Necrology Shorts
Anthology
January 2010
Tales of Macabre and Horror
Where Reality is Just a State of Mind
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 Isis International & Necrology Shorts
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Copyright © 2010 Isis International & Necrology Shorts
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Contents
The Errant Augur / David Neuburger
Excursion into Madness / George Morrow
New Ezekiel / Michael Anthony
Witch Hill Cove / TJ Fowler
The Silence / Batya Deene
A Most Unexpected Visitor in the Mirror / Ralph Greco, Jr.
Chimes / TJ Fowler
The Legend of French Creek / Walt Trizna
Becoming One with the Colors / Rick McQuiston
Music in the Blood / Batya Deene
The Stone Man / George Morrow
Why Kill Oswald? / Robert Reese
White Boots on the Surface of a Home-made Sun / Ralph Greco, Jr.
Fourteen Days / N.S.M. Wijeyeratne
The Terminal Point of Addiction / Ian R. Faulkner
Beyond the Backyard / Chris Laferty
Balance / Walt Trizna
Martian Night / R.H. Reese
Intelligent Design? / Robert Reese
The Doll / Misty Mangan
Butterfly Boy / Erin O’Riordan
The Horror at Lake Harmony / Walt Trizna
Descent into Madness / Steve Carvajal
Angel / N.D. Gundersen
The Present / P.A. Hammock
76 Hammer On-Ramp / P.D. Stephens
The Crow Girl / Allison Dunlap
Damned Love / Zachary Fitzner
Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself / Marc Colten
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The Errant Augur / David Neuburger
Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been a long time since my last, honest, confession. I write this knowing that only you, Lord, will see this written admission of my dreadful deed. My shame knows no bounds, and I pray upon your compassion that you may forgive me for both my sins and my cowardice as shown by my anonymous confession. However, in all fairness, who else but you will believe what only we know to be the truth?
I met Sweet-Meat Brown on the morning of the 6th of July, 2005. My family and I were eating breakfast, and the house was filled with the scent of bacon and the cacophonous clatter of argument between my wife and daughter. I, still brooding over the venomous debates regarding homosexuality that took place at the Anglican Consultive Council meeting the previous week, was in no mood for a fight about makeup, and thus left the dispute in the capable hands of my wife.
It had been nearly twenty years since I took Holy Orders and joined the Church of Ireland, and despite years of hard work, I felt as if my life as a man of God was a waste. To my mind, people were the physical manifestation of sin, and nothing I did or said would change that. I felt not unlike Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor. I'd not only lost my faith in both God and man, but had grown angry with God for creating a situation in which his children, predisposed to sin by design, seemed doomed to perpetual failure.
I was staring blankly at my cup of coffee, vaguely wishing for a miracle when, from the ether, a man was catapulted against the ceiling and landed on the floor in front of the ice box. There was no flash of light, no noise, no warning. He was not, then he was. My daughter screamed and ran to the living room, my wife leaped from her chair and grabbed a large knife from the wooden block next to the sink and stood defensively between the intruder and myself. Only I remained seated at the table, due not to a possession on my part of bravery or calm, but, quite like a person being electrified, I was too shocked to move.
For several seconds nobody said anything. The air was thick with silence and tension. Eventually it was my wife, terrified and shaking violently, who spoke.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” she demanded. It had been some time since the troubles, but this was Northern Ireland and my beautiful and loving wife had once been a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. She'd spent her law enforcement career in the thick of the violence between the Irish Nationalists and England. Memories like those incurred on the front lines of such a brutal conflict stay with you forever.
Despite her demands for answers, the man simply lay on the floor, a lump of whimpering flesh dazed by his other-worldly journey. It was now that my mind began to emerge from the shock-induced slumber that had caused it to sit idle.
“Margret, do put that away! The man needs help!” I said, moving past my wife's sturdy frame to help our unexpected visitor.
“There now, you're alright,” I said as I rolled the man onto his back to get a good look at him. He blinked his eyes a few times and seemed only partially conscious.
“Wh—uuuugg shit that hurt,” he muttered.
He was Black British, or more likely, Black American given his manner of speech. He wore dark blue jeans, a green collared shirt and had a small gold hoop in his right ear. Over the shirt, he wore a tan fisherman's vest. It had dozens of pockets and loops, all of which were occupied by a dazzling array of electronic devices, all wired neatly together. The wires lead to a small hole in a blue backpack he wore over his shoulders. The man seemed to be in a daze, but physically appeared okay. He wasn't bleeding and nothing appeared to be broken.
“He's wired to blow!” my wife shouted when she saw the vest, her years of training kicking in. She grabbed me from my chair and pulled me towards the living room; a mug on the table was jostled and sloshed coffee onto my pant leg.
“Wait,” the man said meekly. His eyelids hung low at half-mast and his movements were slow and labored. “I ain't got no bomb. This stuff is so they can find me.”
Convinced more by instinct than reason that he wasn't a suicide bomber, I managed to squirm out of my wife's protective grip and approached the stranger slowly. The vest and the wires did look alarming, but something told me this man didn't come here to hurt us. Bomb or no, the fact that he appeared out of thin air made me sufficiently curious to ignore the potential for danger. As I knelt at his side, my pant leg, now soaked with lukewarm coffee, clung stubbornly to my thigh.
“I'm Father Samuel Goodfellow. This is my wife, Margret,” I replied, nodding to my spouse.
“I'm sorry if I scared you. I can't control it,” he said as he attempted to stand. I helped him to his feet.
“Margret, do put that away,” I said in reference to the large kitchen knife still in her hand. “I'm sure Mr., uh, Mr. ...”
“Brown, Sweet-Meat Brown,” he replied.
“Mr. Brown means us no harm.”
“I'm calling the police!” my wife retorted.
