Manhattan Grimoire

by Sandy DeLuca

  “Nothing makes sense.”

  Allie’s words ring in my head.

  Don’t give Mojo the art I made. It’s not his. If you do I’ll never be beautiful again.

  Daniel doesn’t answer me. He turns a page, finds another picture of Mojo. A young white man stands next to him and they’re shaking hands, smiling. An array of strange African masks hangs on a wall behind them, and both men wear turn of the century clothing. The other man is someone I recognize immediately, the man who I’ve lived with for months and the man who left me without a word a night ago. Or was it two nights ago now—a lifetime maybe—time seems to be losing all meaning in the storm.

  “Tony,” I say in a tiny voice.

  “Anthony Marandacci, son of a don from back in the day. He studied with DeCanne, defied his father. The Mojo man supposedly took him under his wing and taught him all his darkest secrets. Marandacci was a punk nonetheless, and he was killed in a bar fight. People say his own father’s people got to him. Story goes DeCanne captured Anthony’s soul with some heebie-jeebie before he took up permanent residence in Hell. People say sometimes Anthony and DeCanne still work together as a team from the beyond.”

  “It can’t be. Tony was my boyfriend. I thought I loved him.”

  “What?”

  “Tony,” I tell him again, the sound of his name strange on my tongue, “I know him. He lived with me up until—”

  “What the fuck, Gina? This guy’s dead. They’re both dead. All the stories are bogus, they’re stupid Halloween stories designed to scare kids.”

  “He lived with me until a few days ago,” I tell him evenly. “I’m not lying to you, Daniel.”

  He sighs heavily. “I’m not saying you’re lying.”

  “He still holds a key in all this.” My eyes dart to the door. The deadbolts are fastened, but can’t bad magic break through bolted doors?

  Daniel lays the book at his side. “Look, my Grandma believed, OK? I grew up listening to her, but once I got out of the house, got to college then joined the force I took what she said with a grain of salt. I held her hand as she died, you know. She told me she saw good things around me, but one day evil would challenge me.” He thinks for a moment then waves his hand. “I loved her, and she meant well, but it’s all crazy superstition.”

  “Stop lying to yourself. You believed once and this whole thing is making you remember what your Grandmother taught you. I know it. I feel it.”

  He waves his hand again, as if to knock my words from the air. “Get some sleep. I’ll stay up until morning, keep trying the phones. Something’s got to give by first light.”

  I lay my head on his shoulder without speaking, and he puts his arm around me.

  I fall asleep dreaming of Allie.

  She sits on her bed like she did as a child, surrounded by paper and paint. She works feverishly, as if fearful lightning might strike her at any moment and rob her of the opportunity to leave some piece of her soul behind.

  “I touch God when I do this,” she says without looking at me, focused instead on a miniature piece of art she’s working on. “It’s the only time I feel good.”

  I watch as her fingers and hands move rapidly.

  “I’ve pasted Mojo’s words on watercolor paper,” she tells me. “It’s the only way you’ll figure it out.”

  Yellowed pages materialize and float above her head. When I return my gaze to her, I notice blood on her bed sheet.

  Realizing I’ve seen it, she gazes up at me. “When Mojo fucks me he makes me bleed. Sometimes it lasts for days.”

  I stare at her numbly.

  “We met at a dump on the lower West Side last time I saw him,” she says. “We fucked for hours with the curtains wide open so people in the next building could see. He left me there, didn’t even kiss me goodbye. The blood wouldn’t stop that night. It hurt so bad between my legs I thought I was going to die that night, alone in a whore hotel with roaches crawling up the walls, with a grimy desk clerk blasting his radio so loud the sound carried up three flights. I never knew what real loneliness was until then. Then I thought about all the people who die in this city every day, alone and forgotten, and realized they knew what it was too.”

  “You should have called me,” I tell her.

  “No, the demons in the lobby would have stopped you. I had to wait until dawn, until they went back to their hole under the bridge. Mojo’s followers look out for shit like that, you know.”

