Henry Halfmoon

by Huck Warwicks

  It’s something you’d expect one of the crazies to do.

  Shipley wanders past me and plops into his chair, bends forward and begins the process of starting a fire.

  “Sit,” he says as he strikes a match and gently slips it under a small pile of kindling laced with newspaper.

  I take the other chair but must move a stack of books first. The volumes look as if they will crumble to dust if I'm not careful. I lift them and slowly place them on the floor next to the chair.

  “Gently, please!” the grumpy old man snaps. “Those are priceless. To me, at least.”

  “Okay. Sure thing.”

  I’m so nervous about accidentally destroying one of his precious books, all my other movements are slow and exaggerated as well. I lower myself into the dusty old chair, and a wave of warming comfort wraps itself around me. It’s been nothing but metal park benches and hard plastic subway seats for the past thirty-six hours and now, my body feels like it’s now being dipped in warm honey.

  “Ahhhh.” I sigh in unrestrainable relief, the gratitude dripping from my tone. “Thanks.”

  “You’ve been awake since class yesterday, haven’t you?” Shipley continues to nurse the flames as they grow.

  “Yep. Couldn’t risk getting caught again,” I say with my eyes resting shut.

  “Caught? What do you mean you got caught? Explain.” Shipley leans back in his chair, eyeballing me like an inquisitor, not blinking and barely breathing.

  I spend the next half hour divulging the event at Maltino’s with the homeless man. I’m gushing. Every little detail bounces out of my mouth, and I find myself rambling about every thought that has flitted through my tired mind over the past day and a half.

  Shipley listens without interruption and finally, when my gushing ceases, he casually fills his giant pipe and lights a full bowl of rich cherry tobacco.

  He inhales deeply, then with a puff of velvety smoke, he exclaims, “It’s begun.”

  I don’t know what that means, but I’m determined to find out. Along with that, I want to know about the thing that’s been following me. But first, I must know about the homeless man at the cafe.

  “He seemed… I don’t know. It was like he was… possessed.” For some reason, I sound sheepish, almost embarrassed to use the word.

  “Of course he’s possessed!” Shipley says, almost annoyed that I wasn’t more certain in my assertion.

  Surprised at his blunt validation, I go further, “So… it was an evil spirit of some kind? A demon maybe?”

  Shipley waves his hand as if swatting a fly.

  “Bah. Demons. That’s a bit of a broad term. Let me guess, your parents are Evangelicals.” It wasn’t a mocking tone, so much as an irritated one.

  “Well, yeah. My mom is especially, uh… I don’t know. She’s…”

  Shipley’s eyes twinkle through the smoke, and he grins around the stem of his pipe. “Zealous?”

  I smile back. “You have no idea. She’s like a Shiite Evangelical.”

  The professor laughs aloud, sending scented pipe smoke to the ceiling like a chugging steam engine.

  “I understand, Mr. Halfmoon. And you’re not entirely off the mark in your evaluation of the entity that besieged that poor soul in the cafe.”

  “Entity,” I repeat. It’s a statement and a question.

  “Also, you are correct that the thing that’s been following you for the past few weeks… the demon, as you and your parents would call it, is the same entity that briefly inhabited and tormented the man in the cafe.”

  “Well… why is it following me? I feel like I’m going nuts. All the time, I’m looking behind me. I have this awful, sick-like feeling from the time I wake up, to when I go to bed. I can feel it watching me. It follows me every day.”

  Shipley has the concerned look of a doctor in an exam room.

  “And the homeless man… was that the first encounter?”

  I nod.

  “How long have you been sensing the entity?”

  I tell him it’s been happening for the past three weeks. Daily.

  “And when it finally spoke to you… in the cafe… did you get its name?” Shipley asks but immediately responds to himself. “No. That’s ridiculous. Of course you didn’t think to ask its name. You’re were too frightened to think straight.”

  “Even if I was thinking straight, why would I ask for its name?”

