Dowwell’s assignment was straightforward. A young mother, a screaming child on her hip, requested a repair on a laundry machine. It’s an old model, around the era of Kwong’s bike and just as familiar. It’s pretty banged up but after a deep cleaning in the filtering and piping system, Kwong found a pair of bright undergarments that seemed to have slipped through the mesh. The mother looked embarrassed; her cheeks colored the same as the offending clothing article snatched from their hand. She paid promptly.

The second assignment seemed more of an annoyance than usual. Jesse had requested it, back in Lokra. Kwong thinks of the flying cooking pans and Holly’s voice rattling the hanging plants. The market lot is filled now, bustling with noon activity of eager lunch goers during breaks of work. It forces Kwong to park their bike in the side of the apartment complex, hidden from the main street to avoid the possibility of a patrolling Johan.

They flag the HAZARD light on the dash and kill the engine, sliding off after the bike settles roughly on the ground. Kwong makes their way around to the front entrance, unlatching their keys from the strap of their backpack when a cool wind rushes up from behind. It settles on the nape of their neck, pricking the skin and small hairs there. The East of Crosstone was in the middle of its Spring season for the year and yet, the breeze felt startling and out of place. Kwong attempts to unlock the door, their other hand reaching up to rub goosebumps-riddled skin. The key clicks into place, but before Kwong can turn it, they feel it.

Something hot, burning ire that centers itself squarely on their back. Slowly, Kwong glances to the market place behind them.

The crowd is bustling, moving in unorganized directions as people order food or find places to sit. The stalls are open with waiting lines and the smell of fried food is heavy even across the road. In the center, directly in line with where Kwong is positioned, is a stall run by Lo Wong, the eldest son of one of the elderly women. He notices Kwong looking from aways and despite the busy customer queue, shoots Kwong a smile and wave.

Kwong can’t find it in themselves to wave back, eyes focused on a figure that resides by the booth. Tall, taller than Kwong, taller than the stand, than the windows, than anything humanly had a right to be.

Its body is hunched, covered in a thick shadow that wisps around it. In its right hand, a cartoonish mask of a crying woman held to its face, black hair cascading down its sides. In its left, a blade that glitters in the sunlight, stretching from its bent legs to the asphalt.

It’s not real, Kwong rationalizes. I’m dreaming.

And yet, with each passing moment, the shadow remains, almost patient. Kwong turns away, their goggles bouncing around their neck. The door is quickly pushed open, and with an uneasy exhale, Kwong slips into their apartment complex. They make sure to shut the door behind them. And the hallucination is put behind them.

For the second time today, Kwong makes their way through thirty flights of stairs.

“I knew they’d send you!” Jesse exclaims when he opens the door and spots Kwong. His excitement only dampers when he takes in their appearance. “You okay, man? You don’t look so good…”

“I’m fine,” Kwong says, agitated. They hadn’t had a moment to catch their breath and despite schooling their expression, their heart thumped in panic within their chest.

Kwong reaches up to wipe the sweat off their brow. “What’s the problem?”

“Toilet’s clogged,” Holly says from behind her husband. Jesse nods, moving aside to allow Kwong in. 

“And you couldn’t handle that yourself?” Kwong accuses, stepping through the doorway. Heavy leather boots creak against the faux wooden floors. The apartment is small, mirrors the layout of Kwong’s in reverse and thus, the bathroom is exactly where they’d think.

“It’s gross, dude,” Jesse provides, as if that’s enough.

“He can’t do anything! It’s why we can’t even move out of Lokra,” Holly adds, following Kwong close behind. Jesse hangs back. Her hair has grown from her signature blonde to a vibrant orange. It reminds Kwong of the elders in Helba with their henna stained hands and hair, huddled together in the evenings to share the day’s gossip. It looks nice. Kwong tells her so.

“Oh,” Holly says, surprised by the compliment. “Thanks. I’m glad someone noticed.”

“You did something to your hair?” Jesse asks, finally joining them as Kwong glances down at the toilet bowl. They briefly thank whoever is listening that it appears to have been cleaned prior to their arrival.

“So, it’s clogged?”

“It won’t even flush.”

“Did you throw anything in it?”

“I’m not twelve!”

“Do you have a plunger? Toilet auger?” Kwong asks. The two of them shake their heads.

“Great.”

“We didn’t use it at all today!” Jesse exclaims.

Kwong sighs, unbuckling the chest strap and relaxing their shoulders so their backpack slips down. They reach in and pull out a pair of high reaching elbow rubber gloves, bright yellow and as ridiculous as the situation.

“This costs extra,” Kwong mutters before dipping their right hand into the bowl, their left used to steady them. Jesse and Holly watch curiously, peering over Kwong’s shoulders as Kwong bend to rub around the pipe. Their fingers brush against something solid and Kwong immediately frowns, narrowing their eyes at Jesse, who quickly looks away.

“There’s something down here.”

Kwong pushes against the mass, solid against their fingers, as if something was stuffed into the bowl in haste.

“What is it?” Holly asks, worrying her lip. “Is it going to be expensive?”

