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

by Raven Black

  An intercom with a gold button and a silver speaker was at the entrance, a bordered rust/brown rug needing to be vacuumed neither in a country nor Victorian decor was in the foyer, and the elevator to the third floor was twelve steps to the right. Apartment 314 was three quarters of the way down the hall with numbers in gloss black bookman old style font. If he took the stairwell, he climbed seventy-eight steps, and took thirty-four full strides until the peephole lined up midway at his nose.

  The only thing more vivid than the journey to her home was how her hand felt on his. He’d fallen in love. Not obsession---Love.

  For now, he had to refocus. A pretentious, phony encounter was to take place with the no talent, sexually consumed Samuel. Yes fame and money had fallen into the lap of ‘Mental’, but how long before the tarot cards flipped ‘revenge’? Nick was the avenger, and Samuel was the victim.

  Excessive energy and vigilance was given to Samuel’s physique. Samuel viewed his weakness for women as admirable, but weakness in his diet or an underachieved push up tally shattered the ego. A buff body meant supreme stamina buffing chicks. Samuel held pride in his rigid food consumption.

  Nick planned to clog the lean jugular. Game on. Assault arrogance. This prompted Nick’s current insidious music manipulation. Monitoring heart rate and lung expansion with specific pitches and rhythms orchestrated cerebral action. How often do you hear rap at yoga sessions? Classical music at dance clubs? No mind and body fusion occurs. Task at hand: Must precipitate a subdued connection.

  He learned to keep fluid communication intact, along with decibel pitches, allowing words to persuade. Words to control. And the manner and loudness in which they’re delivered are cerebral markers. The oh-so genre of brain washing possesses the spirit. One only has to watch tribal ceremonies to comprehend how pounding and chanting delegate willpower. Lost in the thumping, nuance falls prey.

  Where Samuel had the presumed upon self- restraint to reject a cookie, his mind failed in deflecting recourse. Or to go further, Samuel didn’t have the intellect or any sense to expect a subconscious combatant. Conclusion: a perfect target. His savvy relied on muscle and material.

  Nick believed in bending spoons with a stare, visiting dead relatives via Ouija, and presenting a CD invoking finely tuned pitches and lyrics inspiring a simpleton rock singer and fitness guru to eat donuts and pie. And the evidence would be in Samuel’s hand tonight.

  * * * * *

  get me doughnuts----get me sweet potatoe pie

  gotta have ‘em-----gotta eat ‘em

  gotta have a complete white sugar high

  Gluttony, coercion, and perversion were grooved into a disc, which Nick smugly gripped in his left hand, as he knocked on the door of Samuel’s penthouse. Precise tone, fever, and tribal voodoo rested in one song. A test of power was underway. Power to dominate, seize, and take down the enemy.

  Samuel opened the door with a towel wrapped around his waist. “Crap, is it time already?”

  Nick stepped inside “Oh, yeah—it’s time.”

  Appearing from the hallway leading to Samuel’s bedroom was a stringy-haired blonde waif in matching red lace panties and a bra. Her breasts pushed past the realm of being real and the ability of the underwire.

  “Samuel?” She called in a sultry manner.

  “Get dressed and get out. I have to work now.”

  Her eyes widened. “You working on a new song?”

  “I said get dressed and get out.”

  She sighed and disappeared down the corridor. “Tell you what, Samuel. I burned off the new song.

  Take a listen and let me know your thoughts tomorrow.” Nick set the disc on the chrome and glass coffee table. “We have a 9:00 am session in the studio.” Not waiting for an answer, Nick turned to leave.

  “Hey Nick..”

  Nick looked back. Deep in thought, Samuel asked “Do you believe in connections? A conflict, like water and oil, yet it blends?”

  Squinting, Nick pondered his question. Was it a male bonding attempt? Was he finally acknowledging Nick’s importance? “Yeah, sure---listen to the song. See ya tomorrow.”

  One good deed might result. If Samuel listened to the song with the ninety pound freak, she’d eat.

  * * * * *

  The always punctual Nick arrived at the studio ten minutes late. Samuel, normally loving a grand late entrance, awaited Nick.

