One Night in Salem

by Amber Newberry

  Behind them, at the mouth of the alley, people walked by, indifferent.

  Macon’s alleyway sermon came to an end and Jordan said, “This is some heavy shit, Macon, but what do…what happens how? You come here all the time. Talk about it as much. What gives?”

  Macon took his friend by the hand. “Go on, put your finger in the hole. You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Orange string lights reflected off of red Solo cups, attention grabbing emergency colors, red and orange, the colors of catastrophe. This is what Marty focused on, the colors. Anything to divert from the fact that he was spending Halloween night in a house full of high schoolers, many of them having their first beers.

  Anne danced and drank and pretended that Marty couldn’t tell she was drinking; Anne the astronaut, underage in outer space.

  Marty watched the clock. Around 8pm, Anne danced her way to the corner where Marty hovered. “You don’t have to stay, you know,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “We’re taking the 9:15 train home. I’m staying right here and making sure we don’t miss it.”

  Anne protested. A girl dressed as some kind of Mardi Gras angel, sidled up. She had on too much jewelry for an angel. Beads, bracelets, and doorknocker earrings, a gold ring that didn’t make sense dangled loosely on her thumb. The girl, who looked about a decade older than Anne, glanced eagerly at Marty, then at Anne, then back to Marty. He thought there was something off about the angel. Not just that she was drunk. Something deeper.

  The angel slurred in drunken lightweight speak, “S’true?”

  “Kate, shut up,” Anne said. “Please shut up, Kate.”

  “S’true you blackout whens you touch…you see things?”

  Marty reddened and threw dagger eyes at his little sister.

  Anne shrugged. “C’mon. It’s cool. You’re, like a, you know. It’s a cool story. I brag sometimes.”

  Kate the Angel held out her hand. “Can you, like, touch me and tell me when I’m gonna die?”

  Marty fished the $50 out of his pocket. Smacked the three bills in his sister’s hand and said, “Take an Uber home.”

  “Marty, wait!” Anne protested as he pushed his way toward the door. “You can’t be mad! People ask! People talk! Marty!”

  Outside, Marty took in a lungful of cold air. It felt good. Anne jumped down the front steps after him. “Marty! You can’t just leave me. If you show up back home before me, I’m dead. Toast. Finished!”

  “I’m not going back in there. All your stupid friends look at me like I’m a freak show.”

  “I’m sorry I told them. But it really is cool, you know. You’re like a…”

  “Whatever it is I am, dear sister, there’s not a name for it. No good can come from it. Consider it a goddamned curse and let’s bury it, okay?”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself. Maybe some good could come from it, you never know!”

  Marty said, “Listen, I don’t want to be here. I’m going to go for a walk. Meet me outside, right here, in 45 minutes. We’ll walk to the train station together.”

  Anne smiled. She leaned up and kissed Marty on the cheek. “Thanks, big brother. You’re not a freak.” She brushed his cheek where she’d kissed it. “Space glitter, sorry.”

  Anne went back inside. Marty looked down Jefferson Street. Not much down that way, he remembered. The Tin Whistle, but he didn’t drink. He walked in the opposite direction, toward downtown, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. He passed the police station, which was buzzing with activity. Jefferson became Margin Street. Marty crossed Mills, passed High Street. At the corner of Margin and Gedney Street, the post office in front of him, Marty stopped and listened to the wild revelry pounding ahead. Not in the mood, Marty made a left on Gedney.

  * * *

  “I don’t hear anything,” Jordan said. “Am I doing it…do I have to put my ear to it or something?”

  Macon said, “No just, you have to tune your brain, sort of. Like a radio. Tune your brain dial until you get the right station.”

  “Brain radio?” Jordan laughed.

  “Just shut up and listen.”

  Jordan complied and focused as hard as he could. He still heard nothing but the ruckus downtown, a police siren, folks passing in front of the alley.

  “Well?” Macon said.

  Jordan shrugged and removed his finger from the bullet hole. “Sorry, Macon. It’s just, maybe your dad doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  Macon crouched and looked into the hole. It was about the circumference of his thumb and on sunny days, Macon swore he could see the slug inside. He said, “But the books said…maybe if we wait a little while. Closer to midnight, you know? In the books, druids and shit always do magic at midnight. Something about the…dad, can you hear me? Dad!”

