PG
*Fumbling in the deluge of disconnected thoughts and vague ideas, I produced tales which would curdle the blood and quicken the beatings of the heart. If not, they will just confuse or bore the hell out of you.*
(The due SOUTH Halloween anthology)
Uprising, unveiling, affirm/That the play is the tragedy "Man"/And its hero the Conqueror Worm
Ray pulled up to the driveway of the Victorian mansion on Fifth Street. No one lived there. It was decrepid; vegetation of all sorts grew about the house, the cornices were cracked, the floorboards of the porch were loose, paint had long since peeled from the sides of it. In years past, this house was the pride of someone, Ray thought, it was a shame that it had gone to waste.
Stepping up slowly to the house, Ray pulled out his iridescent flashlight and peered through the windows. He could scarcely see what was inside. Pushing open the door, he walked in turning this way and that shining the torch on everything left in the mansion. Furniture covered in drab white sheets, silver tarnished on the oak table, shutters on their last hinges. Each footstep made a sound. Ray was not convinced that this place was haunted. Some kids, he surmised, had broken in and vandalized it. At any rate, no one was welcome and Ray was sure to see whoever it was out. In the drawing room, Ray stared at the portrait of a silver-haired matriarch, a stately old woman who owned the house. She looked down proudly at Ray. She seemed to have life in her, drawing life from the evil eye she cast on everyone else. Ray knew nothing of her but that she was a wealthy socialite. Ray walked on. A painting in the dining room caught his eye. A white snake rose from the depths of the soil in hellish retribution and ate misfortunate wretches as they tried to escape. Weird, Ray thought.
A wail pierced the musty air. Ray swivelled around and ran to the cellar from where he heard the scream. An annoying adolescent, no doubt, had lost his footing on the stairs and broke his leg. Edging down the stairs carefully, Ray made it to the bottom. The floor was no cement or wood, rather it was like humus. Ray winced. The squish sounds his feet made were rather repulsive to hear. Stopping in his tracks, Ray heard something move. He turned around. He saw nothing. The sound again echoed and went silent. It was nearer.
"Chicago P.D. !" Ray cried, "Who's here? Come out with your hands up!"
A screaming silence filled the air. Ray swallowed an obstruction and turned around once more. A mound of whiteness, the Moby Dick of worm kind, an angry albino muskox cruelly tormented, swam from the depths of darkness and slime and pounced toward Ray. Instinctively pulling out his semiautomatic, Ray fired repeatedly until he had no more shells left. Reloading, he did the same thing until the creature exploded all over the cellar. Slumping down on the stairs, Ray caught his breath. He lifted himself up and quit the place of the quivering white worm.
"Stetson!/ "You who were with me on the ships at Mylae!/That corpse you planted last year in the garden,/ Has it begun to sprout?"
Elaine mingled through the party-goers, a glass of nonalcoholic champagne in hand, smiling and nodding politely to familiar faces. The charity event was rife with kind hearts and bleeding hearts, relative unknowns and arrogant blowhards. But Elaine recognized one of them in particular-Evan Richmond, a wealthy stockbroker arrested last year of murdering his wife, a crime he had not faced punishment for. Her body was never recovered and Evan was never traced to the crime. Some clever backtracking, Elaine concluded. She, along with the other officers in the 27 precinct, hated him with a passion. He had such a glow about him that he could be as dirty as mud and appear clean. If Elaine could do anything, she would revile him publicly for his past. It was childish and rather futile but it gave Elaine the purpose of a cause aright. If Evan would not be punished in a court of law, he would be reminded of his crime in life until he faced eternal punishment. She sauntered over to him. He was speaking with some rather influential and wealthy people. Good. All the better.
"Evan!" Elaine exclaimed in soprano delight. "Oh, Evan, it is so good to see you again. Oh, but where is Marcia? Is she here tonight? Oh no, I forgot. She's at the bottom of the riverbed, isn't she? Well, give her my regards the next time you bury someone else. Taa-taa."
Evan squirmed. He pushed his wire glasses up and wiped the beads of sweat that fell down beyond a bundle of brown curls. The gentlemen he was with had made haste and left the vicinity. Evan, ired by the insinuation, would have it out with the impertinent woman.
The cold night air chilled Elaine's skin. Rattling her keys, she opened the door to her car. A hand on he shoulder spun her around. Evan glared at her.
"How dare you?!" he tried to keep his voice hushed. "I was never convicted of the crime. It was a year ago. How could you do that?"
Elaine scowled at him and pulled away.
"You killed her. I know it, you know it, and I think everyone should know it. To hell with your social life!"
Incensed beyond anything, Evan struck Elaine. She fell back, hitting her head on the fender of her car. Blood seeped from her cracked skull. Evan shook. He could not believe what he had done. Searching for anyone who could have witnessed the crime, Evan picked Elaine up and shoved her into the trunk. Starting her car, he would take her to the river, a familiar journey.
In a secluded patch of scrubland, Evan stopped the car and got out. Slowly, he opened up the trunk.
"Excuse me!" a man's voice cried from behind.
Evan spun around, his eyes popped open like a frightened rabbit, his face drained of colour and mouth gaped open, suppressing a scream.
