"What are you going to do with him?" Tina asked.
Bones stared at Dylan, the evil radiating off of him. "Nothing."
Dylan gave Bones a look of horror. "You're making a grave mistake," he said before sucking in more water.
Bones pushed away, using Dylan's head for leverage and forcing him underwater.
Without torches left in the rowboat, it was dark, only the moonlight helping Bones to see.
Dylan gurgled and sank.
"Is he dead?" Tina asked.
"I hope so. It won't stop the rest of these lunatics from trying to stop us once we get back into town."
"We could let the current take us away from Keyport. I could find a phone and call my dad. He'll come and save us." Tina sat down in the rowboat.
"We need to help the priest and Harrison. There might be more people being held in town," Bones said. "But getting away and getting help might be the smarter plan."
Bones heard a splash behind them. Tina looked as well, but it was only darkness in the bay and the waves slapping lazily against the boat.
It was followed by another splash, this one louder.
"Is it the barkeep?"
Bones shook his head. "I don't think so. Too loud… too big."
What looked like a tentacle rose twenty feet into the air, followed by two more. In the pale moonlight it looked slimy, wet and dark.
"What is it?" Tina shrieked.
"Not what… who," Bones whispered.
The water churned around them.
Rats In The Cellars
Armand Rosamilia
The agent, an old bent woman named Gladys, held the single house key to 26 Walling Terrace in her arthritic claw just out of my reach. She fixed me with the cold stare, some calling it the Stink Eye, or the Malocchio, remembered from my Italian side of the family. "Where did you say you were from?" she asked me again.
"New York City, my dear. I'm here for a month or two tops before I shuffle on to see the sights of Philadelphia."
Gladys shook her head. "One month." She held up a crooked digit. "Then I want you gone."
I smiled and bowed, not wishing to question her for this turn of anger toward me, especially as this seemed to be the only home currently available in all of Keyport. I imagine my slight British accent, which clashes with the fishing villagers' own New Jersey brogue, is off-putting to her. Clearly, while I was out and about the small bay town, many of the locals had stopped and openly stared at me. News of a foreigner travels quickly in holes such as this. Keyport seemed a return of last century, with no motorcars, no updated technology, and not even a short tow-line area for a small-class dirigible to be parked in an open field.
One younger man, standing outside the barber's shop but clearly in need of a shave, his trousers and boots stinking of gutted fish, asked if I knew who the President of The United States was. As if I was so daft to be inside his borders without knowing some basic history and information. Biting back my own acidic tongue, I answered simply "The Honorable Woodrow Wilson", and refrained from asking him who sat the throne of England, or even of my birthplace in Italy. I was sure he had no idea.
The kitchen area was the newest part of the house, adjacent to the foyer. I hung my overcoat on a single nail, resting my hat on the ledge above. The home consisted of two floors, and now I occupied the first. Past the kitchen and the ancient icebox was a smaller storage room. Chips in the unfinished wooden floor spoke of large dressers, trunks and bedposts that had been dragged repeatedly across it.
In the dining room were a hobbled oak table and four matching chairs in the direct center of the room. Otherwise, it was bare. I noticed again the crude markings across the cheap wooden floor, and spied several chunks missing in the corners. I gingerly tested the floor as I walked but it neither squeaked nor bowed under my weight.
The next two rooms were built side by side and obviously part of the original floor plans, with faded stripped wooden floors (hardly any of the markings) and lovely triple bay windows filling an entire wall in each room, from a height of four foot from the floor to a full sixteen feet near the ceiling. Both rooms were empty save a worn couch in the room which I stood and a thick mattress on the floor in the next.
A front door (which led to the wraparound front porch) was in the second room (the bedroom, thanks to the mattress) but I was told never to enter or exit by that portal. Instead, the side servant's entrance would suffice on the side street, which suited me fine.
After unloading my battered suitcase of clothing and personal effects, and placing my three new books I had yet to read (the latest from Colette, Shaw and Kipling) on the fireplace mantle, I decided to walk into town and see the sights.
