Collected Stories and Poems

by Joseph Payne Brennan

  I had exactly seven dollars in my worn wallet plus a few loose pennies in my pockets. My topcoat was threadbare and the stiff cardboard covering the holes in my shoes was thoroughly soaked. I had lost my job months before; I had been forced to give up my small but reasonably comfortable room. Luckily, I had managed to accumulate a little nest egg of fifty-odd dollars. By supplementing that with the proceeds of tireless trash-barrel scrounging (mostly nickels and dimes for cans and bottles), I had stayed unsteadily afloat.

  But now I was down to seven dollars. The trash barrels were iced over with sleet and my wet socks were literally on the ground. Hunger pangs twisted my gut; my feet were growing numb; night was coming on. It was too late in the year to curl up in an alley or under bushes in a park.

  The ripped awning was scarcely even an apology for a roof, but I left it reluctantly. Sleet raked my face like icy needles. After a block or two the numbness in my feet spread toward my knees.

  I passed one gaunt, trembling street dog who glanced up with faint momentary appeal, but not a single pedestrian came into sight.

  When I came abreast of the three-story brick tenement and saw the window sign reading Rooms. Five Dollars in Advance, I stopped. Five from seven left two and I needed food, but I felt that I had no choice.

  I went up the ice-covered steps of a small wooden porch and rang the bell.

  After I thought I might freeze to death on the porch, the frayed yellow curtain behind the top glass panel in the door was jerked aside. A wrinkled female face stared suspiciously out at me.

  I lifted my disreputable canvas hat and forced a smile onto my frigid face. I suppose it came out a grimace, because a quick scowl spread over the wrinkled countenance beyond the yellow curtain. Surprisingly, however, the door inched open. A cold eye stared out at me, a nearly colorless eye, bleak and without pity.

  As casually as possible, I said that I would like to look at a room.

  The door opened wider. "Five dollars a day in advance. You can stay the night and through t'morra. Leave by six sharp or it's another five dollars. No noise, no trouble, or out you go."

  I took an instant dislike to the hard-eyed harridan, but the sleet-laden wind was sweeping down the street with increasing force and my feet had gone entirely numb.

  I followed the creature up a dimly lit flight of stairs on which the carpeting had been worn straight through to the wood. The house seemed warm in contrast to the outside, but it was drafty and actually only half-heated. A disagreeable odor filled the stale air. Far off in the house someone coughed steadily; otherwise there was silence.

  Limping, the grim-faced landlady led me a short distance along a darkened hallway and opened a door.

  The room, like its owner, looked coldly inhospitable: a brass bed, one chair, a battered dresser with one missing drawer. There was a half-drawn shade on the one small curtainless window. Greyish green paint had been plastered over wallpaper which was beginning to crack. One diminutive braided rug, badly raveled, lay in front of the bed. A dusty mirror hung above the dresser; otherwise the walls were bare. A naked low-watt light bulb dangled from the center of the ceiling.

  Mechanically, I reached for my worn wallet and handed over my last five-dollar bill.

  A quick, bony hand closed on it. "I'm Mrs. Clendon. Bath's two doors down, left." She started to leave and then turned. "Yer name . . .?"

  I didn't want to tell her my name. I'm not sure why. But of course, I did.

  "Melson. William Melson."

  With a half nod she left, closing the door behind her.

  I took off my wet shoes and stretched out on the bed's tattered grey counterpane. A weak current of warm air seeped into the room through a tiny baseboard vent. It was enough to keep me from perishing from cold, but not much more than that.

  After I had rested a few minutes, I got up, shivering, and explored the dreary little cubicle. The closet contained nothing save a few bent clothes hangers. The dresser drawers yielded two paper clips, one nail, and a stale milk cracker wrapped in tissue paper.

  I went to the window and looked out. Sleet hammered the filmed-over pane with increased intensity. The storm was getting worse and now it was nearly dark.

  Cold and exhausted as I was, I could not bring myself to go out again. I decided I could get through the night without actually starving to death.

  I ventured down the hall to the bathroom, a freezing, clammy little cubicle complete with cracked sink and antiquated slate tub, and returned to my room carrying water in a used paper cup.

