The Accursed_A Dark Psychological Thriller Novel

by J. Koratzanis

  It wasn’t until he reached the final pages that it hit him. The top of the DD214, letters large as a billboard in his watery vision read:

  CERTIFICATE OF RELEASE OR DISCHARGE FROM ACTIVE DUTY

  He scanned below in search of the signature line. and read:

  JFC1 - ERRONEOUS ENLISTMENT; A MEDICAL BOARD DETERMINED THAT MARINE FAILED TO MEET REQUIRED PHYSICAL STANDARDS FOR ENLISTMENT. MARINE WAS NOT AWARE OF DEFECT AND DEFECT WAS NOT DETECTED OR WAIVED BY MEPS.

  But he was aware. So was MEPS. Was it his fault his hearing, his tinnitus worsened? Was it the flight to the Island? He met the physical requirements, barely, but they were met.

  He swallowed the thickened lump in his throat. The Naval officer cleared hers and considered his absent gaze.

  “Is there a problem, Private?”

  Chase closed his eyes and squeezed out his sorrow. The pen shook in his hand when he finished his signature.

  VII

  The honk from the bus’s parking brake before the rush of discharged air echoed throughout the stall of the Port Authority terminal in New York City. The doors opened, and the acrid smells of diesel exhaust, subway nitrogen, stale urine and body odor sucked in. Chase didn’t welcome it, nor the organized chaos of riders making their way towards other buses, trains, and exits.

  Shoving his way through the mobs, Chase made his way to the doors on Eighth Avenue. His eyes were heavy, dark, and his knuckles threatened to split as he gripped the nylon straps of his duffle bag. He threw the glass door with one hand as someone reached over and pulled at his shoulder.

  “What the fuck, asshole,” Chase growled and cocked his fist.

  “Whoa, little brother, relax. It’s just me,” Rick said with a compassionate grin.

  Chase’s hands loosened, he let out a breath and strained a smile.

  “Come on. Jackie’s in the car. We’re double-parked on Forty-second,” Rick said and took Chase’s bag.

  VIII

  The ride out of Manhattan found the stumped conversations dwindle into silence within a handful of minutes. None of the three spoke beyond the welcome home pleasantries which Chase all but shrugged off.

  He stared blankly at the passing cityscape as they turned onto Third Avenue. He squinted, leaned forward and placed a hand on Rick’s shoulder.

  “Where’re we going?” Chase said.

  “Your house,” Jackie said.

  Chase’s gaze shifted side to side. “Linda’s place is off Eighteenth, you know that.”

  Rick pulled the car to the curb and parked in front of the Convenient Mart Corner Deli and Bagels. Jackie turned around and smiled at Chase. He furrowed his brow.

  “What,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “You want the good news or bad news—” Jackie started.

  “Bad. Always bet on bad,” Chase interrupted. Rick considered Chase through the rearview mirror.

  “Linda’s gone.”

  “Where the fuck she go?”

  “No. She’s gone-gone. Apparently, she still had one of Bruce’s firearms and…

  “It happened the day you left.”

  Chase’s jaw dropped as he slowly reached forward for the pack of Morley’s on the front seat.

  Was he responsible for what he said to her? Was it an imminent destiny? Was it—

  His head reeled with endless questions and imaginary possibilities. Although he hated Linda more than anyone else in the world, his stomach knotted.

  “So, what’s the bad news,” Chase said and tried to kill the solemnity in his friends. Rick and Jackie stared at Chase.

  “I’m kidding. Come on, you know me. Relax,” he said. “Where the fuck am I supposed to go now?”

  He shook his head slightly and gazed out the window.

  “You want the good news now, wiseass,” Rick said. His eyes upturned with the corners of his lips.

  Chase nodded as he considered the Flacco’s Spanish Cuisine restaurant across the street. “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re home,” Jackie said. Chase’s eyes darted to his. Jackie smiled.

  “What do you mean I’m—”

  “We all chipped in and got you your own apartment. It’s small, but it was the most we could afford to get you started,” Rick said.

  “Who’s we,” Chase snapped. He closed his eyes and flaccidly waved his hand.

  “Us two, Sam, Paul and Estelle. You were dealt a shit hand, my brother, but we couldn’t sit back and watch you suffer anymore.”

