The Catacombs: Tales of the Bizarre and Twisted (The Catacombes) (The Catacombs (The Catacombes) Book 1)

by Raven Black

  I had to agree. It was rather creepy, and I could find no reasonable explanation of how the balloon ducked under two doorways and made its way into the kitchen. “Come on, Kate. Let’s go eat. I’m hungry. Finish your drink.

  I’ll put the balloon back in your office and then we can go,” I said, in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

  Kate stood at the kitchen counter and stared at the balloon as I took it back to her office. She looked up at the doorway, obviously still trying to figure out how the balloon could duck under it and make its way out of the room.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her, “I tied it to your chair. It won’t be going anywhere.”

  Once the balloon was out of sight, I managed to get her to finish her drink. Moments later the incident was forgotten.

  We had a great night out and celebrated with a nice dinner and drinks afterward. On the way home we stopped at a little club not far from our house where we listened to live music and danced. It had been a long time since we danced together. It was really nice.

  The next morning things became even more bizarre, if that were possible. We’d just finished breakfast, and as we were having our second cup of coffee, we talked about the fun we’d had the night before. We vowed to have a special night out once a month and call it our “date night.”

  We finished our coffee, and I started to load the dishwasher. Kate went into her office to get a few things she needed to bring to work that day. All of a sudden I heard an ear-piercing scream. It was a scream of sheer terror and it came from Kate. Startled, I almost dropped one of the dishes I was placing into the dishwasher.

  I ran toward her office to see what caused her to scream. Kate came toward me, her eyes opened wide. She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the living room. Before I could say one word, she said, “Come look at this. You’re not going to believe this.”

  I must admit, it totally baffled me. The red balloon had once again escaped its home in the office. It was in front of the living room window, facing out, almost as if it was looking for something or someone. “What the...,” I stammered, but before I could continue my sentence, the balloon turned at the sound of my voice and leered at me. The big smiley face that I once thought cute now appeared grotesque as it bounced up and down, sending chills up and down my spine.

  “You said you tied it to my chair,” Kate said, accusingly.

  I had tied it to the chair. I could see no possible way that it could have gotten loose on its own.

  “I did tie it to the chair. This is really strange. I don’t know how it escaped,” I replied.

  “That’s it. Get them out of here,” Kate yelled. “Get rid of both of them. And why is it only the red balloon that keeps getting out and moving around? Why isn’t it ever the pink one? It scares me. I know they’re only balloons, but it’s just too weird. I want them gone when I get home,” she insisted.

  I told her she was being silly. After all, it was just a balloon.

  “I’ll just break them and get rid of them.” As soon as I said it, I realized my mistake.

  “No!” Kate shouted, “you know how I feel about that.” She had a look of pure horror on her face.

  I had forgotten that as a child Kate spent her summers with her grandmother. I remembered her telling me about her grandmother’s superstitions and how she didn’t fear the things most people feared - black cats, breaking a mirror, walking under ladders, things like that – but there were two things she felt strongly about. One was opening an umbrella indoors and the other was intentionally breaking a balloon. She believed they brought bad luck and unleashed trapped spirits.

  Before she died, she made Kate promise not to do either of those things. At the time I didn’tgive it much thought.

  “Oh, Kate, I’m sorry.

  I forgot. They’re filled with helium so I’ll just let them go outside.”

  She looked relieved and grabbed her purse. As she started out the door, the balloon turned toward Kate with a menacing stare. I was glad Kate didn’t see it.

  As soon as Kate left, I quickly put the red balloon in her office with the pink one until I could dispose of both of them.

  I finished getting ready for work. This little fiasco meant I would be late today. Being a man of my word, I rushed into Kate’s office to retrieve the balloons. I grabbed the pink balloon first and dragged it by its streamer to the front door. “Out you go,” I commanded as I pushed it gently out the door. It shot up quickly into the air, reaching for the clouds. Within seconds it was no longer in sight.