  “Macon, man, listen, I’m kind of freaked out." Jordan tried to find the words to let his best friend down easy. "I’m not sure what this is right now.”

  “It’s my dad. Can’t you see that? And we’re going to talk to him. The barrier, the one between the living and the dead, tonight it’s—”

  “I know, I get that. I just don’t think—”

  “Jordan, please, we’re going to…it has to be tonight, I can’t go back there. Ma, she…she’s not…” Macon’s quivered. He looked deeper into the bullet hole, tears surfacing in his eyes.

  “You’re acting weird, man,” Jordan said. He picked up his BMX bike and started walking it toward the mouth of the alley. "Why don’t we go back to my place? Folks on my block give out king size candy bars. We can—”

  “Watch it!” Marty said. Jordan had wheeled his bike into Marty’s leg. Marty cursed and Jordan apologized. “It’s all right,” Marty said, brushing dirt off his pant leg. He looked down the alley at Macon, who was outright crying now. “What happened? Is he okay?”

  Jordan looked back at his friend and said, “Yeah, just disappointed. Macon’s life’s been nothing but disappointment.”

  Marty scowled with concern and walked to Macon. “Hey kid, come on. You okay? Somebody hurt you? Are you hurt?”

  Macon took his hands away from his face, smearing streaks of tears over his freckles. “All the time,” he said.

  Marty looked around, unsure. Jordan stayed seated on his bike at the mouth of the alley. Marty said to Macon, “Want me to call someone? Your mom, is she home? Downtown? Who can I call?”

  Macon pointed at the bullet hole. “Call my dad.”

  Marty’s eyes moved to the hole in the wall. “Your dad? I’m not sure I…I don’t get what you mean? Where is he?”

  “He wants you to put your finger in that hole,” Jordan said, pointing.

  Marty saw the hole in the wall. He moved closer and stared at it, inside it. Slowly, the rest of the world faded away. The Dionysian disturbance of downtown, the police sirens, they all faded away and the bullet hole became the middle of the world. Macon saw the look in Marty’s eyes and stepped back, giving him room to explore his father’s cavity.

  Marty sidled warily up to the hole in the alley wall. He’d had this feeling before. That this object was important, and he wanted to know why. He braced himself and slipped his finger inside. It slid in perfectly, down to the knuckle. Fit like a magazine into a gun. Like two lovers. The brick around his finger felt cold and familiar. The tip of his finger felt a different surface. Metal, not brick. A small, warm bit of metal.

  “That’s not right,” Marty said at the warmth pressing against the tip of his finger. “It’s warm. That’s not…” He went to pull his finger out and it wouldn’t budge. He groaned and struggled. Then he stopped and froze. His arm still raised, finger in the hole, he rocked slowly on his feet. Dead leaves crunched under his sneakers.

  Macon and Jordan watched as Marty’s eyes rolled up in the back of his head. His face moved in the opposite direction—turned down in a terrible frown. The skin around his features seemed to be stretching, like it was put on too tight. A low moaning sound came out of him, that of a large animal peacefu
lly snoring.

  “Oh shit,” Jordan said, pointing at Marty’s chest.

  It started out as a small, red circle in the center of Marty’s jacket, about the size of pencil eraser. The boys watched as the circle expanded to the size of a fist. Deep-red blood soaked through the denim and dripped down Marty’s front. Marty’s deformed expression held. There was no sound but the moan as he bled.

  Macon stepped toward Marty. Jordan grabbed his friend’s wrist and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here, man!”

  Macon jerked his arm out of Jordan’s grip and continued forward. Jordan mounted his bike and took off for home. The blood was pouring out of Marty’s chest, now, in a thick stream. Macon stepped into the pool of blood growing on the pavement, and looked up at him. He studied the contorted face for a moment, then said, “Dad?”

  Marty opened his mouth. A voice came out, much older than his own. “Macon, I know that you grieve.” Marty’s lips moved out of sync with the voice, like a poorly dubbed movie. “In the alley that night. Happened not like she told. Your mother, she does lie.”