It was still light, the September moon pushing through the fading sky before the sun finally dropped. A full moon, a blood moon, tonight. I wrapped my overcoat around me, glad I had decided to take it with me. Even several streets away from the docks but quickly approaching I could feel the breeze whipping through the town's alleys and back streets, the pungent scent of rotting fish cloying in the air. I feared, before heading to Philadelphia, I would need a change in clothing. No wash would get rid of this smell.
Kearny Street ended into Barnes, which sloped unevenly into Main Street, and due east from there I walked. At the next block I stopped at West Front and admired the hustle of the city, so close to the docks. Men rode by on the cobblestone streets with their mighty steeds pulling all manner of wagon with supplies: barrels of pickles, oysters and beer. The street was lined with businesses and apartments above, and there was more than one man or woman sitting on a windowsill admiring the chaos below.
A man stopped not two steps before me, ready to cross east, and procured his pocket watch.
"I say, is that a Piedmont?" I had to ask, knowing full well it was. My interest in watches and mechanical devices often got the best of me, and I hadn't seen a working Pie (as I liked to jokingly call them) since 1905 or thereabouts.
He gave me the same look that Gladys had given me before. His bland features softened under his derby. "A gift from my second wife." He held it out to me but wouldn't let me touch it.
"A gorgeous piece. If you turn it over, you'll see the initials carved into the underside near the base." I squinted in the failing light. "Ah, I wish I could see it better. These fine pieces are going up in value all the time, especially with his supposed death in Mexico recently."
"Death?"
Now I've piqued his interest. "Yes, of course. There's been civil war in Mexico, and Mister Piedmont had been there organizing the factory workers for his new line of time pieces. Sorry business, as it turned out."
"I had no idea."
"Yes, untidy days indeed." I made an exaggerated squint of the watch. "A shame." I pulled back. "You might be holding a veritable fortune there in your coat pocket."
He licked his lips. "Perhaps we could duck into a business and you could take a look for me?"
I put my finger to my lips and tapped as if in thought. "I was heading to find a strong draft, as it were."
"Then you'll want to hit the Mick's place," he said.
"That surely isn't the name of the establishment?"
He laughed. "He's our resident Irishman, owns the Murphy on Broad Street. He's a likeable enough fellow, been here many years." He eyed me suddenly. "There are many in town that sees you being here a bit queer, if you get my meaning."
I put on my best smile. "I assure you, my good sir, I am merely passing through on my way to southern ports and cities."
He thought for a moment before offering a handshake and a return smile. "Douglas Grandon, fifth generation Keyport resident. I own the tailor shop on Green Grove."
"Jeffry Ruggerio, at your service. I'm traveling down from New York."
He laughed at that. "That accent marks you as farther than that."
"Aye, good ear, Douglas. I'm of Italian decent on my paternal side. My mother was a Peabody of London."
"Of the famed Peabodys? Who bui
lt the dirigible classes of last century?"
I grinned, walking side by side with him down the street of Keyport. "Yes, although once the other companies took over, the name's cache had less attached to it, I'm afraid. My grandfather made too many bad investments, squelched much coin in a new airship that never got off the blueprint properly, and sunk money into a college in Massachusetts."
"Well, I hope you scrounged enough from your savings to buy me a pint of fine ale. We've arrived."
* * * * *
I felt like I'd stepped back in time: the dingy little bar was oddly-shaped, with alcoves and free-standing walls haphazardly tossed into the small room. Candles flickered on the tables, across the long, worn bar, and behind the bar in sconces, giving off choking smoke and little real light.
Grandon led me to the bar, where I sat on an uneven wooden stool and gingerly touched the darkened bar, countless spills and God knew what else etched on its surface.
The bartender, a barrel-chested blonde with a droopy moustache and thick arms, pointed at Grandon. "What'll it be, Douglas?" he yelled in a thick Irish accent, even though the room was quiet.
