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Micah Miller

4/21/2020

The Sitting Bench

In the middle of a small town, somewhere on the east coast of England slightly south of

Canterbury, there is a beautiful park with untamed oak trees. Green grass forms a blanket over

rolling hills. The deep blue-sky drapes over the park like a warm blanket. A lone Robin chirps on

a summer morning. A small walkway cuts through its center, allowing for visitors to catch sight

of the lovely view. Many people often walk this path, whether it is to linger and admire the

picturesque scenery, or quickly trot through on their way to work. For those who wish to rest

there are a number of small, brown, wooden sitting benches which dot the path through the park.

Occasionally, a few people can be seen leisurely feeding the birds, admiring the view, or reading

the newspaper.

However, there is one particular bench situated approximately in the center of the park,

placed upon a small hill, overlooking the rest of a park like a throne. On this bench there can

almost always be seen a small boy, around twelve years old, dressed in slightly muddied trousers

and a plaid shirt. Every day he comes to the bench, looking around at the beauty of the park. He

then sits on the bench, stretches his feet across it, and lays down, face lifted towards the sky.

Most people pass by the boy with a smile, and some occasionally give a warm greeting. The boy

always responds with a hearty hello, smiles back, and returns to gazing at the clouds.
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Nevertheless, there are a few select individuals that hurry on without even a glance

towards the boy. They are all dressed in black or grey suits. Some of them carry briefcases. It is

as if they do not even notice the beautiful surroundings around them. Their faces are just as their

clothes: Grey and Monotone. They stare blankly ahead as they hurry to a seemingly important

place far ahead of them.

In particular, one of these men, dressed in perfectly fitting black pants, a smart looking

overcoat, the whitist dress shirt one has ever seen, and a polished black tie, can be seen every day

at 4:30. In his chest pocket he carries a golden watch which he often pulls out to check the time.

Each time he does so his pace quickens, anxiety stretching across his face, as if he might be late

for something important.

In truth however, the man almost never is late. In fact, he is almost always early. He is so

concerned with the time that he always hurries along to get wherever he wants as quickly as

possible. As a result, he is often quite a miserable fellow. Wherever he goes the mood seems to

drop immediately. One could be having an exciting conversation with a friend, then see the man

pass by and instantly stop talking, faces suddenly drooping with strange frowns for the rest of the

day.

One day the man is quickly walking through the street, muttering slight profanities under

his breath. This time he could be late after his worthless secretary mixed up the meeting dates by

ten minutes. It so happens, that the boy, instead of sitting on the bench, was standing in the

middle of the path. He had just seen a Blue Jay fly into a tree, and fascinated, walked a few steps

towards the direction the bird flew. The man, not exactly looking where he was headed, crashes

into the boy, and both fall on the ground. The man quickly rises up like an angry pit-bull, and

sternly patronizes, “Don’t stand in the path like an idiot. Look, now I’m going to be late for my
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meeting! Don’t you have something better to do?” His strong voice garners a few head turns

from some of the other pedestrians, however, not wishing to intercede, they all look away and

continue about their business.

“I’m sorry mister,” The boy responds, his head lowered to the ground. “I just saw the

most wonderful blue-jay flying so majestically into the tree over there. I just had to see it. The

truth is, I don’t have a home, and I come to the park every day to help cheer myself up. Please

don’t be cross with me, I didn’t mean to get in your way.”

The man grunts, noticing for the first time the mud stains on the boy’s trousers. “A

hoodlum like you has no place in this park. Get out before I call a peeler on you!” The boy nods

his head vigorously and runs away, frightened. The man then mutters to himself, brushes himself

off, and immediately returns to his previous state of quickly walking through the park.

A week soon passes, and not having seen the boy since his previous run-in, the man

wears a crooked grin on his face as he walks. Soon however, this grin fades into the most wicked

scowl, as sitting on the bench looking up into the sky was the boy. Fury builds within the man.

He thinks to himself, “Urchins like that should never be allowed in a park like this. It just isn’t

civilized!” He quickly scans the area, and, spotting a police officer, runs over to him. “Quick!

Bobby! There is a boy thief sitting on a bench in this park serving no purpose. It’s tainting the

good society who walk here every day. Just a moment ago he tried to steal my watch!”

The bobby, believing the lies of the man, rushes over to the boy. He forcefully grabs him

by the collar and drags him away. “This place doesn’t deserve the likes of you! Begone you

thief!” he shouts before throwing the boy headlong into an alley adjacent to the edge of the park.
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The man, viewing all this, chuckles to himself, “Well It doesn’t look like I’ll be seeing him again

any time soon!”

Soon a week passes. Then a month. Then a year. The boy has not been seen at the park

since. There is no notion whether he is still alive or has met a horrific end. The man, who still

travels through the park, has a more sinister step as he walks. His face has seemed to age,

unnaturally twisting into a permanent demonic scowl. People near him shiver when he passes.

The park has slowly changed too. The green trees have slowly lost their color, the leaves

now dead and lying on the ground. The once luscious green grass has now been reduced to a

pale, dead brown. The once blue sky has turned grey with smog. Crows pick at crumbs and litter

lying the path. No longer are there smiles or joy for those walking, only despondency and

frowns, and coughs from the smoke. The sitting benches have been torn up to expand the

pathway. What once was a scene of beauty and hope has become destitute and degraded.

