Camp Arcanum

by Josef Matulich

  “Okay, Al. Okay.” Marc just played along to get along. “I’ve got to take care of something.”

  Marc turned away from his brother.

  He was instantly at the graveside where his mother's coffin sat on mechanical lifts. The pile of excavated earth beside the grave was covered with a blanket of Astroturf, as if that would disguise it. Marc was alone there, either too early or too late for the last ceremony.

  Marc stepped towards the grave, closer to the silver-bullet coffin and the mound of dying flowers that covered it. With a lurch, the coffin lowered itself into the grave and disappeared in seconds, as if his mother was deserting him once again.

  Marc stepped cautiously to the edge of the grave and looked down. There was no coffin now. The grave was empty except for the mud and water at the bottom. Snakes wriggled out of the earth walls to splash into the pool below. Water flowed down from the walls like blood out of open wounds. The water level rose and the hole swiftly filled with dirty water and writhing snakes.

  Marc watched, transfixed, until the grave overflowed. He stepped backwards only when the snakes spilled over the top and squirmed over the grass towards him.

  A flash of movement between headstones drew Marc’s attention away. It was Allen, wild-haired and wild-eyed. He watched at a distance in the shadow of a stone angel, then turned and ran like a startled deer. Marc could only track a green-and-brown flash between the stone markers.

  Marc picked his way around the pit of mud and serpents, keeping one eye on that green flash. He sprinted between the stones and cut across graves to catch up. Marc had a twinge of fear, like he was trespassing in the realms of the dead. Even if they rose up screaming from their graves, clawing at him as he passed, he would simply kick them in the teeth and keep running. He had to catch his brother, save him.

  Just twenty yards away, Marc saw Allen disappear behind a mausoleum. Without a pause, he pursued his older brother into the shadows.

  Marc found himself on a familiar street. This was one of the darkest parts of Pittsburgh; only one in three streetlights were lit in this corner of the rat hole. There was sporadic traffic on the street, but the drivers locked and sealed themselves in. A handful of people were out on foot tonight. In groups of two and three, they watched everything and saw nothing. As Marc emerged into the jaundiced sodium light, the locals backed into the cracks between the buildings and eyed him cautiously.

  Allen stood about a hundred yards away at the mouth of an alley. A stiff wind blew trash out of the alley, across Allen’s legs and down the street. Allen tensed as he spotted Marc and then bolted into the alley without a sound.

  Marc’s guts twisted when he saw that. Someone like Allen would last about five minutes in this neighborhood. He sprinted after his brother, swearing he wouldn’t let his brother die on his watch.

  The alley was a fetid pit, filled with crates, cans, and dumpsters that over-flowed with filth. An oily stream of wastewater flowed down its center.

  Winded from the run, just a little bit panicked, Marc picked his way through the trash spilled from a diner’s garbage cans. He called for Allen in a hoarse whisper, listening in the silences between. Marc heard a low, pained moan. Allen was close but still invisible.

  Marc picked up his pace through the debris. He had no patience for obstacles now. He pitched boxes and trashcans out of his way. Finally, Marc saw Allen’s legs extended out of the space between two dumpsters. He rushed over and knelt beside his brother.

  “Hey, Big Bro,” he murmured soothingly. “I’ve got ya now. I’ll get you all fixed up.”

  As Marc helped him up out of the slime on the bricks, he saw the full extent of the damage. Allen had been beaten badly. His face was bruised purple-black and yellow. One eye was nearly swollen shut; his lower lip was swollen and split. His funeral shirt was covered with dried blood and vomit.

  Marc turned his face away, frustrated nearly to the point of tears. How the Hell was he going to protect Allen from this? He was always running from the invisible assassins, right into somebody else’s fist.

  He stood to see if there was any chance of help. There were no lit windows in the buildings on either side of the alley. The street at its mouth was empty, dark and getting darker. No one here to do this but Marc. He knelt back down.