  Tears clung to Chase’s lids, his lips quivered, and his shoulders jerked in sniffled silence.

  “Why,” he muttered.

  “But wait! There’s more,” Jackie grinned.

  “You’re an ass,” Rick said and slapped Jackie’s arm. “I got you a job at Tony’s Machine Shop on Fort Hamilton. You’re good with your hands and figuring things out, and he said he’d give you a shot.”

  Chase coughed and honked and wheezed and sobbed. Rick smiled, and Jackie chuckled.

  “Come on. I don’t want to hear crying. Undying praise, on the other hand, would be more than welcome.”

  Chase reached around his two friends and drew them in close.

  “Thank you.”

  PART TWO

  NOTHING REMAINS

  FOREVER YOURS

  I

  Tires screeched as they spun over the steel construction plates staggered along Fourth Avenue. Officers Perez and Davis held their tongues and their breath as they veered into the opposing traffic lanes and hoped the ambulance would follow. What should have been an eighteen-minute ride stretched into what seemed like hours through their escalated distress.

  Sirens wailed, strobes blared, and Davis still laid his hand on the horn when oblivious drivers had no idea how close they came to become crushed between the cruiser and a telephone pole.

  Davis flashed over to Perez. His eyes were closed as well as his hand on his chest. Lips moved without sound.

  “Who’re you praying for? Us or him,” Davis said. Perez continued his adorations in silence.

  Davis drew a breath and gripped the CB microphone.

  “Dispatch, RMP two-zero-one-niner, en route to New York Pres. ETA seven minutes. Over.” he said.

  “Copy that two-zero-one-niner. ER awaiting arrival. Over.”

  Davis replaced the radio in the cradle and shook his head.

  He counted the years left until he and his wife, Michelle could even consider retirement. If there would be a retirement left after tonight. There had to be. This was nothing more than a bump in the road. Something that after a few months should be forgotten over the latest political debacle or boy-band heartthrob coming out of the closet at some swanky nightclub.

  But would the Commissioner or the Mayor forget? He knew their careers and aspirations were considerably more significant than some ten-cent cop who fired first. No, they would not forget. Nor forgive.

  Perez opened his eyes and considered Davis.

  “How’re you holding up, primo,” Perez said. Davis didn’t answer as he jerked the wheel and sped around a compact car, the elderly driver, too old or too stupid to move out of the way before the cruiser’s mirror clipped the compact’s.

  Plastic and glass obliterated as Davis floored the gas once more.

  “You’re not going to do any good for that kid if you get us into an accident, coño! Take a chill,” Perez snapped.

  Davis gripped the wheel tight. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, man. The mirror was busted from second shift.”

  “You get me killed, and I’ll haunt your dreams,” Perez said.

  “Get in line. Think tonight will haunt me more than your Spanish ass—”

  Davis’ airway clamped shut as he wrenched the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes. The high-pitched banshee of tires shrieked across Fourth Avenue.

  II

  Within a year of working at the machine shop, Chase proved his mettle and was promoted to manager. He became the supervisor to three other men, and his first one
in, last one to leave without asking for a raise work ethic, was what it took for him to earn more money and responsibility with a salaried position, though he hated telling five to twelve-year veterans what to do. But even Georgie, the senior machinist, admitted that he never wanted the responsibilities, nor would he ever show up on time. He was Tony’s friend and worked as hard as most friends would for each other. Also, at fifty-three-years-old, he didn’t have the energy for it.

  By year two, Chase became a master craftsman, designing and machining parts for cars and motorcycles for cheaper prices than most manufacturers. He also redesigned the logo and repainted the sign above the shop, much to Tony’s surprise and elation.

  “I’m impressed, son. Ever consider making money as an artist,” Tony said. Chase shrugged.

  “Think about it. You’re good at what you do.”

  Tony had become a mentor to Chase. He was kind, selfless, always nurtured Chase’s abilities and introduced him to colleagues to earn a little side money.

  “But if I find out you try to steal any of my customers, I also have friends in the concrete business that would be more than happy to fit you with a nice pair of heavy shoes before I toss you into the East River. Capisce?”

  Chase laughed. Tony didn’t.

