Everyone Is a Moon

by Sawney Hatton

  Alex slinks around to the rear of the restaurant and lifts the heavy metal lid to its mammoth dumpster. Meticulously digging through the debris, he uncovers a feast of steak morsels, bits of lobster, partially eaten buttered sweet rolls, slivers of rich chocolate cake. He devours these delicacies and, when his belly is sated, embarks on his afternoon stroll around the city.

  *****

  Alex marvels at the skyscrapers towering over him with unrivaled dignity. Flocks of pigeons swoop and soar balletically above him. People mill around him heedlessly. Alex drifts among them, stirred by the rhythm of their spirited chatter, the honking of crosstown traffic, the rumbling of construction work, and the melodies of street musicians playing for coins and applause.

  The pulsing beat titillates Alex’s ears. He dances to it, twirling gracefully, laughing. All the smells, pungent blends of fragrances and stenches, tickle his nostrils. He strokes the smooth branches of saplings lining the curbs, plucks their green waxy leaves, kissing them with his dry, chapped lips—oh, there is the falafel man with his blue baseball cap, pushing his hot cart! Alex greets him with the friendliest of smiles and a cheery “hee-lo Fella Full Man!”

  Alex yearns to pet a puffy poodle dog, but its master tugs hard on its leash, hurrying off when Alex gets too close.

  He plays with a cockroach, blowing on it to make it scurry about in different directions, then lets it go free into a sewer drain.

  A police man taps the soles of his bare calloused feet with a club while he naps in a vestibule, urging him to move on.

  He quenches his thirst with tepid cola from a half-empty bottle left at the base of a streetlamp.

  Some children spit on him then run away, giggling and shouting bad words.

  He whistles a jaunty tune lingering in the haze of his memory.

  As he tires from his daily wanderings, Alex realizes the sun is setting, painting the clouds a bright shimmery orange. Nibbling on a piece of stale pretzel he had found in a gutter, he seeks out a place to sleep.

  He soon comes upon a little tailor shop downtown, its window displaying long coats draped on faceless mannequins. Over the entrance is a weather-battered sign with chipped yellow lettering Alex cannot read.

  He circles around the building into a deserted alley strewn with cigarette butts, fast food bags, and beer cans. Twine-bound bundles of frayed fabric lie along the brick wall. Alex judges this a cozy enough bedding for a night’s rest. He mounts the bundles and crawls into the center of the heap. He tears off some of the soft material and wraps himself in it to protect him from the chill of the night.

  Once comfortably tucked in, Alex pulls from his waistband a crushed cigar he has been saving and smokes it. He farts and coughs and picks crumbs from his bushy black beard. He then shuts his weary eyes, sighs approvingly, and dozes off…

  *****

  Alex is startled awake by panicked, pleading cries. He cowers underneath his makeshift blanket and peeks through a gap between a pair of aluminum trashcans.

  Before him in the dim alley stands a gray-haired man in a gray business suit, his eyes wide, his breath quick, his chest heaving. Behind him a tall teenaged boy cups one hand over the man’s mouth and thrusts a switchblade to his throat with the other. He whispers into the man’s ear. The man nods. The boy cautiously releases his clasp on the man’s mouth and, still gripping the knife against his jugular, explores the man’s loose pockets.

  The man grabs the boy’s forearm and struggles to pull it away from his neck. The blade slices his chin. He forces himself out of the boy’s hold and stumbles away from him. The boy lunges, stabbing the man deep in the throat. He collapses, hands clutching his gushing neck. The boy fumbles through the man’s pockets and removes a bulky wallet, then dashes into the night.

  It begins to drizzle. A loud howling siren draws closer. Alex flees the alley until the sound of the siren has faded in the distance. At ease once more, he saunters up the flashing-neon city blocks. The wet pavement glistens. Steam billows from manholes. Cool raindrops run down his cheeks.