“Margret, you'll do no such thing! Now everyone just settle down!” I shouted, in a rare exercise of husbandly authority.
Margret obeyed, probably less from deference to my wishes than from surprise that I was acting so assertively. For a moment, the only sound was the clock above the kitchen window. After a few ticks, it was Mr. Brown who broke the silence.
“That ain't necessary Miss. I'm not look'n to hurt nobody. If I can make a phone call I can have someone pick me up in town.”
My daughter poked her head meekly into the kitchen, quiet as a mouse, watching keenly the scene unfold.
“You have friends in Derry?“ I asked, growing immensely curious as to who our strange visitor was.
“Where?” he asked, appearing genuinely confused.
“Derry. You are in the town of Derry in Northern Ireland.”
“Ireland? Shit...well, yeah, sort of. I really just needs a phone.”
I can't explain it, but for some reason I didn't want him to go. I knew my wife was correct, I knew it was best to let the man leave, but I just couldn't. I'd like to say it was simple curiosity, or even the Christian desire to help someone in need, but that would be a lie. I was a man drowning in the mire of dogma and was willing to grab onto anything that might keep me afloat. I needed a miracle, and I got Sweet-Meat Brown.
Ask and ye shall receive.
“Look,” I said, “you're obviously tired from your, uh, journey. Why not use our telephone to call your friends and stay as our guest until they arrive?”
“Absolutely not!” my wife exclaimed.
“Don't you have a mobile?” my daughter asked, still keeping a safe distance between herself and Mr. Brown.
“Nah, they tried that, but anything electrified gets all messed up when I get thrown. All this stuff they keep putt'n on me is junk now,” he replied, tugging at his vest. He then turned his attention to me. “Mister, I don't want to put you out. 'sides, my friends may not be here for 'while.”
“You're obviously not from around here so where will you go? Do you have any British currency?” I asked, ignoring the protests of my better half.
The man sighed. “No... I don't.”
“Then it's settled, you may use the phone on the wall there; we'll go to the living room to give you some privacy,” I said gesturing to the dingy yellow phone mounted on the wall next to light switch. Then, before they had a chance to protest, I shuffled my wife and daughter into the next room. I put my arm around my daughter to comfort her and the three of us seated ourselves around the coffee table.
“Are you daft?” my wife said in a loud whisper, punctuating her imperative with a thumb extended towards the kitchen. “We've got to get him out of here and call the police!”
My wife was a Scottish girl of stout heart and body. She had a lovely face framed with a waterfall of brown, curly hair. I loved the way she looked when she was adamant about something, but this was not the time for amorous thoughts. To keep Sweet-Meat from leaving I had to win this fight, which meant that I had to fight dirty.
“This man is in trouble and needs help. Let us be the Good Samaritan who feeds and cares for him.”
My wife's face hardened considerably.
“Don't you start quoting Scripture. We don't know this man from Adam. Think of our daughter!”
“What about her? What if Alice were in a strange place alone and in pain? Wouldn't you want someone to help her?” I retorted.
My daughter rolled her eyes and my wife grimaced.
“That's not fair. Of course I would want someone to help Alice, but this isn't Alice, it's...it's...we can't let him stay, alright? We just can't. Look at him, he's hairy at the heel, he is!” my wife stammered.
“It doesn't matter what he looks like. God put him here for a reason, and he obviously needs help. You of all people should know better than to judge someone based solely on appearance. We walk by faith, not by sight.”
Margret's face turned scarlet with frustration. After a moment she shook her head and replied, “Look, if you want to endanger your life, fine. I've got to get Alice to her football match. We'll be back in a few hours.”
The issue settled, Alice went upstairs and got ready, and they left a few minutes later, my wife giving me a kiss such that she feared it would be the last. I reassured her as best I could, and not so subtly shuffled them out the door.
By the time they left Mr. Brown had completed his call, and so I returned to the kitchen. I couldn't help but overhear a few snippets of his conversation. He had used a calling card, and while Margret would be relieved that we wouldn't be paying the charges, I would've gladly spent the money if it meant I could see who he called and where they were.
“My friends say they'll be here in a couple of hours. Thank you for lettin' me use your phone and for your hospitality,” he said using measured, laboured language.
“Of course. I'm glad I could help.”
We stood in silence in the kitchen. I looked at my guest and realized how exhausted he looked, physically and otherwise. Whatever was happening to him was certainly taking its toll on his person.
“Well, as we've got some time before your friends arrive, perhaps you'd care for some coffee and something to eat?” I said at last.
“If it ain't too much trouble, I'd really appreciate a glass of water. My stomach is always upset after...”
I waited for him to finish but he never did. He was resisting the urge to talk about whatever was happening to him. The thing is, though, I could tell he wanted to let it out. Years of experience as a priest gave me a keen sense of when people needed to unburden themselves. This was definitely one of those times.
I offered him a seat at the kitchen table, which was still cluttered with plates of half-eaten food, cups of juice, and an upturned box of breakfast cereal, the contents of which were catapulted from the table in the frantic moments that followed Mr. Brown's arrival. I poured a glass of water and handed it to my guest, then took to sweeping the floor in an effort to clean up some of the cereal mess. All the while I wanted very much to bombard Mr. Brown with questions, but held my tongue. If he felt like I was interrogating him, he would close up and I would get nothing. To get what I wanted, I had to let him come to me.
For the next minute or so, the only sound in the house was of me sweeping. Sweet-Meat drank the water quickly and with enthusiasm, then gingerly relaxed into the chair. My will to keep silent was fast dissolving. My patience, however, was soon rewarded.
“So, um, excuse me for asking, but that was your family, right? I mean, the other two, they was your wife and daughter?”
“Yes, Margret and I have been married for seventeen years.”
“I didn't know priests could get married,” he said, gesturing at my collar.
