Urban Gothic

by Brian Keene

  The boys were silent, pondering his words, weighing them. Finally, Leo spoke up. “It shouldn’t be that way.”

  “No,” Perry agreed. “It shouldn’t. It definitely shouldn’t. But it is. Been that way long as I can remember, and I’ve lived here a long time. On television, the president talks about change, and I’d like to believe that he means it, but down here, ain’t a damn thing changed.”

  One by one, their gazes were drawn back to the house at the end of the street. Perry’s cigarette tip glowed orange in the darkness.

  Leo frowned. “What is it with that place, Mr. Watkins? I mean, I know not to go in there. Ever since we were little, we’ve been told it was haunted. Hell, it looks haunted. Nobody goes inside. Everybody knows that the people who go inside don’t come out again.”

  “True that,” Jamal said. “Not even the crackheads or meth skanks go near there anymore.”

  “But why?” Leo insisted. “What’s it all about? What happens to the folks who vanish? There’s got to be a story behind it all.”

  “You asking me for the history of that place?” Perry watched them nod, then sighed. “No one knows, boys. No one knows. At least, not anymore. Maybe folks did at one time, but if so, then those folks are dead by now, or old and senile. This neighborhood ain’t got no sense of history. Not like the rest of the city. You think about that for a moment. There’s over a million people living in Philly proper—almost six-million if we count the whole metropolitan area. We’re the fourth largest city in the country. With that many people, you’d think somebody would know the story behind that house over there, but they don’t. They can tell you all about the Liberty Bell and Ben Franklin and the Underground Railroad and the influenza outbreak. They can even tell you about when the police declared war on MOVE and firebombed their house back in the eighties. But none of that happened on our street or on our block, so we don’t matter. We don’t even rate a footnote. Only thing that happens here is black folks killing other black folks, and that don’t make the news unless it’s a bumper between sports and weather.”

  He made a broad, sweeping gesture with his hand and continued. “Look around you. You kids see anything to be proud of? You see anything here worth noting or remembering? Of course you don’t. We’ve got no pride because there’s nothing here to be proud of. There’s nothing here that we want to remember. And when that happens—when the folks in a neighborhood lose their pride in where they live, then their history—and the history of that neighborhood—gets lost, too. If you took a drive out there to the suburbs, you know what you’d find?”

  The boys shrugged and shook their heads. Dookie admitted that he’d never been outside of their neighborhood.

  “Well, if you boys took a drive out there, you’d learn that folks in the suburbs don’t know each other. They go to work. They come home. They go inside with their families. Maybe they know their next-door neighbor, enough to nod at him and shit, maybe exchange some pleasantries—but for the most part, they can’t tell you who lives down the street, or the name of the family three houses down from them. All they know about each other is what their neighbors are driving and which political sign they had in their yard during the election. That’s all. Down here, we know each other. Hell, most of the block is all up in each other’s business. We know when somebody is sick, when they’ve been fighting, when they’ve broken up, when they get arrested, or when they lose their job. We can’t help knowing our neighbors because they’re stuck here with us. But they don’t know each other out there in the ’burbs, and I’ll tell you something else they don’t know—their history.”

  “So they’re just like us,” Chris murmured. “That’s what you’re saying?”

  “No,” Perry said. “They ain’t just like us. People around here don’t know our neighborhood’s history because they don’t give a fuck about it. Out in the suburbs, they don’t know their neighborhood’s history because in most cases, there’s no history there to know. Most of those suburban neighborhoods didn’t exist until twenty years ago. It’s all new housing and new developments, and all that was there before were cornfields and forests. If there was history there, they’d be all over it—erecting commemorative signs and shit. But they can’t because there’s nothing there to remember. That’s an advantage we have here. Our neighborhood is old. We have history. All we have to do is embrace it. Learn it. But we don’t. And in the end, we’re no better than them. So, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re right, Chris. Now that I’m sitting here thinking about it.”

  “What do you mean?” Markus asked.