  Alex never before witnessed a man die. He is mesmerized by it… the way the man’s body buckled, his face white and frozen like a statue… the way his blood spouted from the gash, a dark halo forming beneath his head… the way his gargled groans echoed off the alley walls, a floating euphony. It is one of the most beautiful things Alex has ever beheld. Even better than a puddle of his piss twinkling in the sunshine.

  He rolls the switchblade’s red handle in his right palm. In his haste, the boy had dropped it. It slid next to where Alex hid. As soon as the boy was out of sight, Alex scooped up the knife and slipped it into his pocket.

  It is smooth and slender, like a pencil or paintbrush.

  Come morning, the streets refill with people. Alex sees potential in them all. He spots the falafel man in the blue baseball cap parking his hot cart on the corner. Gripping the blade, Alex walks toward him, smiling, eager, inspired. Ready to create something beautiful.

  MR. GREGORI

  Mr. Gregori was already there when Emma moved into her new apartment.

  She had fallen in love with the early twentieth century greystone the instant she saw it. It was only five subway stops away from her paralegal job, and the eastside neighborhood was charming and affordable enough for her. The two-bedroom was not as large as she had desired, but it was cozy, with a walk-in closet, a washer/dryer, and a recently renovated kitchen. A week later she signed the lease, had her furniture brought over, and called it home.

  It was Mr. Gregori’s home too. Had been since 1954. In ’57 he mistakenly conjured the wrong demon to help with his struggling Italian restaurant. The monstrous beast, named Aka Manah, turned out to be from one of the higher echelons of Hell. Angry at having been summoned by such a lowly mortal, it made Mr. Gregori immortal—and the mirror image of itself. Still attired in the white slub weave shirt and brown flannel trousers he wore for the botched invocation, Gregori had become a nightmarish parody of a Sears-Roebuck ad. He’d been a handsome man once. Now he chilled himself every time he caught a glimpse of his own hideous reflection.

  The demon’s curse produced three additional effects: Mr. Gregori could not leave the apartment, he was incorporeal, and he was invisible to others. Each of these posed pros and cons. Being trapped anywhere for eternity was misery, but at least it was in a place where he felt comfortable. Being tantamount to a ghost meant he couldn’t pick up any objects, but he could walk through walls and never stub his toe. And being invisible meant nobody would be terrified by his inhuman appearance, but it also lent to him feeling awfully lonely despite the company of all those who’d taken up occupancy there since he had gone missing and the landlord declared his apartment abandoned.

  Mr. Gregori’s cohabitants over the years had been a sundry lot. A Jewish family of seven inhabiting an area that had narrowly sufficed for him alone. A middle-aged man who collected antique dolls. An old lady who painted only barren desert landscapes. A gay couple who had staggering amounts of sex. A straight couple who had no sex at all, at least not with each other. Decades of different tenants sharing Mr. Gregori’s home without them ever knowing he was there. Save for a fleeting curiosity, he felt nothing for them.

  Then came Emma. The moment he laid eyes on her, Gregori swore she would never leave.

  He wouldn’t let her.

  *****

  Emma adored her new third-floor apartment. All her furniture fit where she wanted it, there was plenty of storage space, and the art nouveau-styled front window offered a magnificent view of the uptown city skyline.

  The only thing she didn’t like was the drafts.

  For the life of her, Emma could not figure out where the ice-cold puffs of air were coming from. They didn’t happen all the time, nor always in the same spots. It was maddening. She would be sitting on her sofa or in her bed or at the dining table, then feel a sudden chill on her bare arms, cheeks, and neck. And the drafts followed a rhythm, starting and stopping for equal durations.


  Like someone was breathing on her.

  “I’m at my wit’s end,” Emma said to her sister on the phone.

  “It has to be coming from somewhere, Em. Unless you’re just imagining it.”

  “I’m not imagining it, Dee.”

