The House on West 10th Street

by Helen Phifer

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Miller, she needs to sign for this.’

  ‘Eighth floor, apartment twenty three.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  He headed towards the elevators. Miss Green on a good day would have challenged him and asked him why he couldn’t read the address on the parcel. Today her mind was in another place and she carried on out of the front doors onto the street, not giving him a second thought. The old elevator took forever to reach the eighth floor. When the doors finally opened, he let out a sigh of relief. He walked along to apartment twenty three. The hallway was dark, a couple of bulbs had blown which was good. Hers was the last apartment on the right and quite some distance from the elevators which could be problematic. If he tried to ambush here it would be unlikely he would make it out without anyone intercepting him. It was risky. He walked up to her door and looked around, but there were no surveillance cameras that he could see, and he didn’t think this place provided high tech, covert cameras. The elevator was older than he was, the whole building needed a serious cash injection. The hallway was deserted so he pulled his sleeve down and tried the handle. To his surprise he realized the door wasn’t actually shut, it was resting against the frame. Pushing it gently he tried to peer through the gap. It was quiet, there was no tv or music playing. ‘Hello, anyone home? I have a package delivery for Miller.’ The silence that greeted him made his stomach clench with excitement. Checking the corridor to make sure he was still alone he pushed the door wider and stepped inside. The thought of being inside a cop’s apartment as attractive as her made his legs quiver and his belly roll. It would be a challenge and it was very dangerous, he had no doubt about it, but it would make the result much sweeter, and that he could risk. The demon would appreciate all his hard work in making the final sacrifice the most significant. He didn’t know what it was, but since he’d focussed all his energy on making it happen he felt different. He felt stronger, in control. The voices in his head were still there only they were encouraging him. At first he’d been worried they were mocking him, but they were agreeing with his ideas, egging him on. He had the planchette tucked safely in his back pack, wrapped in a cloth. He didn’t dare leave it at the house in the apartment, just in case someone went in there and found it. The time was getting nearer, he just needed to make sure he could get her into the house without getting caught.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Miss Green hailed a cab. She had a yearning to go to church. Not just any church, she wanted to go to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue. She felt as if she needed to confess her sins in the Godliest place she knew, not that she had committed many. Chocolate, wine and expensive clothes were probably her worst vices. Who was she to turn down a designer handbag? She had nothing else to spend her money on and she did have lots of money. Her days as a housekeeper for Clarke Carter had ended when he’d died and left her a lot of money for being a loyal employee and family friend. She’d stayed on after what had happened to Mae, while the family had been thrown into turmoil and shock after her violent murder and she’d been the one to pick up the pieces. It had been a terrible time; the newspaper reports had been shocking. Mrs Carter had stayed at the house on Staten Island, she never came back to the House on West 10th Street. Clarke had told her over coffee one evening that she referred to it as Hell House, a den of inequity that had torn apart her entire family. Emilia had stayed there, she felt a duty towards her father and she felt as if she’d be deserting Mae if she left. It was her fault her friend was dead. If she hadn’t taken ill, if Mae had never befriended her, she might still be alive and that had been a huge burden for her to bear. Missy had tried her best to help Emilia, she had a soft spot for her, she always had, but Emilia didn’t want any help. She’d wanted to be left alone to wallow in her grief, like her father. Clarke blamed himself, although he couldn’t have known that James was so mentally disturbed that he would kill anyone in cold blood in the attic.