  “The fact is, boys, people don’t give a shit, no matter where they live. They’ve got too many other things to worry about. Down here, we worry about drugs, paying the rent, keeping our children out of jail, all these crazy sons of bitches shooting up street corners and playgrounds. The boogeyman living in the haunted house at the end of the block just doesn’t rate when compared to all of those other things. Especially when the only time something happens is when somebody is stupid enough to go inside. It ain’t like most of us can afford to move away from it. So you learn to live with it. Ignore it. Maybe even accept it. As long as it ain’t them or their loved ones going inside that house, people could care less. And if the people down here could care less, then why should the cops and the politicians give a fuck?”

  He paused, flicked his cigarette butt out into the street, and then continued. “Shit. This used to be a nice neighborhood. Folks used to hang around together outside, like we’re doing now. Used to have big block parties and work on people’s cars and carry groceries for one another. Now it’s just dark, all the time, even in the daylight—just like that place down there. But you know what? Even when this block was a nice place to live, we still had that fucking house looming over us. We didn’t talk about it, but we knew it was there, just the same. It’s kind of hard to miss. We used to whisper about it then, the way people do now. But that was all we did—whisper. Who knows what goes on in there? Your guess is as good as mine. Some folks figure it’s drug dealers. Personally, I call bullshit on that. Can’t be drug dealers, because this shit’s been happening long before drugs were ever a problem here.”

  “Then what do you think it is?” Leo asked. “What’s happened to all them people over the years?”

  Perry shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I mind my own business. I expect the house to do the same. Maybe someday the authorities will take an interest or people will give a shit again. I keep hearing about all sorts of people wanting to buy up all the subprime real estate in Philly so they can get into their urban renewal programs, but so far no one has come knocking at my door or offered me a shitload of money. Maybe they will one of these days. Maybe they’ll buy us all out. Relocate us somewhere nice. The idiots in New Jersey are already fixing up Camden—which is like trying to beautify a two-dollar whore—but sooner or later those same idiots will want to do the same here. Then they can deal with that house. Let them.”

  Frowning, Leo grew quiet. His expression was one of deep thought. Perry was about to ask him what was the matter, when Jamal interrupted. “Damn, Mr. Watkins.”

  “What?”

  “I ain’t never heard you talk so much,” Jamal said. “I thought you were always grumpy and shit.”

  Smiling, Perry lowered his voice. “I don’t talk much because Mrs. Watkins doesn’t give me a chance to. Every time I open my mouth to speak, she interrupts me.”

  They all laughed, but the sound seemed strange to Perry, as if the concrete and darkness were unused to it. Soon enough, the laughter died. They fell silent after that. Perry lit another cigarette. The wind was picking up, and he had to cup his hand over the flame to light it. The brown leaves of a stunted, dead tree jutting up from the split concrete sidewalk rustled in the breeze. It sounded like a death rattle.

  They watched the house and waited.

  Perry was no longer sure what they were waiting for.

  ***

  Paul’s
nose wrinkled in disgust as he reached the bottom of the shaft. The air smelled like rotten eggs. A thin stream of foul water trickled along the tunnel floor, disappearing into the darkness. The tunnel itself was actually a large sewer pipe, big enough to allow for the flow of residential and industrial waste water and sewage, as well as runoff from the city’s storm drains. He was actually surprised that there was so little water flowing through the pipe. Given the number of houses in this part of the city, there should have been more.

  He shined the flashlight around, surveying his surroundings. The tunnel was big enough for him to stand upright. The top of his head brushed against the ceiling, and flecks of rust and sticky strands of spiderwebs fell into his hair. He wondered idly if there was a way to rip these sewer pipes up from under the pavement. They’d be worth a gold mine in scrap metal.

