Urban Legend

Suspense Stories | May 13, 2014 | 8 min read
32 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Our streets are 100% safe. We can be outside for as long as we want without having to worry about thugs , we can walk wherever we feel without having to leave our personal effects at home for fear of them disappearing. I thank the police for their diligent efforts in ensuring our public safety. For if it weren't for them, we would be holed up in our heavily guarded houses, peeking at windows to ensure no suspicious activity is taking place, our ears at heightened hearing for any unfamiliar sound. To the police of our diligent nation. Cheers to you.
Once, I walked home from work at around eleven at night, not in fear of course, but singing loudly to the beat of my music. Not a single damn to give, knowing that I am safe, courtesy of the police. I looked around for them, wanting to personally express my gratitude for their selfless nature. I walked around the neighborhood hoping to find them, but they weren't there. Instead, I found an elderly man seated on the sidewalk, puffing away his cigar, seemingly in deep thought. For his age, who wouldn't be?
I went to him and asked where I might find them, but he laughed at me and replied.
"Boy, they aren't around."
"Then who's protecting us?"
He stared at me for a while and asked me to have a seat right next to him. So I did. He continued puffing large quantities of smoke that rose up the yellow glow of the street lights and disappeared into the dark sky, looking up as they did. Then, slowly, he turned to me and told me the truth:
"Young man, we live in a very secure environment. I see your peers at parties every day of the week, children playing on the streets in the dead of night and men and women socializing freely, anywhere they please. However, why is it so safe? I'm sure you're thinking of the police, the brave men and women who put their lives on the line for the safety of others. But, where are they? If they are indeed protecting us, then why can't they ever be seen in this particular neighborhood? What is keeping them from here anyway?"
At that point, I realized that there were indeed none around. I turned my head several times to confirm his claim, and it passed as the gospel truth.
He continued, "There is a story, albeit exaggerated, of a young boy who lived in this very neighborhood. He was a quiet one, a loner in many people's eyes and a depressed one in other's view. He was also a devout Christian, always reciting memory verses and with his Bible everywhere he went. He didn't bother anyone, so no one bothered him.
Back then, this place was a living hell. Theft and murder were rampant, corruption was being taught to children as early as age 3 as a means of survival, and it was so bad that there was a curfew of six p.m.. You had to be real brave to live in these sides…you really had to be. And that was what our young friend discovered first hand. He too was walking home at night, frantically because he had already missed the curfew. He tried, boy. He really tried to escape the unseen danger, tried to run from his hidden demise. He did, but it caught up to him in the form of armed gangsters. They robbed him of everything, and when he screamed, they slashed his throat, leaving him bleeding to death. Before they got far enough, they heard him whimper in pain, and one of them was sure he heard him say something religious, one of his verses I believe."
"What…what does that have to do with the heightened security?" I asked, although I somehow knew the answer. He fixed his eyes onto mine, and from his look I could tell I had asked and extremely stupid question. He puffed again, coughing a bit while he did so, let it out and continued.
"No one is certain that the young man died, as his body was never found. However, the blood from his throat can still be found at his doorstep, and from the forensic team's analysis, he should be dead. Should be, but isn't for a fact.
From that day, people never walked out at night. No one was there to be mugged, hence there was some drop in insecurity. The thugs got desperate to a point where they liaised with some corrupt officials to rob the residents in their very homes. It took time for them to do so, but when they started, they never stopped. At that point, people appealed to the mayor of the town to do something. But what? Send more police to rob them? Appoint a committee to do nothing? Neighborhood watch? What could be done? Nothing, or so we thought until the mayor gave his first public speech to try to address the issue. It wasn't so helpful, as he said the usual ‘we will bring them to justice', ‘no stone will be left unturned' and blah blah blah; but at the end, he quoted Proverbs 1:18, "These men lie in wait for their own blood, they waylay only themselves! Such is the end of all who go after ill-gotten gain; it takes away the lives of those who get it."
The last part got people laughing hysterically. The church was never taken seriously, as it was alleged that majority of the thugs were from there. Plus the people who went in there to pray never actually offered any helpful solutions, so they were never considered in giving opinions or helping us. But when push comes to shove, any option is a solution. Before I continue, what do you know about The Saint Marcos Parish?"