  The house had never been the same after that night; it scared Missy and she wouldn’t step foot on the attic staircase. There was always an uncomfortable feeling of being watched. The smell was the worst; from nowhere the halls or certain rooms would fill with the disgusting smell of what she could only describe as rotting garbage. It would fill a room then seconds later be gone. The house was always so dark, despite the bulbs being regularly changed and it was always full of black shadows. The long hallways had filled her with dread, the light which had once filled the house no longer illuminated all the corners of the rooms. It always fell short so you couldn’t tell if anyone or anything was lurking there. It was worse when the house was empty, on the rare occasion that Emilia or Clarke left she would hear the scratching and dragging sounds. Only once did she summon up the courage to go up to the attic alone; the ice-cold fear that had filled her veins had been enough to send her running back down to her room where she threw herself on the floor and prayed harder than she’d ever done before. She felt as if whatever it was that was there was taunting them. Time had no meaning for whatever thing James had summoned all those years ago. The murder three years ago had been almost identical to Mae’s yet nothing since. Who even knew about Mae? Emilia was the only Clarke family member left, James had died in the hospital. He’d hung himself from the back of door with a bed sheet. Clarke and his estranged wife had both died within months of each other. The only fear she had was that someone or something had been summoned to the house to carry on with whatever the ritual was. How did that happen? The only thing she could think of was that the monster that lived in the attic was strong enough to draw people in. That meant that there had been a shift, and it was dangerous for them all. Emilia needed to leave the house for her own safety but what about all the other tenants who lived there? Did that mean their lives were in danger?

  The cab stopped on the corner of Fifth and East 50th to let her out. She stood and stared up at the beautiful Neo-Gothic styled building. It was breath-taking. It stood there, serene and proud, taking up an entire city block it was so huge. She walked up the steps and didn’t even give Saks a second glance, which was a first for her. Never one to say no to an impromptu shopping trip, she spent many hours browsing in the department store. Today she had more pressing things on her mind, like how a couple of old gals could send one of Satan’s soldiers back to the depths of hell, when neither of them were trained in religious studies, knew exactly what it was they were dealing with or even had the slightest clue. Maybe she could recruit a priest whilst she was here. If she got a sympathetic one in confession he might feel duty bound to help. Or you could speak to one and ask for their help, Missy. Is there any point in faffing around? Just ask, Father I need you to come fight the forces of evil in my friend’s house on West 10th Street. It won’t take long, maybe an hour and if you don’t die trying I’ll make you a lovely pot of tea and the best chocolate chip cookies you’ve ever tasted. As long as you don’t tell him it’s been lingering around, gathering strength since the fifties you should be good to go. What’s the worst that can happen? The worst she knew was a sympathetic glance, a prayer and not being taken seriously. She stepped into the cool foyer and smiled at the guard checking purses, but she didn’t have one, so he waved her through. What kind of world was this that you couldn’t go to church without the fear of some madman coming in with a gun and shooting dead the parishioners?

  The church was warm, comforting and busy with tourists all walking around the edges of the pews. Looking at the beautiful marble statues, altars and stained glass windows. There was a mass in full flow so she made her way to the gift shop, it wouldn’t hurt to buy some rosary beads and St Michael medals just in case they needed them. She waited behind the queue of loud Korean women asking a bazillion questions about how much this and that was. Missy tried not to roll her eyes, as it was people like this who probably kept the Cathedral open. She picked up a couple of rosaries and turned to see what was happening at the mass. It was then she noticed the guy
from the house – Mikey – the one who had been scared to death the other day. He was now dressed as a security guard and was on purse-checking duty. He must have sensed her staring at him because he looked across at her, not recognising her until she elevated her hand and waved. He smiled and waved back. Well I’ll be damned, he has a job. A decent job at that, I had him down as a bum. She tutted at herself.

  ‘Yes ma’am, can I help you?’

  ‘These please.’

  She passed the beads and medals over, along with fifty dollars. The woman turned, passing her a bag and some change.

  ‘Put it in the donation box, do you know that guard over there? Has he been working here long?’

  ‘Who you pointing at? Mikey or Sasha?’

  ‘The man.’

  She nodded her head. ‘Mikey, yep he’s been here a few years. Why?’

  ‘No reason, he looks familiar that’s all.’

  The woman shrugged, then turned to serve the next person along. Missy clutched hold of the paper bag containing her things as if it was an expensive brooch off the Chanel counter and headed towards Mikey.

