D

by George Right

  Steps. Definitely not an echo. Shuffling, but at the same time resolute. Approaching. And again he could not tell–from where.

  Tony rushed, having turned into a narrow lateral path. Probably–straight to who (or what) was wandering here at night. But better that, than to stand still, struck by fear. A sharp stone splinter stuck into his right foot, but Tony did not slow down at all. From gloom and fog silent figures of statues emerged–if, of course, they were simply statues. Logan tried not to look at them.

  At last he felt himself absolutely chilled and exhausted–and the rows of abandoned tombs and collapsing gravestones still showed no end. Tony dropped into a walk, then limply leaned against a cold wall. Listened. No, apparently, there is no pursuit behind. Well, so it is possible to rest, and then...

  Scraping, scratching sounds.

  And now Logan had no doubts about their source–they came through a wall. Tony hastily recoiled, looking at what he had leaned against. It was the sealed door of an old crypt.

  The sound came from within.

  Till now Logan's body had adequately reacted to danger, be it true or imaginary–namely, answered with mobilization of all forces. But now his knees became weak and he had to lean again on the crypt door in order not to fall down. His ear was flat against a rough cold surface, eliminating any chance to write off the scratching to a flight of imagination or acoustic strangenesses of a fog.

  "Some animal has gotten inside," his common sense supposed in despair. "A dog... or a cat... had dug through a hole into the crypt, and now cannot get out..."

  "But isn't it impossible to dig into a crypt from outside? Isn't there a stone floor?"

  "I don't know," Tony answered himself. "I never was in a crypt. Besides, if everything here is so decayed, a wall could fracture... And then it would fill up with earth, and..."

  The thing inside moved more actively, as if it has scented the person from whom it was separated by only few inches. Well, why shouldn't a dog scent... Only it was scraping obviously not at the height of a dog or, especially, a cat...

  "Who is here? Sir?"

  That reached through the door. The voice sounded obtuse (and how it could sound through such obstacle?), but definitely belonged to a woman. More likely even–to a young girl. Tony did not have enough strength even to recoil from the door–the horror paralyzed him so that he could not move, and the comprehension of his state only increased the fright.

  "Sir, I beg you, help me. There was a terrible error. I was buried alive..."

  "After all everything here has a reasonable explanation," Tony exhaled with great relief. True, he believed that such gothic stories belonged in the time of Poe. Modern diagnostic aids exclude... On the other hand, he did not know, what kind of cemetery it was. Judging by the crosses–Christian, but there are different sects of Christians, too. If this girl is from any sect which does not approve of modern medicine, like Jehovah Witnesses...

  "Sir, please! Let me out! I am so cold..."

  I'm cold too, mechanically noted Tony, while after all this activity he should be warmed...

  "I'll call for help," he promised aloud. His knees did not shiver any more. "As soon as I reach a pay phone., my cellphone..."

  "Sir, do not leave!" in the voice from the crypt a genuine horror appeared. "Do not leave me! It is so dark and terrible here..."

  "But I don't know how to let you out," Tony answered. "I can't open this door," he even pulled it several times for persuasiveness. "Is there another one?"

  "Another? Whence could another door in a crypt appear?" Surprise in her voice was replaced again by begging tone: "I pray, sir, I need your help..." While talking, she did not stop scraping and scratching from within.

  "She called me 'Sir,'" flashed in Logan's mind, "before I had started talking. How did she know that I am a man?"

  He silently looked at the barrier dividing them. At spots in the layer of dust and dirt where he had leaned. At the moss-covered bottom of the door which had tightly grown into the ground. It seems that it has not been opened for a very long time...

  "When?" he asked in a flat voice."When were you... eh... locked here?"

  "On the eighteenth of November," reached from within.

  The year was not required. Even if it was last year–it was quite obvious that in the crypt sealed ten months ago there could be nothing alive anymore. Though, most likely, this funeral had taken place much, much earlier...

  "I'm sorry," muttered Tony, moving back away from the crypt.