“Yes, well that holds true for Catholics, not Anglicans. I am a Priest of the Church of Ireland.”
“Huh... Isn't that the one that was founded by that dude who killed all his wives?”
“I presume you mean King Henry VIII, and yes, it was. Not the most auspicious beginning for a religion, but sometimes the right thing can be done for the wrong reason,” I chuckled.
Sweet-Meat smiled a crooked sort of smile and nodded in agreement. He seemed to relax a bit.
“Are you sure I can't get you anything?” I asked graciously.
“Yeah, I'm sure. Thank you.”
My pant leg was still wet and part of me wanted to change clothes, but I didn't. I suspected he could disappear as readily as he'd appeared, and I didn't want to chance missing anything that happened. Ignoring the discomfort of cold, wet polyester sticking to my thigh, I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and joined my guest at the table.
I started with benign questions like, “So, I take it this is your first time in Ireland?” and the like. It allowed for a pleasant, non-threatening conversation about things like food, weather, and manners of speech. It was quite difficult for me to maintain my composure during this time. I'm sure in part this was due to the volatile mixture of coffee and adrenalin in my blood, but also due to my desperation. I was certain Sweet-Meat had something I needed and part of me wanted to stand up, grab a knife and shout, Right you bloody American bastard, give me what I want or I'll run you though!
I'm ashamed to admit my state of mind at that moment, but I cannot deny the truth of it. As the toxic brew of my need and desperation came to a boil, the topic turned once again to religion. This was the second time he brought it up, and he seemed keenly interested in it.
“So do you guys do Baptism, Last Rites, Confession, all that stuff?”
Confession! The word caressed my ears as sweetly as a choir on Christmas. I realized I could use Confession to get what I wanted, and like a shark that sensed blood in the water, I became consumed with determination to get what I was after.
“Yes, we are a Christian Church. In some form, we do all of those things.”
“An' you can't tell anyone, right? It's like, law or somethin'. You can't tell anyone what I tell you?”
“Yes, that's correct, I can't tell anyone. Do you wish to confess?”
“Father...I don't have long to live. I want you to give me Last Rights.”
“Last Rights?” I repeated stupidly.
“This thing that's happening to me. It's going to kill me soon, and I don't want to meet God as a sinner.”
“Perhaps we should go into the study. I've got my kit there,” I said, deciding it best to not mention why the sacrament of Last Rites is not in the Book of Common Prayer.
We stood from the table walked in silence to the study. I closed the doors behind me. I used it for counseling from time to time, so like a psychiatrist, I had two sets of doors for privacy. I gestured for Mr. Brown to sit on the couch, and I took a seat in the wing-backed chair opposite him.
“Why don't you unburden yourself?” I suggested, nodding towards the blue backpack he wore. My pulse was ringing in my ears and my blood ran hot as a manic, desperate brand of excitement threatened to breach the levee of my outward calm.
“I can't do that, Father... you guys are called Father, right?”
“Yes, we are referred to as Father.”
“I can't do that. I'm not s'posed to take it off. For that matter, I'm not s'posed to talk about this to no one, but you're a priest so I guess that's okay. I'd like to confess now, if that's alright.”
“Of course.”
A pained expression crossed his face.
“I don't know how to begin...” he said, sadly.
“Just start talking. It'll come out,” I said with my hands joined in my lap, thus preventing them from shaking.
He sighed deeply.
“I'm a street kid, from East St. Louis. That's in Illinois. It's a rough place, Father. My friends all became cops or robbers, or dead. I was never that bright, we never had much money and...” he hesitated on this point, “I’m a fag. I got beat up a lot, 'cause the one thing the cops and the brothers and the beaners could agree on was that fags were punching bags.”
I nodded solemnly, caught completely off guard. It was only by the grace of years of experience hearing confessions that kept my facial features calm and professional.
“The only way I could get by was to whore myself out. There's a place called Brooklyn nearby, also in Illinois, that's little more than a few trailers and couple of massage parlors and strip joints. I made money there, at night, when the closet homos would come out. It's funny, you know? Some of the same guys who would beat the hell out of me would come and pay me to have sex with them,” Sweet-Meat said. His eyes were turning red and were getting short of breath as he reached the zenith of his story.
“So one day, this one day after getting the shit kicked out of me by this guy Tank, I was laying there in the alley and bleeding. I was sitting against the dumpster in a pool of water, it had just rained and the dumpster was leaking this rotten milk smelling stuff, and I was watching the blood drip out of my face in the reflection and I told God I hated him. I told him to fuck himself and that I hated him. When I stood up to leave the alley, I was thrown to Peru.”
“Thrown? Peru? You mean the country?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“I don't know how else to describe it. It feels like falling, and it only lasts a second, but you're falling forward. In a weird way, I guess I'm like a bird flying backwards.”
“So is that what you mean by you can't control it?”
“Yeah. I just walk and then all of a sudden BANG! I'm in another place entirely. This has been going on for months. This stuff on me is from when I landed in a National Guard armory in Alabama. They brought in some scientists who rigged me up with all this. It's supposed to record everything or some shit. But it doesn't matter. God hates me and I'm going to die,” he said despondently. He was weeping profusely, so I handed him a tissue box and gave him a moment to blow his nose.
“I don't wanna die, Father!” he shouted. “I've tried tellin' God I'm sorry, but he doesn't listen, and sooner or later I'm going to end up in front of a bus or somethin' and die. Please Father, you've got to tell God I'm sorry! Please!” his voiced cracked and he trailed off into uncontrollable sobbing. Drool and tears and mucus all dribbled down his face.
I was completely floored.
“Are you seeking absolution for your homosexual acts, or for cursing God?” I asked after a few moments.
“This all started 'cause I cursed God. As for being a fag, I am what I am. I don't wanna be a prostitute, but that's all I got. I'm Sweat-Meat Brown and it's all I got. I gotta eat!”
