The Pulptress

by Pro Se Press

  ***

  “Mom, Dad,” John shouted from the top of the stairs. “Are you guys sleeping in this morning?” He tied the robe around his waist.

  “John, let them rest. Last night had to be stressful for them, meeting their new daughter and everything.” Her freckled face appeared in the doorway, she raked a hand through her tousled red hair.

  “Grab a robe, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen. We’ll cook breakfast this morning.” His house shoes scuffed on the stairs. “I’ll go wake them up, tell them to get prepared for breakfast in bed.”

  “Throw some wood in the fireplace, John. It’s cold in here.” Jill’s hesitated on the landing.

  “Yeah, it is nippy.” John glanced at the fireplace. Nothing left of the wood but ashes. Eyes lifted to the mantle, the fearsome visage of Von Rohm stared back at him. Something was different. The hair had turned from gray to a dark vibrant black, the wrinkles around the eyes gone; the skin smooth and subtle. A coating of crimson lined the thin lips.

  He stared at the portrait for several seconds, his mind unwilling to accept what he saw. Chill bumps prickled his legs and arms. John licked his lips nervously. His eyes strayed to his parent’s bedroom, the door slightly ajar.

  “Mom, Dad.” House shoes slapped the floor; he raced across the room, and pushed through the open door.

  Arthur and Lorene lay in the soft embrace of the feather mattress, covered by heavy quilts. John’s eyes locked onto their ashen faces, and blank eyes. A gut-wrenching scream tore from his throat.

  He barked his shins on the hardwood frame in his haste to get to his parents. Their skin felt cold to the touch. Tears filled his eyes. He noticed the deep holes in their throats.

  “No,” His anguished scream rattled the windows. “This can’t be happening.”

  “John, what are you shouting about?” Jill stepped through the doorway. “You’ll wake all the neighbors.”

  “Call the police.” John ran to his wife, pushed her outside the bedroom. “Hurry, get the police here. They’re both dead. Hurry!”

  “What?” The color drained from Jill’s face. “What are you saying?” Her trembling hands clutched her neckline.

  “Get the police. Go on Jill.” Saliva flew from John’s mouth. “Call the police!”

  She wiped the tears away from her eyes and ran to the phone. John followed her into the living room. His eyes returned to the painting hanging above the fireplace.

  “They didn’t hang this painting up here,” he mumbled. “I knew by her face that Mom hated the damned thing.” He heard Jill’s voice in the background.

  “The police are on their way. They’ll be here in a few minutes.” She quivered uncontrollably. “I’m going outside. I don’t want to stay in this house another instant.”

  John nodded. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” His eyes found the gold cross on the floor. His hand closed around the cold metal.

  Jill rushed to the front porch. Despite the cold she refused to return inside.

  John stared at the painting. His battlefield instincts screamed at him, somehow Von Rohm was responsible for his parent’s death. Cold hard logic told him that was impossible, but he knew it was true. He lifted the portrait from the mantle. “No one will ever look at this again.” He turned and walked slowly up the stairs, returning to his grandfather’s old bedroom and the walk in safe.

  ***

  9-July-2011

  The Pulptress stood in the shadows at the far end of the alley. “Hello boys,” she teased. “You fella’s act like you’re late for an appointment.” She moved into the warm glow of the streetlight giving the lavender suited thugs near the dumpster a good look at her.

  The artificial light played along her black skirt and red and white striped tee shirt. Her black fedora sat at a rakish angle atop her red hair. A black mask covered her upper face, a short barreled pump action .410 shotgun cradled over her shoulder. “Leave the Emerald and you can leave.”

  “Move out of the way, little girl.” A thickset burly hood with a crooked nose stepped forward. A pair of lightweight gray gloves covered his hands. “That bauble belongs to the boss, and we aim to see he gets it.”

  “That emerald belongs to Curtis Harper.” Her red sensuous lips set in a half smile. “Lannigan’s not going to get his hands on it.”