  "No!" arose following him. "Do not leave me here... with them!"

  And then Tony saw–not only heard, but also saw–the very heavy door grown into the earth violently shaking from blows from within. As if a hundred pound linebacker thudded against it, instead of a fragile girl.

  Logan stumbled against a tomb behind him, but managed to keep his balance. And then he ran like mad again.

  He did not try to keep to avenues and paths any more, feeling confident that they would never bring him to the exit. At the best case–they would bring him to the dismal church in the center... if only it was possible to say such a case was the best. He jumped over graves or ran directly on them, expecting every moment that the earth under him would open and bone fingers would seize his feet and drag him downwards. But this horror only made him run even faster. Then he stumbled and fell, his trouser leg seized by a hand sticking out of the earth. But before Tony had time to yell, he realized that it was the hand of a statue. At first he thought that it was one of the broken off fragments, but the hand sat in the earth so firmly that he understood that, seemingly, someone had buried an entire statue here. Tony did not ask any more questions about by whom and for what purpose a sculpture was buried here; having freed the torn trouser leg (this time the left one suffered), he ran farther.

  And suddenly from the fog ahead, the black rods of a fence, and a bit more to the left–a semicircular arched gate, appeared. "It's locked," Logan thought hopelessly.

  But the gate was open. Nothing prevented him from leaving the cemetery. And even no dead birds could be seen nearby.

  To the right of the exit some poster hung on the fence. Tony thought that it was, most likely, a schedule of cemetery open hours. This question did not interest him much–and its words probably could not be read in the dark–but, nevertheless, he mechanically ran his eyes across the piece of paper.

  It was not a schedule. There were only two sentences–large and distinct enough.

  Sentences appropriate for an exit from a shop, but not in any way for a cemetery.

  "Thank you for visiting us. See you soon!"

  "Probably, some pranksters must have stolen a poster from a shop to hang it here," Logan thought. "Pranksters, yes. Teenagers having a good time. They got into a cemetery at night, hid in the old abandoned crypt–probably, there is really a fracture in its back wall–and are frightening casual passersby. Now, I suppose, they are rolling with laughter, remembering how I rushed away..."

  Oh yes. Only what is the probability, that in a huge desolate cemetery a casual passerby will approach a certain crypt? What, in general, is the probability of meeting a casual passerby here at night? Personally he has not met any. Though, apparently, has heard one...

  If that was a passerby.

  And the statues. And all the rest. And the fact that on Manhattan there is, and can be, neither such a cemetery, nor such a Broadway, nor such a City Hall...

  But then Tony, who at last found himself on the other side of the gate, saw in the street stretching away from the cemetery something that allowed him again to sigh with relief. White-blue letters shone "CHASE." Though Logan was not a client of this bank, this picture was so natural and ordinary that it was difficult not to believe that the nightmare had ended, he was again in the real world. And, in general, the street along which he hastily walked had a normal appearance at last–no ominous stone slums and decaying wooden wrecks, only the usual multistory buildings with shops and offices in the ground floors... At night,
of course, all of them were closed with metal shutters hiding front windows, but signs over many of the shops still had eye-catching neon lights.

  Passing by the branch bank–one of few offices where windows and doors were not closed by shutters since ATMs operate round the clock–Tony gave it a captious look. What if it also is like those posters... or the postal service motto... But no, the lit sign differed in no way from the familiar. Through dark glass the hall with ATMs was seen; if Tony had had a Chase plastic card, he could have entered there. For an instant an absolutely wild thought flashed in his mind–to break the glass and to wait for the police to arrive, and let the officers completely return him into reality. Eventually, he would need to contact the police, to tell them at least about the postman with a hatchet. But, no, certainly, this is a silly notion. He simply needs to find a pay phone, since his cellphone does not work right. If he reached normal bank offices, he will reach normal phones as well.

  Tony darted a last glance at the dark Chase windows. In the right one there was an employment announcement. "Well," Logan thought gloomily, "if they kick me off my current job, maybe I can get a job as a bank teller... "–though such a career did not entice him. Or, probably, they have also programmer vacancies here?"

