by R. A. Jones
The general public, however, seemed much more open-minded and accepting of such diversions.
But then there were the rumors of “the haunting”.
In the past two weeks, stories had begun to circulate about sightings of a dark, shadowy figure said to be lurking around various sites on the fairgrounds after closing hours.
Perhaps a man, and perhaps something more, the figure had only been seen from a distance, seeming to disappear when anyone drew close.
Speculation that this apparition might be a ghost, a spirit disturbed by the crowds, the noise and the lights, began to circulate almost immediately.
One of the trashier, more sensationalistic of the city’s newspapers had taken to referring to this mystery character as “the Fantom of the Fair”.
Event organizers, already fearing that they would never recoup all of the tens of millions they had invested in this extravaganza (a fear that would prove to be well founded), were concerned that rampant tales of ghosts and goblins might deter people from coming.
Whoever this “vagrant” was who was skulking about the fair, they wanted him found, caught and deposited somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Pressure was applied to certain city officials, which led to more pressure being applied to other officials.
Which now led to two put-upon city sewer employees who were slowly making their way down the steel ladder of a manhole that led to one of the many storm drains running in various directions under the fairgrounds, where it was surmised this “Fantom” might be going to ground.
“I don’t get it,” said Mitch Bridges, hopping down from the last rung of the ladder. His work boots splashed into several inches of dank water, aswim with things he didn’t care to think about.
“What’s that?” replied his partner, Joe Capps.
“If this spook prowls around up there during the night, shouldn’t we be lookin’ for him there?”
“Sounds logical,” Joe replied. “Only no one seems ta be able ta lay a finger on ‘im up there. So the boss man wants us to find where this joker hangs his hat durin’ the day and jump ‘im when he comes back there.”
“And what if this Fantom don’t wanna be jumped?”
“That’s why we brung these,” Joe said, brandishing a hefty wooden mallet. “To ‘persuade’ him.”
“Yeah? Well, just between you, me and the wall, I’d feel a whole lot better if they’d sent a few more persuaders down here with us.”
“You and me both, brother. But look on the bright side; at least we’re gettin’ paid overtime.”
“Overtime don’t do ya no good if you’ve been turned inta some kinda zombie.”
“There ain’t no such thing as zombies, ya dummy.”
“Yeah? Well, there ain’t no such things as ghosts, either, is there? But the suits got us down here in the middle o’ the night lookin’ fer one!”
“All the better,” Joe declared. “All we gotta do is stomp around in drain water for a couple hours, go back and tell the bigwigs it’s all clear, and collect our overtime.”
“Sounds pretty good when ya say it like that.”
“It is pretty good. Now, c’mon.”
For the next hour, they did indeed do little more than splash around through the storm tunnels. The beams from their flashlights revealed little more than the rippling reflections of the water and the occasional dark, sleek body of a rat.
“Can we stop for a minute?” Mitch said at last. “My dogs are killin’ me.”
“Sure. Why not?”
Joe leaned back against one dank wall of the tunnel, while Mitch continued to play his light up and down around them.
“Y’know,” Mitch observed, “these tunnels really make yer voice sound good.”
He proceeded to belt out the first few words of “O Sole Mio”, then stopped to listen as his voice echoed and reverberated richly.
“I’m tellin’ ya, a fella could record an album down here.”
“Yeah,” Joe agreed dryly. “I’ll be sure ta mention that the next time I talk ta Bing Crosby. Him and you could come down here and record together.”
“I’m just sayin’,” Mitch replied defensively. “Why you always gotta bust my chops?”
“‘Cause I promised my sister when she married you that I’d do just that, every chance I got.”
“Very funny. You should be workin’ for Flo Ziegfeld.”
“And give up all this?”
“Ha-ha.”
“Meanwhile, if there is anybody else down here, yer serenade has probably sent him runnin’.”
“Aw, Jeez, Joe, I didn’t think o’ that. I’m sorry.”
“Fergit about it. Let’s just get back to it.”
Joe pushed off against the tunnel wall with his elbows, but when he did the wall seemed to give way behind him, causing him to topple over backwards unceremoniously.
“Joe!” Mitch cried, racing toward him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” Joe was now sitting in a shallow rivulet of water, swinging his light up and down to one side.
“Take a look at that,” he said. “I thought the drain pipe had caved in, but it didn’t. Look there: you can see hinges. This is some kinda door.”
“But who builds a door in a drain pipe?” Mitch asked.
“Hell if I know,” Joe replied.
He swiveled around on his behind and aimed his flashlight. This enabled him to see that he was in yet another, narrower tunnel splitting off from the main one.
“I studied the charts for these tunnels pretty good before we came down here,” Mitch said, “and I don’t remember seein’ nuthin’ like this on any of ‘em.”
“Me, neither.”
“So wotta we do?”
Joe pushed himself back up to his feet and stood silently gazing as far down this auxiliary tunnel as his light would allow.
“Let’s see where it leads,” he said finally.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Joe? I mean, we got no idea where this thing might go.”
