Westchester Station - the assault

by The Assault--Free(Lit

  They’re going to kill me. He crouched in the darkness as he listened to the footsteps above. Perhaps he could go out through the hidden trap door when they left. Then he shook his head. No, they would be outside waiting.

  He heard something splashing on the floor above. Crashes as furniture was overturned. Laughter and, finally, receding footsteps. Green tried to calm himself. I’ll wait just a minute, then climb out, he told himself. Then he smelled it, the unmistakable scent of kerosene. Almost immediately the smoke from the now-burning house began seeping through the floorboards, filling his hidden chamber. Now he couldn’t use the trap door even if he wanted.

  There has to be another way. There was still no light, but the smoke and heat were increasing dramatically. He crawled backward until he felt damp earth at his back. There had to be a way out, he convinced himself. When they had dug this room, they must have dug another exit.

  If he could find it. He crawled along the side of the dirt wall, searching for a tunnel in the darkness. It was getting hard to breathe and even the light through the floor caused by the fire was of no help because of the roiling black smoke. Already the floor was burning through, showering him with burning embers. He cried out and tried frantically to brush them away before his shirt caught fire as well.

  I can’t die here now, he tried to convince himself. Not after all this, I can’t die here now. He continued crawling away from the trap door, trying to escape from the smoke and heat. But he only came to another dirt wall. I’ll dig my way out, he thought, and drove his hands into the soil. No matter how hopeless the idea was, he threw one handful of dirt behind him, then another. Another handful, then more as he leaned against the wall, coughing uncontrollably, frantically trying to burrow away from his approaching death.

  Then his hand broke through the wall and fresh air wafted against his face. He tore at the small opening frantically, his panic now replaced by hope. He yelped in pain as another burning ember fell on the back of his leg, but that only spurred him on. The hole became large enough for his head, then his shoulders. Finally large enough for him to crawl through.

  This doesn’t make sense, one part of him thought. Why would they have made an escape tunnel but blocked it up? But there was no time to consider that, not when the fire and smoke were getting ever closer. The smoke trailed him as he began crawling forward, but there was enough air that he could breathe, even if painfully. The air could only mean the tunnel was open at the other end; he was sure of that. He continued on, crawling rapidly yet painfully through the narrow tunnel. If there is no opening, I’ll still die here , he realized.

  But there had to be. The fresh, life-giving air had to be coming from somewhere. He crawled on, ignoring the pain from the burns and his aching muscles and lungs. Knowing he had no other choice. And then, far ahead, he saw a faint beam of light. Would he end up in the surrounding woods, or near the farmhouse? It didn’t matter. Only that he escape from this tunnel. He continued on, the smoke and heat chasing him like a hawk after a rabbit, the light ahead of him growing in size and intensity.

  Until he reached the end. And found himself somewhere else.

  ***

  The sign in the window caught Gannon’s attention. "Venus’s House of Beauty" it proclaimed in hand-painted letters two feet high. She ran her fingers through her hair and grimaced. Time to eat later, she decided, and entered the salon.

  They must not get much business, she thought once inside. There was only one chair for waiting and one styling station. "Be with you in a moment," a voice called from the back. She shrugged and sat down. There were a few magazines on the table next to her, but they were at least ten years old and of no interest. Definitely few customers.

  The curtains hiding the door to the back parted and a black woman entered, licking her fingers. Probably caught her at lunch, Gannon thought. The owner was not at all put off by the interruption, however. "Good afternoon!" she said, beaming. "What can I do for you today?"

  Gannon pointed at her hair. "I’m a mess. I need a fast perm now!"

  "So you do." She took Gannon’s hand and led her to the other chair. "We’ll get you taken care of in no time."

  "Sorry to interrupt your lunch," Gannon said as she snuggled into the barber’s chair.

  "Not at all. You’re right on time."

  "What?" Was she stealing someone else’s appointment? "I don’t think..."

  "Now, now," the hairdresser cooed, patting her gently on the top of the head. "You’ve had a very trying day. Let Venus take care of you."