  “Now for the trouble-maker,” I declared as I returned to Kate’s office. Quickly, I grabbed the streamer and once again headed toward the front door with the evil culprit bobbing behind me. As I approached the front door, the balloon resisted, as if someone were pulling it in the opposite direction. The closer I got to the door the stronger the pull became.

  I opened the door and the balloon suddenly pulled itself backwards with such force that the streamer sprang from my hand and found refuge in the corner of the living room. Surprised, I looked out the front door. Had a sudden gust of wind moved the balloon? All was still.

  Nothing stirred, not even a gentle wind.

  I closed the door and went back to retrieve the runaway balloon. I glanced at the clock and remembered that I had a meeting scheduled with the other Vice Principals in less than half an hour. I couldn’t be late. Not today. I decided to deal with the balloon when I got home, confident I would arrive home before Kate.

  No such luck. As fate would have it, Kate’s car was in the driveway when I arrived home. “Oh, no,” I said to myself, “I’m in big trouble now.” I took a deep breath and braced myself for the sound of Kate’s voice, knowing she would be very angry at me for not disposing of both balloons. Strangely, upon entering the house, I was greeted by silence.

  “Kate, honey, I’m home,” I announced loudly, thinking she might be in the bedroom changing her clothes.

  No response.

  “Kate?” I repeated.

  Still there was no response.

  Where was she? I glanced to my right, into Kate’s office, and sighed. She sat in her high-backed chair in front of her computer, her back to me. I began to think she must really be mad at me and was not going to talk to me.

  I stepped into her office, armed with my explanation, when suddenly my whole world collapsed. I could not believe the horror before my eyes. Kate was slumped in her chair. Coffee was spilled all over her keyboard and was running down the side of her desk. The cup was lying on its side. I stepped closer. Then I noticed her eyes. They were wide open, bulging with terror. She looked as if she were gasping for air or trying to scream. Blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth. I touched her arm and it was cold.

  Kate was dead.

  Then, I noticed the balloon. The thin red streamer, like a cord, was wrapped tightly around Kate’s neck. The room spun around me as I staggered into the kitchen to call 911. I really can’t recall the events that followed. It was like a dream. I was in shock. Vaguely, I remember opening the door for the emergency team. The silence was replaced by the sounds of people rushing back and forth from all areas of the house. Someone led me out of the room and sat me in a chair. Someone else had called the police.

  The next thing I knew the police were asking me questions. I don’t remember what I said to them. When I told them about the balloon, they glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. Nothing made any sense. They told me to come with them and gently ushered me out of the house. As I passed Kate’s office, I couldn’t resist glancing over. Someone was taking pictures. Then he cut the streamer from her neck, setting the killer balloon free.

  As I was led to the police car, I noticed movement from the living room window. I looked up only to see the balloon at the front window once again. It was watching me. I called out to the police, yelling for them to look at it, but they ignored me.

  “Look,” I insisted, “it’s laughing at me.”

  Again, they e
xchanged glances and shook their heads.

  As the police car pulled away, I took one final look at the balloon in the window. It was still smirking as it bobbed up and down. It was still laughing at me. I swear I saw it wink at me, but who would believe me?

  Now I have to decide the rest of my life in just a few short minutes. I hear the sounds of their footsteps growing louder as they approach my cell. I hear someone mentioning my name. Time is running out.

  They are coming to question me once again. What do I say?

  Suddenly I hear a faint sound coming from the direction of my jail cell window. I look over at the bars with disgust. I should not be here. I am a well respected man in the community.

  Scratch, scratch. There it is again. The sound was soft but distinct. Then I see something fly past my window. I got up from my bed and walked closer to get a better look.

  I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as the streamer passed by once again and I catch a glimpse of the red balloon.

  No, it can’t be.

  As I strain my neck to the side to get a better look, the balloon suddenly dips down and hangs, suspended from the window, starring in at me.

  I can hear only screaming. The scream of a madman. It wouldn’t stop. It just kept on and on.

  Musicians & Maniacs

  by Karen DeCapp

  Charisma trumps talent. Neither surprising, nor a secret, in the money obsessed field of entertainment. Talent may be improved upon and found readily, but star quality….ah… star quality is lightning in a cave.