  The sharp crack of a cocking pistol echoed from the darkness. “Get out of the way, Dozer. I’ll plug this dame and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Shut-up, Runt, put that roscoe away. We don’t want the cops hearing any gunfire.” Dozer popped the knuckles on his massive hands. “The boss told me about you. You’re some kind of karate expert. Well that crap don’t impress me much. We’re going out. If you get in the way, I’ll run you down.”

  “Come on, Dozer. Show me what you can do.” The masked woman taunted.

  Dozer ran toward her. His heavy footsteps echoed from the high walls. Three smaller toughs wearing matching suits followed closely behind.

  The well shaped masked woman calmly leaned her shotgun against the aged brick wall. Placing her right foot forward, she assumed a boxers stance. The dull thud of rushing feet echoed like a herd of stampeding cattle in the narrow confines.

  Dozer cocked his right, ready to plant a devastating blow on the lone female. The Pulptress ducked under the punch. Her right foot shot out. The spiked heel slammed into the knee of the hood on Dozer’s left. He dropped to the asphalt clutching his dislocated joint.

  Her hands closed on Dozer’s right arm. She leaped; her momentum carried her behind the beefy giant. Both feet slammed the jaw of the trailing crook. Ivory pearls flew from the crook’s mouth as he crumpled to the ground.

  “Come here, you.” A thug with a nasal twang grabbed her ankle and yanked her to the ground. The breath burst from her lungs on impact with the hard surface. A hard soled shoe streaked for her head. She rolled away from the kick.

  “Damn it!” The man’s foot sailed high over the woman’s head. The impetus behind the missed blow threw him off balance, sent him crashing to his back. The masked heroine leaped to her feet. With one well aimed kick to the felon’s face, he moaned and lay still.

  Dozer recovered quickly. He moved in close throwing haymakers. The Pulptress slipped and dodged the wild punches. She unleashed a tremendous strike to Dozer’s solar plexus. The big man groaned, his right knee buckled, hands dropped to protect his stomach. A powerful straight right struck his concrete jaw. Dozer staggered, knees turned to rubber. He spun on his heels; eyes rolled back in his head, and fell like a massive oak crashing to the ground.

  The masked warrior rifled through the giant’s pockets. She held the large green orb up to the light and admired the purity. “Mr. Harper will be happy to see this again. Don’t worry, Boys. The cops are on their way. They’ll make sure you get medical attention.”

  The short hood with a sharp nose crawled toward the streetlight, dragging his injured leg behind him. “The cops will pinch me for sure. I’ve got a warrant out for my arrest on a parole violation.”

  “It's a bad day to be you.” She lifted her fedora from the filthy alley and sat it atop her head. “Maybe you’ll learn an honest trade while you’re in the joint.” A snicker burst from her lips as she gathered her shotgun.

  ***

  3-March-1966

  A two-tone fifty-nine Chevrolet Impala with wide flaring fins parked before a dilapidated house.

  “John, I don’t like coming back here. I hate this house.” Jill Charles stared through the glass at the two story structure. Time had scrubbed the coating of white paint from the boards. Shingle fragments were scattered over the yard. Pointed shards of glass littered the grounds and the porch.

  “I don’t like this either. We’ve had this eyesore for over twenty years, and we need to get rid of this white elephant. Alonzo thinks he’s got a buyer lined up. There are a couple of things I need to do first.”

  “I’m not taking Betty inside that place. I still remember that morning, when we found your
parents.” She glanced into the backseat at the sleeping girl lying on the cushions.

  “I remember that too.” He reached over and pressed the button on the glove box. The lid dropped open to reveal a chrome plated .38 inside. He caught the checkered grip and tugged it into the sunlight. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “John, what are you going to do with that pistol?” Jill stared at her husband, her eyes wide and bulging. “What are you afraid of? What’s in that old house?”

  “That’s why I came here during the daylight. I hope it’s only my imagination spooking me, but I don’t know and I’ve got to find out.” He climbed from the vehicle, stuffing the .38 into his waistband. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “John, you be careful in there.” Jill shouted as he climbed the trash covered steps.

