THE NIGHT IS LONG AND COLD AND DEEP
by Terry M. West
Copyright © 2015 Terry M. West
Published by Pleasant Storm Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.pleasantstorm.com/
Visit the author at: http://terrymwest.com/
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
These tales are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A word from the author:
This collection contains key tales from three of my ongoing horror fiction properties: Southern-Fried Hex (the Cecil & Bubba tales), The Baker Johnson Tales and Heroin in the Magic Now. Also included are two novelettes that both represent a different story collection: Midnight Snack appears in What Price Gory? and Hair and Blood Machine was featured in A Psycho's Medley. My fiction tends to turn out drastically different in content and style from one tale to the next. The Night is Long and Cold and Deep is meant as a sampler of my work in all of its different forms. These tales run the gamut from extreme, old school, haunting, humorous and psychological. Imagine this collection as one of those cheesecakes with a variety of flavors. If you have never read my work but have been curious about it, this is the perfect book for you. I pride myself on constantly playing with my approach to my work and going where my muse instructs me. So, have a slice, and I hope you end up enjoying the whole damn cake. All of the stories featured here are novelette/novella length (long short stories, if you will).
-TMW
Table of Contents
SERVANT OF THE RED QUILL
CECIL & BUBBA MEET THE THANG
HEROIN IN THE MAGIC NOW
HAIR & BLOOD MACHINE
MIDNIGHT SNACK
About the Author
SERVANT OF THE RED QUILL
November 14, 1927
New York
Baker Johnson awoke in the formal room, and Death sat near him. The apathetic gray face glowed in the darkness. The grim reaper rested quietly in a short-armed Georgian wingback chair which was positioned at the foot of the curved back sofa that Baker usually slept on. The silent figure leaned against a walking cane in lieu of a scythe. The cane was tipped with the silver sculpture of a howling wolf head.
Baker had done nothing with the recent years of his life that could be considered noteworthy, but still he strongly wished to continue his existence.
Suddenly, the drapes were pulled open and sunlight drenched Baker. He was still drunk from the night before and scared and confused. He shielded his eyes and stared toward the huge window in his apartment. Sherman Drummond, the perpetually awkward building supervisor who aspired to be a poet, stared at Baker, apologetically.
“I am sorry,” Sherman said, tying off the heavy curtains. “He said it was imperative that he speak with you, Baker. He said it was life or death.” The building super had grown as large as a house and his hairline was receding, as if pulled back to the roots by his expanding belly. He looked pale, desperate and defeated these days. Baker had not conversed with Sherman in months, but he thought the pudgy balding vampire should put his pen aside and take a stroll in the park sometime.
Baker turned back toward what he thought had been the specter of Death in the chair and daylight now bore a gentleman in an expensive suit. Baker was relieved that his sleeping and still mildly drunken mind had only distorted the appearance of the unexpected visitor.
The stranger was older, but still vital and imposing. He had a full head of thick silver hair, long bushy sideburns and large eyebrows. His nose and ears seemed elongated. Baker, even hobbled by alcohol, used his sharp power of observation and arrived at attorney for the man’s occupation. The old bastard had been bred from arrogance and privilege. He hadn’t even opened his mouth yet and Baker hated him already.
“Can I help you, sir?” Baker said, subdued, despite the fear, disorientation and nausea. He wasn’t one for outbursts.
“Actually, I am here to help you, Mr. Johnson. But first, I need to finish my business with Mr. Drummond,” the man said, digging coins from his vest. He motioned to Sherman. “Thank you for your assistance. You can go now.”
Sherman nodded and collected his money.
“Yes, Judas, take your silver and run along,” Baker taunted.
Sherman frowned. “He said it was important.”
“I will take it from here, Mr. Drummond,” the old man said, sternly. “Close the apartment door on your way out.”
Sherman left obediently.
“Who are you, sir, and why do you deduce that I need your help?” Baker asked a little more darkly than he had intended. He was in dire need of coffee.
“My name is Andrew Masterson. I am the attorney for Jeremiah Simms. He owns an estate in Yonkers and some unusual activity has plagued him and his family,” the man explained.
“I don’t do that sort of thing anymore, Mr. Masterson. I quit chasing phantoms when I came to New York and moved into this place,” Baker stressed.
Masterson motioned to an empty brandy bottle on the coffee table. “It looks like you are chasing after something, Mr. Johnson. Or maybe you are the one being chased.”
“I am happily retired,” Baker insisted.
Masterson studied Baker’s face. “You are the spitting image of him, you know.”
“Of whom?”