  Once Nick entered the booth of seismic knobs and dials, a smile not of ‘a cat that ate the canary’, but ‘a warrior that conquered an empire’ emitted with a mere tilt of the lips and one eyebrow raise.

  At least a half dozen plates and pie tins lined the shelf of the glass control center. The two other band members stood stunned as Samuel sat and shoveled a fork into his mouth with a heaping spoon of sweet potato pie.

  Seeing Nick enter, one replied “Look at this Nick. ‘Love my body Sammy’ is eating junk like it was his last day on earth. Unbelievable.”

  “Not really.” Nick mumbled.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.” A bizarre look flashed from Samuel at Nick from over the spoon. Nick continued. “So you had a sweet tooth today, did you?”

  “Can’t get enough.” Samuel’s voice was hoarse and hypnotic causing a deeper grin and a higher brow on Nick.

  “Sorry I’m late guys. I’m going to make a quick trip to the restroom and we’ll get this show on the road.” Nick left. He walked to the restroom and studied the mirror and the genius staring back. “You are in control, buddy.”

  After taking care of business and the pep talk, Nick left the restroom and six feet away Samuel was embracing a woman. In his view was Samuel’s back side and thin, yet toned arms of a female wrapped around him with one hand on his upper back and one squeezing the denim pocket of his jeans. Nick sighed. It had taken seconds for animal mating season and a floozy with red nail polish to disrupt and deride the sanctity of the studio.

  “C’mon give me a break.” A flippant demeanor flowed.

  The two broke up the make-out session. Samuel turned around and the woman stepped to his side. They stood arm in arm.

  A thunderous bolt, like a lever pull of an electric chair, seared through Nick’s body. No part of his being went unaffected. With the surge of voltage, his existence departed the core and mitigated to dust. In powder form the pain disarmed. Or so he thought.

  Standing before him, tightly molding to Samuel was Adella. Embarrassed only for necking in the corridor like a teenager, Adella lowered her eyes and gently brushed her lips. “I guess that was a tad inappropriate. I’m sorry.”

  Oblivious to the heart wrenching collapse of Nick’s soul, Samuel asked. “You’ve met Adella, haven’t you, Nick?”

  “Good to see you again, Nick.” Adella said with the identical tone, that only hours ago meant ‘I want to be with you the rest of my life.’

  Nick didn’t speak, as he envisioned the empty shell of his existence turning to sand and being blown away by a typhoon.

  Adella spoke to Samuel. “See you tonight at 8:00?”

  “You know it, sweetie. Love ya.”

  “Love ya too.” They kissed and Adella placed her hand on Nick’s shoulder as she walked passed. “It was good to see ya again, Nick.”

  A reflexive shrug of disgust ensued. Nick calculated his next mission. It’d take work, but if he believed it was doable----and he BELIEVED----it would occur.

  Once Medusa was out of sight, Nick spoke to Samuel. “Why don’t you go ahead and record with the band. I’ll come in later and finish up.”

  “What, you nuts? We all have to play, man.”

  “No we don’t. I have a song I have to finish. I’m the sole music and lyric writer, remember? It’s a killer. The only place I can do this is in the confines of my home.” Every word was true, and the meaning: cryptic. “I’ll drop off the last addition to our new CD at 7:00. And I’ll tie up the loose ends here. I’ll take care of it.”

  Not waiting for an answer or debate, Nick raced out.

&nbs
p; * * * * *

  As Nick plotted, he recalled the manifestation of his ability. Aged nine, breathless and sweating from only the temple, he placed a feather found in his backyard by a trash can and under a large branch, into an unused mason jar and screwed on the lid tightly.

  Peering at the spotty separation in the feather, he concentrated at the same tick of the clock every day. Five o’clock--before supper, before school work, and after outside play time. At first the sessions lasted five minutes, within weeks: an hour. And in a month, the feather moved. Not an eye-tricking float, but a jump. As if wanting out of the bottle and Nick’s deadening stare. Or possibly, a wave hello.

  Soon an obsession to further the incitement began. With his love of music, tempo, and control he broadened the command mechanism and tested the will of a victim.