  Allen wasn’t there anymore. A weathered old man with long yellow-white hair sat in his place. The old man’s face was ruddy and veined from exposure. Black grime filled his pores and wrinkles. He grimaced at Marc and shrugged him off with angry grunts and feeble punches. The wreck curled in on himself, wrapping his arms tight around his body. Marc couldn’t stand the grunting noises.

  Marc stood and looked both ways down the alley. He’d lost his brother when his mother had been counting on him. He called Allen’s name with little hope.

  There was nothing at the far end of the alley except for more shadows that seemed to be moving closer. Looking up, Marc could no longer see the tops of the buildings. It was all closing in.

  Marc could feel there was someone behind him. More than anything, he didn’t want to see who it was, because he knew already. He did turn, though, as if spun on a turntable.

  Allen was hanging from a rope made of bed sheets. A badly made noose cinched tight around his neck. His features were swollen and twisted, his neck bent crooked. His limbs dangled limply as he slowly twisted. Allen’s pajama bottoms were stained from the moment when his bowels and bladder released.

  The corpse’s hand made a casual wave as Allen’s voice came from motionless lips:

  “Hey, Marky!” his dead brother said. “How’s it hanging?”

  * * * * *

  Marc moaned and twisted in his bed. As his eyes snapped open, he rolled over and looked over at his night stand. The skull ring, its red eyes twinkling in the dim light, stared back at him. The clock behind it read three a.m.

  Marc rolled the other way and glanced out his window. Shadowy creatures the size of cats stared in at him with red, glowing eyes.

  Am I still dreaming, but dreaming that I’m awake?

  Marc rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  When he looked out the window again, the shadows were gone. He looked back at the clock and then the ring.

  “Rat’s fucking ass,” he muttered.

  Marc threw off his covers and rolled out of bed. Stark naked, he snatched the ring and tromped through his debris-strewn trailer to the kitchen.

  He grabbed an oversized spoon from the sink. Marc normally believed in the right tool for the right job, but he had done loads of gardening with silverware as a kid. Marc snatched the door open and strode out into the night.

  He walked briskly across the gravel drive to the exposed earth in front of the tool shed.

  He kneeled and dug an untidy hole, six inches deep. He was about to drop the ring into the hole when he paused and smiled.

  “God, she’s good,” Marc said to himself. He was overwhelmed with admiration for Musetta’s masterful performance. “Full song and dance, power of suggestion, and all of sudden I’m playing Grimm’s Fairy Tales.” Marc stood up shaking his head. “Sorry, Musetta, I’m not playing tonight.”

  Marc lobbed the ring into the forest and dusted off his hands. Then he realized that he was standing naked in weather about as cold as the vegetable drawer in his fridge. The ground felt freezing beneath his feet. Marc turned to make a quick retreat to his trailer.

  He made about three steps before he saw Michael and another young man sitting on the steps of Michael’s trailer.

  He could see their every detail in the sickly yellow light of the sodium lamp. The stranger was a frail twenty-something with red- and blonde-streaked hair and Betty Page pin-up tattoos on his arms. He was wearing only plaid boxers and the bottle of beer in his hand. Michael was wearing a white terry bathrobe and held a wine cooler. They were both staring at Marc with curious and bemused expressions.

  Marc’s first impulse was to cover himself with the spoon and his hand moved an inch in that d
irection by reflex. That would have made him look even more ridiculous. Marc decided to brazen it out and strolled over to them.

  “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” he offered.

  “So far, yes,” Michael replied.

  He seemed more content than Marc had seen him in months. The other guy seemed pretty happy, too. He also seemed strangely familiar to Marc.

  “Eleazar isn’t back from his date?” Small talk seemed to be his best choice at the moment.

  “I’m expecting him back around five-thirty,” Michael said. “Something about a husband working night shift.”

  Marc shook his head. “If he gets shot before this project is finished, he and I will have angry words over his hospital bed.”

  The stranger chuckled.

  Marc switched the spoon to his left hand and extended his hand.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Marc.”

  The new guy put down his bottle and shook hands.