"Um, it was closed for some time about 20 years ago. Apparently there was a murder there."
"Not apparently. You see, a week after the speech, many believers congregated at the parish to pray, to encourage each other and to give each other hope. They did this all day until a minister told them to leave before six p.m., lest they fall victim to our friendly neighborhood fiends. They insisted on staying, but he insisted more on them leaving. So they did, embittered by their prayer interruption, but at least they were out of the impending danger. See, someone spread word that there would be a lot of people in the parish, so there would be many valuables to steal. Unfortunately, the thugs were in for a colossal disappointment when they realized that no one was there, except one. Some say it was the minister, seated on the third bench from the front, seemingly deep in prayer while crying. When one of them approached, they saw him choking himself…."
"Choking himself? Why would a minister want to off himself? Isn't it against his beliefs and the Bible?" As soon as I asked that question, he stared, again, at me, expecting me to know what he was talking about.
"He was holding his throat boy. The same felon who saw him, was the only survivor. On that night, people heard screams of agony and despair, cries of help, pleas of mercy. It was so loud and so nerve-racking that a good number of people slept with their hands over their eyes, an even better number chanting verses that they thought were appropriate for protection from the Almighty Himself….It is said that the cries continued all night, but no one knows what really happened in there…..
A few days later, the bodies were discovered, at least their remnants. Some looked like they were eaten, others had no heads. But on all their chests, there was a common carving, "These men lie in wait for their own blood, they waylay only themselves! Such is the end of all who go after ill-gotten gain; it takes away the lives of those who get it." Like I said before, only one survivor remained, without a body part. When asked who or what did this, what they looked like and how they might find him, all he could say was ‘1st Corinthians 5:13', which says, "Expel the wicked man from among you."
"Why did he say that?"
"It isn't why he said it, it was how he said it. He repeated it over and over again, and after a while, it was discovered that that was what the minister was chanting, the same one who was holding his throat…"
"So it was the minister? The boy whose throat was slashed?"
"How could it be? He was amongst the body count. It was alleged that the minister was trying to kill himself because he considered himself unfit to be in God's presence. But no one knows conclusively if he did it or was killed in the massacre."
"And how does that tie to today? Shouldn't that boy be dead then?'
"After that incident, there were reports of a man walking around late at night, sobbing softly and repeating a phrase to himself. These reports only stemmed from a few people who saw him before they reached their homes, and while in bed, heard screams so unbearable that they too covered their ears as they slept. As for the phrase, it was discovered that they were also verses of Scripture, with every person hearing a different one. These stories helped keep criminals at bay for fear of being killed, while they scared the police into believing that they weren't needed here anymore."
"Was he ever caught?"
"No. From the stories heard from witnesses, he assumed a different appearance every time, but maintained the same ‘sob-and-chant' routine. He never kept a timeline of when to show up, neither were there any records of him even living around here. All in all, his story keeps us safe to this very day."
"20 years is a long time for one person's tale to become our enforcer, don't you think?"
"Son, like I said, his story is exaggerated over the years. His life is an unknown cult within a few circles, and a tragic example of crime doesn't pay. However, in all the versions you will hear, one truth remains constant. In all the versions, some details are removed, others are added on, but one thing is never changed…..there are only three people who know the story, two of whom have seen him. They are the survivor of the Saint Marcos massacre, his late victims and the Executioner himself."
At that point, he stopped and continued smoking as if the story had never happened. I got up and proceeded home, my imagination running wild at what I had just heard, processing some of the details of that story. Who was this man, and why wasn't I told of this story by anyone else? I thought for a while before I turned back to the elderly man, who waved at me as he slowly walked away into his home, the bright street light ushering him away from it, showing me his excessively bald head and a remnant of a missing ear…
As soon as I got home, I took off my bag, jacket, shoes and socks, wore slippers and got a mop. I had been trying to clean those red stains from the floor near the front door for a while now. I furiously scrubbed, but it wouldn't come off. No matter how hard I tried..
I then went to bed, thinking about it. That night. That very horrible night. Tears welled in my eyes. It wasn't deserved, it wasn't right what they did. But what was right was what came to them. All of them. They should have listened….they should have. Maybe I would have spared them all…probably…The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want….

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