"Your finest." Grandon glanced at me. "And a mug of your finest for my new friend here, Mister Ruggerio. He's in from England by way of New York."
"Is that so?" the bartender said with a queer smile. He put two mugs before us and offered his hand to me. When I accepted, his grip was like a vice. "Dylan Murphy, owner of this watering hole. Planning on staying long?"
I nodded. "I've gotten a rental for a month."
"Only a month?" he asked, idly wiping the bar in front of me with a dirty rag.
I smiled sheepishly. "It was all the landlady would allow me. She was very, uh, adamant on that account."
A man nearby at a table snickered. I turned, shocked that two men, wrapped in their fishing trousers and stinking of a fresh haul of shrimp, had been there the entire time. I'd thought we were alone. Now I saw many faces, quiet, huddled over their drinks at various tables.
The man stood, made sure every eye in the room was upon him, and strode to the bar, and sat on the stool next to Grandon and away from me. He grinned at Murphy, who winked at him as he poured another ale. "Where ya stayin'?" he finally asked.
"Over on Walling Terrace."
More guffaws from the seated men.
"Wouldn't happen to be the one on the corner, now would it?"
I didn't like the way he was grinning, like he was waiting for the end of the joke to hit me with it, and the room erupt in laughter. "Yes. Number Twenty-six."
"My grandmother was there," he said and began laughing, joining the chorus of laughter.
"Enough," Grandon said and stood, waving his arms. "Leave our visitor to his cups."
"I don't understand," I blurted, knowing it would be better to drop this line of conversation but unable to.
"Most of our grandmothers and grandfathers and distant relatives of the past stayed there. Until recently, 26 Walling Terrace was the funeral parlor for Keyport," Grandon told me quietly.
The room dropped back into silence and I sipped at my drink, letting the heady foam curl around my top lip. I'd been around the world and back, and been in plenty of the ritziest establishments and the seediest holes, but never a place quite like this. It was odd, but since my brief time in Keyport I'd seen nothing but odd.
I decided to chat with my fellow bar patrons, forget what had transpired, and be the better man, as they say. I leaned forward and into Grandon, looking around him at my new friend at the bar. "How's the fishing out here?"
Someone behind me coughed, a low guttural noise like he was going to keel over any moment. The man at the bar put a weathered hand on his mug but didn't lift it, nor did he even glance at me. "By the by, you can't beat a fish pulled from the waters of Keyport bay."
"I cannot wait to taste the local delicacy. Is there a particular spot in town to find the freshest catch?"
He grinned and glanced at me, lifting his mug to his lips. "Aye. Head east a block and dive into the bay."
* * * * *
That night, feeling good after hefting a few pints with the locals, I strolled to my temporary home. I had no doubt I could win over at least a few of the locals given time, but did I want to spend my month here doing that? The city of Keyport was like a throwback to the previous century, with lamps on each main thoroughfare, but the town blanketed mostly in darkness. I could hear the clop-clop of horses a street or two over, and see many candles in the windows, even at this late hour.
On Kearny, just before the cross of Walling, a darkened house caught my eye. I couldn't rightly say why, but I stopped in the cobblestone street and stared at its dark windows and closed door. I shuddered, although I couldn't say why. A glance at the other homes on the block told me it looked just like any other. Yet…
I put my head down and walked briskly to my destination.
As I came to 26 Walling Terrace I began climbing the wooden steps when I heard the noise, as if something was scratching just below my feet. I'd neglected to light a candle before leaving, and the house itself had no exterior means of illumination.
The sound emanated from under or below the steps, but in this lack of light I couldn't see or remember if the steps were hollow or solid. I stomped a shoe onto the bottom step and it rang solid, as far as I could tell. The sound ceased.
Rats in the cellars were nothing new, especially so close to the ocean. I was sure a family of giant wharf rats was in the basement or crawlspaces. I hoped we could live for thirty days in mutual harmony.