  Leaves and twigs snapped under his feet. John’s eyes swiveled from side to side. He knew several bums had died in the house in the last twenty plus years. From the descriptions the police had let slip when they called him, their appearance matched his parents on that fateful morning.

  Glass slivers clung to the corners of the oak door. Small pieces crunched under his soles. A wooden wedge kept the heavy door from closing properly, leaving a three inch gap. John knew the homeless people had rigged it that way for easy access. Still, he hadn’t had any calls from the police about the old place in three years.

  He recalled that final call in minute detail. The phone rang incessantly at 3:30 in the morning. He stumbled through the house to answer it before the caller hung up. “Hello,” he mumbled sleepily.

  “John Charles. This is Officer Franklin in Corinth, Mississippi. I’ve got bad news about your old house.”

  Fatigue vanished in a second. John became fully awake and alert. “Who’s dead now?”

  “There are five victims, Mr. Charles, three men and two women. We’re still trying to identify them at this time.” Officer Franklin hesitated.

  John Charles closed his eyes. A quiver shook his body. “Go on, Officer Franklin.”

  “They’d been there for several days before they were found. Some of the neighbors complained about the foul odor.” The sound of rustling paper came through the receiver. “Scavengers had gnawed on the remains. Mr. Charles, they opened your safe. Did you have anything of value inside?”

  “Oh, God, no! Not the safe.” The words jumped from his mouth.

  “Mr. Charles,” Franklin interrupted. “Did you have anything important inside? All we found were some shattered jars and a painting.”

  “That’s all I had in the safe.” John bowed his head, ran his free hand through his hair. “Do me a favor, Officer. Put the painting inside and lock it up. I’ll be down in a few days and fix it so no one can open it again.”

  “Sure, Mr. Charles, I can do that.” An awkward silence hung in the air. “Check in with me when you get to town.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” John mumbled. “Thanks, Officer Franklin.”

  He drove to Corinth the next day. John purchased several wooden crosses and hung then throughout the room.

  The creaking hinges snapped him from his reverie. John cringed inside, as he crossed the threshold. Empty wine and whiskey bottles littered the floor, boxes and tin cans piled high in the corners. Old furniture broken and scattered, a layer of gray ash lay in the fireplace.

  “Someone’s been here recently.” John’s shaking hand closed on the banister. He brushed a layer of dust and grit from his hand. His legs quivered with every step on the dirty marble. His mind recalled one of the final things his mother said to him that fateful night, ‘Walking these stairs kills my hip.’

  “Yeah, Mom,” he mumbled. “I know what you mean.”

  John felt the blood rushing through his veins. A kernel of fear centered in the pit of his stomach and grew at every step. He stood on the landing. The door to his grandfather’s old room hung from the upper hinge, the bottom half loose and flopping.

  He entered the old bedroom, hand circling the rosewood grip. The echo of his chattering teeth bounced from the walls. He drew in a deep shuttering breath. The massive steel door to the old safe loomed on the far wall. Casting a glance around the room, he noted the absence of the crosses. Eyes focused on the dark stains along the floor and walls, he knew the source of the marks.

  The metal door felt cool to his touch. An unexpected jolt ran the length of his arm. He sensed the malevolence contained behind the steel. The combination immediately came to mind, and he spun the dial. The tumblers clicked loudly, as they slipped into place. He tugged the door open. An enveloping cold emptied from the vault and filled the room. His breathe plumed before his face.

  The pistol filled his hand without conscious thought. One finger hovered over the trigger. A man shaped figure turned toward him, the wide mouth filled with sharp pointed teeth. The .38 bucked in his hand like a live thing. He sprayed the area with the special bullets, hollow points, filled with holy water and capped with wax. John dropped the pistol and slammed the door.

  A muffled shriek penetrated the thick metal. The anguished cry shook John to his very soul. The knot of fear in his gut exploded into a raging inferno, eating him up from the inside. Heart thumping wildly in his chest, John turned and ran, feet pounding across the same floors he played on as a child. His speed matched his best time in basic training, when he was a much younger man.