The man can be seen, walking through the park, traveling towards his home after a long

and arduous day. His cynicism is mirrored by glooming funerial clouds building quickly over the

horizon. He lurks slowly down the now deserted path, each footstep making a muffled thump on

the pavement. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning flashes, striking a dying oak tree, momentarily

illuminating the sky in a mysterious yellow glow, before fading into sparks as the tree catches

fire. The man turns towards the tree, surprise etched on his face. As he peers into the flames, he

begins to notice a shadowy figure which seems to be emerging from the heat. The man freezes

and stares. The phantom then vanishes just as quickly as it appears. The man, in complete shock

and fear, turns slowly back towards the path, and hobbles the rest of the way home.
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The next day as the man is walking through the park on the way to work, he constantly is

checking his surroundings. Quickly turning his head left and right, as if he was afraid of being

followed. He glances at the other persons in the park, and shies away from their faces. Each time

he looks at them he sees their faces transform into a scowl, their figure slowly distorting into an

inhumane proportion, until he glances away again. This pattern continues each morning and

evening. Every day as he is traveling to work, he feels like he is being followed, and every day as

he is traveling home, he sees the phantom figure in the distance.

He becomes so distraught that after two weeks that he refuses to leave his house.

However, his fear is not abated. Shutters and doors slam for no apparent reason, even when there

is no wind. Pots and pans bang without cause. A mirror suddenly cracks as he is looking into it.

One night as he is lying in bed, fast asleep, a shadow drifts in through the window. It is

wearing a pale green, glowing robe, with golden trees ornamented on the side, its face obscured

in dark shadows. It carries a small dagger and a cup of wine. Eerie silhouettes are cast upon the

walls, as if light itself has been bent and misdirected. The ghost slowly, deliberately, drifts

forward, as tension fills the room. The ghost is now at the bed, and it places its pale hand gently

on the bedrest. Just as its fingertips touch the oak planks the bed shakes violently, throwing the

man onto the floor. He awakes with a startle and quickly stands to his feet. As he glimpses the

ghost he freezes in absolute horror, backing slowly towards the wall. A faint scream begins to

build up in his mouth.

The ghost glimpses up at the man, and words start to utter from its mouth, in a low, dull

monotone. “I am the spirit of the park, and am here to avenge the boy who you threw out of the

park. A boy who had nothing: no home, no food, no parents. The only thing that kept his spirits

was the beautiful park he rested in every day. The very park that now lies in shambles and ruin.
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When that was taken away, he had nothing left. He died in a back alley from starvation,

witnessed to no one. He was buried in a pauper’s grave.”

The man, fearful for his life, stuttered with trembling lips, “H-have you come to kill me?”

“I have come to seek restitution for the great injustices you have done to the boy and this

town. What happens to you will be determined soon. I will give you one chance to defend

yourself before I take your life. If you can convince me to spare you, then I will.”

The man’s eyes widened in horror. The thought of death struck a new chord in his heart,

a fear which he had never experienced before. However, this fear slowly transformed into

despondency, and then apathy. He sunk to his knees, as he reminisced.

“As a young boy, I grew up within high society. That being said, unlike other children I

was unfortunate enough to be born in a house that couldn’t care less about me. I learned very

quickly that no one cared for me, and so I tried to make as little to no trouble as possible. Of

course, no one is perfect, especially me, and I always slipped up one way or the other. My father

was a stern man, and would beat me every time I made a mistake, calling me more worthless

than his dogs. I hated him with a passion. As I grew up, I embraced that the world was a cruel

and dark place. I began to spurn others and I hated any company, be it good or bad. I became the

very image of my father who I hated so deeply; I can see that now. I cannot offer any defense of

myself, only explain how my nature came to be. Kill me now if you’d like, there’s no changing

me now.”

The ghost narrowed its eyes, its face stern. “It seems like I won’t have to kill you after

all. Perhaps you’ll do a better job of it yourself. Well what are you waiting for? Do it now, or I’ll

do it myself you coward!”

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The man stood there unmoving; his head bent towards the ground, frozen in place. His

lips slowly moved, “please… no…”.

The ghost rushed towards the man with his dagger, who barely dodged it, the blade

scratching his left hand. As the blade punctured his skin, his eyes glinted with a crazed

expression. He bolted from the room and quickly stumbled outdoors, spittle frothing in his

mouth, the ghost following closely behind him. As he ran down the street, he came across a long

rope, grabbed it, and then headed off towards the park, disappearing into the night’s fog.

The next morning a dead body was discovered in the park hanging limply from a noose in

a tree. The man was identified as a well-known, and very wealthy business man. He had no

friends, no spouse, no children. His parents were long dead, and no distant relatives came forth to

claim any inheritance. The man had no will, so all of his properties and wealth was confiscated

by the state. He was buried in an unmarked grave with his golden watch by his side, and was

soon forgotten to time.

The next year, under the tree where the man died, a lone flower blossomed. Slowly, the

park regained its original grandeur. The smog cleared; the trees regained their vitality, and the

grass its color. Eventually, on the top of the hill, a polished wooden sitting bench was placed.

One day, a young child went up to the bench, and admiring its beauty, lied down, and gazed up

at the clouds.