“Which is why we have ta follow it.”
“Who says we do? It ain’t on any charts; we could just leave the way we came in and pretend we never saw it.”
“Would you get ahold o’ yerself?” Joe said with exasperation. “It’s just another tunnel.”
“Yeah? Them sound like famous last words ta me.”
“Look, brother, this is why they sent us down here. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s just another tunnel. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Obviously, I’m thinkin’ of a lot worse things than you are!”
“I’m tellin’ ya, worst cast scenario; we find a couple bums makin’ their home down here and we ‘convince’ ‘em ta pack up and leave.”
“What if there’s more than a couple?”
“Then we skedaddle back topside and get help.”
“Promise?”
“Scout’s honor.”
Mitch squinted, as if this would allow him to see even beyond the cone of softly dissipating light coming from Joe’s flash. It didn’t.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Let’s get this over with.”
His trepidation was catching, and Joe found himself walking more slowly than when he had been moving down the main tunnel. He was especially cautious when this smaller passageway would twist and turn, as it frequently did.
“Look!” Mitch yelped, making Joe jump.
Straight ahead, they could now see a dim light.
“There shouldn’t be no lights down here,” Mitch whispered, placing a hand on Joe’s back.
“I know. Keep yer mallet handy.”
Whatever these simple men were expecting to find, it would not have measured up to the sight that now greeted them.
The secret tunnel opened into a large, circular chamber, large enough to encompass the infield at Yankee Stadium.
Both floor and walls were black and shiny, as if carved from pure onyx; the rounded ceiling was vaulted like an ancien
t European cathedral. The walls were dotted with several smaller openings that doubtless indicated smaller tunnels and chambers radiating off the main one.
Small bulbs in frosted glass sconces illuminated the central chamber to a low extent. To one side, this light danced and shimmered off the inky waters of a large pool of water that at one end flowed away from this chamber and down yet another tributary tunnel.
Alone in the center of the room stood a massive and ornate chair, almost like a throne and, like the rest of the room, black as night. The back of this chair rose straight up for several feet before widening out in a large oval. Two slanted holes cut in the oval, through which faint fingers of light filtered, gave it an appearance similar to that of a human skull.
And upon that throne … sat a man.
“I wanna go home,” Mitch whimpered.
“Me, too,” Joe agreed. “But we gotta check this out.”
Gripping his wooden mallet even more firmly and never letting the beam from his flashlight waver from the figure upon the throne, Joe began to cautiously inch forward. He thought he could feel hot, frantic breath on the back of his neck as his fearful brother-in-law kept in close step behind him.
“Mister?’ Joe said as they drew closer to the occupant of the throne. “Are you awake?”
As they drew ever closer, the two sewer workers could more clearly make out the details of the figure before them.
The man’s form was thin, almost skeletal, yet seemed also to be loosely muscular. Every inch of his body and limbs was encased in a single, clinging, black body stocking. Over it he wore an equally dark hooded cloak that hung down in ragged-edged tatters.
His head was slumped down, resting on his chest. Given the angle and the concealing hood, no features could be clearly discerned. There was, all about him, an aura that bespoke of great age.
“I think he’s been down here a long, long time,” Joe ventured, twitching at the echoing sound of his own voice.
“I think he’s dead,” Mitch murmured breathlessly. “We should get outta here.”
“Why?” Joe scoffed. “If he’s dead, he can’t hurt us.”
“Sounds like more of those famous last words ta me.”
“Just let me make sure,” Joe insisted, “then we’ll go.”
“Make it quick.”
Joe transferred his mallet into the hand holding his flashlight, then slowly reached forward, meaning to check for a pulse. He hoped Mitch didn’t notice that his hand was shaking.
At that instant, the head of the man on the throne snapped up.
And the two city servants found themselves looking into the very face of death.
CHAPTER XV
Mitch shrieked like a little girl on a playground, felt his knees turn to rubber, then collapsed in a faint.
Joe might have done likewise, had not the Fantom grabbed the front of his coveralls and jerked him close. Joe’s eyes widened in unconcealed terror as he now saw the hideous face up close.
Only it wasn’t really a face. It was more like a mask, albeit extremely form fitting, bone white and resembling a human skull stripped of all flesh. Through the eyeholes of the mask, Joe could see glowing, yellow pupils floating in bloodshot sockets.
It was almost as if he had been seized by the animated corpse of a scarecrow. Through force of will, Joe managed to lower his eyes so as not to be turned to stone by those amber orbs. As he did, he noticed an ornately carved steel ring circling one finger of the hand that grasped him.
“What time is it?” Fantom hissed, his voice sounding like the creaking of a rusted coffin lid. Joe blinked.
“Huh?”
“What time is it?”
“A-about 10:30.”
“Not the time of day, little man. What year is it?”
“Are you kiddin’?”
“Do I look like a jokester?”
“No, sir. No, sir,” Joe gulped. “Nineteen thirty-nine. It’s 1939, sir.”
“Ahh.”
Those yellow eyes seemed to grow even brighter. Try as he might to keep his own gaze averted, Joe felt compelled to look into their harsh light.