  Shipley stokes the fire and explains, “Names have meaning, Mr. Halfmoon. All entities, spirit or flesh have a name. Some names… have power if you believe in that sort of thing, of course.”

  “I’m not sure what I believe. But I know there’s something that’s both unseen and real.”

  “So, you’re a man of faith. That’s good.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m a religious person. I just suspect that something else exists beyond what science can prove. I don’t know. I can just feel it.”

  I tell Shipley that his class is my favorite, and that I can’t get enough of the ancient philosophies and religions.

  “It’s like the ancient world has been telling us about something, or maybe warning us, for centuries. And the world just ignores it..”

  “…yes, like two hundred years of science can invalidate six thousand years of supernatural experience.” Shipley smiles at me in agreement.

  “Exactly!” I exclaim, bouncing to the edge of my seat. Shipley gets me.

  “Mr. Halfmoon, you’re spot on. And that’s why I’ve chosen to help you. I believe that you are not crazy, nor bizarre, nor ignorant. You have brushed up against reality and have simply chosen not to ignore it. You’ve begun to learn the first lesson: the ancient mysteries are the modern answers. The ancient answers are the modern mysteries.”

  “But why me? And how do I get rid of this thing?”

  Shipley refills his pipe with a fresh plug of tobacco and casually crosses his right leg over his left knee. He tamps the bowl with his knobby old forefinger and strikes a match. The flame pulsates as he draws it in and out of the pipe’s bowl, a series of thick, white puffs of smoke cloud the distance between us. While the rich smell is delightful, I can barely see him when he finally answers.

  “You can’t get rid of it. Not as things are, currently.”

  That isn’t what I want to hear. My life stretches out before my mind’s eyes, a future of torment and disturbance, a life lived next to an invisible fiend, robbed of privacy or peace, a shared existence with a demon.

  “What do you mean ‘not as things are, currently?’”

  “You can’t see it. You don’t know what it is, or what its name is. You don’t know who it serves, or where it came from. And yet you think you can just read some history books, or have someone like me tell you some secret magical code phrase that will make it vanish.” There’s a mocking tone pulsating through his words, and he begins to rant. “That’s the trouble with you and your generation, well one of them at least. You think there’s a shortcut for everything, a hack,” he practically spits the word out of his mouth. “You think there’s some special app to answer every little inconvenience of living the human life. You want everything now. You want it for free. You feel entitled to it. You’ve not earned the answers for yourself. You’ve not learned anything for yourself. You’ve not worked hard enough to deserve any answers, Mr. Halfmoon!”

  He goes on and on, railing against my generation more so than me personally. I can’t say he’s wrong about much of it, but he doesn’t have to be such a crotchety bunghole about it. I let him finish. And when his tirade finally ebbs, I simply respond, “I know.”

  “You know nothing!” he practically screams at me. The flames of his monologue now rekindled. “That’s another problem, Mr. Halfmoon. You think you know. You take one look at a person, notice one small detail, and if you’ve seen that detail elsewhere, you assume a pattern. You summarize quick judgements against your fellow man and think you have everyone pegged, don’t you? You think you know the world and its people. You think yo
u have it all figured out. But you know nothing.”

  He can see that I’m visibly overwhelmed and offended at his accusatory outburst. He dials the intensity back a bit, and his tone shifts to a tired plea.

  “Henry, the next time you look at someone, don’t scour the person for patterns. Where’s the mystery and adventure in that? Instead, remind yourself that you don’t know this person. And if you’re honest with yourself, and you want the answers to your current dilemma, you must tell yourself, I don’t know what I don’t know.”

  That barely makes any sense to me, but I repeat it. “I don’t know what I don’t know?”

  “Make it your mantra, boy! When you accept it as your reality, only then will you be open to the mysteries and answers.”

  I fidget in my seat, which has grown uncomfortable, more so from the verbal lashing I just received from the recluse professor, who’s probably been itching for an opportunity to unload his displeasure with my generation for a long time. We sit quietly staring at the fire. Nothing is said while he smokes his entire bowlful of tobacco. He taps the ashes into the fireplace, rubs his balding head, and grumbles, “I’ve been a bit harsh on you. I’m sorry. I know you just want answers. Are you willing to do the work? The research? And take whatever action the solution may call for to get rid of it?”