  Once he got his bearings and his vision had adjusted, Paul slogged off in the direction of the house. He walked bowlegged, his feet planted on the sides of the pipe rather than the floor, so that he wouldn’t have to wade through the water. The flashlight beam showed old high-water marks on the walls. Apparently the stream had been much higher and more forceful at some point. Now the sides of the pipe were covered with garbage. His feet shuffled through leaves, wrinkled condoms, cigarette butts, plastic bags, crumpled food wrappers, empty bottles, clumps of toilet paper, tampons, crushed beer cans, and other trash that had been washed down from the streets or flushed from one of the dwellings above. He considered fishing the aluminum cans out of the debris, but then decided they wouldn’t be worth the effort. Chances were good that he’d find much more valuable scrap inside the abandoned house.

  The stench grew thicker as he proceeded down the tunnel, and Paul concentrated on breathing through his mouth. The air was humid but cold. Occasionally a fresh breeze caressed his face. Paul wondered where it was coming from. He wondered, too, about the potential for disease. Although he’d salvaged scrap from a variety of locations, this was his first time wading through a sewer. He hadn’t seen any turds floating by yet, and the water wasn’t yellow, but that didn’t mean the place was sanitary. What if there were bacteria on the walls or floating in the air? Were bacteria airborne? He didn’t know and found himself wishing that he did. There was no telling what kind of infections he could pick up down here. But he plodded dutifully on, determined to gain access to the house now that he’d come this far. Cockroaches skittered around him, running up the curved walls. The sewer was quiet, and the darkness seemed oppressive. Paul clutched his flashlight tightly, thankful that he’d brought it along. He couldn’t imagine being stuck down here without some sort of light.

  Paul estimated that he’d gone about twenty yards in a straight, horizontal line, when he suddenly emerged into a crossroads of sorts. Ahead of him, the tunnel split into three pipes, each one of equal size. He shined the flashlight around, weighing his options. One pipe veered sharply to the right. Another curved slightly to the left. The one in the middle continued on straight ahead. The left and right pipes had water trickling out of them, but the middle pipe was bone-dry, save for a tiny pool of stagnant, scummy water at its opening. Tiny insects squirmed in the pool. He assumed the middle pipe was his best chance of getting under the house. The lack of water flowing from it suggested that the pipe was unused. If it was connected to the abandoned home, then that made sense. He decided to try it and forged ahead.

  Immediately the air grew fouler. There was the ammoniacal tang of urine and the sharper reek of feces, but there was something else, as well. Something he couldn’t identify. It reminded him of the meat department at the grocery store, but he wasn’t sure why. Paul cringed at the stench. His eyes watered. Instead of watching his step, he shined the light ahead, trying to find the stench’s source. His attention remained focused on the walls. He’d only gone a few more feet when the floor suddenly disappeared beneath him.

  With a startled cry, Paul plummeted downward. He managed to hang on to his flashlight, even as he splashed into a pool of cold, greasy liquid. The stench grew overwhelming. Sputtering, Paul kicked his feet, trying desperately to find a bottom. Instead, his feet found empty space. He dog-paddled and glanced around, terrified. He realized that the revolting liquid—whatever it might be—was more like paste than water, as if it was semicongealed. There was solid matter floating in it, but he couldn’t tell what it was. The space was pitch-black, save for his flashlight beam, which was pointed above. He readjusted it and shined the light around.

  Paul shrieked.

  He was swimming in a toxic, brown and gray and black stew of human waste and toilet paper and . . . something else. It stunned him when he realized what the other matter was. Human bones—skulls, femurs, mandibles with teeth still attached, clavicle, ribs, and shattered, unidentifiable fragments—all coated with the viscous, stinking liquid. A quick glance confirmed that there were enough human bones in the pool to assemble dozens, if not hundreds, of skeletons. There were animal bones, as well—rats, birds, and other city creatures; he even spotted a few dog and cat skulls. He recognized what they belonged to from several family trips to various natural history museums. The stench rising from the pool filled his nose, threatening to overwhelm him. He flailed, reaching up with his arms. Gray and brown sludge dripped down them, splattering his face. The foul liquid had the consistency of syrup.