  ‘Caramel’ their evil tempered tabby cat hated many things, but nothing more than water. Hearing the faucet turn and the stream emit, elevated the cat to panic mode with seclusion under a heavy piece of furniture. Music was the first to soothe the jitters. Next, calibrated rhythm and entranced lyrics guided Caramel out of the cave to protection of the couch or bed. But Caramel submerging into the tub, on its own, without the brutal fling of an agitated youngster took patience and perseverance. Nick was willing to donate and dedicate himself to the task.

  He had the calling. He moved the feather. He was a musical prodigy. All wove a sordid provocation to cause submission and without the culprit privy to the weakness.

  Most little boys dream of being able to fly, he dreamed of making others think they were able to fly. The magnificence of malice.

  On a cold, snowy morning shortly after the celebration of a new year, Caramel, after hearing Nick’s deliberate composition to influence her movements, strolled into the bathroom, sprang three feet high and jumped into five inches of bath water. Minus fear and minus hesitation, Caramel was the first bodied creature to succumb to Nick. Feather to fur. How difficult could humans really be? Most have to summon intellect to order fast food.

  Never to nix curiosity, Nick pondered the owner of the feather. Researching birds, he became aware Blue Jays visited and nested in the yard. Blue Jays were notoriously arrogant and over-confident. They were the bullies pushing the smaller birds off the feeder.

  He’d wondered, was this the feather he’d elevated and controlled? Symbolism is subjective at best, and psychotic at worst.

  Or had the feather belonged to a buzzard? These predators symbolized death and decay. Had the hopping and vision inside the jar held a reverse transition? The theory was preposterous. Dwelling on the when and why, depleted concentration. Nick couldn’t have that.

  Years later, Nick’s capabilities were serving him as he wished. And his wish was to seek revenge and inflict a lifetime of horror onto an enemy. Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. Nick snickered at the analogy as he composed his lyrics:

  Hold the knife, plunge the blade

  Gonna spray this room in red. Can’t fight the shade.

  Won’t stop till you topple and expel your last sigh

  Don’t seek forgiveness. You played me, therefore you must die

  Tone, thumps, and suggestion were in order. Translating like anatomical teamwork of diaphragm and ribs contracting and creating a negative pressure or vacuum to force air through and form a breath. Tender internal gears shift and produce a double pump flush which in return forms one heart beat—just one. Even the alveoli of the lung drives the fist sized heart to function.

  Nick didn’t believe it was possible to over analyze. Major compliance, fragile balance, and conductor’s skill are underway as we go about the day. Deliberate cognition is needed to pour a cup of coffee, but the brain directs our organs robotically. The system works, and works in unison. All vital. All simultaneous, and life and death depends on systematic cooperation. Add cerebral influence, which profoundly massages the soul subconsciously, and BINGO---Samuel will repeatedly stab Adella. Result: Death and vengeance, and to Nick a fitting finale. As simple and complicated as the body itself.

  Though Nick despised Samuel, the animosity was unpreventable and unchangeable. But Adella was a betrayer plunging a sword into his back. They were supposed to marry. Love unconditionally. She’d misled, mocked, and ridiculed him. Her two faced transformation from devotion to whore was insufferable and punishable by death. The blade would be the source of her demise and the inflictor, her arrogant lover.

  Samuel would be convicted and serve life in prison. Samuel—the pretty boy with the chiseled body surrounded only by men to worship his fame. Death wouldn’t be his biggest nightmare.

  Nick knocked on the door to Samuel’s penthouse. Shirtless in tight black jeans, Samuel opened the door. Nick quickly placed the disc in his hand. “Here ya go.

  Play it when Adella’s here. Get her opinion.”

  “I always do, Nicky.”

  “I’ll see you later.” Excitement accelerated saliva. Nick swallowed and wiped his mouth. He’d return about 9:00, witness the carnage, and call the police.

  * * * * *

  The door was ajar and only a filtered illumination sneaked over the threshold when Nick returned.

  Malignant signs the environment held a secret hung in the grayness as Nick entered.