  Trying indeed. She decided if the woman wasn’t going to complain, she wasn’t either. She settled back into the chair, closed her eyes and began to relax as the woman worked on her. "It has been a trying day," she agreed after a few minutes.

  "You needn’t worry anymore about that, Mrs. Gannon. Everything will work out for the best."

  She nearly jumped out of the chair. How does she know my name? Had the station master told her? "Have we met before?" she asked and tasted bile.

  "I know everyone inWestchester," Venus said over the clicking of her shears. "It’s always a pleasure to meet the new arrivals."

  But how? Ithad to be the station master. "I won’t be staying long. Just until my train comes."

  "Of course." She continued in silence, her combs and fingers working rapidly.

  Since the hairdresser was content not to talk, Gannon decided to luxuriate in the silence. She really had nothing to say in any event and she soon realized that having an essential mute work on her was a pleasant change from what she was accustomed to. She didn’t even miss the lack of music blaring from some radio. Instead she allowed herself to drift off until she felt a light squeeze on her shoulder. "We’re done," Venus whispered in her ear.

  "I’m sorry," she said and blushed as she opened her eyes.

  "You needed your rest. No harm done." Venus handed her a mirror. "What do you think?"

  She gasped as she looked at her reflection. She had always worn her hair straight and short. Now it was curled and parted severely to the left. "This isn’t what I wanted!"

  The stylist was nonplused. "It’s what you need, dear. After everything you’ve been through, you need a new look." She winked. "This will get you the man you need."

  Gannon didn’t try to keep the anger from her voice. "And how could you possibly know what I need?"

  Again she was not taken aback. Instead she adopted the air of a friendly teacher. "You need another man. Someone who will care for you and not treat you like a piece of property. A man who will love you beyond reason. This," and she patted Gannon’s hair, "will help you get him."

  Gannon gritted her teeth, then looked in the mirror one more time. Certainly different, something shemight get used to. At worst she could have it undone when she reachedSan Diego. No real sense in getting to a heated argument over this, not here . But, she resolved, there will be no tip. She got out of the chair and stretched. "How much?" she asked, reaching for her purse.

  Venus shook her head. "I never charge my favorite customers."

  She paused, her hand inside her purse. "I can’t do that. Here," and she handed the stylist a twenty. "For your fast service."

  "You insist?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Then I will accept this as a gift." She placed the bill in her apron. "Enjoy your stay inWestchester. Travel well."

  I hope so, and soon, she thought as she left. She paused in front of the storefront and studied her reflection. Her new hairdo certainly gave her a different appearance, she decided. More...untamed, perhaps. Maybe the stylist was right, she thought. She certainly needed a change, and the new ’do was the first step. Now it’s time to get something to eat.

  She found a small coffee shop after fifteen minutes of searching—she was afraid to ask anyone for directions. But she began to have second thoughts about eating when she approached it. Every stool at the counter was occupied by a man hunched over a cup of coffee. She went to the very end and was immediately disa
ppointed. There were no pastries in the display case and the grill looked like it hadn’t been used in years. She ran a finger along the counter, leaving a clear trail in the dust and grease. This will never pass a health inspection, she thought.

  She looked down the counter and tried to get the attention of the waitress. The woman was flitting from one customer to another like a bee hunting pollen, pouring more coffee into each cup and offering a smile or pat on the hand before moving onto the next. Gannon waved at her several times before the waitress finally noticed. She approached reluctantly. "What do you want?" she asked.

  Gannon guessed her to be in her late 50’s. Her uniform, a good two sizes too small and a hem much too short for someone her age, was stained with her wares. "A cup of coffee would be appreciated."

  The woman frowned and Gannon could see the heavy face powder crack in the furrows of her brow. "I can’t," she said after a long pause. "I have no place to seat you."

  "To go then."

  "I don’t have any cups."

  Gannon grimaced. So much for the Sisterhood. "Perhaps this gentleman wouldn’t mind giving me his seat for a few minutes while I drink my coffee. Would that be acceptable, sir?"