  I’m about to ask her more about it when a gush of blood pours from between her legs. “Jesus, Allie, you’re bleeding, you…”

  She glances down as if mildly annoyed. “It stings,” she says flatly. “I swear, it feels like he did me with a knife. But he’s just an animal, a devil back from the dead.”

  “Allie, come home to me.”

  “Can’t, gotta keep moving. And so do you. He’s coming for you.”

  “Why Allie, why is he coming for me? What does he want with me?”

  “I left his secret with you.” She begins to cry and paint with her own blood, strange symbols, portraits of Tony and Mojo in a dark city.

  “Tony’s one of his followers, isn’t he?” I ask softly.

  She nods. “At least he didn’t make you bleed. At least he spared you that.”

  “I’m so sorry, I—Allie, what do I do, how do I stop DeCanne?”

  “You’re the only one—” Blood spurts from her mouth, runs out over her bottom lip and she gags, coughs, spraying even more onto the bed. “This is a dream,” she says, eyes sad and distant now, voice gurgling with blood. “I’m a dream.”

  The snow comes down hard. I stand there helplessly and watch as it buries my sister, silencing her.

  As the curtains of snow part, I find myself on the corner of West Broadway and Prince.

  A dark figure comes toward me, his black cape spread out behind him like wings. Footsteps echo on the city walk and Mojo’s dead face is suddenly illuminated, gleaming beneath a street lamp. “Give me back my spell, bitch.” His voice sounds as if he’s swallowed broken glass. “You think you’ve seen slaughter, you think you’ve seen death? I’ll bring you straight to Hell. Give it back!”

  His hand reaches for me and I am jolted awake as pipes rattle in the apartment.

  Daniel, still next to me, sighs deeply. “Sleep, girl,” he whispers.

  I drift away. Maybe I was never fully awake, I can’t be sure, but in my dreams I hear snow pummeling windows, wind rattling glass and the house creaking and settling against the wind’s constant assault. I hear Daniel breathe again and feel him shift position as his arm tightens around me, and I wonder if in dreams we’re all dead and trapped in Mojo DeCanne’s never-ending Hell.

  22

  It’s still dark. All is silent but for the groans of the old building. It’s a pre-war structure, with high ceilings, large rooms, hardwood floors, crown moldings and thick firewalls between apartments, one of many in this city, built before World War II. Lots of people consider buildings like this charming, but it gets creepy sometimes. Noises, strange smells and odd shadows are abundant. Only the first three floors are occupied. Frankie told me the other floors were closed, cordoned off a dozen years ago. He said he wasn’t allowed up there and it’s a mystery why, only the owner knows the secret. The rental agreement here was a steal and I never quite understood why the mysterious owner chose to keep most of the building empty and to charge such low rent.

  I came upon this place quite by accident. I was searching the Internet for Manhattan rentals, never thinking I could find a place I could afford, when I happened upon a website called Decker Rentals. This was the only building advertised. The ad said the building was “in need of special tenants.” Twelve-fifty for a large bedroom, kitchen, living room, bath and studio is a phenomenal price in lower Manhattan, and I figured it was just a huge come-on, but I entered my email address and phone number and waited to see what happened.

  By the following day I had an appointment to see the place. Expecting to be co
ntacted by a smooth-talking mob type with slicked-back hair and a gold chip in his front tooth, I instead met with an agent named Tressie Manetti, a tall redhead with long curling fingernails, a penchant for smoking extra-long cigarettes and a large smile. And rather than a rundown, rat-infested dump that stunk to high heaven, I was surprised to find a really nice space I could see myself living in. After Tressie had shown me the place, I asked her what the catch was. “Is there running water? Does the plumbing work? Do drug dealers live next door? What’s the problem? Come on, there has to be one.”

  She lit a cigarette, took a drag and flicked the ashes as if she were outside, “Look, it’s in the contract.” She pointed to bold black print. “If after a month you are not totally satisfied, your security deposit and last month’s rent will be returned. If after a month you’re satisfied then your lease will be activated. So sign on the dotted line or show this to a lawyer first, your choice.” She smiled at me. I think her teeth were false, and up close, she looked a lot older than she initially appeared.

