Darkborn

by Matthew J. Costello

  Will cleared his throat. “Dead?”

  “What?”

  “The girl . . . she was sealed up dead?”

  Tim shook his head.

  “No, bozo, alive, of course. That was the whole point. She had her mouth covered —”

  “How?” Narrio asked, no longer smiling.

  Tim grinned. “Some were gagged . . . but some had their mouths sewn up.”

  “God,” Narrio said.

  Another stop, and Tim waited while the car whistled and wheezed.

  “Almost there, boys and girls,” Whalen said.

  “But why?” Will asked. “What was the point?”

  Tim shrugged. “Who knows? Part of the deal with the devil. I guess it has to do with all that god-awful terror, all that fucking fear. You know, just getting diddled by some fat old priest is bad enough. But, man! Being buried alive in a church? Somehow, the virgin’s fear must have made the black magic work . . .”

  Now Whalen leaned close.

  “You know, I read something like that …”

  Will had the image in his mind-effectively conjured by Tim. He saw the priest fitting the last brick into the wall, closing the small chamber where the young girl — probably no older than those schoolgirls sitting at the other end of the train — writhed in her chair.

  And she probably tried to scream . . . and only tears came.

  “Yeah,” Whalen said. “There’s an old town in Denmark that was attacked by Vikings or somebody. I don’t remember. And when they stormed the town, climbing over the walls of the fortress town, they discovered that the wall was filled with bodies, young boys and girls —”

  “Nice,” Will said, starting to feel a bit woozy.

  “Every year the town added a body. It was the same kind of thing, some deal they had with the dark forces.”

  “I guess it didn’t work,” Tim said.

  Whalen shrugged. “Maybe they stopped doing it. I dunno.” Then he laughed. “It’s like a mortgage. Once you get involved in the deal, you have to keep it up.”

  Then why the hell are we doing this? Will thought.

  But he knew the answer to that.

  Because we don’t believe any of this crap. And this is how we show we’re above it all. Above religion. Above superstition.

  Like taking a dare.

  The train stopped again. The schoolgirls got up and left. But not before the less homely one turned and looked back at them.

  She smiled. Interested.

  “Forget it, sister,” Tim muttered to them.

  They all laughed.

  The girls left.

  “We switch next stop,” Tim said. “We gotta take the Coney Island el for two stops, and then we meet Kiff.”

  “If he’s there,” Will said. “If he doesn’t have too many loose wires.”

  “Fuck it. He’ll be there, Will. Don’t worry about it.” Narrio was still crouched forward, as if Tim or Whalen were still telling spooky stories around the old campfire.

  He said something.

  “They did this stuff, with the virgins and everything” — Narrio paused —”to make the magic work?”

  “Yeah,” Tim said. “Sure.”

  Narrio nodded. “They were like — what? Sacrifices?”

  “Right, Narrio,” Whalen snapped. “My, aren’t we sharp today?”

  Narrio grinned. A bit. There had been too much fun and laughing for him to deflate entirely. But Narrio’s face clouded over again. Will watched him, curious, wondering what he was going to say.

  “Well, we’re doing the same thing. Right? We’re going to try and summon a spirit, right?”

  “Getting nervous, Mikey?” Whalen scoffed.

  And for once, Will appreciated Whalen’s tone. This was all for grins, okay? thought Will. A goof. A story to tell everyone back at school.

  Our trip to the Twilight Zone.

  “B-but then what are we going to do?”

  “What do you mean?” Tim asked.

  Narrio rubbed his chin. He had a shadow there, a real beard that could use two shaves a day.

  “Those were sacrifices. Are we going to sacrifice anything?”

  Will looked at Narrio’s eyes, dark, almost squinted. There was still a hint of a smile on his face. But it was fading, fading —

  Until it was gone.

  And Tim exploded, laughing, punching Narrio in the side, coaxing back a full-blown grin.

  “How the fuck do I know? Goddamn Kiff has the” — he put his face right in front of Narrio’s — “fuckin’ instructions.”