It took me a long time to respond. I knew God would not punish a man for being a homosexual. I knew that God would not punish a man so profusely for words spoken in anger after being assaulted by someone named Tank. Life can be viewed as a series of choices, both major and minor. The minor are as numerous as grains of sand on a beach; the major are easily counted by hand. In this moment, my moment, of major importance, I knew what was right, and I didn't do it.
“I can absolve you only for the sins you recognize as sins. The church, the Anglican church, makes a distinction between being a homosexual and committing a homosexual act. The former is not a sin, the latter is. If you cannot acknowledge the sins you have committed, then I cannot absolve you of them,” I said, hiding behind the canned, church-approved response.
A look of painful helplessness took hold of his expression. It took him a long time to respond.
“Father, if it's alright, I think I'd like to take a nap now,” he said limply.
“Of course,” I replied coolly, happy to make a quick exit.
I brought him a blanket and left him alone in the study. He mewled like a whelp for a time, then fell into a listless slumber. A few hours later a car arrived to take him away. The men who came to the door wore dark suits and slyly threatened my person if I ever spoke of Mr. Brown to anyone. They left and I never saw him again. When my wife and daughter returned, they wanted to talk, but I was too despondent to fill them in on the details. I kept putting them off on the subject, and eventually they gave up. They never found out what happened that day, nor did I discover what became of Mr. Brown after he was taken away.
It took me a long time to come to terms with what I did. The truth of the matter was that I was myopic in my view of the situation. I was in need, and when Mr. Brown arrived I was certain you had sent him to help me. It never occurred to me that you may have sent Sweet-Meat so I could help him. I misread the signs and was errant in my judgment, yet despite this, I was rewarded. I got my miracle. My faith was restored not by being an instrument of your love and grace, but by consciously denying that love to someone who desperately needed it. How mysterious your works and the failings of men are, that a person must suffer so greatly before I recognize the importance of self-sacrifice to the end of preventing that suffering from occurring in the first place.
I write this as an acknowledgment of my actions, and with the sincere hope that someday I may be forgiven by someone with a greater capacity for love and compassion than I.
Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
Excursion into Madness / George Morrow
William McKinley, the twenty-fifth President of the United States, looked out a White House window on an evening early in the year 1900 and remarked to his wife, Ida, about the guests arriving for a reception.
“They are the cream of the crop, my dear Ida. It should make for a splendid reception. Are you sure you won’t meet the guests.”
The demure Ida wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and smiled a sweet smile. “No, Will, I don’t feel well this evening. Tender my apology.”
McKinley kissed his wife and fed a cracker to his pet Mexican yellow parrot then proceeded downstairs to meet his guests.
The one hundred- ten guests arriving that night in stylish carriages did indeed represent the top layer of American aristocracy. They owned railroads, factories, sat on boards of directors and did not much else but clip their dividends, but the president could count on them to contribute generously to his re-election campaign in the fall. The men symbolized the epitome of success in their top hats, striped trousers and black cutaway tailcoats; and the ladies strode in, dressed in jewels and silk gowns. Few of these wealthy people deigned to discuss the plight of the workers toiling sixteen hours a day to produce their riches or the working children made deaf by machinery in plants owned by them.
The center of attention this night focused on Richard Preston Chastain, a forty-year old heir to a timber fortune in the Pacific Northwest and his fiancée, the young debutante, Evangeline Harper. The couple announced their engagement the week before, and Washington society speculated on who would make the guest list to their wedding. The dark-haired handsome Chastain fit the requirements for leadership in this plutocracy. Chastain doubled his family’s fortune in ten years; traveled the world in search of priceless artifacts; and owned the world’s largest private collection of Greek antiquities. His wardrobe, tailor- made for him in Paris, earned him the sobriquet “best dressed man of his day.” Chastain walked beside his fiancé, whose red hair and green eyes sparkled under the lights of the White House.
Crystal chandeliers bedecked with flowers cast light down on the guests as they partook a light supper supplemented with ice water and wine. The Marine Corps band played selections from “La Traviata” until President McKinley arrived. The band played “Hail to the Chief,” and the somber- faced chief executive, who wore a black tuxedo with tails, shook hands with his benefactors.
“The president should be careful in public,” said Chastain.” He has many enemies, and he is not well protected in receiving lines.” Chastain and Evangeline met the president.”When are you and this brilliant young man going to be married?” McKinley asked Evangeline.
“We haven’t set a date yet, Mr. President. Richard must go out to Oregon first.”
“Don’t stay in the wilds of Oregon too long, Chastain. I’m going to need you to work on my campaign. William Jennings Bryan still has a dragon’s tongue and will give me a run for the money.”
“The people have confidence in your leadership, sir,” said Chastain.
“I’m depending on you to steer this man in the right direction, my dear Evangeline. If he plays his cards right, he may someday live in this house.”
Richard and Evangeline danced and socialized with other guests. None of the assembled guests doubted the Chastains would produce beautiful children and have their portraits painted by John Singer Sargeant.
The reception ended at midnight, and Richard and Evangeline returned to their carriage.
“I wish you weren’t making the trip out west, Richard. I want to be with you.”
“I loathe it when we are apart, but I must attend to some business. I won’t be long.”
“I’ve never been to Oregon. Is it full of bandits?”
“No, that would be too romantic. It’s picturesque, and someday I want you to see it.”
“I want to so much. Now, go on your way and return to me soon.”
Chastain arrived in Oregon five days later. His home stood atop a ridge overlooking the Columbia River. The Victorian style mansion boasted turrets that soared into the morning sky. Chastain’s butler, Gifford, greeted him.
“Did we have a pleasant trip, sir?’
“Yes. Is everything ready?”