  Macon leaned forward and hugged Marty’s waist. Tears rolled down his cheeks while the stream of blood from Marty’s chest soaked his blond hair, matting it down.

  “Son, close your eyes,” the voice from inside Marty said.

  Macon squeezed his eyes and saw…Halloween night, 2008. Jeff had taken five-year-old Macon out trick-or-treating around the high-end neighborhoods, like Chestnut Street. Nancy stayed at home to hand out candy.

  They had gotten married when she was four months pregnant. They told their parents after the rings were on. The love affair was short lived. Her side of it was initially stimulated, not only by a sexual attraction, like most, but also by Nancy’s wish to defy her hard-line Christian parents. So they screwed and married. She was small, round, and as modest as Jeff was charming. After Macon was born, postnatal depression acted as a moat between them. To counter it, Jeff would go through great pains to make her laugh. Walk on his hands through the house, pretend to walk into doors. Just one hint of merriment from Nancy was enough to give Jeff’s mood a garland of joy that would last for hours. There was tenderness in her marrow, reserved only for him. He saw it less and less as time went on, but it was there and he loved her for it.

  Jeff and Macon returned home that Halloween night, when the streetlights came on, and found Nancy holding an empty candy bowl. Jeff refused to be “that house,” the one that ran out of candy and had to turn kids away. That type of pox never came off a house in Salem.

  While Macon divvied up his bounty on the kitchen table, Jeff put his jacket back on, like some errant knight donning chainmail, and walked down to the Walgreens on Derby. All that was left was cheap, hard candy, the kind children threw at each other or passed off to their grandparents. So, Jeff splurged and bought full-sized candy bars. Boxes of them. He knew it was a gamble. If he gave out real deal candy bars this year, they’d come in flocks the following, expecting the same generosity for generations to come. He smiled at the thought and couldn’t wait to see his boy’s face.

  He crossed Washington and passed the post office on his right. Wet leaves kissed the curb. He could hear the revelry continue downtown. On Gedney, he heard someone stirring in the small alley between Quality Liquors and the driving school. In the dim light of the alley, he could make out someone on the ground. Jeff dropped his bags of candy and crouched near the body. It was a teenage girl, couldn’t have been older than sixteen. She was dressed as an angel, and she looked unconscious. Jeff tried to rouse her. “Hey, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Someone whistled behind Jeff. He stood and turned, standing in the mouth of the alley were two young men. Both wore the same Joker costume, both looked at him greedily. The girl that had been on the ground rose to her feet, laughing. A pipe cleaner halo bounced on her head. “Hands to Heaven, pops,” she said.

  Jeff obeyed and explained he didn’t have any cash, just plastic. She told him to shut up as she searched his pockets. She took everything out and stuffed the goods in her purse. She yanked his gold wedding band off his finger, examined it in the alley light, and slid it over her thumb. Then she went to grab the bags of candy. Jeff grabbed the teen’s arm. “C’mon, leave the candy,” Jeff said. “Just the candy, please.”

  She swung at Jeff. A long, arching punch that gave Jeff plenty of time to block and push her away. One of the other two youths raised an arm. Jeff saw the flash before hearing the deafening crack. The pain, the warm wet sensation, and then nothing. The bullet went through his stomach, exploding his insides, and continued into the alley wall behind him. Before everything went black, Jeff saw the three teens shuffle away, eating his candy. Then he closed his eyes and…Macon opened his eyes. The stream of blood flowing from Marty’s chest dried up.

  One last drop struck the top of Macon’s head. He stepped back from Marty and used his sleeve to wipe the blood away from his eyes. "How come ma lies about you?" he asked. “She tells me you were no good, rotten? That you were drunk that night.”

  “You shouldn’t take it personally. The mystery of death, it is difficult to accept. When there’s no reason, it’s nearly impossible. Happened like you saw. She can’t accept that. Thinks I deserved it. Only thing that makes sense to her is a death deserved. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all. Understand?”

  Macon nodded. “You need anything, Dad? You want me to get you something? To do something?”

  “Seal the wound between you two. She lives in another place, now; a place of unspoken sorrow. Pull her out. Son, grieve me no more.”