  Though still a bit suspicious, I signed. The place was listed with The American Association of Realtors. There are laws after all. Within days I was satisfied that the water ran properly, the plumbing worked and there were no drug dealers in the vicinity, but I never saw Tressie Manetti again. I gave my rent check to Frankie every month and he deposited it into the owner’s account. No strings. No problems except for the creaks, noisy pipes, meeting Dave on the stairs and hearing Lilly curse.

  Now only the creaks and noisy pipes are left.

  “Gina, I boiled some hot water on the stove, made some instant coffee, tea if you like, and a couple of eggs. Come into the kitchen.”

  Daniel’s voice brings me back from my memories, but I’m still wondering what happened to Tressie and who is going to let the owner of this place know what’s happened here, that the super and some of the tenants have been murdered.

  “Gina? Come on.” Daniel stands in the hall, hands on hips. “Snow hasn’t let up much at all. The phones are still out and morning’s about to break.” He hesitates a moment. “Did a lot of reading last night, uncovered some interesting stuff.”

  “Like what?” I say rubbing my eyes.

  “This house, did you know the DeCanne family once owned it?”

  ”No, I—of course not—God no, I had no idea.” My heart sinks. “But I was just thinking about how I first found this place.”

  He shakes his finger back and forth. “I just meant it’s interesting that you’re living here, OK? Don’t go getting all creepy on me again.”

  “Oh, right, sorry. My neighbors have all been slaughtered overnight and we’re trapped here and I’m seeing things and experiencing things that can’t be, what was I thinking? How could I be so silly as to get creepy on you again?”

  “Gina, relax.”

  “Relax?” I laugh, but am anything but amused. It spills out of me uncontrollably. “Sure, right away.”

  “The DeCanne family is dead. All of them, dead, understand? They can’t hurt you. Some big real estate tycoon probably has his hands on the building now. I’ll get to the bottom of all this, I’ll find out what’s happened here, but—”

  “No, you don’t know how I found this place.”

  “Look, it’s all just coincidence. Weird, OK, I agree, but coincidence.”

  “It all fits together now. DeCanne was setting me up in case Allie split on him and—”

  “Gina, don’t start. It’s been a horrific night for both of us, enough with your voodoo stories.”

  I hear deep eerie laughter erupt from below—laughter only I can hear—and I wonder what it’s going to take to convince Daniel that this place could be Hell and that Mojo DeCanne is coming for us. Daniel knows this place has been turned into a house of horrors but he thinks it’s just another legitimate crime scene and that once his forensic buddies get here things will be explained and logically sorted out. He thinks life will go back to normal, or as normal as it gets in a cop’s life, once this storm has passed. He’s wrong. He’s been wrong before and he’s wrong now. The Devil delights in non-believers, preys on those with dismissive natures.

  The laughter sounds again and fear consumes me like never before.

  23

  It seems as though this snow is never going to stop and New York will become a world forever covered in white, forever lost, cut off and out of touch with the rest of the world, a new Atlantis, gone but not quite forgotten, its inhabitants and legacy the stuff of legend and mystery.

  Daniel’s face is drawn, eyes red. He stretches and yawns as I think about the empty floors in the building and how demons and dark angels could inhabit the damp and dusty apartments below.

  “Daniel, did you check out the fourth and fifth floors? Someone—something—could be hiding there.”

  He nods. “There’s a steel gate on the fourth floor landing. It’s bolted in three places. Nobody can get under it or over it. If they gained entry by a fire escape and climbed in a window they wouldn’t be able to get downstairs. Don’t worry.”

  “But if it’s something supernatural, if it’s someone with magical power.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Well then I guess there’s nothing we can do about it, right? Come on, Gina, let’s not go there again.”

  “We have to go there. You have to open your mind and remember the things your grandmother told you, the things you forgot when you left home.”