  “I want to say yes, but… I don’t know what I don't know.” It comes out of my cynical mouth sounding like a snarky jab at the man who just drilled me down. But I’m in earnest.

  Shipley smiles at the retort.

  “Algol.”

  I stare at the professor, confused.

  “The thing that’s been following you. It comes from Algol. They all do.”

  “They? There’s more of them!”

  Shipley stands to his feet and moves to his tiny kitchenette built into the wall near the front door and fidgets with his coffeemaker.

  “They come from Algol. They are the Algolim.”

  The flames in the fireplace flare up when he speaks the word Algolim. I jump in my chair, instinctively pulling my knees to my chest and my feet into the chair away from the flames.

  “Jesus Christ!” I yelp.

  Suddenly, the walls bounce as three very heavy knocks pound the outside of his front door.

  Shipley turns towards me, boring into me with intense seriousness burning in his eyes.

  “If you would be so kind as to not speak that name again.”

  The knocks repeat, and Shipley ignores them and shuffles back to his chair with an obviously forced calm.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Halfmoon. I’ve sealed the door. They can’t enter. Just please. Don’t use that name again, agreed? And if you’d be so kind, get your feet off my chair.”

  I lower my feet to the dirty wooden floor and nod my head.

  “Agreed.”

  Chapter 5

  I wake up with a jolt. Falling asleep in Shipley’s apartment was completely unintentional, but inevitable. I must have been asleep for several hours. The fire has no flames, but has devolved into a pile of molten embers, the red glow radiating a steady, even warmth that fills the room and induces the most pleasurable and restful sleep. The professor is nowhere to be found, and I have no idea what time it is. Across my lap is a heavy wool blanket, and my shoes are positioned side by side on the floor next to the fire. The laces are tucked neatly into them, and they stare at me like a happy pair of beagles, anxious to go outside and run off the night’s buildup of energy.

  There’s a soothing calm about the apartment, and the memory of the night’s events come rolling back as I gather myself and lace up my shoes, but there’s no fear, no sensation that the thing is anywhere near. What did Shipley call it? The Algolim?

  Whatever it’s called, it’s been weeks since I woke up without sensing the fear.

  On the opposite chair, where Shipley spent the evening chugging at his pipe lies a package. It’s wrapped in brown paper and bound with two strands of intersecting twine. Written on the package in red marker is a note:

  For Mr. Halfmoon, A gift. Read. Learn. Return.

  ~ Prof S.

  I pick up the package and immediately feel a stack of four or five books from his library. My mind churns as to the titles of the books and their contents. I resist the urge to rip open the package, but I want to know what’s in these books. Time deprivation has sunk in, and my anxiety rises. Am I late for class? Is it still evening? What day is it? My phone died shortly after meeting the professor at the Arch and following him to the apartment last night, or early this night, or… well, crap. I don’t know.

  The front door is unlocked, and I have no way to lock it behind me, but I doubt anyone will even know about the hidden alcove or subterranean apartment. It’s at the end of an unlit underground hallway. The only potential intruders that would wander down here and possibly discover the door and the apartment would be the city’s rats.

  I ascend the steps at the end of the hall, fumbling in the dark for the handle to the entrance door. When I step out onto the street, it’s evening, still… or again. Whatever.

  I round the corner and head back down MacDougal towards campus and the park. The Village is alive at all hours, and Washington Square Park hasn’t been closed for the night yet by NYPD. Around eleven p.m. every night, they clear the park of homeless and rope off all the entrances, keeping the criminals and crazies from using the area through the wee hours.

  The park is still open. So I know it’s not yet eleven p.m. at least. That gives me an idea about what time it is roughly, but I still have no idea what day it is.

  “Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me what day it is?” I ask a perfectly normal person passing by. But the startled guy looks away, shakes his head, smiles, and just keeps walking.