The frail, white-haired Gifford followed Chastain down dark corridors and rooms decorated with oriental rugs, paintings and gold plates that Chastain collected from all over the world. They came to the gold door of the room called the Parthenon.
“The lady is waiting for you, sir.”
Chastain designed the two-story room to replicate the Parthenon that stood in ancient Greece. Crystal columns rose from the malachite floor up past red gold walls into a domed sapphire ceiling. A gold-plated statue of the goddess Athena clad in spear and a shield adorned with a figure of a serpent, stood in the center. A meal of caviar, oysters, turtles and squid lay on a table. Chastain poured a glass of Ismarian wine and toasted the goddess.
“I salute you my, queen. My love for you will endure forever.”
A woman in her early twenties emerged from behind a curtain. She undressed Chastain and laid him on a cushion.
“Who are you, girl?”
“My name is Annie, sir. “
“Where did you come from?”
“I come from Portland, sir. I was a maid, sir.”
“You were a strumpet, and you served wealthy men. You are the best of the litter, Annie, and I shall take supreme pleasure in your body”
Chastain forgot his love for Evangeline as he made love to the woman. He closed his eyes to savor the sex and reached for a glass of wine. He suddenly felt an excruciating pain. Chastain opened his eyes and found himself caught in the coils of a python. He struggled to free himself, but the snake tightened its paralyzing grip every time he inhaled, and he heard his bones begin to crumble. Blood gushed from his mouth as Chastain felt the life’s breathe being forced out of his body. He managed to free his right arm and take hold of a Greek artifact sword lying nearby. Chastain swung at the serpent’s head and severed it. He fainted, but when he revived, he found the woman’s severed head beside him. The snake had disappeared. The head opened its eyes and looked at Chastain.
“Did you get your money’s worth out of me, sir?”
Chastain screamed. “Has the world turned inside out? This is complete madness!” He rolled on the floor and beat his head against the table.
“Chastain!” The voice rang in his ears.
“Who is it?”
“It is I. Athena.”
Chastain looked up and saw the ruby eyes of the stone goddess on fire.
Thou hast disgraced my holy temple with thy foul bestiality, and for this I have punished thee. Beware, for I seek thy doom.”
“It was complete madness! One moment I held a girl in my hands, the next I saw her head on the floor,” said Chastain as he sat in the office of his attorney several days later.
C.L. Morely, a short man with a walrus moustache, lit a Cuban cigar and sat back in the buffalo leather chair and listened to Chastain tell his story.
“Where did you get this woman?”
“One of my agents found her working as a prostitute along the waterfront in Portland.”
“She also happened to be a minister’s daughter and the father filed a missing persons report. These soiled doves have strange relations.”
“Passion can make a man do foolish things.”
“This whole thing mystifies me, Richard. How does a thoroughly straightforward man such as yourself, who has everything he could possible want, lose his wits and do such a thing? Were you intoxicated?”
“I have not always been the man I appear to be. I indulged my whims, and it finally caught up with me. I have had many women and I have used them as I pleased.” Chastain did not tell Morely that the girl turned into a python. The lawyer would plead insanity in a court of law-and be correct. That secret remained hidden within Chastain.
“If the newspapers get hold of this, it could reflect on President McKinley’s re-election campaign,” said Morely.
“That would be tragic.”
“The smartest move is to get you out of the public eye for awhile. We may be able to pay the girl’s father to let this die out. I’ll use my contacts at the police department to keep this under wraps.”
“I could go to Europe.”
“You should be close by where I can contact you if I need. There is a deserted island off the southern Oregon coast. I’m going to send you down there for a few months until this blows over.”
“I must tell Evangeline about this.”
“Horse manure! You know how women are. You tell them a secret and they blat their brains out. Tell your fiancé that you decided to take a cruise to the south pacific to inspect some business properties. Tell her to contact me if she wants to get in touch with you.”
Chastain, dressed in great coat and woolen cap, stood on a windswept beach as he waited for a fisherman to take him out to his place of hiding. He thought of the glittering social life of Washington, and Evangeline, and how he had betrayed her trust and fallen to the depths of despair. Chastain got into a dingy and set out for a large piece of rock about one-half mile off shore. An aged, one-eyed fisherman dressed in a blue raincoat manned the helm.
“My name is Yost” said the oarsman.” I been fishing these waters for many year.”
“What is this place called, Yost?”
“The Ice Island.”
“It looks as ominous as the surface of the moon.”
“There was a big ice storm back in 1880.A ship ran against the rocks on the island and everybody got killed but one man. He stayed alive by eating the dead men. I found him in spring. He had crucified himself by pounding spikes into his hand and feet.”
“Not the ideal spot.”
“That isn’t all. There have been others. Criminals who hid out there. Insane persons kept there by relatives, but none of them left the island alive.”
Chastain saw plovers and sandpipers flying over the island. The island was a barren piece of basalt rock surrounded by tide pools filled with green anemones and starfish.
“It’s one hundred foot to the top of the rock” said the fisherman. “There’s a cave up there that’ll give you some cover. I stocked some grub in there for you. I got my orders. You are to get a resupply of food and water rand a bottle of whiskey once a week. You aren’t to have any contact with nobody but me. “
“How long will I be here?”
“I got no idea or do I care. I get paid for this.”
“I hope I can leave in spring.”
“I bet you don’t live past a month, if you want the truth, but that’s not my concern. You can’t escape and no man ever ventures out here. This place got a bad reputation.”
The fisherman left Chastain alone on the rock.