  With a seductive smile in the lens fluttering a heart and drawing scores of teary eyed fans, mansion number two on the East coast is purchased. But stardom questioned fairness. To those living large, injustice was easily dismissed. To true artists, like Nick Sheppard, dismissal meant death.

  A recording studio recognized an upcoming rock band had the current technologically advanced generation intrigued in a cult manner similar to the 1960’s band ‘The Doors’. Many sociological and physiological comparisons are tone driven. Today, youth entente and text messages punch songs into dynamite.

  Major youthquake. Communicate and violate. An altered state of mind, edgy lifestyles, and music with multiple, yet self-interrupted meaning, blasted into a mike spiraling the under thirty crowd into a tizzy. What irks the old, entices the young. Nick found the scene cliché.

  Nick Sheppard wrote the music and lyrics for the soul quaking four man band ‘Mental’. The title was derived from Nick’s fetish with control. More precisely, telepathy. How much did the beat of the drums, pick of the guitars and ultimately the suggestion of the moody words effect the vulnerable thinker? That question and striving to possess and alter behavior elevated Nick from eerie to enigmatic. And knowing he was close to the capability made him dangerous. Unfazed and untiring, this was being done under the ignorance of the band members and the recording executives.

  Lead singer, Samuel Dowell, comprehended Nick’s composing talent. Nick constructed and was the foundation, but stage and lights belonged to Samuel. Without Samuel, promoting the group was like selling Playboy magazine without pictures. Some buyers read the articles as well as marvel at the bodies, but all leer at the nudity. And Samuel was the centerfold. He knew it, the promoters knew it, and Nick knew it. But acknowledgment wasn’t acceptance according to Nick.

  Women swooned over Samuel, platform boots to spiked hair. Such brass attention might have been a debilitating cut to the Achilles heel, or choleric ego of Nick, if not for one element. An element equipped with long auburn hair, eyes that mysteriously transformed from sable to azure to emerald like a buffed rolling marble, and a patient, kind demeanor rivaling the lead in a sappy romance novel. And this ‘element’ even had a Goddess name. Adella.

  Nick was unsure what he’d fallen in love with first--- name, face, or soul mechanics. The chicken or the egg, what does it matter? An existing, fully-embodied creature stood before him. He’d fallen and was a novice of rapture.

  He was, however, uncertain if the commencement proceeded in unison. But they had entered the qualifying hand in hand—hadn’t they? His signals read a seductive, yet unjaded smile cross her mouth when she saw him. A light tender laugh projected when he quipped anecdotes, and the tilting inward motion of her body read ‘friends now, lovers later, and mates forever.’

  Samuel’s feast of disease infested, slutty groupies dished a banquet of bugs and blisters. Nick treasured the irony of popularity, allowing Samuel the menu of vermin, a dollop of penicillin, and an on call physician. Adella delivered a classic, devoted dish.

  Two members of the band exited studio B3 after four hours of recording a three minute and forty-two second song. Fine tweaking was at a feverish pitch. ‘Mental’ instrumentally needed technology to sound premiere and so did Samuel’s voice, though at concerts and in hotel rooms, fans didn’t complain about the discrepancy. Flummoxed whores and druggies clamored for a piece of Hollywood, no matter the price. Samuel was riding the hurricane’s wave. No moderation and no fear. The dream bubble of stardom floated along the sands of paradise. Not all members of ‘Mental’ enjoyed the carefree breeze. To Nick, nothing had the right to be carefree.

  Samuel and Nick remained in the studio and hashed out plans to go over the newest song to the CD.

  “How about ten o’clock?” Samuel was a night owl, as well as a sexual vulture. “Too late for ya, Nicky?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Nick didn’t make eye contact. Samuel’s only calculable droning would be done on a mattress before Nick’s arrival.

