Ghost in Downtown

The Number Six bus deposits me outside of the shiny, slightly unattractive, brand new downtown central library in Minneapolis. I step off the bus and gather my wits and bearings, spending a moment re-aligning myself to the world. I orient myself and turn left, heading for the intersection and my connection to yet another bus, this one destined for the U of M campus. I take a deep breath and start walking, sorting all the information being fed to me by my failing eyes, my ears, my nose, the air currents on my slightly sweaty skin. Downtown is always a bit of a challenge with its loud noises, interesting smells, winds whipping between tall buildings, and erratic traffic. I need to be alert.

She steps into my field of vision an instant latter, emerging from the grey-black nothing a dozen feet before me. I stop moving, surprised by her appearance.

She is small, little more than five feet tall would be my guess, and slender of build. She is dressed in full Victorian mourning garb. The dull black dress is unadorned, the weeping veil hung from her bonnet and pulled over her face. She carries a black parasol in gloved hands. As she slowly walks past me, her eyes and face downcast, I see through the veil that she is perhaps in her mid-twenties and blonde. Her pretty face is set in a grim frown and she seems unaware of the world around her.

She walks past, missing me by bare inches. She acknowledges neither me nor the white cane I bear. I, by turn, appear to be the only pedestrian in downtown Minneapolis interested in her appearance. I turn, following her progress with my fading eyesight. I wait to see if she goes into the library, thinking perhaps she is part of a presentation. She walks past the modern structure without a glance, never breaking her slow, stately stride. She continues toward the river and eventually passes out of my range of vision, fading from view as quickly as she appeared.

It is then I realize I heard no noise from her. There was no clicking of boots or shoes on the sidewalk, no rustle of crepe or other fabrics, no sounds of mourning. Nothing. No smell of perfume or soap came from her; no residual scent of her last meal reached my nose as she passed within inches of me. I am unsure if I noticed a change in air currents as she passed by: this is the hardest sensation for me to detect and interpret.

Had I not been pressed for time, had I not an appointment which could not be broken, I would have turned and followed. I would have let curiosity get the better of me, though you could say that to do so would be either a terrible breach of her privacy or, if you are inclined to such things, foolishness on my part, because we have all seen the horror movies and read the ghost stories.

But still, I'm left to wonder...

Ghost in Downtown

The Number Six bus deposits me outside of the shiny, slightly unattractive, brand new downtown central library in Minneapolis. I step off the bus and gather my wits and bearings, spending a moment re-aligning myself to the world. I orient myself and turn left, heading for the intersection and my connection to yet another bus, this one destined for the U of M campus. I take a deep breath and start walking, sorting all the information being fed to me by my failing eyes, my ears, my nose, the air currents on my slightly sweaty skin. Downtown is always a bit of a challenge with its loud noises, interesting smells, winds whipping between tall buildings, and erratic traffic. I need to be alert.

She steps into my field of vision an instant latter, emerging from the grey-black nothing a dozen feet before me. I stop moving, surprised by her appearance.

She is small, little more than five feet tall would be my guess, and slender of build. She is dressed in full Victorian mourning garb. The dull black dress is unadorned, the weeping veil hung from her bonnet and pulled over her face. She carries a black parasol in gloved hands. As she slowly walks past me, her eyes and face downcast, I see through the veil that she is perhaps in her mid-twenties and blonde. Her pretty face is set in a grim frown and she seems unaware of the world around her.

She walks past, missing me by bare inches. She acknowledges neither me nor the white cane I bear. I, by turn, appear to be the only pedestrian in downtown Minneapolis interested in her appearance. I turn, following her progress with my fading eyesight. I wait to see if she goes into the library, thinking perhaps she is part of a presentation. She walks past the modern structure without a glance, never breaking her slow, stately stride. She continues toward the river and eventually passes out of my range of vision, fading from view as quickly as she appeared.

It is then I realize I heard no noise from her. There was no clicking of boots or shoes on the sidewalk, no rustle of crepe or other fabrics, no sounds of mourning. Nothing. No smell of perfume or soap came from her; no residual scent of her last meal reached my nose as she passed within inches of me. I am unsure if I noticed a change in air currents as she passed by: this is the hardest sensation for me to detect and interpret.

Had I not been pressed for time, had I not an appointment which could not be broken, I would have turned and followed. I would have let curiosity get the better of me, though you could say that to do so would be either a terrible breach of her privacy or, if you are inclined to such things, foolishness on my part, because we have all seen the horror movies and read the ghost stories.

But still, I'm left to wonder...

A Loss

careswen explains it all here:

http://careswen.livejournal.com/126982.html

A Loss

careswen explains it all here:

http://careswen.livejournal.com/126982.html