  She had to touch his arm before he turned. His face was unshaven, his muscles lax, and coffee stains decorated his shirt and jacket. More than coffee stains, she realized with a start when she looked at her hand. There was dust on it, dust from the customer she had just touched.

  He said nothing, just stared at her through drooping eyelids. She looked into his eyes and realized with a shudder that the man was drugged. Then she studied the others. Each sat still before his coffee, each oblivious to the others, each with the same vacant, hopeless expression.

  "Is there anything else?"

  The impatience and challenge in the waitress’s voice was clear. You don’t serve women, do you? "No," she said and stepped back. "Nothing."

  The woman nodded, satisfied, and started anew her rounds. Gannon watched her for another minute, then hurried away. Does the station master know? she wondered. He must. He has to. And the fear that she had slowly been controlling erupted again.

  ***

  Magdya looked up at the clock and smiled. Nearly nine; her appointment would be here soon. A rich widow, still pining for the loss of her husband after three years, still desperately seeking solace and salvation, eager to believe that she could somehow contact him in the spirit world. Eager to believe in the powers of Magdya.

  Magdya studied herself in the full-length mirror. She was wearing her work clothes: long multi-colored silk dress, wool vest decorated with sequins and arcane symbols, a colorful silk scarf around her neck and another covering her jet black hair. And jewelry. Massive hoop earrings and rings on every finger, bracelets on both wrists. She suppressed a chuckle. What would her customers think if she appeared for work in jeans and a sweatshirt, or a prim business suit? If they knew she wasn’t part gypsy at all, but a middle-class Jew raised in Secaucus? She wouldn’t be pulling in three hundred an hour contacting the spirit world, she knew that.

  The doorbell rang, bringing her back to the here and now. She nodded smugly; prompt as always. Desperate as always . Time to shear the sheep, she thought and walked slowly to the front door and opened it. "Mrs. Alworth," she said with a forced thick accent, "so nice to see you. Please come in," and she stepped aside.

  "Thank you, Magyeda," Mrs. Alworth said and hurried inside. Even after all these months, the widow had trouble correctly pronouncing Magdya’s assumed name. "It’s cold out there," and she shivered for emphasis.

  "It is always warm in the spirit world," Magdya assured Mrs. Alworth. "Hang your coat please." Magdya suppressed a smile as her customer complied. The black dress was simple enough, but not the single strand of pearls, diamond bracelet and matching earrings. All dolled up for a night on the town with your lover, she thought. Stupid bitch. "Come. I am sure he is eager to talk to you."

  She led the impatient Mrs. Alworth to her back room. Only candles provided light, candles Magdya had lit just minutes before. The walls and windows were covered with heavy ornate curtains, and the runes embroidered within, runes which signified absolutely nothing, glowed softly in the candlelight. She led her customer to a chair at the small, cloth-covered table, then took her seat on the other side. Then she took Mrs. Alworth’s hands in hers and together they stared at the dark crystal ball resting in the table’s center.

  The crystal ball wouldn’t be dark for long. There were two pedals on the floor near Magdya. One was connected to a simple rheostat that controlled the light hidden underneath the crystal ball. The other would activate a small motor, causing the table to vibrate. Everything else Magdya would handle herself. She squeezed Mrs. Alworth’s hands gently. "Are you ready to begin?"

  "Yes," she said, her voice filled with hope and fear.

  "Close your eyes and keep still as I try to make contact." She dipped her head and Mrs. Alworth did the same. After a minute she peeked at her customer. Mrs. Alworth’s head remained down, her eyes tightly shut. She could see the tension in her cheeks and neck as the woman concentrated, trying to will her dead husband to return. So trusting, Magdya thought. So willing. So foolish.

  Time to get the show on the road, she decided. She pressed down slowly on the right pedal on the floor. The crystal ball began to glow softly. When she told Mrs. Alworth to open her eyes, the ball would provide evidence Magdya had made successful contact. Then she began to hum softly, a hum which slowly turned into unintelligible words. Slowly she increased the pressure of her grip on her customer’s hands. Two more minutes, she decided. Build up the anticipation, but not so long as to frustrate the mark.