  “Look, I’m beat. We’ll talk about it after I’ve slept a few hours. We’re locked in and locked down, no one’s getting in here. Long as we stay put we’re safe. You gonna be OK if I nod off?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He smiles. “Sure. Wake me if anything happens. Unless Dracula suddenly appears, let me sleep.”

  “He can’t right now,” I say with a smirk, “it’s daytime.”

  “We’ll talk when I wake up. Is the couch comfortable?”

  “If you want to use my bed it’s fine. The sheets were washed day before yesterday and there’s plenty of blankets.” I think of how I shared that bed with Tony, with a phantom, with Mojo DeCanne’s disciple. Was Mojo laughing, watching, when Tony and I were together? Did he peer at us from a dark corner, from behind the drapes?

  “Thanks.” Daniel walks slowly towards me, stops in front of me and kisses me gently on the lips. He looks at me almost shyly then backs away, turns and disappears down the hall.

  I watch the snow, still falling steadily, swirling and drifting. I take a seat on the window ledge and reach for a cup of coffee. I must have left it there last night. Maybe it’s been here for days, I’m not sure. I lift it and smell the strong aroma. It’s lukewarm. Not bad.

  “Gina.” A soft voice calls from below. I see something dark moving within the thick snow, a black splotch amidst the endless whiteout. You’re exhausted, I tell myself, maybe you’re still asleep and dreaming, still snuggled close to Daniel on the couch.

  But I can feel it. I can feel him. He’s coming. Mojo DeCanne.

  A gust of wind parts the snow long enough for me to glimpse him standing there, dressed in a turn of the century suit. His wide-brimmed hat covers his eyes. He raises a crooked finger and wags it back and forth at me in a scolding motion. After a moment, his tongue slowly protrudes from his mouth, catching snowflakes with it like a child might. His tongue drips with blood, which stains the snow, then seems to grow longer, extending a few inches before I hear his laughter. With his snake-like tongue shimmering and slick with ice and crimson, he walks closer to the building with a long, eerie gait, until I am no longer able to see him from my vantage point.

  But I can still hear him.

  The door down in the lobby sounds as it opens then closes.

  Footsteps, slow and deliberate, plod up the stairs…one by one.

  “Gina.” His voice is childlike but horrifying all at once.

  “Gina,” he says again, only this time it’s the voice of a demon.

  Trembling uncontrollably, I move towa
rd the door and look into the peephole.

  He’s crouched over, his tongue lapping the hole.

  As I stagger back I scream, “Daniel! Daniel!” And yet my voice sounds so small, as if I barely made any sound at all.

  The door rattles. The knob turns. Something comes through the keyhole, pink, wet and serpent-like, and I can hear him laughing again, his breath heavy and gurgling on the other side of the thin door that separates us. The tongue spirals towards me, curling, seeming to reach for me, wanting to wrap itself around my neck.

  Something coils around my throat, thick and wet as it tightens and chokes me, pulls me down into a cold and never-ending darkness.

  “Daniel!”

  I feel sudden pressure on my shoulders, and the sensation of being shaken. “Gina! Wake up!”

  The darkness becomes light, and I see Daniel standing before me. “What the fuck, Gina? Are you sleepwalking now?”

  As things come back into focus and my mind processes what’s happened, I turn away, look back at the door. It stands closed, locked, undisturbed. “He was here. He tried to get inside. His fucking tongue was coming through the keyhole, it—it touched me. My face, it—look, my face is still wet.”

  He touches my cheek. “You’re crying. Don’t you know that you’re crying?”

  I hesitantly touch my face with shaking hands. He’s right. Tears. I’m crying and I didn’t even realize it. “But I saw him,” I say quietly. “Daniel, I felt him.”

  “Mojo DeCanne?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Look, girl, you’ve got to get that shit out of your head. Once that sort of thing gets into your mind it’s hard to shake, you understand?”

  “Oh really, is that so? I thought it was all bullshit.”