  “Glad to meet you,” he said. “Mike’s told me all about you.”

  Marc could see him looking his naked body over head to toe, though he was trying to be subtle about it. Now, he remembered where he had seen this guy before: the stranger in the park, the first day they came to Arcanum.

  “Mike?” He never heard Michael answer to a nickname before.

  “Oh, sorry,” Michael said. “This is Lance.”

  Michael shrugged with an embarrassed smile.

  Marc wondered if “Lance” was his given name, a stage name, or a job description. If it kept Michael calm and happy, Marc really didn't care what these two did in the next trailer over, but he didn't have to stand there in cold and chew the fat while he froze off his best friend. “Well, it’s time for me to go back to bed. It’s been fun.”

  “Marc?” Michael asked.

  “Hmm?” Marc tried to exude non chalance.

  “What were you doing over there?” Michael asked.

  “New moon,” Marc said, pointing to the heavens with his spoon. “Perfect time to plant potatoes.”

  “So you’re planting potatoes here?”

  “No,” said Marc, “jewelry.”

  “Why?”

  “If you have to ask," said Marc, "you’ve obviously haven’t been in Arcanum long enough.”

  Marc turned and quickly retreated to his trailer with what remained of his dignity.

  Chapter 6

  A Report of Scary Trees

  THE SOUND OF AN APPROACHING CAR, ill-tuned and loosely joined, invaded Marc’s sleep. It irritated his mechanic’s sensibilities on a subconscious level, but it wasn’t enough to goad him out of bed after only a few hours of sleep. He rolled more tightly into his cocoon of blankets to retreat from the world.

  There was a polite knock on the door some time later. Since it wasn’t the kind of knock made by men with guns, Marc roused enough to grasp his pillow with both hands and bury his head beneath it.

  The second knock was slightly louder and more forceful. Though Marc was still hidden under his pillow, his eyes were wide open in the dark. He remained motionless, choosing to wait out the intruder while cursing them silently.

  The third knock was definitely insistent. Whoever was at the door was not leaving without encouragement. This especially infuriated him since the only two people it could be were employees of his. Marc threw the blankets to one side. The pillow disappeared off the far end of the bed. Still naked, he stumped out of bed and wove his way through the debris on the floor. He kicked away a stack of magazines and pushed past the half-assembled chainsaw on his kitchenette table. He was seething by the time he threw open the trailer door.

  “Somebody’s head had better be on fire for all the noise you’re . . .” Marc cut his rant off sharply when he saw Brenwyn standing on his front step. She held a carved wooden box in both her hands like an offering. Her expression was controlled, with only a hint of a smile as she gave Marc the same head to toe assessment Lance had the night before.

  “So, were you expecting me?”

  Though Marc was barely awake, his best friend down south was fully alert and pretty much at Brenwyn’s eye level. Marc dove for cover behind the door.

  “Rat’s ass!” It was the closest thing to a rational statement he could make at the moment.

  “Pardon me?” said Brenwyn sweetly.

  Marc gathered his thoughts shortly. “I said: ‘Could you give me a moment to get dressed?’”

  “That is what I thought you said,” Brenwyn said. “Go ahead. I am sure you are feeling the cold.”

  Marc slipped around the door, pushing it half closed as he went. Marc took only a few quick steps before he had the sensation of being watched. He could have sworn Brenwyn was taking the opportunity to catch a peek at his ass, but there was no one at the door. He double-timed it through the bachelor minefield to his bed.

  “So, what brings you to Camp Arcanum this fine morning?” he called out as pulled on a dirty black tee and black jeans from the floor. He’d worry about socks and boxers later.

  “Afternoon,” Brenwyn called back.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Afternoon,” she said firmly. “It is after one already.”

  Marc picked up his clock from the bedside table and was amazed to see it read: “one twenty-nine p.m.”

  “So it is,” Marc said. “Anyway . . . ?”

  “Well, I hope I am not making a pest of myself,” said Brenwyn in the tone of someone who knew she was always welcome, “but we never got around to exchanging phone numbers, and the marathon is tonight.”