  “Remember when mom and dad took us camping in the Adirondacks, and you thought there were ants crawling all over you?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  Emma didn’t blame her older sister for being skeptical. As a child, Emma had been prone to fantasizing about mythical worlds and fabled creatures and, yes, the occasional molestation by illusory insects. Dee, in contrast, had been solidly rooted in reality, never engaging in make-believe play. It was ironic then that Emma wound up in the law field, while Dee became a Lutheran minister. Theirs wasn’t an especially religious family—they’d been “holiday Christians” for the better part of Emma’s upbringing—but Dee believed the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit had called her. Emma still had a hard time visualizing her sister praising God and saving souls for a living, but she was proud of her regardless.

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” Dee replied.

  “My landlord doesn’t have a clue what’s up. Tells me he re-insulated the walls and installed energy-efficient windows, so there shouldn’t be any drafts. He couldn’t find any when he checked.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  Emma sighed, mulling it over.

  “You could come spend the night here, see for yourself that it’s real.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “I’ll have somebody to back me up when I talk to my landlord again. And maybe you can pinpoint where it’s coming from.”

  “If you couldn’t, what makes you think I’ll be able to?”

  “Please Dee. I need your help.”

  Dee acquiesced. They made plans for her to stay over Friday night and do brunch at the Olive Café on Saturday, Emma’s treat. When she hung up the phone, Emma felt a little better.

  She felt less scared.

  *****

  Mr. Gregori observed Emma with swelling, insatiable ardor. Each day he discovered something new about her that attracted and aroused him. These were strange yet welcome experiences for him, ones he had forgotten ages ago but now returned like a fresh breeze in a stuffy room.

  He had never married, as he was much too busy laboring to keep his restaurant afloat. Yet he was no flop with the ladies. Prior to the curse, his striking looks, natty dress and unwavering charisma grabbed the eye-batting attentions of many of the city’s most attractive women. Sometimes he would indulge them. But they were largely disposable things that seldom held his interest for long.

  None of them compared to Emma. Her porcelain doll face, ringleted golden hair, and moss green eyes seduced him.

  She walked with light, graceful steps, as if dancing some silent ballet. Her laugh was beautiful, buoyant music to his ears. Her voice sang even when she spoke, never turning raspy or shrill no matter her mood.

  She dressed fashionably, modestly, which made her act of undressing, of unveiling her flawlessly sculpted body, all the more exciting for him to see unseen. He drank in all of her, savoring every curve and cleft.

  She was a goddess, an angel, a divine vision.

  He yearned to be close to her… closer…

  But damned as he was, Mr. Gregori could never touch her, talk to her, tell her how much he loved her. And she would never be able to love him, nor even acknowledge his presence.

  It was the worst anguish he had yet endured.

  *****

  Emma often sensed she was being watched. This feeling accompanied the drafts—the breathing—and it unnerved her.

  She entertained the idea her apartment might be haunted, like the Doherty family’s bed & breakfast in her hometown. As a child, Emma had played throughout the historic house with their daughter Lily. Sometimes they saw hazy gray apparitions roaming the upstairs hall at dusk. They later learned the dwelling had once operated as an infirmary during the Civil War, where many soldiers perished from their wounds.

  Emma’s current landlord, however, insisted no deaths, tragic or otherwise, had ever occurred in her building. Old editions of the city newspaper she’d pored through at the library supported this. Miss Creighton, who had lived on the street for sixty-six years, told her the most terrible thing she remembered was when eight-year-old Wallace Becker three doors down used a blanket to parachute off the roof and broke near every bone in his body.

  Nevertheless, sometimes Emma would say out loud in her apartment, “Who’s there?” There was no answer, of course. She knew she was being silly.

  She hoped her sister would fix the draft problem, or at least ease her mind about it. She also considered asking Dee to bless her place. It couldn’t hurt.

  *****

  So Emma was aware of him! Why else would she ask who was there when nobody else but he was around?

  Elated as Mr. Gregori was by this revelation, he wasn’t certain what it could mean. Could he somehow breach the confines of his curse? Was there a way to reach her, to be with her, as lovers fated and true?

