The train lurched into a station. The doors whooshed.
Bing bong. Bing bong. Smith and Ninth Street. Stand clear of the doors. Bing bong.
When Harris opened his eyes, the girl was gone — Juicy Fruit and all.
Relief.
Harris kept his eyes shut for the trip’s remainder. The train had plunged into the earth — tunneled again. Harris listened intently for the mechanical voice.
Bing bong. Bing bong. Church Avenue. Stand clear of the doors. Bing bong.
He opened his eyes. Church Avenue was a major stop, because the sleeping and reading passengers hurriedly detrained. When the doors closed, Harris was alone. The car rattled briskly now, lurching, and then rising once more into sunlight — aloft again, this time on an El.
The neighborhood hugged the old elevated line. The houses were quaint. Harris ratcheted to his feet and, holding tightly to the overhead bar, gazed at the passing rooftops — flat with exhaust fan kiosks and pigeon coops nurturing the flying rats of the city. The film On the Waterfront came to mind, and he sighed. I could have been a contender.
Harris broke his reverie to consult a route map. If he stayed on this line — the F Train, he’d be in Coney Island. That fabled place engendered thoughts of a time past. If he hadn’t been on this mission of dire passion, he’d be happy to detour to the beach.
The train slowed, screeching into a lonely station. A sign slid into view.
Bay Parkway.
“This is it,” he said, hesitating, but then took a stance before the doors.
Bing bong. Bing bong. Avenue I – Bay Parkway. Next stop Kings Highway. Stand clear of the doors. Bing bong.
Harris confirmed the stop on the Post-it. When the doors slid open, he stepped onto the platform. A chilly breeze blew through his hair. He looked both ways, unsure how to proceed.
Bing bong. Bing bong. Next stop Kings Highway. Stand clear of the doors. Bing bong.
The train pulled out, revealing a canyon between the inbound and outbound platforms. Harris twisted one way, and then another before deciding on his exit plan. Right was probably the way, but he chose left and couldn’t tell why.
He hastened, chasing the rear of the train, but it out raced him, leaving him in its wake. He could see the next stop along the steel road in the distance — Kings Highway. He reached a metal staircase, and then a catwalk, which descended to a ticketing area in the El’s belly.
I could ask directions, he thought. However, the booth seemed deserted. Perhaps going right would have been best.
A bus passed on the street below, so Harris decided to hit the pavement and ask a passerby. But when he reached the staircase’s end, no one passed on the street. The road beneath the El had a street sign which read:
McDonald Ave.
A cross street angled beneath the El. Its sign read:
Bay Parkway.
Harris hopped off the curb and crossed at the light in search of the Post-it address:
13-13 McDonald Ave — Mortis House.
When he reached the opposite side, he had no problem finding it. Only one house on the block and it stood in the middle of . . . a cemetery.
3
A cemetery. A Jewish cemetery, if Harris knew his history, and he knew Jewish history, because he had played a child in a concentration camp in an early gig. He recalled the symbols and signs on the set. It had not been an uplifting experience, but it left an indelible impression. His mother cautioned him when taking the role, which exposed him to horror, striking a nerve perhaps no child should experience. However, after soul searching and dialogue, Doris Kopfstutter guided her son through it. She, always on the set, stood at the ready to console him after the horrific scenes. These memories didn’t encourage Harris, considering Charminus’ lusty invitation.
He reached a rusty iron fence. Should he hop back on the train and take that excursion to Coney. Suddenly, his pain, which had subsided in expectation’s cloud, returned like a hammer.
Another train roared by overhead, its bing bong announcement muffled while it discharged passengers, and then rattled back toward Church Avenue and its dark tunnel. Harris felt rattled back into that dark tunnel. He stood at death’s broad plain — a tombstone prairie, which susurrated a quiet message over the wrought-iron fence. His heart sunk.
She’s suckered me, he thought.
“She’s suckered me,” he muttered.
He kicked the fence and faced the El.
“She’s suckered me,” he shouted.
Then he heard a different rattle — the sound of a metal gate shaken by the wind. He turned and stared. The gate wasn’t inviting. It hadn’t opened for him. As far as he knew, it was locked.
How do people get in? He was suddenly amused.
“They kick the bucket, that’s how.”
Why would Charminus lure him to this forsaken spot where the departed rested for eternity? And what building stood on the grounds? From this distance, it looked like a house. Perhaps for the groundskeeper — an undertaker’s haven.
Of course, the gravedigger would be an old hunchback with a game leg, who carried a spooky rake and spade.
Harris shuffled along the fence until he reached the gate. Locked. He kicked it and . . .
. . . it opened.
He stepped back, staring at the line of graves. He didn’t know these people when they were . . . people. Nothing to recollect, except harrowing ash plumes. Perhaps he did know them.