"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser introduced himself. Diefenbaker sided up with him, grinning in his lupine way. "I would like to inform you that this is not the optimum place to park your car. The river's waters subside and rise intermittedly. It would be wise for you to move your vehicle, sir."
Evan nodded nervously.
"Yes, yes, thank you, officer. I'll do that."
Diefenbaker jumped on the fender and sniffed. He barked. Evan tried to scare him away. Fraser moved closer.
"This isn't your car," he remarked, "And what is in the trunk? My wolf is very perceptive. Would you move away please, sir?"
Evan took hold of a tire iron and held it behind his back.
"Of course, officer," Evan said smugly, "go ahead."
Fraser lifted the trunk. Evan lifted the tire iron over his head. With a sudden thrust, Fraser plunged a hunting knife into Evan's belly. Dying, Evan held on to the gaping, bloody wound desperately.
"You came just in time," Elaine smiled as she drew closer to Fraser and kissed him. "What will we do about him?" she nodded toward Evan.
"An eye for an eye," Fraser said.
Diefenbaker howled at the full moon. Something in that beast laughed boldly.
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed...
Jack Hughes, or Huey, paused over the decimated corpse thoughtfully. He looked past the carefully carved grooves on the skin, the tangled black hair, the vacant brown eyes, the blood the flooded around the body making it look like a gargantuan island in a morbid sea. Instead he saw a young woman asleep, never to awaken and realize her dreams, visit her family, make a difference in this crazy world. She was the fourth such victim in the past week and a half. When he looked at the woman, he thought of his own wife. Even if he stood on the line of death itself, he would never let anything happen to Jill.
The night drew on. It was two in the morning and Huey was parked across a Delightful Donuts shop on the beat. He was tired of being on the prowl for wrong-doers. All he could think about was getting back home and slipping under the covers next to his sleeping wife. His head dropped back on the headrest and he shut his eyes for a minute. As though instinct had tapped him on the shoulder, Huey shot up. A young black man in the back of the parking lot hauled a large sack from the trunk of his car and dragged it into the brush. Huey stepped out of the car stealthily as not to startle the man. Ducking behind cars, he prowled over to the man's position and waited for a moment. Suddenly, the sack started to move. Muffled cries escaped from the captive within. Huey had to make his move. Jumping up and drawing his gun, Huey cried for the man to halt. The man, like a doe in front of a moving car, remained motionless. Huey trembled, sweat poured from his lip as he pointed the gun and cocked it.
"Don't move..."
Because I could not stop for Death-/He kindly stopped for me-
The night was bitter, the stars had lost their glitter. But for all the portent signs of existence, Fraser didn't feel that he was the man who got away. He went gently into that good night, a coldness about him pinched the nerves he wasn't sure he still had. Oh yes, he was dead. That appeared to be certain. No one could have survived that horribly mangling crash. Diefenbaker did but then again Diefenbaker defied anything, that wilful beast! He did at least six impossible things before breakfast.
Death wasn't as ceremonious as Fraser thought it would be. No ghost piper played the clan march, no angel guided him to the Gates of Heaven, no loved ones with huge signs welcomed him to a happier afterlife. Death seemed to be a nothing. Fraser felt disappointed, let down.
The whirring of carriage wheels rumbled in the distance. A black carriage with gold Baroque adornment pulled up to Fraser. The door opened and a shadowy figure summoned him in.
"Thank you kindly," Fraser tipped his Stetson to the figure of Death in all its cloaked glory.
Fraser sat across from Death, took off his Stetson and tried to smile politely.
"I am-was-Constable Benton Fraser-formerly of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and you are?"
Death remained silent and still.
"Right. Could you possibly tell me where I am going. A hint? Charades, perhaps?"
Still, Death did not speak.
"As you can see, I am new at this dead business. I'm not sure how to act. What will I eat? Where will I sleep? Will I sleep? What will happen now that I am gone?"
Fraser became melancholy.
"What will Ray do? If I died, which I did, I would have liked Ray to deliver my eulogy. I can't tell him that. He was more than a friend. He was like my own brother. I should have liked to marry Elaine. She is a good woman. Dad always said I should settle down. I suppose it is much too late for that now. We could have spent the rest of our days stamp collecting."
Death was interested in Fraser's tirade. It moved closer to hear him.
"I have been no stranger to you, Death. You seemed to have a way to remove the bottom of my world. When Dad died, it was a violent . He raged against you. My uncle, Harry, always told me that Death sneaks up on you because he doesn't want you to see his face. He told me that when my mother died. And I believed him. It was January, I remember that. The snow had fallen and there were no clouds in the sky. Our cabin stood about five miles away from the ridge overlooking the valley near the town. I always thought that when people died, they would go there, jump off and sprout wings so they could fly to Heaven. I think that's what she did, my mother. After you snuck into her room, you stole her breath. She breathed only once and that was it. She didn't rage against you, she just breathed once... and gave up. It was the first time I had seen her do that. Then she walked out of the room, no glided, as though her body didn't have the weight any more. She jumped off the edge and she was gone. An angel had her wings that day."
Fraser looked at Death.
"So where is your face?" Fraser demanded. "Can I not see it once?"
A thin hand emerged from the folds of the black cloak and pulled back the hood.
"Oh my God..."
The End