  A loud sigh exited Marty’s lips, like his entire body was deflating. His finger slid out of the bullet hole, and he collapsed to the pavement, on top of the pool of blood. Macon stood over him, crying a bit, his father’s words in his head. Macon took another look at that hole in the alley wall. The hole he’d worshipped at, cried at. Knelt at and tied his faith around. Then, he smiled his first authentic smile in years. It felt good, almost made his face hurt.

  He crouched down and gave Marty’s shoulder a gentle shove. “Mister, hey mister. You okay?”

  Marty peeled his face off the ground sticky with blood. His vision slowly focused on Macon’s smiling face, smeared with the same blood. Marty moaned and eased himself up. Sitting on his ass in the alley, his head ringing like a church bell, Marty tried to remember. The deep red circle on his chest spooked him. He unbuttoned his jacket and looked under his shirt. There was no wound.

  “Do you know what happened?” Macon said.

  Marty shook his head. “A little, I think. Is this blood?”

  “Yeah, afraid so.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “No. Don’t worry, it’s not yours either.”

  “Oh it’s someone else’s blood? Okay, then.” Marty stuck out his hand, asked Macon to help him up. “What about you? You okay?”

  Macon helped him up and said, “I think so. Listen, mister, I ought to get home. My ma, I think I should go spend some time with her.” He slicked back his golden hair with the blood and waved goodbye to Marty.

  Before Macon could disappear around the corner, Marty said, “Hey kid!” Macon turned. Marty continued, “Whatever I did just now, whatever the hell happened, did it help you?”

  Macon smirked and nodded.

  “That’s good. Where do you live?” Marty said.

  “Baby blue house over on High Street,” Macon said and headed home.

  Marty took a minute to collect his bearings. His head still doing slow cartwheels, flashes of the alleyway ventriloquism started coming in behind his eyes. He looked down at himself. Blood streaked down the front of his shirt, starting from the chest, ending at his crotch. “What a sight,” he said to himself.

  He took a last look at the bullet hole and walked out of the alley, back toward the party on Jefferson. Under the neon glow of the Steve’s Quality Market sign, he passed a group of kids on bikes. One of them dressed as the grim reaper, black cloak blowing
in the breeze, pointed his scythe at all the blood and said to him, “Nice costume.”

  “Thanks,” Marty said. “You, too.”

  He stepped into the house on Jefferson. The party raged on. Everything was moving in slow motion for Marty. He scanned the crowd for the angel.

  She was over by the stereo, slowly gyrating to the music. Marty walked up to her. She saw him and her face lit up.

  “Hey, you,” she said. “Decided you want to read my palm after all?” She held out her hand. The gold ring glimmered under the orange lights.

  Marty smiled. “That’s right. Come here. Let me see that hand.”

  About the writers

  L.W. (Laurie) Bellin grew up in the Boston area and moved to Salem in 1998. Her first Salem apartment was in a house built in 1915, right after the Great Fire of 1914. Inspired by the stories of Shirley Jackson, Stephen King, and Harlan Ellison, Laurie has been writing most of her life. This is Laurie’s first published short story, not counting her high school literary magazine. When not reading, writing, or knitting, she practices law (to help pay for the books, ink, and yarn). Laurie is honored to be included in this anthology with such accomplished authors.

  Nancy Brewka-Clark sold her first piece of literary short fiction to The Boston Globe Magazine in 1983. Thus far in 2017 her short fiction, poetry, and plays have appeared or are forthcoming in Paper Butterfly Flash Fiction (Canada), One-Minute Plays: A Practical Guide to Tiny Theatre (Routledge Publishing, UK), an anthology of short fiction about roadside shrines called Descansos (Darkhouse Books), Two Countries (Red Hen Press), the anthology of Jewish speculative fiction Menschen and Minyanim (Tree Lion Press), and Entombed in Verse by FunDead Publications. Visit nancybrewkaclark.com for more info!

  Patrick Cooper is a Salem State graduate living in Trappe, PA. His short fiction has appeared in several online outlets and print anthologies. Dig the goods here: patrickgcooper.com