  He peered at the announcement–and stood rigid, feeling his belly again fill with sharp ice crystals of fear.

  The announcement said not "NOW HIRING," but "NOW FIRING." Discharging from employment. And that is the best case. "Firing" can also mean "shooting".

  And, by the way, the literal meaning of "chase" is "pursuit" or "hunting".

  Whom exactly was discharged or shot here, Tony could not discern in the dark and didn't even especially try. He quickly walked farther, looking around like an animal at bay. Only now he was paying attention to the absence of light in the windows of the upper floors where, normally, there should be inhabited apartments. Certainly, it was a late night, but it never happens that there is not a single lit window anywhere... And signs...with growing despair and fear he read the signs above those offices and little shops that had encouraged him so much.

  "Low Office"

  "Fool Market"

  "General Sore"

  "Moans"

  "Trash Harm Food"

  "MEDICAL SCARE CENTER"

  "DECORATION." At least this sign seemed normal to Logan, but, having looked narrowly at the non-illuminated letters, he understood that actually it was "DEGORATION". Though behind windows it was dark and no movement could be seen, he hastened to cross over to other side of the street.

  Farther ahead, there was a crossroads without traffic lights (for unknown reasons since Logan got out of the subway, he had not seen any traffic lights). Carefully, like a soldier in films about street combat, Tony looked around the corner–and saw on the right in the cross street the lit letters "CAR SERVICE."

  Taxi! And the office was open at night–anyway, there was light behind the windows! Would he really leave this place at last?

  Taught by bitter experience, Logan peered closely at the sign. No, "CAR SERVICE," and nothing else. He turned the corner, crossed the street and walked fast toward the taxi office. His intuition was telling him that at the last moment something would prevent him from leaving, but he drove away these panicky thoughts.

  Nothing prevented him from reaching the desired location. Tony belatedly remembered how he would look to the dispatcher–in dirty and torn trousers and one shoe, with hands soiled by the devil knows what... However, don't night taxis exist to help people who have gotten into trouble? At worst it would be necessary to show in advance his solvency (Logan anxiously touched a trouser pocket: the wallet was in its place). He had already taken hold of the handle of a door with matte glass through which a dim light shone, had already even started to pull this door (it moved easily), but suddenly, obeying an abrupt impulse, once again looked at the sign.

  And Tony understood that the office that he so aspired to get to was not CAR SERVICE at all. Over the door was written SCAR SERVICE, but the first letter was not lit.

  Slowly and carefully he closed the door and hastened away almost on tiptoe, hoping very much that his attempt to enter had remained unnoticed.

  "Though it could be, of course, just a tattoo and piercing parlor behind that door," Logan thought. "Aha, and all the other signs mean only that in this area business is done by excentric people with a perverted sense of humor. Do you really believe that?"

  Something made him to look back. Perhaps, it was the mad hope that now his troubles would vanish, and he would see a normal street with normal signs... or, at least, something that would help him to explain what was going on...

  Instead he saw the door into which he had almost entered was opening. It was opening as slowly and silently as he closed it. For some reason this frightened him even more than if it had sharply swung open and on a threshold a huge fat Asian with a curved knife in hand had appeared.

  Tony rushed away without waiting until the door opened completely. Fortunately, a crossroads was nearby, not more than twenty yards. Logan dove around a corner to the right and immediately slowed to a furtive walk, sensitively listening to the night.

  All was silent. It seemed he was not pursued... however, that door had opened silently and if he had not looked back... Though–was it certain that behind the door there was a real danger?

  But Tony was no longer in the mood to argue abstractedly about the logical validity of his fears. He hastily looked around. Right opposite him there was a sign for the next business. "Nails." Manicure & pedicure salon. There was no light there. Of course–such salons are not open at night. But nevertheless Tony distinguished well enough the dark letters forming the word "Nails"–this time the word was perfectly right, without any surprises. He also saw the classic picture which was always present at the window of such shops–a woman in an armchair, with polished finger- and toenails.