  Supper consisted of the stale milk cracker, chewed very deliberately, and water, swallowed very slowly. It wasn't much, but it gave my stomach a little to work on besides its own lining.

  After this banquet I undressed and got into bed. The blankets were thin and patched, but within recent weeks I had slept in far worse circumstances.

  Although I ached with fatigue, I had trouble getting to sleep. Somewhere in the far depths of the house an occupant coughed and moaned continuously. When I finally fell asleep, I experienced vague but disturbing dreams. In my incipient nightmare the coughing and the moans seemed to emanate from all quarters of the house, an escalating, somehow menacing, wave of sound.

  I awoke abruptly and sat up. The room was like a grave—pitch dark, cold, and silent.

  I lay down again but sleep eluded me. Once I heard boards creak in the hall and thought someone had stopped outside my door. I was totally unable to recall whether or not I had turned the key.

  I lay filled with apprehension until anger—anger at myself—overcame everything else. I got out of bed, crossed the room, and tried the key. The door was locked. I thought I heard someone shuffling off down the hall, but perhaps it was merely my imagination.

  I went back to bed, but I remained awake until a semblance of grey light filtered through the filmy window. At that point I fell into a brief but dreamless sleep.

  I awoke cold and ravenous but somewhat rested. Although sleet no longer struck the window, the morning remained grey and sunless. Wind rattled a loose shutter.

  I dressed hastily, shivering. My damp, stiffened shoes pinched my feet as I stood up in them. I hated the prospect of tramping the windy, ice-covered streets, but I was getting weak with hunger.

  I locked my room and went down the stairs. The house was silent. Every door I passed was closed.

  I thought I had grown accustomed to rundown neighborhoods, derelict buildings, and neglected streets, but I found myself unusually depressed as I hunched along buffeted by the wind. Once I slipped on the icy walk and went to my hands and knees but, luckily, sustained no noticeable damage.

  I still had two dollars firmly buttoned in the one good pocket of my tattered coat. Under the circumstances, its importance became magnified. I could get hot coffee, biscuits or toast, and possibly an egg. I didn't care to look ahead any further than that.

  I was beginning to believe that the whole dismal area held not a single diner or restaurant when I saw a small sign: Eats. The place did not look prepossessing but neither did I. I went in and sat down at a counter stool, sighing gratefully. My feet felt frozen and my legs ached. Eats was a good ten blocks from Mrs. Clendon's clammy establishment.

  An undersized man, black-haired and frowning, came down the counter. One other customer sat quietly a few stools away.

  After carefully toting up the menu's total in my head, I ordered coffee, toast, and two soft-boiled eggs.

  I could have eaten the breakfast three times over, but when it was paid for, only fifteen cents remained.

  The scowling, undersized man watched intently as I picked up the fifteen cents. I shrugged inwardly. With the few loose pennies I could pick out of my pockets, I might buy another cup of coffee later in the day.

  I started to leave, but remembering the soaked pasteboard inserts in my shoes, returned to the counter.

  "Sir, would you have a small cardboard carton you could spare?"

  Surprisingly, the small man grinned at me. "Soles gettin
' thin, hah?"

  I nodded. "So thin they aren't there!"

  He gestured toward the rear of the room. "There's a storeroom back there. Lots of empties. Take what you want."

  I found a couple of sturdy shoe-box-size containers in the littered room and tucked them under my arm. As I came out, I saw that my benefactor was standing in the doorway watching me.

  "Up against it, hah?"

  "That's for sure. Come six o'clock I'm back on the street for the night."

  He studied my face. "You look honest. You want to earn a buck maybe?"

  I set down the boxes carefully. "No maybe. You name it."

  Two customers strolled in and sat down. He glanced out at them. "Sit down at the end of the counter. You can have another coffee on the house."

  After the customers were served, he brought me a cup of coffee and leaned across the counter.

  "I need somebody to clean up a little. And sometimes I go out for an hour in the afternoon. You wouldn't need to come in till eleven. Three dollars a day—under the counter!" He grinned at his little joke.

  I accepted at once but added that I'd be happy to come in at opening time and stay till five-thirty—for a trifle more.