  Despite his terror and overwhelming disgust, Paul remembered a newspaper article he’d read several years ago, about a government agent—ATF or FBI, he couldn’t remember which. The man had been staking out a group of domestic terrorists in the backwoods of West Virginia.

  His cover got blown. When they caught him, the group killed the agent by drowning him in an outhouse. Paul couldn’t think of a worse way to die than drowning in shit.

  “Help,” he screamed. “Somebody help me!”

  His voice echoed back to him from somewhere to his left. Paul shined the light in that direction and gasped. There was a stone ledge rising several feet above the pool. Beyond it was a vast chamber that seemed to be a natural cavern. Limestone glinted in the flashlight beam.

  Gagging, Paul swam for the ledge. His fingers slipped on the stone as he tried to pull himself up. Inch by inch, he worked his way free, making squelching noises as the slime sucked at his shoulders, waist, and legs. When he’d finally freed himself, Paul collapsed on the ledge, sobbing.

  The stone felt cool against his face. He squeezed his eyes shut. Filth bubbled out of his nose and ran out of the corners of his mouth. He retched, but was unable to vomit. He desperately wanted to, if only to clear his system of the foulness he’d ingested. Paul opened his eyes again and groaned. The cave seemed to be spinning. Paul thought that he might pass out.

  Then something grabbed him, and he did pass out, but not before he got a glimpse of it.

  He was still screaming when his consciousness faded.

  ELEVEN

  Kerri, Heather, Javier, and Brett crawled through the stifling horizontal shaft. Javier was in the lead. He had Brett’s belt coiled around his clenched fist and kept the buckle beneath his fingers so it wouldn’t jingle. Javier was followed closely by Heather. Kerri squirmed along behind her. Brett brought up the rear, struggling to keep up with them. They kept stopping so he could catch up, but then he’d quietly urge them to keep going. Kerri supposed that Brett knew just how serious his situation was. He was trying to sound brave, but the fear in his voice was still there. He left a bloody trail in his wake.

  The crawlspace tunnel was snug, and the walls brushed against their shoulders and hips as they crawled forward. The air smelled stale and was thick with the smell of feces. Not the nasty odor of rat droppings—that was bad enough, but this was far worse. It was a cloying, nauseating stench. Kerri tried to figure out what the crawlspace had been used for, but she couldn’t come up with any rational explanation. It was made of wood rather than metal, so it couldn’t be ductwork for heating or air-conditioning. The shaft appeared newer than the surrounding building materials. S
he wondered if it had been constructed more recently than the house, and if so, by whom. And again, for what? Had the midgets built it, just to drop down on unsuspecting victims after they’d trapped them in the hallway below? Kerri shivered. If so, how many other people had been in this situation? How many people had died in this place?

  She lost track of how far they crawled. At one point, she caught a faint hint of vomit in the air and assumed they must be over the spot where she’d thrown up. They moved slowly and in silence, speaking only when they stopped for Brett, and then, communicating in hushed, short whispers and frantic hand signals.

  When a door slammed below them, Kerri nearly shrieked. All four of them froze. They kept their cell phones open, so that they could see and had adjusted the backlight options so that they wouldn’t turn off suddenly. Without that meager illumination, the tunnel would have been completely dark. Kerri wondered, however, if they should close the phones. What if the light shined down through the ceiling, or what if one of them suddenly got a signal and it rang while they were hiding? Then those thoughts vanished, replaced with more immediate fears. She heard the sounds of heavy, thudding footsteps coming from below. Kerri held her breath, afraid that if she didn’t, she’d cry out. The fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose up as she contemplated what might be making the noises. She had a pretty good idea. The footsteps sounded just like those of the man—thing—who had killed Tyler and Stephanie. Brett had told them its name was Noigel. She didn’t know what kind of a name that was, but she was certain it was him down there. And when Heather turned around and glanced at her, wide-eyed and trembling in the cell phone’s garish glow, Kerri knew that her friend suspected it, as well. Kerri shuddered, remembering his garbage-bag clothing and that swollen, infected penis that had dripped pus all over the place.