  One colleague, he had the pleasure to meet, was Eugene Cora, a junk dealer and Raguzzio mob street thug from Queens. Knowing Chase needed personal transportation, he sold him his 1942 U-model Harley for the price of lending a hand at making some of Mean Gene’s inventory disappear before the Feds showed up.

  “A friend,” he wiggled his fingers as quotes, “generously gave it to me when he tried to set up shop in my part of town. It was my baby for many years. Shouldn’t have left her out on the street for so long. It doesn’t run, but I know someone like you would appreciate a baby like that.”

  He did.

  Tony allowed Chase to cut and craft the parts he needed to get the bike running again, after hours. He even donated the black paint that Chase separated for gloss and matte finishes for the various parts and blacked out the entire machine from its original military green. His only gripe was that unless he bought a new motor, which would have devalued the classic, his bike redlined at forty-three miles per hour. And for antiquity’s sake, he refused to bore out the heads.

  His own head, he wished he could bore out, toss in some new pistons and filters to boot. Though his life had become slightly more and more fortuitous with each passing day, his demons sunk their claws deeper and deeper with each passing night.

  Visions of abysmal beasts, cries of heathen slaves, and manifestations of torment swirled within his dormant mind as he slept. And every time he awoke, he would hear, “If she strikes you, do what thou wilt.” Not as a warning, but a commandment.

  The voice had deepened, matured and aged along with Chase. It wasn’t his own, that much he understood. Had it been from a movie, TV show? A deranged soothsayer within the hordes of tourists in Times Square? An imaginary friend? A manifested personality within?

  Do what thou wilt.

  That part always remained the same. The beginning part changed from time to time, from “If she strikes you,” to “From the spoils of man, the Morning Star awaits,” and “Lest we tempt and beckon, the Morning Star guides with skills and opportunities.”

  The term, the Morning Star, had always been clear, enunciated, distinct. As if it, or he, or that, or whatever, held some sort of dominion, power. And it frightened him.

  III

  It stood before him, the first of many nightmares which burst forth from the bowels of hell. Slashes of crimson, foul ribbons of bister, clothed in habiliments of coral, this man, this monster loomed from the shadows of death.

  Chase remained. His fingers twitched, and his jaw tightened. Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he huffed. The brush dripped with crimson with each flick of his wrist. It fell from his grasp and bounced once, twice, and settled between his boots.

  “Who the fuck are you,” Chase whispered.

  There was no response, nor did he expect one. Such an abomination could never speak with words. If it could, would he be able to maintain any semblance of comprehension after learning of its true nature?

  He didn’t think so.

  That man, that thing, did nothing but stare, motionless, from out of the gloom of the sewer tunnel. Veiled in darkness, a glint of red light glowed from his piercing gaze. Head slightly cocked, it exposed the reflected light upon torn sinews and cascades of inky blood which rambled down his neck and exposed chest.

  The jumpsuit, threadbare and faded, absorbed most of the ambient light from an unknown source. In one hand, he gripped a jagged piece of steel, which cut into his palm, bled down the shaft and dripped into the fetid ravine that meandered past his gray shoes with empty grommets.

  Chase closed his eyes and imagined this wretched soul stepping forth from the massive canvas and into a living, breathing existence.

  He stooped and retrieved the paint brush. It clanged within the tin can as he tossed it into the turpentine. Strolling across the cramped apartment towards the window, he picked up his cigarettes from the sill before he sat on it.

  Sliding the window open, he lit, took a drag and blew out an audible cloud. His eyes fixed on the painting again.

  “Who are you? And who would want you?” he said.

  IV

  The list was short but well researched. Chase recognized what he created in his paintings and knew his talents would find a very specific audience. He had queried five prospective galleries, two of which respectfully declined as they were booked up for the next several years. The elderly gentleman at the next was unimpressed by Chase’s abilities, and strongly suggested he consider lessons from a professional. And the next purveyor’s establishment was padlocked by the Kings County Sheriff’s Department before Chase arrived for his interview.

  The moon shone brightly as he stood before the Forever Yours Galleria in SoHo. He scanned along Spring Street at the shops and boutiques that had already closed, save for the Wigglers and Ticklers Adult Novelty store, its magnificent red neon illuminated the wet asphalt in bloody hues. He watched a pair of women, who looked more like prepubescent girls in a failed attempt at maturity, exit the store, the paper bags in their arms packed beyond their intended capacities. They wore matching black dresses, two sizes too tight and three inches too short. They giggled and stumbled and giggled some more as they wobbled on their stiletto heels across the street. A rubber phallus flopped out of one of the bags and bounced along the asphalt.