  No eye contact with the crazies. That’s the way of things. It was worth a shot, but fruitless, so I duck into a cafe on the other side of the NYU library. It’s about a block away from Shipley’s apartment, and it’s crammed with students, pounding away at their term papers on their laptops, buzzing with the jittery energy of overwhelmed go-getters cramming for tests, and pursuing their academic excellence… cuz NYU ain’t cheap, and Mommy and Daddy have great expectations.

  “Hey Henry!” a voice bounces over the noise from the back of the cafe. It’s my friend Fritz.

  Finally, a friendly familiar face. Someone I can talk to… but not talk too much. Fritz isn’t a believer in things. But he’s a great listener.

  I saunter to the table in the back where Fritz is waiting with his chaotic pile of textbooks, notepads, his laptop, and croissant crumbs. Dropping down into a chair, I keep the package of paper-wrapped books under my arm, a precious secret that the world could never understand.

  The meeting wasn’t planned. It never is. But anytime I see Fritz, I make it a point to stop and chat. He needs friends. He’s the type of guy that is too eager to get to know somebody, which drives many people away, and snuffs out any ‘game’ he might have with the ladies. The dude is just lonely. So when I stop and chat, it’s like I’m the only one in the room, and he treats me like a long-lost relative.

  I really like Fritz. He’s down to earth. He’s himself all the time and never puts on airs. I can’t go too deep with him in our conversations, though. I’m afraid I will push him away. I’m into some weird topics. And I need friends, at least one.

  “So what are you stalking around for tonight, bruh?” Fritz asks.

  I hate it when he says bruh. He’s not from California. He’s from Kansas and has never seen a beach, a surfboard, or a bikini in his cornbred, cornfed life. But for some reason, bruh found its way into his vocabulary as his official naming device and first-pick term of endearment.

  “Fritz, listen. I’m not feeling that great. I’ve been sleeping for… well, I don’t know how long. So I’m going to ask you a weird question.”

  “Sleep sounds so good to me right now, bruh. I’ve been cramming for Schimmel’s biology midterm for hours.”

  “Yeah… good luck
with that. So I was supposed to meet Prof… uh someone… on Thursday night at nine o’clock. Which I did, right on time, of course.”

  “Yeah, of course. You’re always right on time. That’s what I love about you, bruh.”

  “Right. So anyway, I had been tired already when I met up with… this person… and while we were talking, I fell asleep and don’t know how long I was asleep. I just woke up, actually.”

  Fritz runs his hand through his mop of reddish-blond curls and pulls at the neck of his hoodie. He looks confused. He picks up his phone and glances at the time, then looks at me.

  “Are you okay, Henry? You seem disoriented.”

  “I am.”

  “Look, I don’t think I’m following your story. It’s 9:01 p.m., bruh… and it’s Thursday. Are you telling me you’ve been sleeping for an entire week?!”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My disorientation augments, and the whole room feels like it’s whirling around me.

  “Hey, bruh. You’re right. You don’t look so good. Let me get you a coffee. Hang tight. BRB.” Fritz jumps up and dashes to the counter while I sit here hopelessly trying to make sense of what’s happening. Either I’ve been sleeping in Shipley’s underground lair for seven days, or I’ve just had a massive hallucination.

  Am I going crazy?

  “Here you go, bud.” Fritz sets the coffee cup in front of me and pats my shoulder. “Listen, bruh. You just need to sit here and relax. We’ll figure it out, whatever it is. If you need anything, just let me know. Just take it easy and drink your coffee.”

  Good old Fritz.

  “Thanks, bud.”

  Bud. The word came from somewhere unknown. I don’t often use that word. I don’t have many friends. Just one in fact. And he’s sitting right in front of me. The word lights up his face, confirming what he’d always hoped, that someone would go so far as to befriend him. It’s as if I’d just adopted a puppy… and it’s a lifelong commitment on my end. I can see him checking a box on the bucket list in my mind. Have a best friend. Check. Next up, skydiving.