“I think I can get it,” Kwong says, bending their knees to position themselves better. They push against the mass until their fingers are able to hook around a loose end. Kwong pulls.

It’s difficult at first, refusing to budge until Kwong applies a lot more focus, leaning back to give them momentum. Something pops, like the pressure has been lifted, and Kwong nearly falls back as they begin to drag out whatever was hiding.

“Oh my god!” Holly screeches, snapping Kwong’s attention to their gloved hand. Around their fingers are large clumps of hair, long and dark black. It’s thick, coiling around their fingers like snakes, the ends dipping back into the bowl. Kwong stares, trying to not think any deeper of it and continues to pull. Longer and longer, the hair continues to stretch, the free end falling with a wet plop on the tiled floor.

“What the fuck?” Kwong asks, shocked as an entangled mess of black hair grows in size the longer they pull. It seems like there is no end in sight before there’s another pop and a hiss and then there’s no more hair. At this point, there’s enough on the floor beside them to cover a human head.

Kwong doesn’t know what to say.

“I knew it,” Holly says, breaking the silence. She’s angry. “You fucking cheater!”

Kwong and Jesse both start, glancing at her as she whips around and hurriedly storms off.

It takes a few seconds for Jesse’s mind to catch up but soon, he’s stumbling after her. “Wait, Holly! It’s not like that.”

Kwong doesn’t move but they can hear it, the beginning of one of their many fights. The cabinet swings open and pots start to clatter around. Kwong doesn’t bother doing anything with the hair, horrified enough to leave it as is and get up. The gloves soon join the pile on the floor as Kwong swings their backpack over their shoulder.

“Expect a bill in the mail soon,” Kwong calls out after them, unheard over their growing bickering. They close the door after them and once they are sure they are alone in the stairway, they breathe out.

“What’s going on with me?” Kwong questions, their heart rate picking up again. The shadow, the hair. It feels as if they are being watched. Kwong takes a shaky step down the stairs, then another, and thinks of how nice the breeze will feel when they take off to their last order.

And yet, when Kwong reaches the seventeenth floor’s landing, their body refuses to move. As if fear has managed to slip into their mind unbeknownst to them. Kwong reaches for the railing to steady themselves, their body swaying, a headache forming behind their eyes.

And that’s when they hear it.

Jingling, like a set of keys on a hip, like coins accidentally left in pockets of laundry, like knives clattering against each other. Sweat building on their brow, Kwong leans down to look below them.

The shadow. Its body is shaking as if it’s weeping, the blade swinging back and forth. Kwong stares at it, from their place a few stories above.  Its feet are bare and where toes would be are ten claws that bend into the concrete of the stairs. The air is cold. There is no sound except for the clicking of metal.

“It’s a dream,” Kwong whispers. “You’re seeing things again. It’s not real.”

It’s not a dream. 

“Fuck!” Kwong shouts, adrenaline breaking whatever spell enthralled them in the first place as they jut backwards, away from the railing. Without hesitation, the clicking sound ringing in their ears with each passing step, Kwong climbs two flights of stairs. They reach the nineteenth floor, skidding to a stop in front of 19B. Just as they’re about to knock, the door cracks open.

“Ah Kwong!” An elderly man greets. “You startled me.”

“Lola Sook Sook,” Kwong nods politely, straining to ignore the clattering that grows closer.

“I’m sorry to bother. Can I use your fire escape?”

Lola hesitates, clearly confused but moves aside eventually to let Kwong slink in. They close the door quickly behind them. 

“Of course,” Lola finally answers, watching as Kwong slowly backs away from their door. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” Kwong says, making their way towards his window. “Were you going somewhere?”

Lola smiles, seemingly relaxing. Maybe he’s chalking this up to Kwong’s eccentricity as he has known them since they moved in. Brought them tea when the nightmares had caused Kwong to scream in their sleep, echoing through the thin walls of their apartment complex, even to the nineteenth floor.

“Yes, I was. Those ladies need an old man around to tell them when they’re being shameless.”

“I could think of no one better.” Kwong opens the window.

“Are you sure? That you’re alright?”

There is no more clicking.

“Yes.”

“For an ex-Enforcer, you’re a terrible liar.”

“I know, right?” Kwong jokes, one foot out the window and tapping against the fire escape. “Probably why I couldn’t cut it.” Their backpack shuffles and Kwong remembers the plastic container in there. They stop their movement, straddling the windowsill and opening up their pack to pull it out and rest it on the small table beside them. “Can you bring this with you? I promised biscotti.”

“Oh! Are these from Ah Mike? I’ve always loved his wife’s baking.”

“Please share them,” Kwong says, smiling politely and closing the window as they exit. The fire escape groans in protest at their weight, but it feels infinitely safer out here than on the stairwell. Kwong won’t call it a race to the bottom, but they do move two steps at a time.

The motorcycle is where they left it. It takes five tries for the engine to start and when it does, Kwong ignores the cool breeze that returns to whisper against their neck.

THE STRANGER, Pt. 3