  Chase laughed to himself and wondered if they would still be interested in making love to their oil, antifreeze, and grit covered dildo. He reconsidered their attire and figured they probably had worse.

  At first glance, he thought the gallery to be closed for the night. He pulled the massive door. It groaned without abandon as it opened. The gallery was sparsely lit by dimmed halogen bulbs strategically placed above artistic works of carvings, coppers, and canvases. It breathed with a silent hint of fresh lavender and anonymous romance as Chase stepped inside. The ancient plank floorboards groaned under his deliberate footfalls as he meandered through the various masterpieces and admired the many works. Transfixed, he pondered the inspiration behind the massive, textured, solid black acrylic painting without detail apart from the perfectly centered red stipple which appeared to float within. His hand slowly reached for the vermilion glow.

  “The temptation to touch can be quite overwhelming,” a smoky voice said.

  Chase spun on his heels and dropped his portfolio. Ledger sized photocopies flitted to the floor like leaves in autumn.

  He stooped and swept the pieces before him. A pair of elegant, dark red, d’Orsay pumps stepped ahead of his hands. Gazing upwards, he took his time as his eyes followed silky calves which curved inwards to smooth, unblemished knees, the hem of the fitted, cerise dress, a few inches above.

  Slowly, he pushed up on his hands and continued to enjoy the view skyward. Delica
te fingers rested upon voluptuous hips that swooped into her small waist. The deep cut neckline of her dress displayed her full bosom and defied gravity off the curve of her shoulders and completed her hourglass figure.

  He stood before her, motionless, silent, awestruck.

  Auburn, dahlia and golden locks weaved lackadaisically over her freckled alabaster face and supple neck. Her full, crimson lips curled up to one side and hinted at her brilliant white teeth. He felt her emerald eyes suck him in with the gravity of an otherworldly magnitude.

  If the legend was true that gingers had no soul, as the Big Mac was so highly incensed by, Chase imagined her beauty to have devoured some thousand-thousand spirits lost in their desirous suicides.

  She raised a finger and drew his jaw closed.

  Chase fought his grin and reddened cheeks to no avail. He turned his head slightly but couldn’t look away.

  “You must be Mr. Romano. I’m Grace. Grace Whitmore. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. Even her voice sounded delicious.

  She extended her hand, and with it, he felt a pulse of electricity course from her, and into him. His eyes flickered with the sudden miasma that washed through his body.

  His jaw tightened, and he gripped her hand gentler. He smiled and felt the rush of heat finally leave his face.

  “Same here,” he said.

  She withdrew her hand and softly swayed it sideways.

  “Come. My office is this way. I can’t wait to see what you have for me.”

  Chase gulped.

  As she turned, the heat rushed back into his face and chest. His eyes fixed on the oceanic roll of her hips as he followed her into the glass-walled office. Exposed were the hand carved, lion’s paw mahogany desk and leather upholstered, matching throne. In front of the desk, two smaller, but equally ornate seats stood guard.

  There was a large painting, at least seven feet wide by Chase’s estimation, which hung on the wall behind the desk, of a half nude woman, faded orange hair cascading from under her gilded crown towards her bosom. She wore double necklaces, one which looked like a rope around her collarbone, the other, bejeweled, over her heart. In one hand, she raised a chalice, and from it, arose an ethereal steam filled with twisted ghosts, naked men and women alike, who soared above then plummeted to the ground. The other, pointed limply, perhaps directing the condemned souls. The woman’s dress, pulled below her waist, flowed in crimson streamers over the beast she rode. The beast, human in form, crawled upon the fire-spewing earth on all fours. Its heads, seven Chase counted, fanged, diseased and violent, were turned in seven directions. Four faced backward to the woman, perhaps in awe of her beauty. The three others roared, gnashed and chewed on most spirits that fell to the ground. Other spirits, bloody and weary, fought for their freedom with wasted defiance as they rode golden chariots towards the many mouths of the beast.