  ‘You didn’t say you worked here.’

  He frowned at her. ‘No, I didn’t. I can’t see that it’s particularly relevant.’

  She felt her cheeks begin to flush. ‘I’m sorry, it isn’t. I’m being nosy.’

  ‘What brings you here? I can’t say that I’ve seen you here before.’

  ‘That damn house brings me here.’ She looked up to the high ceiling, crossing herself. ‘It scares me stupid, I just wanted to come and speak to a priest. Maybe confess my sins, ask for some help. I don’t know really. It felt right, I’m glad that I did.’

  ‘Good, this is a special place. If you need to confess there is no finer place in this city to do it.’

  ‘How were you last night?’

  He looked around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. There was a lull in the flow of tourists and Sasha was running the line for the few who were trickling in.

  ‘Scared, I don’t feel real comfortable talking about it here. If you get what I mean.’

  Nodding her head, she did. It didn’t seem right talking about such abomination in a house of worship. ‘I’m sorry, you’re working and I’m keeping you. I’ll see you around, Mikey.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  She walked off towards the confessionals to wait for the priest to finish the mass. Not sure if it was going to help any but determined to do it anyway.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  October 1952

  Emilia stayed in her room a lot, venturing out for food and drinks. She hadn’t spoken more than a few sentences to anyone since that night. She blamed herself and she knew that her father blamed himself. She felt as if Mae was always going to be here, her soul trapped because of the horrific way she’d died at the hands of her brother. How was it even possible? James was locked up in Greystone’s Psychiatric Hospital for the rest of his life or so she hoped because how could they ever let him out of there? Nice, respectable people didn’t murder innocent women. As she lay in bed each evening she would strain and see if she could hear Mae’s voice calling to her. She didn’t quite know what she was going to do if she did. The thought of it was too much to comprehend. The police had found one of those stupid Ouija boards up there that was all the fashion. She’d heard people say they could speak to dead relatives through them and as far as she knew they hadn’t taken it away. Why would they? It was of no use to them. Missy had also told her there were lots of symbols painted on the walls. Emilia desperately wanted to speak to Mae, she needed to tell her she was sorry. She needed to hear that she forgave her and wasn’t angry with her. As she lay on her bed she realized that she needed the board, if she could use it then she might be able to speak to Mae. She’d only known her a short time, but she missed her. They’d made such a strong connection it was as if they had known each other forever. A loud sob erupted from her mouth. She’d wanted to be best friends with Mae forever, grow old together. She stood up, pulling on a pair of slacks and a black jumper because she was shivering. She’d decided what she was going to do. Walking downstairs she went to the library to see if her father was there, but it was empty. The house seemed empty, so she checked the other rooms. There was no sign of him, then she went downstairs to the kitchen which was Missy’s favorite room. The woman was dressed in her overcoat with a hat, scarf and gloves.

  ‘Well look at you, it’s nice to see you up and dressed, Miss Emilia. Would you like me to fix you something to eat?’

  Emilia shook her head. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Church, I need to go and say some prayers. Do you want to come with me?’

  She fixed Emilia with her piercing, green eyes.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m not in the mood for church. Have you seen my father?’

  ‘He left about an hour ago, he’s gone to meet some business associates at The Waldorf. Would you rather I stayed here with you?’

  Emilia shook her head vigorously. ‘No, I’m good. Thank you.’

  Missy crossed the room and, pulling her close, she wrapped her arms around her. ‘You need to start living your life Emilia, none of this is your fault. The only person to blame is your brother and he’s paying the price for what he did.’

  She forced herself to smile. ‘Thank you. Say a prayer for me.’

  Missy laughed. ‘I’ll be praying for us all.’

  She walked out of the kitchen and Emilia sat down at the long table. She lifted her hands and hadn’t realized how much they were shaking until she tried to clasp them together.