  Sweat streamed down his forehead, circled his eyes and dripped from his chin. Running like the hounds of hell were hot on his heels, he burst through the front door. John leaped into the car, the engine started easily. Practiced hands manipulated the column lever, shifting the Impala into first gear, as he popped the clutch. The tires spun in the gravel, small missiles pinged along the wheel wells.

  “John!” Jill shouted. “What’s wrong with you? What happened in there? Your hair is all white.”

  The car fishtailed in the loose rocks. Smoke boiled from the tires as they caught traction on the pavement. When he glanced at his reflection in the rear view mirror, an old man with a wrinkled face and snow-white hair looked back at him. “I just saw the devil.”

  ***

  7-July-2011

  The annoying shriek of the phone gradually invaded her sleeping mind. Emily eased her freckled arm from underneath the bed covers, patted the night stand with her hand searching for the landline. “Hello,” she grumbled.

  “Emily, this is Ross. How are you doing this morning?” A chipper voice sounded from the earpiece.

  “What do you want? I just got off the plane two hours ago. Can’t a girl get her beauty sleep?” She yawned, and raked a free hand through her hair.

  “I know what you mean. The redeye can be rough at times,” he agreed. “Still, I imagine you made Lannigan’s day a lot gloomier.”

  “Yeah, I nailed a few of his goons involved in the Brandon kidnapping. The police have them now.” She yawned again. “I know you didn’t call me this early just to see if I enjoyed myself in the big city. So what’s on your mind?”

  Ross hesitated a moment. “I need a favor.”

  Her exhaustion vanished in a heartbeat. Emily sat up in her queen sized bed, the blanket bunched around her slender neck. “All you have to do is ask. I owe you several favors.”

  “A friend of mine, Gloria Fletcher and her mother Betty moved to a house in Corinth, Mississippi.” The line grew silent.

  “Do you want me to help her unpack or what?” Emily snapped.

  “No.” His voice dropped to the barest whisper. “I want you to save her life.”

  “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.” She swung her legs from the bed, bare feet found the house shoes beside her bed. “Get over here and tell me what’s going on.”

  “Thanks, Emily. I’ll be there in a half hour.” The connection severed abruptly.

  “This had better be good.” She drew a robe over her pajamas and plodded to the kitchen. Nursing her second cup of java, she glanced through the picture window of her two story fortress home, when Roscoe
’s van parked before her building. Emily waited, as the side door opened, the wheel chair lift lowered Roscoe to the ground.

  Her gaze shifted to the cameras, as he steered the chair to the sliding doors on the ground floor. She reached over and pressed a button opening the elevator. A soft ding came to her ears, as the doors slid open on the second floor.

  Ross’s fist circled the joystick. He deftly avoided the chairs and tables while he maneuvered the wheelchair to her kitchen table. “Thanks for letting me come over, Emily. I know you’re tired and I really appreciate it.”

  A wide smile split Emily’s face. She filled a cup with steaming brew and placed it before him. “Okay, now spit it out, who’s life do you want me to save.”

  “It’s a long story. You’ll have to bear with me.” His blue eyes locked on her face.

  Thirty minutes and three cups of coffee later, Emily rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “You want me to do what?”

  “I’m going to Corinth. I want you to go with me.” Ross repeated. “I know Gloria and her mother will be in danger inside that house. I’ve researched the place extensively. Since 1945 there have been thirteen mysterious deaths in that place. I don’t want Gloria and Betty to die.”

  Emily saw the sorrow in his eyes. “This is a little out of my line. I stop crimes. I fight for the ones who can’t fight for themselves.”

  Ross nodded. “And that’s what you’ll be doing. She’s been there less than a week. There have been two mysterious deaths around Corinth in that time. Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?

  “What about my better half? Do I bring her along on this outing?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I think her talents will be needed.” He swallowed. “I really want to thank you for helping me.”

  “Make the arrangements,” Emily yawned and stretched. “I’ll shower and pack. You can pick me up in an hour.”