your legs tingling numbly
then your trunk, as though being held in a hug
tell yourself it is a hug. tell yourself the night is still there beyond your sight, so vast and inevitable it has a taste – rainwater, the musk of leaves. wet concrete recently poured, spread thick and flat. car exhaust in plumes intermixed with fog, the two combining into a sour thing that finishes crisp, eats clean
when the light makes it to your face, it will pause. you will see through it, for a moment, out to the buildings: still apartments and barren parking lots, gas stations, restaurants without customers. trace the buildings’ edge-lines with your gaze. remember the rise and fall, the curves, and the way it feels to walk between coffee shops searching for the perfect cup
then, look into the light.
let your eyes widen until they are big black punches. hold the image of that in your gut. dare the light to come closer, to reach down your throat and find what you’ve got inside
blood and bone and viscera
and the murky darkness, too, running in strings to your chest and your mouth. let the light look that in the eye and see if it flinches. let it try to devour you
12. you can bite back.