  "How much more?"

  I hesitated. "Well, five dollars—plus coffee and a sandwich or something."

  He stood scowling, as if my suggestion infuriated him. When I decided all was lost, he grinned again.

  "OK, we'll try it. But no shenanigans—or out you go!"

  Triumphantly, I trudged back toward Mrs. Clendon's rooming house. I was to report to Eats at 6 A.M. and remain until 5:30 P.M. Mr. Karda, the scowling but apparently amiable owner, promised I could have coffee and sandwiches "on the house" after the lunch-time crowd thinned out. I would be required to sweep, scrub, wash and stack dishes, clear the counter, clean the coffee machine, etc. In the slow hours of the afternoon I might be required to fill in for Mr. Karda during his absence of an hour or so. I would be paid my five dollars daily before leaving at five-thirty.

  Giddy with my good luck, I was back in my room before I remembered Mrs. Clendon's terms: "Leave by six sharp or it's another five dollars."

  Sighing, I trekked down the stairs and sought out the charmer. The cold, sparsely furnished first floor appeared to be uninhabited. I wandered through darkened rooms, down icy corridors, calling out "Mrs. Clendon!" but there was no reply.

  As I was about to return up the stairs, I heard the sliding sound of a bolt and the rattle of a chain. "Who's there?" someone called.

  A sliver of light directed me to a door set almost under the staircase, a door I had passed without a second thought, assuming it was a closet or storeroom of some kind.

  Mrs. Clendon's accusing eyes stared out at me. The door, ajar only inches, appeared to be studded with a glistening array of chains, locks, and alarm devices.

  Behind the ill temper and impatience in those implacable eyes, I read something else—fear.

  I explained my situation, promising that while I could not have the five dollars at six o'clock, I would definitely have it the next day.

  The harsh voice was uncompromising. "Five dollars by six or you leave!" The door slammed. Chains rattled; bolts slid home.

  Well, there was nothing for it. Cursing and shivering, I wended my freezing way back to Eats and asked Mr. Karda for the loan of five dollars "on account."

  Understandably, Mr. Karda hesitated. The upshot of it was that I was told to take off my coat and get to work. Actually, I didn't mind. It was relatively warm in the small place. I dutifully swept, scrubbed, and scraped. During the afternoon I was allowed coffee and two ham-on-rye sandwiches. I was permitted to leave at five-thirty with five dollars, the understanding being that I had earned only three and that I owed Mr. Karda two.

  At two minutes to six I knocked on Mrs. Clendon's door. After I had identified myself, and following a great rasping of bolts, clicking of catches, and clattering of chains, the door inched open.

  I slid the five-dollar bill through the crack.

  My payment was acknowledged with a nod. The grim eyes surveyed me. "Come a little earlier next time, Mr. Melson." The door closed.

  Again, however, I read fear in those faded eyes. I shrugged wearily and went up the stairs. Probably, I reflected, the house had been burglarized a number of times, or possibly Mrs. Clendon had been injured by an intruder. Beyond that, anyone who operates a rooming house in a rundown neighborhood would at least occasionally encounter difficult customers. Well, it was no concern of mine.

  I fell into bed trying to decide whether I was more tired than famished. Sleep soon decided the wearisome issue.

  I'm not sure exactly how long I slept. About four hours, I estimated. I awoke suddenly, alert and apprehensive. Though the room remained cold, the air was peculiarly oppressive. It was not that it was merely stale; it seemed almost septic. In spite of the freezing weather, I was tempted to open the window.

  I sat up, listening. From far areas of the house, I heard a continuous coughing, moans, and a kind of half-suppressed but frantic wailing. The sounds, though muted and at times intermingled, were unmistakable. It was no use for me to assure myself that it was only the wind, rattling loose shingles or sighing around outside the house.

  I shoved the pillow back against the headboard, drew up my knees, and pulled the bedclothes around my shoulders.

  What kind of a rooming house had I stumbled into? Was Mrs. Clendon running some kind of unlicensed home for the sick and dying? What human wrecks were shut away behind those closed doors along the corridor?