  “This will give me time to work-out.” Samuel said patting the six pack hiding under his hundred dollar T-shirt reading ‘What you can’t see, can hurt you’. “The ladies love looking at the rock gut on stage. Diligent training, no sugar, and limited carbs.” Samuel mockingly tapped Nick’s stomach. Nick pushed his hand away in objection. “You’re lucky, Nicky. That guitar you play with mediocrity conceals the flab. See ya at ten.” Samuel left.

  Nick viewed Samuel flavorless without him, but wasn’t naïve. Weighty record contracts hid farce calibrations. When millions are shelled out, millions show courtesy. Forced fake partnership. Does one bite of apple dipped in peanut butter and one bite dipped in chocolate alter the flavor of the apple? Trouble was, both considered themselves the apple, not the replaceable dip.

  To Samuel, Nick was sour and rotting the sweetness. Approval of Nick’s music or lyrics was meaningless. The only screeching more deafening than Samuel was Nick, and Nick didn’t have the swagger to vitalize 40,000 ticket holders. As for Samuel composing a note or word, he couldn’t identify a clef on sheet music or derive two words from the letters of ‘misspelled’. But image is more than everything, it’s the only thing. Fanfare to fan club.

  Nick used the freedom of Samuel’s condescension to review the session. Thirty minutes later he exited the studio. Two steps down the corridor, Adella turned the corner and appeared before Nick like an angel trailing a wish.

  “Adella….” Nick said in a fantasy infused stupor, although it was not unusual seeing her in the recording studio. Her father was a top executive. Adella’s majestic aura superceded breeding. Certain attributes derive naturally. Money and power are mere superficial projections. In her presence, Nick hit kundalini and a sixth charka, which is a profound yogi poise and non- touch transference. When she spoke he hit seven---total enlightenment.

  “Nick, how nice to see you.” Number seven received.

  “You too.”

  “I bet ‘Mental’ is busy with their next CD, huh?”

  “Oh, yes. Busy, busy.”

  “You’re so talented Nick. Your songs reach many people, on multiple levels.”

  Nick’s mind flashed—if only she knew.

  “It’s rare. I’ve been around music my whole life, and this band has magic. Long lasting magic.” She paused to giggle girlishly and then tossed her tresses over her right shoulder. Nick watched, mesmerized. “In this business, that’s a treasured c
ommodity.” She added.

  Nick glanced at his watch. “Adella, I’m going to grab a bite to eat. Would you join me?”

  “I’d love too.”

  “Great, you pick the place.”

  “Hmm…are you hungry enough for D’Stello’s?” D’Stello’s was a romantic, candlelit, limited seating, waiter with a towel over his forearm, ‘we embrace each other’ cozy bistro. Nick quickly replied “Oh, yes.” So he’d be late to meet with Samuel. The extra time would allow the raising and buckling of his pants.

  “Okay, mind if I meet you there?” Adella asked.

  “No. I’m on my way. See you there.”

  Twenty minutes later, Nick was pouring wine and an appetizer of shrimp and crab stuffed portabellas simmered at the table, along with Nick’s libido.

  Adella stroked the long stem glass in a provocative manner, before taking a sip.

  “You know Nick, I have to say my favorite song of the band’s is ‘Can’t do it without you.’ My spirit dances.” She placed her hand over Nick’s and the spiritual dancing continued. “Did it take you long to write?”

  “Huh…” Nick was swaying in and out of coherence because of the electricity surging. With a blink, shoulder twitch, and bottom lip bite, he reentered the conversation. “I think just a night or two. When I focus, I can create quickly.”

  After the consumption of two zesty ziti’s, the last drop from the bottle of wine, and the flirting of reaming pupils, Adella broke the carnal vibe and explained she had to leave because of a prior commitment.

  “How about dinner tomorrow night, Adella?”

  “Tomorrow? Oh, I can’t, but I can the following night. Will that work for you?”

  “Yeah, I’ll pick you up at 8:00.”

  “Remember the address?”

  “Oh, yes.” Nick had taken Adella home from the studio on one occasion. But return trips had been several. A history of numbers, lights, and stairwells formed explicitly. Two blocks north, eight blocks east, corner grey structure between another apartment and a dry cleaners with a red neon light flashing ‘24 hour service’.