“Be on the lookout for all those ghosts who live on the island,” the fisherman yelled back in mockery. Chastain spent that evening and all the evenings for the next six months in the cave in front of the fire thinking of Evangeline and the circumstances which lead to him being on the Ice Island. He wondered if Evangeline had found love with another man. Always, he turned the incident with the girl, Annie, over in his mind. ”What happened,” he continued to ask himself.”How could a young girl who made her living by selling her body become a snake?” “How could a piece of stone come alive?”The statue of the goddess Athena served as a monument to his wealth, his ability to collect priceless artifacts; however, that statue of Athena turned the girl into a serpent and vowed revenge against Chastain. He could not deny that for he heard it with his own ears. The entire incident defied logical explanation. Yet, there must be an explanation for it. In July, the fisherman brought a letter from Morely informing him the investigation into the girl’s disappearance ended without naming him as a suspect, but that the police were conducting a search of Chastain’s house. Morely told the police that Chastain left for the south Pacific. Morely told Chastain he must remain incommunicado for several more months. The letter also stated Evangeline had come to Oregon in search of Chastain.
“There was a dandy looking gal come to our village a few weeks back asking about you,” said the fisherman. “Real pretty. Enough to make a man stand up and take notice. If you get me.” Chastain cursed the fisherman as he sailed back to shore.
“If you ever come back here, I’ll kill you!”
Chastain got drunk that night in the cave. “I’ve got to get off the island. I can make a raft out of wood from the ship’s wreckage. If I can get to Evangeline, we can work things out. There’s got to be a sane explanation for all this. I’ve got to try even if it kills me.”
He drank himself to sleep, but awakened in the middle of the night to sound of a violent storm. The overpowering odor of vomit filled the warm night air. Chastain head a woman’s singing voice. He visited the world’s greatest opera houses, but never had he heard such a glorious soprano voice.
“Is someone else on the island or am I finally losing my mind?”
Chastain felt something warm touch his arm and recognized it as human feces. He looked up into the dark sky and saw a bird swooping down upon him. The bird landed in front of Chastain. The avian had a wingspan of double the height of a man. The talons and abdomen were that of a bird, but the creature had the face of a beautiful, blonde-haired woman. Chastain determined it to be a harpy, a mythical monster, half-bird, half-human that carried out the orders of the gods. The creature addressed Chastain. “My name is Aello and I have come at the command of the goddess Athena. You have defiled her sacred temple with your vile orgies, and for this you must pay with your life. I have come to take you to hell.”
“I was carried away by my passions because I am only human. I did not intend to harm that woman. I beg for mercy.”
“I was once a great singer but I was ridiculed by vile humans who were jealous of me, so I forsook the opera stage. Now, I have my revenge.” The bird opened its mouth, and Chastain saw the head of the fisherman inside. The fisherman winked at Chastain. “Mighty nice inside here. Care to join us?”
The harpy pointed its talon at Chastain. “I will take you to hell, and return to eat your beloved Evangeline. She will make a delicious meal.” The harpy grabbed Chastain by the shirt and flew away with him. The bird carried him up into the dark sky toward the moon. Chastain knew he would die, but Evangeline must live. He began stabbing the bird in the stomach with his knife. The remains of half-digested victims poured out. Chastain kept stabbing the harpy, and the bird let out a scream, and fell toward the ocean. It dropped Chastain into the water a few feet from shore and disappeared into the waves. Chastain swam to the shore. “This is total madness,” he gasped.
“There I was, my darling, swimming for my life, and all I could think about was you.”
Chastain sat on a sofa and smoked a cigar while Evangeline tended her flowers.
“I could hardly believe my ears when your lawyer, Mr. Morely, told me you decided to live the life of an aesthetic on that silly old island.”
“It was just one of those whimsies one has, I guess. I will not do it again.”
“When we found you, you said something about…what was it? Harpies? Whatever did you mean?”
“Did I say that? I didn’t say that? If I did, I was only joking. One has to make humorous once in a while to keep one’s sanity.”
“Now, I shall take up all your time, Richard, and I won’t give you a minute to indulge your idol fantasies. The opera season has just begun, and the opera has engaged a brilliant young soprano from Europe. She will eclipse the greatest singers now performing.”
“’Dee-lighted’, as our new vice-president, Teddy Roosevelt, would say.”
“That’s not all. I told her about your experiences and she is most anxious to hear about them, so she invited us over to her apartment for lunch today. We’re late for it now.”
“Even more splendid.”
“She says she has planned something very special for us.”
“Fine. What’s her name?”
“Aello, and she is positively starving, so let’s be on our way.”
New Ezekiel / Michael Anthony
Gordon Richard's Delorean shimmied and sputtered, jerking its way off the Interstate like a steel crab minus some legs. Gordon punched the dashboard and cursed. The car was only two years old for Christ's sake. Next time he'd bring a Honda.
He maneuvered off the highway--the car glided downhill for a few miles, past acres of fruit trees, and a sign that read, "Leviticus Avenue." Old-fashioned shops and buildings that looked like they were built when Teddy Roosevelt was president lined both sides of the street. The hill's incline evened out, and the car came to rest in front of a cherry brick building with a toy fire truck and stuffed Dalmatian in the window.
Gordon smirked. He hated Norman Rockwell towns. He grew up in one. And no matter how many times he had made this cross-country pickup, having a duffel bag full of heroin in the trunk always made him twitchy.
Climbing out, he pushed the steel door up and outward like the wing of a deformed bird. A teenage girl strolled by, glanced at him and smiled. She had dark splotches under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in a week, and it looked like she had a basketball stuffed under her "Jesus Saves" t-shirt.
Religion and baby making, Gordon thought. Not much else for entertainment in these places. Just like the Tennessee town he grew up in. He remembered Lucy, the girl he got pregnant when they were both 19. It was a few months before he had planned to leave for California. She had cried, and he was sorry, but he'd be damned if he was going to let himself get tied down with a wife and kid. That was no way to get ahead.