  Only the expression on the woman's face disturbed him.

  Tony stepped nearer to the dark glass. Yes, no doubt–the drawn face was deformed by a grimace of an intolerable pain. And only then he moved his gaze again to her nails. Actually, there were no finger- and toenails–they had been pulled out and steel nails had been hammered into the blood-stained meat which he at first accepted as red varnish.

  Everything had been drawn with great skill and attention to detail–much more carefully than an ordinary advertising picture. The artist, seemingly, enjoyed the process.

  And, probably, drew from nature.

  And, Tony heard sounds causing frost to settle again in his entrails.

  Though, actually, in these sounds there was nothing awful. Nothing connected with pain, death or even mystery. These sounds are perfectly familiar to millions of Americans and, to tell the truth, pester many of them.

  The simple melody played by ice cream trucks.

  Surprisingly, devised to attract children and not at all to frighten them, this melody always seemed ominous to Tony. He did not know why, but he heard something insinuatingly eerie, mystical, otherworldly in it. Certainly, being a sane person, he never had been actually afraid of ice cream trucks (though, even in his childhood he had not been a real fan of their goods, and almost never bought from them). He only thought sometimes, hearing this tune, that in a horror film it would come in handy. Clowns, also apparently intended only to amuse, for a long time held a firm place in such films. Why are ice cream men worse?

  And it seemed now he would learn why.

  Certainly, these trucks aren't out late at night, especially with the sound on. But this one was.

  Judging by sound, it moved–slowly as they usually do in search of clients–on that street from which Tony had just escaped. Logan flattened himself against the glass of the ominous nail salon, hoping that the truck would pass by without turning into this street.

  But it turned.

  Tony saw it. To the sight, it was the usual angular white truck with a serving counter on the right side surrounded by posters with pictures
of different kinds of ice cream. Even the headlights burned, as they should. And the sign on the roof said "ICE CREAM"–not "I SCREAM" or anything like that. But Logan still mentally begged it to go farther along the street without stopping.

  The truck passed him by a couple of yards and stopped. The music played several more bars and ended. Only the taillights silently flickered.

  "Well, and what to do now?" Tony thought. "To go back to that street with the hospitably opened door of Scar Service? To go forward in order for that truck to follow me again? But to be at a stop, apparently, is the silliest..."

  "Mister," a quiet hoarse voice, almost a whisper, came from the truck, "you want ice cream."

  It was a statement, not a question.

  "No," Tony squeezed out. "Thanks, but I already feel cold."

  "Cold," repeated the voice as a sad echo. "Always cold. Nobody wants ice cream. A bad business."

  He became silent, and Logan wanted already to sympathize politely about his problems, but the ice cream man started talking again:

  "Then a hot dog?"

  "Hot dog?" Tony was surprised. Usually they are not sold from ice cream trucks, though, of course, there were trucks that sold all kinds of food... "Is it indeed hot?" Logan felt that now he wanted to eat something warm and with meat. Perhaps at least this would help him to get warmed up at last. Though one hot dog is probably not enough for this purpose...

  "It's my hot dog," the driver answered in the same sad and low voice. "I took it for myself. But I can sell it to you. And I'll eat ice cream."

  "Mmm..." Logan was not inspired by this suggestion, "I think, you'd better keep your meal for yourself."

  "Don't worry, mister, I haven't touched it yet," simply answered the driver. "It's a good hot dog. Even still in a bag. Only one dollar."

  "Perhaps, I'd better take it or he won't get off my back," Tony decided. "Eventually, I always can throw it away, and one dollar isn't a lot of money."

  "All right, give it," he approached the window. There was not any light in the truck, but Tony could hear the driver move from the front of the truck to the serving window. Then he began to rummage in the depths of the truck body; Tony heard a muffled gnash, like a sound of a blunt knife on something firm. Though, probably, it was just a squeak of an opening box.