The servant's entryway and kitchen were pitch black, like a dark cloth over my eyes. I struggled to remember the layout of the rooms, remembering too late where the kitchen table was as I slammed a knee against it. Cursing in the dark, I stumbled through the arch into the living room, rapping my hands on the walls, until I felt the mantle of the fireplace. I'd remembered a large tapered set of candles, more for decoration, in the middle of it. The Stryker, my ferrogasium cylinder given by mother in happier (and wealthier) times came in handy once again. I was sure if I searched I'd find some archaic flint set to light the candles.
I lit the candles and pulled once from its sconce, shining it around the room to ward off the shadows. I realized I'd been holding my breath since banging my knee, waiting for… something. Like a child, I went through the house and lit every candle and lantern I saw. I must've looked a fool to my neighbors, since the house was aglow in flickering flames and all the old shades not drawn.
Just before bed, feeling quite tired as I sat and read from Collette, my eyes burning with sleep, I heard the scratching again. It came from underfoot.
My initial thought was to retire for the night and ignore it, but when it grew more insistent I felt I had no choice. Taking my candle, I went into the dining room, where I could hear the bulk of the scratching now. There was one wooden door, which I'd ignored.
The door opened to a dark maw, with steps leading down into the abyss. A slight dust-laden breeze roiled before my eyes, as if in menace. My hand quickly pushed the door shut with a resounding bang and I took a startled step back, breathing hard. Never before in my life had I felt such evil, such a force as I felt below.
I knew now there were cellars underfoot, most likely the rooms where the dead had been interred and drained of their bodily fluids. I had no need to seek them out, especially on this side of midnight by light of a candle.
Placing a pillow over my ears, I wrapped myself tightly and just before dawn finally fell asleep. The scratching never ceased.
* * * * *
"Rats in the cellars? It seems possible." Dylan Murphy placed a shot of his finest whiskey before me on the bar.
I hadn't slept well, and when I rose the scratching suddenly ceased. I stayed for the next two hours, making a light breakfast of bread and butter, but all was silent.
I steered clear of the cellar door, dressing and taking a long stroll through town, ignoring the locals as they openly stared at me as I
passed.
It was lunch time and I needed something solid to eat as well as a drink or three.
"They kept me awake all night," I murmured. "It sounds like a noisy lot of them. It must be an entire family down there, parading around."
"Did you see any when you went down the steps?"
I looked at Murphy like he was mad. "Did you think I'd go down the steps? Heavens no, my good man. Who would even think of something so preposterous?" I laughed at him.
My stomach growled as I drank the whiskey.
"Can I get you something to eat? It's not the best lunch you'll ever have but it's still better than anything outside the town limits."
I nodded and tapped on the lip of my shot glass as well. As he turned away I did the same, glancing around the empty bar. With the meager sunlight entering through the open door, it was much more pleasant than the night before.
There was a commotion just outside. When I turned to see if Murphy had heard, he was already gone to the kitchen. I stood and went out, shielding my eyes from the sunlight.
Only steps away, the bulkhead to the bay stood, gray and imposing, a full man's height. I went to it. It tailed away to my right and south, walling off the thin beach as far as I could see. To the left, the wall ran another thirty meters until there was a broken gap.
It was here that I noticed several of the men from the previous night, knee-deep in nets and fish guts, swarming over a trawler as it docked at the end of the pier. They were like ants, moving in straight lines from the boat to the small end-house to the side of the wall break, carrying supplies, ice chests and covered in blood.
The man from the bar - I'd never caught his name or stopped to ask - grinned when he saw me watching them, a small wooden barrel in his hands. "Come to make an honest day's work of your time?"
I waved at him, trying to return his smile, even though his shared no warmth. "Just enjoying the weather."
He handed the barrel to a man coming out of the end-house and strode to me. The stench of fish was unmistakable but I kept my wits about me, and ignored it. At this, I was no fool. The man was nearing hostility toward me, but I would not offend him.
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