  Everyone was laughing.

  “But don’t you worry, Mike.” Tim made a sweeping gesture with his hand as if he were a fat lady swearing off another piece of chocolate layer cake.

  “We won’t lay a finger on any virgins.”

  “Speak for yourself, Hanna.” Whalen laughed.

  And then, with the laughter mixing with the screeching dead-end stop of the train, Will saw that they were there.

  * * *

  10

  Kiff was there, dressed in scruffy civvies — no sport coat and tie — with a nasty-looking puss on his face.

  “Looks like he’s really hurting after being kicked out,” Tim said.

  The lanky redhead waved at them from across Ocean Parkway. Will followed Tim, who was running across the wide avenue, with Whalen and Narrio behind.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Kiff said.

  Kiff was dressed in faded, worn khakis and a plaid shirt that looked as though it belonged to his father. He wore dingy sneakers that were coming apart in three or four places.

  He doesn’t look like us, Will thought. From high school senior to bum in one day.

  “What do you mean, a-hole? We’re here, so let’s get going.”

  Kiff’s face fell, and Will knew he had bad news to tell.

  “I didn’t get us anything,” he said.

  “What?” Tim said. “What! You didn’t get any booze? Why not?”

  “The old fart wouldn’t sell it to me.” Kiff gestured across the street to a small liquor store. “He did other times but, damn, today he wanted more ID.”

  “Great,” Whalen groaned.

  Tim looked really upset.

  “I wish I had known, Kiff. I could have lifted something out of my old man’s supply. But now — shit . . .”

  “There’s another store,” Kiff said, “right off Shore Parkway. We could try there before we go down to the rocks.”

  Rocks? Will wondered. What rocks? I thought we were going to a beach . . .

  “Okay,” Tim decided quickly. “We’ll try that.”

  There was a sound above them. Whalen looked up at the elevated subway. Then he turned and said, “There’s a train coming, guys . . .”

  “Let’s go,” Kiff said, grinning again, and he led them up the stairs to the subway — the el — taking awkward, giant steps. Will and the others were slower, carrying their books bundled by tight elastic straps or, in the case of Narrio, dragging his heavy book bag. Will guessed that they all had brought the absolute minimum number of books needed for the weekend.

  But they had to bring something.

  They got to the platform just as the subway train pulled in.

  “Come on,” Kiff yelled.

  There was only one working turnstile, so they had to wait for the machine to swallow their tokens, and then turn and spit them onto the platform.

  Kiff hurried onto the train and held the pneumatic doors open.

  “Come on!” he yelled.

  Will pushed his way through the sluggish turnstile. He saw the engineer looking down, watching what was holding up his train.

  But then Whalen — the last — got through and darted into the car just as Kiff let the doors whoosh shut. Will leaned against a placard advertising the World’s Fair that had just closed. The orange and blue was faded, and the globular Unisphere looked dopey.

  The train lurched away, sending them all reaching for poles and straps on the nearly deser
ted train.

  Deserted, Will guessed, because who’d take the Coney Island train on a windy fall day? Who wants to go to the seashore today?

  He plopped down on the street grinning, a bit breathless, and he faced the windows that looked out to the sea.

  It was choppy out there. The sky had turned gray . . . not exactly threatening, but all the blue was gone, replaced by a full gray-white haze. The water looked even darker than the sky, except for the white tongues of foam that dotted it everywhere. He saw a few large boats rocking in the water.

  Some ships have to wait out there for days, his grandfather had told him.

  Grandpa knew about these things. He had worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, building ships, big ships. Until one day he wasn’t watching and a girder went flying right at him.

  There was a closed coffin at the funeral.

  And Will’s brother, Danny, said it was because Grandpa had been cut in two.

  In fact —

  Danny seemed to enjoy telling him that.

  “Cut him right in two, Will. And that is why they won’t open the coffin.”

  Danny was away at Georgetown University. Spending more time with the Jesuits.