  He pondered this. He could try reciting the same invocation that had resulted in his plight, hope that he wouldn’t require the ritual accoutrements—the chalk pentagram, the black candles, his blood—and, if successful, persuade the demon to restore his flesh, even if he must surrender his very soul this time.

  Then he remembered how grotesque he was. That rancorous demon would not be so obliging to change him back into his handsome prior self, and the curse would only be made more grievous if he were to become corporeal again. No doubt Emma would be horrified by the sight of him. She would never love a monster.

  Still, if he could physically manifest himself, Gregori could fulfill other yearnings he had.

  If he must be a monster, he would behave like one.

  *****

  After they had gone out to dinner at the Mediterranean bistro on Addler Avenue, Emma’s sister inspected every window, door frame, and wall fixture in her apartment. Nothing could account for the drafts.

  “Maybe I was just imagining it,” Emma said, resigned to never resolving the mystery.

  “I’m not a professional repairman, so don’t take what I say as Gospel.”

  “Ha.”

  Her sister had a knack for cheering her up, as well as for championing her. In grammar school, when another girl pushed Emma into the mud, Dee mocked the bully’s frizzy ginger hair until she cried. In middle school, she made a boy eat a millipede after he put his gum in Emma’s ponytail. In high school, she used a Chemistry textbook to break the nose of a boy who called Emma a slut, earning herself a month suspension. That’s how it always was. Dee stood up for her, fought for her, protected her.

  Since becoming a woman of the cloth, she still looked out for her, albeit in a more saintly style, dispensing advice both practical and spiritual. While Emma may never get used to the clerical collar she wore, Dee was the same big sister she knew and trusted and loved.

  “If it keeps bothering you, you can always move out.”

  Emma huffed. “I just moved in.”

  Dee sat down on the sofa beside her. “So what do you want to do, Em?”

  “We can watch The Exorcist.”

  “That’s not really my type of movie.”

  “Oh.” Emma arched her eyebrow. “I’d have thought you guys would be quoting it all the time, like Monty Python.”

  “Not when the demon has the best dialogue.”

  Emma chuckled. “How about Monsters, Inc.?”

  “Sure. Got any popcorn?”

  Emma nodded. “Second shelf in the pantry.”

  “I’ll pop. You cue up the movie.”

  Dee headed into the kitchen. Emma plucked the DVD from the rack and loaded it into the player.

  *****

  The ritual failed this time. Maybe he did need all the bells and whistles. Maybe he spoke the words wrong. T
he tatty grimoire he had originally consulted—acquired from a self-professed warlock running an occult store on West 9th Street—was long gone from the apartment (not that he could grip it if it weren’t), and his memory of the invocation may well be faulty. Whatever the reason, no demon materialized. No deals could be struck. Mr. Gregori was stuck as he was.

  He was as close to Emma as he would ever be.

  It was not nearly close enough.

  Emma’s sister arrived. Gregori, too out of temper to be an invisible spectator, cloistered himself in the walk-in closet. He wanted to rip the clothes off the hangers, yank down the shelves, stomp on the boxes, punch holes in the walls. Anything to vent his frustration and fury. But he could do nothing. He couldn’t even hear himself roar from rage.

  So he mutely wept, a wretched unloved thing.

  After a while, Gregori peeked through the closet door. He could see Emma seated on the sofa, reading a magazine. Her stout, snorty sister had left the room.

  Emma looked so lovely, so luminous. So alone. He wished he could make her smile, laugh, bring her to ecstasy. She had never brought a lover home with her—how harrowing that would have been for Mr. Gregori! He’d often fantasized about being with her, in her.

  In her.

  He knew it wouldn’t be like the real thing, but perhaps it would gratify him more than his purely voyeuristic acts. He shuffled up to Emma. He hovered his clawed hand over her breast, then slid it through her sweater, through her skin, and into her heart. He watched her shiver. She draped a quilt around herself.