  At intervals the disturbing sounds ebbed away into near silence, but every time I was about to slide back down and attempt sleep, they began again.

  What I found especially puzzling was that I could not definitely place any one sound in any specific part of the house. I could not say for certain that a nasty, rasping cough came from across the corridor, nor that an intermittent groaning gasp had its origin in the cold and darkened rooms below. The strangely subdued but persistent cacophony appeared to emanate from different areas of the house, merging, shifting, at times swelling in volume, and then again fading away into a kind of febrile muttering.

  As I crouched uncomfortably in the darkness, I finally came to the bizarre conclusion that I was lying in a pesthouse packed with the infirm and expiring, that the very walls of the building groaned with the grisly burdens which they hid.

  At length, from utter mental exhaustion, if nothing else, I dozed off.

  At once, frightening dreams took over my weary brain. Something hideous, something ultimately indescribable, stalked the stale corridors of the house. It moved ponderously from door to door, seeking mine. It was turning the knob when I awoke with a scream.

  The wild pounding of my heart subsided as I saw that the door remained closed and that weak grey morning light was diluting the darkness.

  After dressing hastily I walked down the worn stairs to the street door. The whole house was silent. Not a soul was in sight.

  The cold had lessened a little, but I still shivered as I walked along.

  Mr. Karda surveyed me with misgivings. "You been up all night?"

  I shook my head. "No. Didn't sleep well. Nightmares."

  The day seemed interminable, but as I worked, I consoled myself with the thought that at least I was warm and that I would have something to eat by midafternoon. Somewhat grudgingly, Karda had given me free coffee and toast for breakfast, but by lunch time I could have eaten boiled elephant ears.

  Soup, sandwiches, and coffee at 3 P.M. revived me briefly; by five-thirty, however, I was exhausted. Gratefully, I accepted my five dollars and left.

  A freezing rain was falling. In spite of my fatigue, I experienced a feeling of desolation as I approached Mrs. Clendon's rooming house. Well, at least it was a roof and a bed, I told myself. It would be an endless, miserable night for unfortunates huddled in doorways or crouched under highway bridges.

  After the customary clatter and bang of bo
lts and chains, Mrs. Clendon extended a skinny hand for my five dollars. She merely nodded and shot the bolts again.

  Sighing, I tramped up the stairs and sat on my bed. Although I was paying for my room, and eating enough to keep from starving to death, my situation remained precarious. After I paid Mrs. Clendon, not one cent remained in my possession. My clothes were disintegrating. The fresh pasteboard in my shoes was already mushy with moisture.

  Pondering the price of new shoes, I stretched out on the bed. I must have dropped off to sleep within minutes. Just before exhaustion overcame me, I thought I heard a doorbell ringing and, later, the closing of a door.

  Again my sleep was invaded by vile and frightening dreams. Moans, rattling coughs, sighs, and wails seemed to issue from all parts of the house. Abruptly, this discordant concert was succeeded by absolute silence.

  After a short interval, something began shuffling, or sliding, down the corridor. As it moved, or breathed, it made a sound I find difficult to describe—a kind of weird, whistling bleat, almost a muffled scream, compounded of both agony and rage. It seemed as if every groan and sigh, every wail and whimper, which arose from inside the house, was somehow gathered together in that ghastly concentrated cry.

  As before, I awoke with a wildly hammering heart and sat up in bed.

  I listened. Something was moving down the hall, something that advanced slowly, gasping and wheezing. When it stopped, I was sure that it stood just outside my door.

  As I crouched, petrified, I could hear an irregular breathing, an erratic breathing punctuated by rales. While I was staring through the darkness toward the door, whatever it was outside gave vent to a hair-raising squeal, whether of pain or fury, or both, I could not be sure. It was the most frightening sound I had ever heard.

  While I waited, half expecting the door to crash inward, the shuffling, sliding sound resumed. Gradually, it grew fainter. I thought, or imagined, that whatever was prowling the corridor had reached the head of the stairs and started down, but I could not be sure.

  I lay listening, filled with apprehension, but the shambler in the hall did not return. Even after silence settled down, I remained awake, feverish with fearful speculations. Just before dawn I dozed for a few minutes.