  And Will was just as glad.

  Except when Dad got bad. Real bad, dark, and lost and —

  “Hey, look!” Kiff yelled, swinging from his pole as if he had already been drinking.

  “There’s the parachute jump.”

  The great metal structure, looking like the skeleton of a giant mushroom, floated past them. It was the tallest thing outside, taller than the housing developments, taller than the roller coaster. It even looked taller than the new Verrazano Bridge. The parachutes were clustered near the top, the head of the mushroom. Will saw the silk chutes — real silk, it was rumored — fluttering in the wind.

  “Too bad it’s not open,” Tim said.

  “Yeah,” Whalen echoed.

  The train stopped.

  The Coney Island stop.

  Right next to Steeplechase Park, in front of the immense white building.

  Steeplechase. The Funny Place, the sign said.

  The building was mostly glass, like a giant greenhouse, with the wood frame all painted white. It was a giant building, strange and bizarre, unlike anything else. And inside, there were giant wood slides polished to a glistening patina by decades of fannies sliding down them. And colorful giant cylinders that turned as you tried walking through them.

  Will remembered being real small and watching his dad try to crawl through, laughing, falling . . .

  It scared him.

  And people fell on each other, tumbling in slow motion as though they were human laundry. And when you came out, there was a chaos-loving clown with an air hose. He shot a spray of air at the girls, sending their skirts flying above their waists.

  Steeplechase.

  And there were rides, like the huge metal horses that sped around the outside of the building. A carousel with balls, is what Danny called it. The rearing horses slid on metal tracks, oh so fast, too fast, as if it wasn’t safe to go that fast.

  And it probably wasn’t.

  People had gotten hurt. Some said Steeplechase was dangerous. And the parachute jump was part of it. That had to be dangerous.

  Even the sign, the symbol of Steeplechase, looked dangerous.

  Will looked at it now. The big face above the word.

  As the subway clicked and wheezed, ready to push on to the next station.

  It was a human face. But only just. It was a man with an acorn-shaped head. He had his slick hair parted right in the middle, left and right. It looked like a misplaced moustache, oversized . . . weird. And he had a grin, a terrible grin that went literally from ear to ear. All teeth. And big fat red lips.

  Mad, Will thought.

  That face looked absolutely mad. The train started again.

  And Kiff was quiet. “Hey, look,” he said.

  Will saw Tim get out of his seat to see what Kiff was pointing at.

  Will half listened.

  “Shit, they’re tearing’ down Steeplechase,” Kiff said. Now he turned back to look at Will and the others, his face red, flaming with indignation. “There’s a sign that says ‘Demolition — Fall 1965.’”

  “What?” Will said, not really hearing everything Kiff said. He got to his feet, but already the giant white building and the surrounding outdoor rides were streaming away, vanishing . . .

  But he could see the big word —”Demolition” — running right above the entrance to Steeplechase, covering the top of the letters where it said “The Funny Place.”

  “Oh, no,” Will said. “That stinks.”

  Things weren’t supposed to change, Will thought. Some things are supposed to stay the same . . . so you can get older and go away, but when you come back to your world, your life was still here.

  But he was learning that it wasn’t like that.

  It all fades away. Faster than you can imagine.

  “So they’re going to tear the place down,” Whalen said. “It’s a fire trap anyway.”

  Will felt as if he’d like to smash Whalen then.

  Whalen grinned at him. A self-satisfied smirk.

  I sure as hell don’t like him, Will thought.

  Not at all.

  He shook his head and turned back to the window. The train passed the new aquarium building, still looking unfinished, with great planks of wood crossing the craters made by wheelbarrow ruts and dump-truck tires.

  “We get off the next stop,” Kiff said. “And then we’ll see how lucky we are today.” .

  And Will looked at Jamaica Bay, just to the east.

  Filled with small white flecks, white specks that made the sea look alive . . .

  “No, Tim, you wait out here. You’ll only screw it up if you go inside.”