“Your uncle… Richard Johnson. You have the same strong, dark and thoughtful quality to your face. Most people look so very pedestrian. But you elicit interest, my boy.”
“You knew my uncle?” Baker asked, stretching up and finally at peace with the light.
“I knew him through my client, Jeremiah Simms. Mr. Simms funded your uncle’s researches. He has a huge fascination with the unknown,” Masterson explained.
“What sort of trouble is he having?” Baker inquired, out of morbid curiosity only.
“From what the family has told me, a dark force appears to be at work. The spirit seems evil, angry and lustful. The entire household fears for their safety. The entity has gotten physical on occasion. Mr. Simms’ daughter, Nadia, has been twisted by this recent spat of activity. She has been darkened, possessed, maybe. The child was always a little off and probably an easy vessel to corrupt,” Masterson elaborated, digging a snuff box from his pocket. He offered it to Baker, who declined silently.
“Has there been a recent death in the house?”
“No one has died there, to my knowledge,” Masterson answered, pausing to fill his nostril.
“Is this Jeremiah Simms a dabbler? Does he hold séances?” Baker asked, trying to determine a trigger.
“He gave them merit until that William Hope fellow was exposed as a fraud,” Masterson said. “The spirit photography deception Hope perpetrated soured Mr. Simms on the idea of calling spirits forth.”
“William Hope turned psychical research into a bloody joke,” Baker said, with heavy disgust. “But he didn’t do it alone. You can give a small bit of credit to Hope’s debunker, that smug glory-grabber, Harry Price. He squeezed as much publicity out of it as he could. I would have exposed Hope as a hoaxer in a shorter time and I would not have used it to catapult my name. Harry Price postures far too much.”
Baker paused, realizing his rant had thrown the conversation off course. “So, tell me more about this Jeremiah Simms.”
“In his younger days, he accompanied your uncle on several cases. But now, he is ninety-one and a bit of shut in. He has a vast co
llection of odd and morbid items. He collects things from the scenes of murders and haunts. He still adds to his collection. I assist him occasionally with acquisitions. This is the only passion left in him.”
“So there is your source, I would wager. Has he made a recent addition?” Baker said.
“He will have to tell you of it himself. I won’t speak for him on this matter. I am to bring your ear to him.”
“Well, then you have failed in this task, Mr. Masterson. Try the Society for Psychical Research. They have an office here in the city. I am sure they will be most helpful.”
“Mr. Simms requested you. And he is willing to pay you handsomely, son,” Masterson said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of envelopes. “I nearly tripped over this heap of correspondence at your door. There are a lot of delinquency notices here. Your financial responsibility is a serious issue. And debtor’s prison is not a pleasant place.”
“That is my affair, sir,” Baker said, and he was starting to get cross.
“I talked to Mr. Drummond while you slept,” Masterson said, tossing the mail onto the coffee table. “He has witnessed quite a dark turn in you since your arrival. He says you have withdrawn into yourself and given up on things. You indulge too much in drink and women of questionable nature.”
“Both are cheaper than heating oil,” Baker joked, but Masterson didn’t seem amused.
“You come from respectable stock, but this behavior shows a decline in your general mental capacities. I could have you looked into and institutionalized for the drinking and suicidal behavior. That would be worse than prison.”
“Are you threatening me?” Baker said, angrily. “You invade my home, go through my personal belongings, and you say you could have me committed?”
“Mr. Simms is desperate, son,” Masterson said, almost apologetically but he wasn’t quite there and Baker had a feeling it was as close as the man ever got. “And there is anxiety here, as well even if you are too blinded by your pain to see it. I have a request. Might I see the black room?”
“It hasn’t served that purpose in over two years. It’s just a storage space, now,” Baker maintained.
“Still, could I please see it?” Masterson said.
Baker stood and walked the intruder to the door. Masterson regarded the crucifix that was nailed to it. “Are you a religious man?”
“No,” Baker said, opening the door.
Baker allowed Masterson access. The attorney walked into the small, windowless space and saw a round table positioned in its center. On this table rested a thin glass vase that held two red roses. A music box was positioned next to the vase.
“I heard the story of how your uncle went mad toward the end and gave away his collection of haunted items,” Masterson said.
“Yes, that was before I came here.”
Masterson motioned to the table. “This display has to do with your family, doesn’t it? Your wife and daughter?”
Baker nodded solemnly.
“What were their names again? Your uncle told me some years ago,” Masterson said.
“My wife was known as Madeline. We named our daughter Ramona,” Baker said, and he was quickly softened by speaking of them.
“Ramona,” Masterson said, turning the name over in his head. “Who gave her the name?”