Gordon shuffled up to the building and peered inside. The lights were off. A Piggly Wiggly grocery sat across the street; a closed sign hung in the window. He heel-toed it down the sidewalk, peering inside shops and looking for signs of life other than pregnant teenagers. There had to be an auto shop somewhere in town, or at least someone who could work on his Delorean. He'd get it fixed and high-tail it out of here. He had a few days leeway, but if that duffel bag didn't find its way to San Diego within the week, the well-dressed men he worked for would come looking for it. And they'd take a pessimistic position on the subject.
Across the street a short chubby man with glasses stepped out of an antiques shop. Gordon thought he looked like a cerebral Danny Devito. Gordon trotted over.
"Excuse me--"
The man flinched and fumbled with his keys, almost dropping them.
"My car broke down and I'm looking for a mechanic."
"Sorry, can't help you. I walk to work." The man locked the shop and dangled a closed sign on the doorknob.
Gordon glanced at his Rolex. "You folks lock up early around here."
"It's the Sabbath, and if you excuse me, I'm late." He pushed past Gordon.
Gordon slapped his hand on the man's chest. "Look, I just need to get my car fixed so I can get the hell out of here."
"Phil Nettle owns the hardware store, sometimes he works on lawnmowers--"
"The shop is closed."
"He's in church. Where I need to be about ten minutes ago. You're welcome to join us. After the service I'm sure he'd be happy to speak with you."
"Yeah, whatever."
Gordon followed him down the street and into a residential area. The homes were uniform, Victorian-era, with cream-colored picket fences marking off their yards. The church sat alone at the end of a cul-de-sac; the steeple stabbed into the sky as if trying to puncture heaven. Two girls stood outside, clapping their hands together. As Gordon approached he could hear them playing.
"Patty cake patty cake, baker's man! Bake me a sinner as fast as you can!" One of the girls swiveled her head and grinned. She looked sick, like an old doll whose porcelain had yellowed and the eyes couldn't close all the way anymore.
The man shuffled up the steps, hurrying inside. Gordon paused, unsure of what he had just heard. Bake me a sinner? He must have misheard her. He pushed through the church doors.
"--and the lesson of Job remains a sobering reminder." A preacher stood behind a pulpit, surveying his congregation. He wore a black jacket, white shirt with a bowtie, and cowboy hat.
Hundreds of people sat straight-backed in pews, staring ahead.
The preacher flipped pages in a bible that looked like an old log.
"Good, we haven't missed much," the Danny Devito look-a-like whispered, and took a seat in the back row. Gordon sat next to him.
The preacher made a sweeping gesture through the air. "Sin is everywhere! It hides in fast food restaurants to tempt us with gluttony! It slithers out of a Hollywood bathing suit to tempt us with lust! It lurks in the darkest corners of our souls, always vigilant, always looking for an opportunity... to strike!"
Gordon shook his head and smirked.
"Sinners!" The preacher pointed into the crowd. He dragged his scrawny finger through the air, aiming it at random people. "Beware of Lucifer and his agents!"
"Can you believe this guy?" Gordon said, "He needs a little Metamucil."
"Be quiet," the man whispered, "you're in a house of God."
The preacher turned his attention to the bible. "In Exodus 22:18 we are instructed not to suffer a witch to live." He glanced over the congregation. "We have been commanded by Jehovah to keep our community pure! To remove those who would corrupt us. The sinful and the blasphemous. We shun those who turn their back to the One True God!" He placed his hands together and bowed his head. The congregation lowered their heads.
The preacher's voice boomed through the wooden church. "Jehovah! Help purify our town! Keep us from sin and temptation, and the evil doers who would tear down our City on the hill! We make this sacrifice in your name, our Lord, Jesus Christ!"
A man in a police uniform, who had been standing against the wall, approached the pulpit. He held a rope that was attached to the neck of a shivering lam. It glanced around and bleated.
The preacher unsheathed a knife, aiming it at the stained-glass window behind him. "Sacrifice!"
"This is too much." Gordon stood and slinked out the door. He had seen his share of zealots where he grew up, but at least they didn't kill defenseless animals.
He hustled back to the car and grabbed the duffel bag. He'd hoof it to the next town and get his car towed. Screw this place.
He hiked back up the hill, past a wooden sign stuck in the ground. "You are now leaving New Ezekiel," it read, the words scratched and faded. Gordon smirked. If this was New Ezekiel, he shuddered to think what the original Ezekiel was like. Perhaps they still burned "witches" at the stake.
The Interstate came into view and Gordon quickened his pace. A police cruiser pulled up behind him and flashed its lights. A husky man with Top Gun aviator sunglasses stepped out. A sheriff star pinned on his vest. Gordon recognized him from church.
"Howdy, friend. You lost?"
"My car died," Gordon said, pointing to the highway, "I'm just walking to the nearest town."
"According to Abe you were just in town. He said you accosted him in from of his shop, and then you disrupted the church service."
"I was just looking for a mechanic and--"
"What's in the bag?" The sheriff asked, stepping up to him.
"Just some personal items." Gordon unzipped it, opened it a few inches and held it out. A paisley print shirt laid folded on top and a hair brush sat next to it.
"Can I take a look inside?"
"If you don't mind, I'm in a hurry. I've done nothing wrong."
"Let's just say I'm no longer asking."
"And let's just say I'm asking to see a search warrant," Gordon said through clenched teeth.
"I've got probable cause," the sheriff said and snatched the bag. He moved the shirt. Six packages of tightly wrapped caramel-colored powder lay exposed.
The sheriff whistled. "Lookie what we got here."
"This was an illegal search! I want to talk to my lawyer!"
"You'll get your chance."
The sheriff yanked Gordon around, handcuffed him, and shoved him into the cruiser. They drove back to New Ezekiel.
At the police station the sheriff locked Gordon in one of the building's two cinderblock cells.
Gordon gripped the bars, feeling his stomach folding in on itself. There'd be no way he'd make it to San Diego in time now. Unless he could talk to his lawyer, get bailed out and replace the heroin. It would cost most of his savings, but it was either that or start writing his eulogy.