“Stay where you are.”
On the instant, Joe felt every limb grow limp and unresponsive to any commands his mind might send them. He could feel the smooth handle of the mallet still clasped in his hand, but no amount of effort could bring it to bear. His mind was still functioning after a fashion, but his thoughts were muddled and not entirely his own.
Ignoring the entranced workman, the Fantom rose and stepped down from his throne. With great effort, Joe managed to move his eyes enough to see the spectral figure kneel down beside the fallen Mitch. To his amazement, the Fantom seemed to chuckle softly.
A black-clad hand reached down and lightly slapped Mitch on one cheek, but failed to rouse him. He slapped him slightly harder on the other cheek.
“Wake up, little man.”
Mitch moaned softly, and his eyes fluttered open. They snapped wide and he sucked in a huge gulp of air as he saw what appeared to be a demon from the farthest corner of Hell hovering mere inches above him. His breath quickened and he appeared on the verge of passing out again.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Fantom said, and his words carried the weight of command. Mitch’s body relaxed, though fear could still be clearly seen swimming in his eyes.
“Stand up,” Fantom ordered, after languidly waving his right hand across Mitch’s face. The hapless and helpless city employee did as he was told, taking up a position beside his brother-in-law.
“You will both forget everything you have seen or heard in this chamber tonight. Nothing and no one will be able to retrieve your memories of it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” they mumbled in somnambulistic unison.
“You will now return to the surface. Once there, you will report to your superiors that you searched every inch of the storm drains beneath the fairgrounds and found nothing. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go. You will awaken from your trance only after you have left this place and closed the doorway into it. When you do awaken, you will feel the pride of having done a good and thorough job. Reward yourselves by sharing some spirits in the nearest tavern. Sleep well. Remain friends. But obey all I have commanded.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go.”
Fantom stood watching the two as they stiffly shambled away. Once they were gone from sight, he dismissed them from his mind and resumed his seat on his onyx throne.
He displayed not the slightest surprise when, moments later, the interior of his sanctum began to grow brighter. The source of the brightness was the giant, disembodied eye that now shimmered into view, hovering several feet in the air in front of Fantom.
He watched impassively as it slowly sank down to the floor. Once there, it began to grow even larger in size and an eerie hum began to emanate from within and around it.
Inside the “pupil” of the eye, the figure of a man began to take shape. Coalescing as if from the ether itself, the figure stepped forward out of the eye. As he did, the orb flared up more brightly, then gently faded from sight, leaving the man behind.
His face was strong but weathered with time and set in a grim frown. A vertical scar ran from just above his left eye to the midpoint of his left cheek. Thick, white hair was brushed back off his forehead.
A loose blouse of royal purple was tucked into the waistband of tightly fitting black leggings, which in turn ran into the tops of highly polished black boots. A long cloak of red satin was held loosely around his neck by a chain of solid gold links.
He held his right hand up, palm outward, as if to show peaceful intent. Around one finger of that hand could be seen a steel ring etched with mystic runes.
“It’s been a long time, old friend,” Fantom said to him by way of greeting.
“Not so very long,” the Eye replied. “I remember a time when I didn’t see you for over a hundred years.”
“Yes,�
�� Fantom recalled, his hoary voice sounding almost wistful. “I was busy.”
What he didn’t voice was his observation that the intervening years since last they’d met had not been kind to the Eye; he was looking old and tired, and his voice was heavy with weariness.
“The time of trouble that was foretold is soon upon us, I fear,” the Eye said without preamble.
“Do we have the weapons we will need to withstand it?” Fantom asked, immediately knowing of what trouble the Eye spoke.
“I hope so. The Clock and I have joined forces: he with the power of modern science, I with the power from beyond, the two now working together as one.” He stepped closer to the figure on the black throne.
“Even now, we are recruiting and assembling our team of soldiers.”
He extended his right hand. “Will you also join me yet again, comrade?”
“Why do you even bother to ask?” Fantom replied, firmly grasping the hand proffered to him. The Eye smiled.
“It seemed the polite thing to do.”
Fantom released his friend’s hand and leaned back against the upright portion of his chair. He held both hands up to his mouth, fingers steepled together.
“Finish assembling this team of yours,” he said. “Then bring them here.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d say.”
“It’s what you knew I’d say.” The Fantom sighed deeply, but his yellow eyes blazed brighter. “It will, I suspect, be a great battle!”
“Indeed it will,” the Eye agreed, even as his image began to fade from sight.
“I only hope it’s not our last ….”
CHAPTER XVI
July 1, 1939
How did one tell the President of the United States you wanted him to build a bomb that could well destroy the entire world?
As Albert Einstein sat in the office he kept in his home near Princeton University in New Jersey, staring down at the first draft of the letter he was composing, he worried that the Earth might be doomed to destruction no matter what he did.
He felt certain that the vast war machine being built in Germany would soon be unleashed, that Hitler’s mad dream of conquest would in short order become all of mankind’s worst nightmare.