He stepped under the wrought-iron arch, which proclaimed this place to be:
Washington Cemetery.
It could have read:
Arbeit Mach Frei.
He sauntered toward the house respectfully, passing headstones — granite and unadorned except for shrouded urns and smooth prayer stones set on each as markers, evidence of people visiting their beloved dead. He read the names.
“Goldstein — Samuels — Piepschnik — Vernick — Rothberg — Zuckerburg — Rolnick.”
He halted.
“Montjoy!”
He shook his head. No, it read:
Mortis.
He rubbed his eyes, and then sighed.
“No. It’s Finckelstein. I must be going nuts.” He halted. “I gotta get outta here.”
As he turned from the house, he saw the gate had closed. He started toward it, but halted again, the house whispering to him. He turned and faced it. It had transformed into an old Victorian. Odd. It had been nearly a shack, but now it had two-stories with Gothic trim in seven shades of gray.
“Well, I’ve come this far,” he muttered, leaving the grave path. He drew up before the black stoop and cobwebby porch. The front door was shut, but the house number beside the lintel read:
13-13 — Mortis House
“This is it, but . . .”
His but hung in the air, as buts often do — the signature of the noncommittal. He had forgotten his drive — his need to be consumed again in Charminus’ fire. The lady in black denim’s vision had faded. A whisper engulfed him — a beckoning, which he didn’t comprehend — a mysterious language. He imagined the jade ring and its sigil, the image riveting him to the spot. His feet might have turned and his body may have fled to the gate, climbing over it; bounding up the metal El stairs and waiting for the annoying bing bong. But he melted to the spot. He focused on the closed door and the foreign whispers and the jade ring. He daydreamed. Must be. Whether he would wake or not, remained an unanswered question.
Suddenly, the breeze kicked him hard, shaking him from this reverie. The door opened slowly, creaking like a corny script call in a B movie. He almost laughed. But it made him uneasy. Mortis House’s front door opened wide. No one greeted him — not even a hunchbacked gravedigger. No shrouded urns or the shades of Goldstein or Vernick or Zuckerburg. No. Only hollow darkness and a whispering, which he understood now.
I am waiting.
Harris Cartwright, born Humphrey Kopfstutter, against reason, climbed the stairs and entered the darkness of Mortis House.
Chapter Five
Mortis House
1
In dark and musty Mortis House, a filigree of light streamed from a hallway window, imprinting the staircase — an old wooden easement tacked with faded carpeting. Uninviting. Harris edged his way across the foyer until he reached the banister. He grasped it like an anchor in the doldrums, and then glanced back at the door. Slowly it closed, latching shut. He didn’t panic, but noted he might be trapped. But how? Wasn’t this 13-13 McDonald Avenue — the place Charminus had on her mysterious invitation? Wouldn’t she be here expecting him? He gazed up the staircase.
“Charminus,” he called, not loudly, but gutturally — just above a whisper. “Charminus, are you there?”
No answer.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he observed the banister — serpentine — a species of dragon, gnarly headed and now under his paw. He inspected his hand before cautiously returning it to the creature’s spine. He took a first step, the tread creaking — naturally to any haunted house, or so he thought. An aroma struck him — a wisteria and hyacinth blend — strong and medicinal. It drew him to the landing, the steps continuing their rise to a broad balcony. An array of shut doors lined the hallway — not inviting, but the aroma had to come from somewhere. He heard a noise — a susurrating rustle of silk perhaps, and then crystals rattling. He cocked his head to listen before calling again.
“Charminus, is that you?”
Still no answer. Suddenly, someone floated passed him — a woman in a leathery tan gown, toting a tray. He concluded she was the sound’s source. She had long black tresses and wore a purple band around her forehead, a crystal ornament dangling from its center. She moved ghost-like, her feet not touching the floor and, when she reached the door, she passed through without opening it.
“Hey,” Harris called. “Who are you?” He reached the top. The question wasn’t who are you, but where am I? “What’s this place?”
The floral scent strengthened, wrapping his chest. It turned him back to the staircase. In that turn, he espied a shape emerging from the shadows. He thought it might be the ghost lady returning to answer his questions, but it was Charminus.
“Thank God, it’s you,” he said.
“Who else would it be?” He pointed to the closed door. “Ignore it. That is my Trone. Take no notice. I certainly do not.”
“Your Trone?”
Charminus spread her arms. No longer clad in black denim, she wore deep purple — a velvet robe, cinched by a golden waist chain. A jade-jeweled skullcap restrained her hair. She flashed her jade ring, snapping Harris away from his questions. Entranced, he bowed to her like a servant in the halls of love.
“I knew you would come,” she said, “and on your own accord.”
“You invited me,” he said, caught in her orbit.