  And then she screamed.

  It was a scream born in Hell, a scream escaping from the darkest recesses of the soul. Magdya jerked upright, her eyes wide open yet seeing nothing, the scream continuing but one she could not hear. Mrs. Alworth jerked her hands away from Magdya’s grasp and cried out herself. The backs of her hands were now dripping with blood, cut open by Magdya’s long fingernails. "What is it?" she asked, falling back in her chair.

  Magdya couldn’t answer, could only continue screaming.

  Mrs. Alworth sat for another moment, still stunned and unsure what to do. Then the terror so evident in Magdya’s eyes convinced her; she ran out of the room, grabbed her coat and fled into the night.

  Twenty minutes later Magdya stopped screaming. She collapsed across the table, her clothing now soaked with the sweat of fear. Slowly she roused herself as the visions and voices faded, as she was able to regain control of her racing heart. Yet she was still shaking when she was finally able to sit erect.

  What had happened? Part of her searched desperately for an explanation while another was still terrified of remembering. She had held her "séances" a hundred times before. She was no psychic, had never experienced anything that remotely resembled a psychic experience. Yetsomething had reached out for her, spoken to her, tried to seize control of her. Something evil, somethingbeyond evil. With a voice that had threatened to drown her very essence.

  But there had been something else as well, something hidden within the cacophony that had assailed her like a gale. Another voice soft and pleading. Pleading for help.

  She ignored the glowing crystal orb, the burning candles. She should take a shower, change her clothes, she thought, but there was no time; the fear and danger were too intense. Instead she grabbed the money she had hidden beneath her bed and the small suitcase she always had packed. She didn’t even lock the door as she fled her home and ran down the steps into the street.

  Magdya was surprised to find a taxi parked in front of her building. It must be for someone else, she thought but didn’t hesitate. "Take me to the airport," she said, throwing her bag in the back seat and jumping in after it.

  The driver said nothing, merely threw his car in gear and drove off. It took her a few minutes to catch her breath, but even longer to regain some semblance of control. The contact she h
ad made, it still was unbelievable. And undeniable. And somehow she had to escape from it. Now that she was out of her building, she was slowly realizing that fleeing wouldn’t be enough. But she had to gosomewhere. Once she got to the airport, she would book the earliest flight. Where, she didn’t care. Not home, she decided quickly. Not to her parents. South. Jamaica perhaps. Anywhere where she could be alone, try to come to grips with what had just happened. Decide what she could do about it.

  She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the gentle motion of the cab put her to sleep. Inside the cab, she didn’t sense that ferocious, unspeakable presence. Perhaps it was just in her apartment. Could it be, after all these years, she had finally broken through to the other side? she wondered. She shook her head. People who believed in psychics were psychotic. And unbelievably gullible, as far as she was concerned. But she knew she would never set foot in that building again. Perhaps never inPhiladelphia again.

  At least this driver doesn’t want to talk the entire time, she realized with relief. So unlike the others she rode with, for which she was grateful. Carrying on a mindless conversation was beyond her right now. Then she jerked forward, fully awake. It wasn’t just the cabbie who was quiet, it was the entire cab. There were no sounds of traffic, of pedestrian chatter, the dim undercurrent inherent in any large city. She looked out the window but saw nothing but overwhelming darkness. No lights, no buildings, nothing else. "Where are we?" she asked, breaking the unnatural silence. "How far to the airport?"

  "We’ll be at the station soon." The voice was as dry as dust.

  "Station?" The panic was returning rapidly. "I said to take me to the airport!"

  "The airports are closed. We are going to Westchester Station."

  Westchesterwhat? "Stop this car, now! Let me out!" She reached for the door, then realized there was no handle on the inside. She slammed her shoulder against the door but it refused to move. "Let me out!" and she beat on the glass partition separating the front and rear seats with her fists.