“My wife,” Baker said. “Her favorite book had been one called Ramona by Helen Hunt Jackson. Madeline’s family was located in Southern California, and the book has tremendous significance there.”
“How so?” Masterson asked.
Baker gave Masterson a guarded look.
The attorney held up his hand. “I am merely curious, Mr. Johnson. I feel a connection to you through my association with your uncle. Forgive me if I am prying.”
Baker decided that there was no harm in relaying the information. “The novel is set after the Mexican-Amercian war and many locations described in the story were local to my wife. Ramona is an Indian orphan in the story raised by Señora Gonzaga Moreno.”
“It sounds fascinating. I shall have to procure a copy. I know your family has roots in London, but your wife was Spanish, if memory serves.”
Baker realized that he should have minded these questions, but he had not spoken of his wife in two years and he suddenly welcomed the opportunity. “Yes, she was Spanish. And both her opinion and love were fiery things because of her heritage. She tried to heat me and I tried to cool her. We were very different, but so perfect together, when I wasn’t distracted. She hated that- loathed the attention my work took from her and Ramona. I had never known a woman like her before and I haven’t met one that even comes close to her since.”
Masterson turned back to the roses. “This looks to me like the embodiment of a sad poem. What is the significance of the jewelry box?”
“It was my daughter’s, her favorite possession, and she had many treasures,” Baker explained. “I was not the most attentive father, but Ramona only had to ask once for something. I gave her whatever she requested. It infuriated Madeline, at times. She had grown up fighting for things and she felt our daughter needed to learn the value of earning her own reward. But Ramona was my little girl. If I had known how brief her time was, I would have done more.”
Masterson nodded sadly. “And what represents your wife on this altar?”
Baker no longer needed prodding. “Her wedding band. It is inside the box.”
Masterson stepped out of the room and closed the door. “Mr. Johnson, even a life of debauchery requires a sponsor. Help Mr. Simms, and then go back to drowning yourself, if you must. At this rate, you will end up penniless and consigned to a cell or straight jacket. It is a waste of your considerable gifts, as my research has shown you to be one of the most highly regarded psychical researchers available to us.”
“He will pay me well, then?” Baker said, and he told himself he was only entertaining this for the earnings. Masterson, the manipulative old whoreson, was right. Baker’s fortune was nearly gone.
“Just name your price. I have no doubt he will match it. If not exceed it,” Masterson said confidently.
“I’ll gather my tools,” Baker gave in.
“Shave first,” Masterson advised. “Make yourself presentable and I’ll buy you a meal and coffee before the journey.”
***
Baker sat in the front seat of Masterson’s tan 1922 Duesenberg Model A. They navigated the rough private road that led to the home of Jeremiah Simms. It was still early in the day and the bright sun peeked through the heavy brush that hid this secluded road. The house had been built well before the automobile was realized and the path they took had been cut for horses and wagons.
“I am surprised you don’t employ a driver,” Baker said, watching as the old man fought the steering wheel through the bumps.
“I love to drive,” Masterson proclaimed with a flash of his dentures. “It is exhilarating. There isn’t much else that excites me.”
The forest finally receded and Baker spotted the house in the distance. It was typical of the homes in the affluent wilds of Yonkers. It was a secluded two-story Victorian residence. The building was large, but not obscene in its scope. It was elegant and quiet. The lawn had grown slightly unruly, but Baker could see that the property was generally cared for.
Masterson parked in the grass. Baker collected his bag and they walked to the door. The air was brisk, but winter was still in its infancy. Masterson rapped on the door. Baker took in the antiquity of the home until the door was answered.
A woman in a housekeeper frock greeted them. She had long red hair, the braids twirled into a tight bun at the back of her head. She wore a warm smile and her eyes were blue and soft. There wasn’t much for Baker to read. She was a simple woman who appreciated simple things. She considered herself fortunate to have a station and purpose.
“This is Lillian Thorne. She cares for Mr. Simms and Nadia,” Masterson said.
Lillian’s face brightened. “I thank you for coming to a
ssist in these dark times. Mr. Simms has been eager to greet you. He is waiting for you upstairs.”
Baker and Masterson entered. Lillian took their coats and hats and she motioned to Baker’s bag. “I can take that to your room for you, Mr. Johnson.”
“Thank you but I prefer to keep it with me for now,” Baker said.
The interior of the house was very dark. Baker saw little detail of it as the shades to the nearby greeting room were drawn.
“Come, Baker,” Masterson said, starting up the white serpentine stairway. “He will want to see you right away.”
“I will prepare some lunch while you gentlemen talk,” Lillian called after the men as they ascended to the second floor.
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