  In a light shuffle, he took two steps inside. A black mass cowered on the couch. Fast blinks and a pinch to the nose, Nick adjusted to the shadowy deception of the living room. Candles blazed and moonlight crawled from the thin gaps of the vertical blinds diffusing outlines and chaffing definitions.

  Nick stopped and focused on the figure. It was Samuel. He was not cowering but hunched over, elbows on knee and clasping his head as if battling ear-drum- exploding shrieks.

  Before speaking, Nick listened for music. Nothing.

  He listened for the movement of Adella. Nothing.

  “Samuel?”

  No response.

  “Samuel? Everything alright?”

  No response.

  Nick, mindful of Samuel, glided past him as if he was a hissing snake coiled and ready to strike. But Nick sensed the serpent’s deed was done.

  As he approached the corridor leading to the bedroom, the clouded fun house lighting continued. Nick walked in a confident, but soft heel-to-toe rolling manner, down the distorted tunnel to the crime scene. There was no rush. No remorse. What had to be done was done.

  And as the bedroom loomed only inches away, his talent and power surged with raw primal adrenaline.

  Halting at the doorway, he examined the room and Adella. Candles flanked the furniture around the bed. And the bed served as Adella’s final skin to material sensation before succumbing to a violent end. Face down, semi-nude, her gleaming auburn hair fanned out shrinking the width of her shoulders before cascading over the edge of the mattress. Her long legs consumed the lower section of the bed, seemingly out of proportion to her physique. Or were the flicks of light and Nick’s internal rejoicing altering perception?

  A kitchen knife was placed on the dresser.

  As Nick’s eyes scanned Adella’s tomb and his emotions celebrated, omission scratched the vent of delusion. Something was amiss.

  With a low scuffing sound behind him, Nick abruptly turned to encounter the wild stare of Samuel. Suddenly, the king of the jungle became the rabbit stalked by the wolf.

  “Samuel? Did you hurt Adella?” Where was the splattering of red? The saturation of blood? Although the room was dim, the knife was clean. Completely clean! The silver of the blade reflected the flame of the candle. Then from the bedroom, a familiar song played….

  I am your partner. Joined by mystique

  Whatever the hold. I cannot defeat.

  Tied to you by love I will ensue

  Follow you to hell.

  Whatever you want ‘I can’t do it without you’

  Nick had written that song months ago, and Adella expressed to him it was her favorite. His mind sorted through the timeline---When exactly did ‘Mental’ coercion begin? Had t
he lyrics of ‘Can’t do it without you’, though unintended to control, infuse an unbreakable commitment between Samuel and Adella? Hearing it together now, and years ago for the first time, must have fused a bond. And ultimately, the pledge of partnership. In his egotistical absorption, he’d altered fate.

  While Nick pondered the flaw of his power, Samuel raised a knife and plunged it into his chest.

  Nick’s knees buckled and he collapsed. Weak and trying to hold the gush of fluid from his wound, he rose and took an unstable step only to find Adella in his way.

  “Adella….”

  She had retrieved the knife from the dresser and brought it to his neck. The impact sprayed red onto the walls, clothing, and a puddle of deep crimson grew on the floor like a shallow stream in a monsoon.

  In seconds, Samuel and Adella swung their arms in madness. No emotion. No compassion and certainly, no signs of lethargy. Their attack was savage, like hungry wolves feeding on a carcass until Nick lie quiet. Thick reams of blood crept down the wall, swayed over the baseboard, and oddly writhed to their mangled owner.

  Unyielding sentiment permeated from the song riddling (buzzard-like) devotion and decay.

  Samuel then said in a mesmerizing pitch, as if ready to break into song “You see, there’s an unexplainable connection between me and Adella.”

  Nick had joined the two together. How mental.

  Serenity Lane

  by Jennifer Iacovoni

  2004

  Stacy

  Stacy was so excited about her new home. She still could not believe the deal she got on it. She was approved for a HUD loan when she came across the tri- level, brick home on a two-acre lot surrounded by woods on the peaceful street named Serenity Lane. The house had been in foreclosure, and with the down payment provided as a gift from her parents for her up coming wedding, she was able to close the deal and move right in.