  “Oh,” said Marc, momentarily stunned. “I forgot.”

  “You will still be able to come tonight?” Brenwyn sounded politely concerned.

  “I thought all of Arcanum knew my schedule,” Marc said with a twinge of annoyance.

  “It is not your schedule that I am worried about,” she said.

  Marc tucked in his shirt and returned to the trailer door. As he held the door for her, Brenwyn brushed close past him, her skirts making a secretive, rustling noise. He could smell her perfume then, a mixture of patchouli and herbal oils.

  “I would love to escort you to the movies.” Marc tried to sound as gallant as Eleazar usually did. “Will I do?”

  “Always dashing,” Brenwyn said, as she made perfunctory preening motions at his tousled hair, “but your hair looks a little too . . . windswept for a social event.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Marc backed into the kitchen and waved her on. “Come in, make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” Brenwyn stepped from the entry way into the ten square feet that was his dining room. The metal bangles on her belt jingled with every step. Her progress to the couch was impeded by the stacks of magazines and machine parts that littered the floor.

  “Quite some . . . reading list . . . you have on the floor.” She nudged aside a stack of Renaissance, Soldier of Fortune, and Popular Mechanics with the side of her boot. She settled herself on the couch and set her skirts around her.

  “Thank you. A boy does his best to keep up.” Marc retreated to the bathroom to make himself presentable.

  “I need to watch the shop for a few hours this afternoon,” Brenwyn called. “I was thinking I could pick you up afterwards.”

  “Was that your car I heard pulling up?” he asked.

  Marc normally preferred to drive himself, but for Brenwyn he was willing to be flexible. On the other hand, he’d seen Brenwyn’s car up close. Not only was it old enough to vote in people years, in car years it was nearing the age for forced retirement.

  “Yes.” She sounded as poised as a queen.

  Marc emerged from the bathroom, properly combed, brushed, and flossed. Thanks to his special electric razor from the days of Miami Vice, he still had three-days’ worth of beard.

  “Why don’t I pick you up?” he said.

  “You offend my car,” Brenwyn responded in feigned outrage. “Could you accept a compromise and meet me at the shop? It is three doors down from the theater.”
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  Marc nodded his agreement and Brenwyn beamed. He felt this was going almost too well.

  “And when will I show up,” Marc asked, “according to your amazing occult powers?”

  If Brenwyn was offended by his jibe, it didn’t show.

  “I shall say seven-thirty,” she said, “and I predict that you will arrive at seven-twenty-eight and forty-seven seconds—just to be punctual.”

  Marc strolled over to join Brenwyn in his minuscule dining room and leaned against the edge of the table. Now that they were finally in the same room together, and he was actually dressed, he had a chance to look into Brenwyn’s eyes. They were a pale violet, the color of the amethyst.

  He felt a definite spark pass between him and Brenwyn in that moment. It seemed to light her face. Then, for some reason, the light went out, and Brenwyn looked away in evident distress.

  “What?” Marc asked. “You’d prefer I was fashionably late?”

  “I heard you did something very stupid,” Brenwyn said.

  “You’ll have to be specific. I’m a guy.”

  “You were at Musetta’s shop yesterday.”

  His breath stopped short at that. He suspected he was under surveillance since coming to Arcanum, but he still was uncomfortable when the evidence slapped him in the face.

  “Oh, that,” he said casually.

  “Michael tells me you have been planting jewelry by the Old Farmer’s Almanac,” Brenwyn continued.

  “That ring just didn’t go with anything in my wardrobe,” Marc said with a wave of his hand.

  “The more that you are disturbed, the more you joke to disguise it,” she pointed out. “That little trinket must have unlocked something very traumatic.”

  Marc exhaled. Last night’s nightmare was the worst replay he’d had in years. He certainly didn’t want to share that with her.

  “I won’t go into details,” he said, “but it was even scarier than having Michael and his new boyfriend see me naked.”