"I get to make a phone call, I know the law!"
"Soon," the sheriff said and left.
A half hour later he returned with the preacher hobbling in behind him.
Gordon rattled the bars. "I'm allowed a phone call!"
The preacher approached the cell. "You'll get your phone call. A toll-free call to Hell!"
The sheriff held up one of the heroin-filled bags. Gordon noticed it had been cut into.
"Morpheus powder!" The preacher said, spittle shooting out of his mouth. "You picked the wrong town to peddle the sin of the poppy!"
Gordon lowered his head, clutching the bars. "Look, my car died. I'm sorry I stopped here. But if I don't get to California soon, I'm dead. I've got a lot of cash, if you let me get to a bank it's all yours--"
"I don't think you're going to make it to California," the sheriff said, propping his boots up on his desk.
Gordon hit the bar with his fist and cursed.
The preacher swept off his hat and rubbed a liver-spotted hand over his head. "I'm sure you think we're all rubes out here. Dumb hicks who don't know our corn holes from our assholes--"
"Wrong! I think you're all frigging geniuses."
The preacher smiled, nodding. "This ain't Calyfornia, friend. We aren't apt to let you waltz in here with a bag full of drugs and corrupt our town. And we aren't too keen on letting you go peddling your drugs in any other towns, neither."
"You can't keep me here. I'll sue your asses!"
The sheriff laughed; the sound reverberated through the room like a gunshot.
"Look, if--" Gordon's voice cracked, "--if anything happens to me, people will come looking. They'll tear this town apart."
The preacher gave the sheriff a Bob's-your-uncle nod, and turned back to Gordon. "And who, if I may ask, knows you're here?"
"I checked in with my people before I pulled off the highway. That's their stuff and they're gonna want it back. You won't get away with this."
"Nobody knows you're here. You're a petty criminal and nobody will miss you." The preacher nodded at the sheriff. "Bring him to church tonight."
"Is this a joke? You're all crazy! Sheep-murdering psychos!"
The preacher paused at the words, and then stumped out.
Gordon paced around the cell, biting his fingernails. After a while he trudged over to his cot and collapsed, exhausted. Sleep didn't come easily.
***
The sheriff hit the bars with his baton late in the night. Gordon jerked awake, his eyes adjusting to the cell's sterile light.
"Time for church," the sheriff said.
"It's three in the morning!"
"God doesn't sleep."
The sheriff unlocked the cell. Gordon thought about making a run for it. He was in good shape, jogged every day, but the sheriff was built like a linebacker for the Chicago Bears.
"Turn around, hands behind your head," the sheriff said. "And I know what you're thinking." He undid his pistol holder snap. "I can hit a rabbit with this at fifty yards."
Gordon groaned, turned and clasped his hands behind his head. The sheriff handcuffed him and stuck him in the back of the cruiser. As they drove into the parking lot of the church, Gordon saw people gathering outside, droopy-eyed, shuffling in; even children.
"What are you going to do to me?" Gordon asked, peering at the sheriff through the metal mesh. "Kill me with boredom by making me listen to that idiot preacher?"
"Watch your mouth."
The sheriff led Gordon inside and sat him against the wall.
After a few minutes the preacher sashayed out, stood at the pulpit and began his sermon. He droned on, monotone at times, for hours, and after a while Gordon stopped listening. God punishes sinners. Sinners burn in Hell. An eye for an eye. He had heard it all in Sunday school. Centuries ago, it seemed, when he still believed in God. He remembered those days. His Mom would spend hours in front of her vanity, trying to cover up the weekly bruise around her eye that was in the curious shape of a knuckle. And he remembered his Dad's advice, in between a swig from his Pabst Blue Ribbon and a belch--"It's a dog eat dog world out there, Gordy. If you aren't doing the ass kicking, you're the one getting your ass kicked!"
The sheriff kicked his boot into Gordon's shin, waking him from his daydream.
"Ouch! Bastard."
"Pay attention."
The preacher was making hand gestures, raising his voice. "--we do not abide the corrupt, the sin-lovers, the lecherous, the pimps, the addicts--" He pivoted, facing Gordon, and raised a bony finger. "—or the drug dealers!"
"I'm a smuggler, not a dealer--"
The sheriff smacked his head. "Shut up."
"Sacrifice!" The preacher screamed.
"Kill him!" someone yelled in the back.
"Bake the sinner!" a little girl in the front row said, staring at Gordon, her mouth stretched into a grin. She was the girl he saw playing Patty Cake.
The preacher nodded and the sheriff jerked Gordon to his feet, dragging him to the pulpit.
Gordon looked out over the audience. Tired, angry eyes stared back.
"This is murder! If you allow this you are all hypocrites!" Gordon lowered his head, bit back a sob. "What happened to thou shalt not kill?"
The preacher sneered. "Agents of Lucifer quote the scripture for their own ends!" He unsheathed a knife, aiming it at the stained glass Jesus behind him. "We offer this sacrifice to you, Our Lord!"
Gordon glanced around the church. The only exit was the front doors, 30 yards maybe. But if he ran would the sheriff shoot at him in a room full of people? And what would he do even if he made it to the street, handcuffed with the whole town chasing him?
The preacher grabbed Gordon's hair, pushed his head down and placed the tip of the knife at his neck. Gordon's hands and arms shook, handcuffed behind him, and he closed his eyes in shame as warm liquid trickled down his leg, sogging up his parachute pants.
"Before you meet your Maker," the preacher said, his face stoic, "do you wish to beg Jesus for forgiveness?"
Gordon tried to swallow; a lump of saliva stuck in his throat. "You're all crazy," he croaked. He jerked his head free.
"It'll just be worse for you if you struggle--"