  She waited for the heavy, oak front door to slam. It did, despite the house being warm and being dressed for winter. She shuddered. For the first time ever she was alone in the house and not locked in the safety of her bedroom. Rifling through the kitchen drawers she pulled out a huge, butcher’s knife. It felt heavy in her tiny hand, but it also felt good, reassuring. Even though she knew her brother was locked in a secure unit, in a padded cell where he’d never be able to hurt anyone else, she still didn’t want to go up into the attic without something to protect herself. What if he escaped? It happened. She’d seen headlines in the New York Times before about killers who’d been locked up and escaped, going back to their favorite place to kill again. She went upstairs to the drawing room, needing a slug of something strong to calm her nerves. On the large dresser were several crystal decanters most of them full of brown liquid, plus one full of clear liquid which she picked up and tugged off the stopper. Lifting it to her nose she inhaled. It had a faint smell of alcohol, but it wasn’t as potent as the assortment of whisky and brandy in the others. Lifting it to her mouth she tipped her head back and took a huge mouthful and swallowed. It made her choke so much she let go of the knife which hit the wooden floor with a heavy clatter. Coughing and spluttering she used her arm to wipe her streaming eyes with her sleeve. Her throat was burning.

  When she eventually regained control of herself she grinned. The vodka was warming her insides all the way down to her belly, she liked it. This time she took a glass and poured a generous measure out, popping the stopper back into the bottle she took small sips of the liquid. It was like a magic potion; her shoulders which were tensed relaxed and she felt much calmer than she had in months. Why had nobody told her this magic potion would do the trick and make her feel better? Bending down to pick up the knife, she grabbed the decanter with the other hand and carried it upstairs to her bedroom. She was keeping this. If her father dared to tell her off she would tell him that if he hadn’t decided to fuck around with a girl not much older than his own daughter then they wouldn’t be in this stinking mess. Emilia gasped. Who had said that? Not her. She didn’t talk like that… ever. Then she smiled as she looked in the mirror, realising that it had been her and with the help of her new found liquid form of courage she did indeed speak like that.

  Leaving her bedroom she went up the next flight of stairs. There were so many rooms, all of t
hem wasted. Her father slept on this floor, she slept on the one below and Missy slept in a self-contained apartment in the basement near to the kitchen. James had chosen the attic as his bedroom. It had always been creepy, she didn’t like attics. She didn’t like basements either, but at least the one in this house was used as a kitchen and not empty. They’d been like four ghosts that passed in the night, rarely speaking to each other. It had been bad before Mae’s murder, now it was even worse. She walked along the hallway to the far end where the servants’ stairs were and the narrow staircase that led to the attic. She wasn’t sure if it was her eyes playing tricks, but this part of the house seemed much darker than the rest. As she neared the foot of the attic stairs the bulbs in the chandelier began to flicker, she looked up. It stopped, flared bright and then there came a loud pop and a shower of hot glass exploded all over her. She screamed and jumped back, brushing the broken glass from her hair. Her heart racing she didn’t notice the trickle of blood running down her left cheek where a sliver of glass had left a fine slice in her delicate skin. She’d need to tell her pa to sort the lights out, she’d almost died of fright there and then. Feeling stupid for screaming she began to laugh. Damn, if this wasn’t so crazy she’d be crying like a baby. Stepping over the pieces of glass she began to climb the steps with the urge to speak to Mae stronger than ever. As she got to the top there was that awful smell, of rotting garbage. The door was shut and she expected it to be locked – a part of her wanted it to be locked so she didn’t have to go in there. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Why did it smell so bad? Was that what death smelt like? Is that what her beautiful, Chanel wearing friend now smelt like? Her stomach felt queasy. As she reached out and touched the door knob a wave of fear rushed through her veins. She wondered if she should have brought a flashlight or if the lights were working. Gripping the knife tight in her left hand she twisted the knob and pushed the door open so hard it flew back and slammed against the wall. She felt along the wall for the light switch, pushing it down to illuminate the room, and stepped inside.