“I left you a trail — a test for your passions. You do have passions, Harris, and I have pleasures to spare.”
“Funny thing that,” he said, nervously as she embraced him. “I don’t recall much from our roll in the hay.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, raking her hand through his hair. “Perhaps, that is best. Recall compels the soul to drift, leaving the imagination nothing but wisps of ardor spent.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do.” She kissed him. “You do, or would not have come.”
Suddenly, the door opened, bright light chasing the darkness. Harris saw the other woman — the servant or, as Charminus called her, the Trone. Her flowing tresses flew when she turned to greet her mistress, bowing. Charminus didn’t acknowledge the homage, so the servant removed the empty tray, leaving two glasses and a flask beside the bed — for there was a bed of considerable proportions here. Harris had never encountered a hayloft like this one in his life, designed for an orgy of ten.
I’m screwed, he thought, although it didn’t deter him. Perhaps this time he’d recall the pleasure and a different room trashed rather than one which would show up on his American Express bill.
She led him in. He noticed her voice had changed — deeper and more resonant, like a cave about to swallow him. He felt unmanned.
“Perhaps we’re moving too fast,” he stammered.
“You should have thought about that before last night.”
“I might have been hasty,” he said, with little conviction. His heart raced. “Maybe I should put on the brakes.”
“Men like you can’t tame your wild instincts. That is why I chose you.”
Chose you? Was he on the auction block? Unsettling, but he was ruled by an unexplained compulsion. Whatever his mind said, his groin would contradict it.
She released him. He didn’t try to leave. He didn’t think he could. Instead, he toured the room, looking for the mysterious light source, because the room was windowless. He almost asked her about it — small talk before foreplay, but she embraced him again, her robe opened now, revealing a sheer shift. Her breasts grew exactly as they had at the first encounter.
“Perhaps we should have a drink,” he said.
He grasped for the flask, an acrobatic endeavor from within her arms, but managed to get free. He poured the bloodred liquor into the goblets, and then offered her one. She received it, panting as she winked above the rim. The wine changed to deep purple as Harris drank. He knew it wasn’t wine. No grape aroma, but a sharp intoxicant, perhaps in the formaldehyde class. He hesitated, but she upended his vessel, forcing a mouthful to overspill his lips. He spit some out, but swallowed the rest. Suddenly, he was breathless.
“What is this stuff?”
“Corzanthe,” she replied. “A local vintage.”
“They distill wine in Brooklyn?”
“Hush. You were not recalcitrant when you stalked me at Happy Pings. Why this coyness, Harris Cartwright?”
He blinked, setting the goblet on the bed stand. He felt giddy.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’m in Brooklyn, in a strange house, in the middle of a fucking Jewish cemetery, in a bright lampless room without windows, drinking Corzan . . . whatever it is the floating woman you called a Trone brought in here. I can’t think of a reason I would be . . . coy.”
She laughed, and then downed her Corzanthe.
“You are somewhere, Harris Cartwright,” she announced. “Dear, dear, Harris Cartwright. How I hate that name. But you are a keeper.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. We are here in my bedroom — a special place for me, and . . . for you. Few men are invited to it. Most long to languish here, but succumb to the enticements before reaching my favor.”
What was she babbling?
“I feel funny.”
Drunk, he supposed. From one sip of wine? But it wasn’t wine. A local vintage designed to heat his blood hotter than molten lead — to put iron in his pencil and motion in his hips. He didn’t feel bad. He recalled the Valium he had in the hospital when he had a boil lanced on his butt. He floated now. Perhaps he was becoming . . . her Trone.
“I’m not into psychedelic drugs,” he murmured, fuzzier as the moments fled.
She stopped his inquiries with a kiss.
Dizzy.
He spun onto the bed, caught between her legs, a vise giving both pleasure and pain. He gasped for air, descending into a deep well filled with jade light.
Dizzy.
His head ached as much as his groin. The floral aromas overcame him.
Was this death? He had the same sensation in his first go around with Charminus — his heart stopping as if on life support. He had never associated sex and death; yet it must be, because he dropped into oblivion, losing his control to this charmer — this succubus, who drew his life force from his pith.
He tried to pull away — to wiggle from her clamping — to roll off the bed, as if it had a ledge. But he was trapped. When would they destroy the furniture? It was useless to resist. He had no thoughts as he exploded.
“No,” he cried.
“Yes,” she wailed. “F
orever it will be so, Harris Cartwright. You have come to it willingly and . . .”
“. . . on my own accord.” He went limp and, finding her vise loosened, rolled to the space beside her. “On my own accord,” he gasped, the room spinning. “But it’s too much.”
“Can you have too much, Harris Cartwright?”
She tried for a second go around, but he pushed himself up and crawled to the bed’s edge.
“I’m spent,” he murmured.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 5