Wallstrait

The Egregor walked with me to the corner. I do not see him, but I know he is there. When I was a little boy, my mother wrote in my baby book that I had an imaginary friend. His name was Bill, who, she wrote, “Did all the bad things.”

 

I remember that time. It’s among my earliest childhood memories. Perhaps the oldest.

 

The backyard had a swing set; behind it was a wire enclosure for Misty, my grandfather’s greyhound. She was huge and rambunctious, and I wasn’t allowed to pet her when I was little.

 

Bill spoke in a gruff voice, like a film noir actor. I probably heard the voice from watching the old black-and-white TV in the den.

 

It wasn’t until decades later that I remembered him when I went through my mother’s belongings after her stroke. I’d forgotten all about him until I read an entry in my baby book. It was notable how my mother had written that my aunt thought I was always so sad. Yet my mother had added, “No, he is always happy. I never saw such a happy boy.”

 

Whatever. Things weren’t that great until first grade.

 

—

 

I crossed the street. Bill trailed behind, his steps easily mistaken for the breeze picking up stray debris from the pavement.

 

Ironically, the spirits of the mourned dead never haunt. Instead, Bill was here, my Egregor.

 

I ignored him on my journey to the corner café. I ordered the usual: a chocolate latte and a plain bagel with cream cheese. I sat at the small, cramped table beside the exposed brick wall. I pulled my journal and pen from my battered computer bag to write.

 

I described Bill as a short, rotund man with black, curly hair. I recalled speaking in his fried, deep voice as best a four-year-old could.

 

What bad things did he do? I recall two. When I was in nursery school, we lined up single file. Bill told me to take the shortcut up the stairwell. I broke from the line and walked up the stairs and down the hall.

 

I waited for the line to arrive. I got punished for that.

 

Another time, after watching cartoons, Bill told me to sit on the cactus my grandmother kept in the carport, just like the coyote on the show.

 

It took seemingly forever to get the needles out of my canvas shorts. I still recall crying over the humiliation of it all.

 

I stopped right there. I sipped my chocolate latte and felt Bill leave.

 

I closed my notebook.

 

—

 

The Egregor reappeared at Union Square. I tried to outrun them by crossing against the light and entering the Strand bookstore. They caught up with me in the Philosophy section downstairs. I wanted to avoid Bill, so I went to the Occult section. I saw a book on Egregors and pulled it from the shelf.

 

At that, he vanished.

 

Bill reappeared at Union Square. I avoided him by going against the light and entering the Strand bookstore. He caught up with me in the Philosophy section downstairs. I wanted to avoid Bill, so I went to the Occult section. I saw the book on Egregors and pulled it from the shelf.

 

Bill vanished.

 

On the way home, I stopped at the park and watched a tango class. My gaze focused on a dark-haired young woman wearing a blue-patterned flowing dress, smoothly moving with her partner and gracefully dipping. Her exposed right leg rested behind his back before they moved on to the following dance sequence. She was beautiful.

 

She triggered something from inside. I remembered the boy in first grade with the stone in his hand.

 

—

 

Subdivisions on the southeast side of Loop 323 surrounded the elementary school. 

 

When I arrived for my first day, I surveyed this half-block of grass and dirt with scattered trees as if it were a vast kingdom. After dismissal, I wandered the grounds until one of my cousins came to fetch me.

 

I remember the teacher was annoyed that I knew how to read and helped the girl beside me. Like the tango dancer, she had dark hair pinned with red barrettes.

 

The next day, during recess, we were out among the trees playing. I had made new friends, including the girl with dark hair. It felt different and so right. In retrospect, it was the first time I believed I was in an environment where I truly belonged.

 

I found a flat stone on the ground. I picked it up. It was so large I held it with both hands.

 

Do it. Throw it in the air. It was Bill, whispering from behind.

 

The girl stood in front of me. I realized I would hit her square in the face.

 

“No.” I spread my hands, dropping the stone at her feet.

 

That was the last I heard from Bill until recently.

 

—

 

I watched the dancers, watched the woman move sensually until the music stopped.

 

In the silence, I remembered the afternoon when my family moved.

 

The dark-haired girl came by to say goodbye. Her father drove us to the Greyhound station to join Mom on our journey.

 

As the bus pulled away, I watched her wave goodbye through the window, holding the stone in her hand.

 

Who knows, she may still have it.

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​ Mike Lee is a writer and editor at a trade union in New York City. His work appears in or is forthcoming in Bright Flash Literary Review, The Opiate, Roi Faineant, Press Pause, Brilliant Flash Fiction, BULL, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. His story collection, The Northern Line, is available on Amazon.