  Whalen shook his head at Kiff. “Can you two just fucking do it so we can get going? I could use some antifreeze.” He laughed.

  And Whalen was right, Will thought. It was cooler here by the water, almost cold. The wind blew steadily, and they weren’t even at the water yet.

  The small liquor store was just ahead . . . while they argued outside of it, looking about as inconspicuous as five underage, potential customers could look.

  “If I go in first,” Tim said, “I can bullshit with the guy. Okay? Distract him. And then you” — Tim said, pointing a finger at Kiff’s chest — “show up to buy a bottle of Old Grand-Dad.”

  Kiff shook his head.

  If they screwed this up, who knew where they’d find another liquor store. Will looked at Mike Narrio, holding his book bag tightly, as if he’d gotten onto a wrong bus.

  “Give it a shot, Kiff,” Will said. “Tim can bullshit with the best of them.”

  Tim grinned. “Exactly my point.”

  And then Kiff nodded, reluctantly. He gestured for Tim to lead the way in. Kiff followed while Will and the others backed away, down the block, the wind at their backs.

  Whalen put up his collar.

  “Damn, it’s cold,” he said.

  They waited.

  After a few minutes, Narrio said, “What do you think is happening in there?”

  Will shook his head. “I dunno . . .”

  They waited silently a few more minutes. No one came out.

  And no one went in.

  What is going on? Will wondered.

  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the liquor store to hell. Next stop, the drunk tank at Red Hook prison.

  “Shit,” Whalen groaned. “What’s keeping them?”

  The door opened.

  It was Tim.

  But he only came halfway out.

  What the hell is going on?

  Then Will saw Tim turn back, talking to somebody inside. The owner, most likely. Talking, gesturing. Tim smiled.

  Then he grinned, waved, and walked away from the store. The door shut noisily behind him.

  He kept walking, as if he didn’t see the three of them crouched there
, awaiting the results of the quest.

  “How did it — ?” Will started.

  “Come on,” Tim said. “Start walking, follow me.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

  Now we’re behind the iron curtain, thought Will. A dozen spies have their Uzis and telephoto lens trained on us. And one false move . . .

  They reached the corner.

  “How did it go?” Whalen insisted.

  Tim didn’t turn to look at him. Instead he checked the highway.

  But there were no cars here. Who’d come here? What in the world for?

  There were just some tiny, squat homes, some with window boxes and dry flowers, and others with white paint peeling, flaking off the side, littering the overgrown grass.

  Lampposts, telephone poles. Ye olde liquor store. But that was it.

  The next block was short. Just half a normal city block. The side facing the highway had a few more homes, even smaller. The color scheme seemed a bit off. A purple door here. A striped mailbox there. One turquoise wall surrounded by a washed-out white.

  A dog barked at them as they walked past the line of small houses.

  And behind the houses was a field. There were the remains of a baseball backstop, but it had been claimed by the tall reedy grasses.

  It was a forgotten park. Unused, unmowed.

  Because — thought Will — there are no kids here.

  They’ve all been taken by the liquor store man.

  Finally Tim turned to them. “I don’t know how the fuck Kiff did. Okay? I talked to the guy about what a dumb-ass politician LBJ was, how what the country really needed was Barry Goldwater to kick some tail in Southeast Asia. The guy was a vet. Flags and shit all over the store. Fought in the Big One, as Dobie Gillis’s Dad used to say. World War II. He agreed with me. I was just keeping the guy preoccupied. But Kiff took forever to find a bottle.”

  “What’s his problem?” Whalen said.

  “Beats me, but I think it’s a pretty simple job to find a bottle of bourbon and bring it to the goddamn counter. Anyway, I asked the guy how to get to the aquarium. Just more bullshit. Then Kiff finally came to the counter. The guy kept talking. Starts in on how great it was JFK got his brains blown out. Didn’t deal with Kiff at all. Jeez, I had to go . . . he was talking me out of the goddamn store. I don’t know what happened.”