Revenant- a Jake Crowley Adventure

by David Wood

  “Why would he haunt there? Did he die fighting a fire? Surely he’d haunt that place, not his station.”

  Rose shook her head. “It’s better than that. In 1930 he hanged himself from the rafters in there after he discovered his wife was cheating on him. Other firefighters, for a long time afterward, claimed to hear strange noises when no one was there. And some said they saw the shape of Schwartz suspended in mid-air.”

  Crowley let out a small, uncomfortable laugh. “You really dig all the macabre stuff, huh?”

  “I still need to educate you on the good horror movies! There are so many cool and creepy things you need to see. But right now, we can concentrate on what’s right in front of us.” Rose grabbed his hand and hauled him up the steps of the Poe house. “Come on, let’s see Edgar’s ghost!”

  They went inside and now Crowley did laugh, a lot more mirthful this time. “Lamer and lamer,” he said in a low voice. No need to offend anyone who might work here.

  “Holy crap,” Rose said, not as quietly. “What a bust!” She laughed too, the whole thing too absurd for words.

  Before them lay a single room, closed off entirely from the rest of the building. Around three of the walls were a selection of glass-fronted cabinets containing a variety of items. Some black and white photos, a few early contracts signed by Poe, a couple of fountain pens he had allegedly used. One side of the small space held the largest cabinet and in that stood a writing desk, scratched and worn, with a few items haphazardly scattered across it.

  Crowley slowly walked the perimeter of the space and shrugged. “Oh well. I’ve seen bigger bathrooms!” He squinted into one of the cabinets. “Mind you, it’s not entirely without interest. I mean, look at this here. It’s pretty cool to think that Poe actually held these pens, signed his name there with them. I can imagine every writer aims to have the kind of recognition someone like Poe enjoys. I imagine most writers would want that recognition while they were still alive to enjoy it.”

  “I suppose so,” Rose said. “Of course most would like to live to see their success. Poe had a decent career, but so many scrape and scratch through life only to succeed after they’re dead. Take Lovecraft, for example. Can you imagine if he could see how much his work is still current and the amount of other work that has sprung from it.”

  Crowley nodded. “Well, maybe he’s somewhere we can’t fathom, kicking back with the Elder Gods, laughing at his posthumous popularity.”

  Rose laughed. “You’re not entirely uneducated then, Jake Crowley.”

  “Not entirely, no. Hey, this is interesting.” Crowley pointed into another glass cabinet. “It’s new.”

  “What do you mean by new?” Rose joined him, and together they looked down at a small, tatty leather-bound journal sitting on a clear plastic display stand.

  “Fine, recent then. It was only put on display here last month,” Crowley said. He read from the small placard sitting in front of the old book. “Found during repairs to an older part of the foundations below this very room, bricked into a basement wall. New York University uncovered a metal lockbox containing several items, including this journal of Poe’s containing a variety of mostly indecipherable writings.”

  Rose turned to him, frowning. “Indecipherable in what way?”

  “Too messy to read, or too complicated to understand maybe? It doesn’t elaborate.”

  “How weird. I wish they displayed it open, at least we’d see one page.”

  Crowley shrugged. “Oh well. If an ineligible old notebook is the most interesting thing here, I think we’re done.”

  “Yep,” Rose agreed. “Sometimes people really draw a long bow trying to make a place interesting.”

  “It’s just as bad in England,” Crowley said. “King Henry the Eighth once spent a night in this Inn on his way somewhere else far more exciting!”

  Rose laughed. “Queen Elizabeth the First once farted in this cottage!”

  Both laughing now, they left the small room behind and walked back out onto Third Street.

  “Come on,” Crowley said. “Let’s go and see the Statue of Liberty.”

  Chapter 2

  The Dakota was an iconic part of New York City history and spoke volumes about Aunt Gertie’s immense wealth. Crowley was embarrassed to reveal this side of his personal life to Rose, a little self-conscious of the always open line of credit Gertie made available to him should he ever need it. But Rose had known him as a working man and knew he paid his own way as much as he could. Aunt Gertie’s dollars had helped them here and there during their recent adventures, and he felt he should, at the very least spend some time with her as a thank-you. This visit was as good a way as any to do that.

  As they walked along 72nd Street heading for the building and Gertie’s apartment inside, Crowley said, “Brace yourself, okay? It’s all quite opulent. But Gertie herself is down to earth and lovely. She wasn’t born into wealth, so she’s, you know, mostly normal.” He grinned.

  Rose laughed. “Normal like you? Sure, Jake. You don’t need to make excuses for her, I judge everyone by their actions and personality, nothing else. But ever since you said she lived there, I’ve been aching to see it. I mean, so much has happened in that building, so many famous people lived there.”

  “So many still do! Although it’s amazing to think of people from history living there. Larger than life folk like John Lennon, for example.”

  Rose laughed again, seemingly somewhat giddy with excitement. “More than that, he died there!”

  “You are so damned sinister.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s such a historical moment, don’t you think? That famous archway, the crowds.”

  Crowley smiled and gestured. Rose turned and gasped, looking directly at the very arched entrance she had been describing. The building stood before them, surrounded on two sides by taller, more modern structures, it nonetheless commanded the eye with its splendor. It occupied the northwest corner of 72nd Street and Central Park West, in the Upper West Side, its pale tan brick stark against the whites and grays and silvers around it. High gables and steep roofs held a profusion of dormers, terracotta spandrels and panels, niches, balconies, and balustrades, giving it a German Renaissance character.

  “It’s a square,” Crowley said, as Rose stared. “Built around a central courtyard. The arched main entrance is large enough for a horse-drawn carriage because back in the day they would drive right in to allow passengers to disembark safely from the rain, or prying eyes.”

  “Porte-cochère,” Rose said quietly.

  Crowley frowned. “Bless you?”

  “No, idiot. Porte-cochère. It’s French. It’s what that kind of entrance is called.”

  “Ah, now I’m with you. Smartypants.”

  Rose smiled at him. “You know I like to know things. But I don’t know about this place, so go on!”

  Crowley shrugged. “I don’t know much more to be honest. Gertie once told me that while the outside is German-influenced, the layout of the apartments is in the French style. All the major rooms are connected to each other.” He looked at Rose pointedly and said, “In enfilade.”

  “What?”

  “Ha! You’re not the only smarty pants with some French. It’s from the French enfiler, ‘to put on a string.’ I know it because it’s a military term. A formation or position is ‘in enfilade’ if weapons fire can be directed along its longest axis. A trench if the opponent can fire down its length. Or a column of troops is enfiladed if they can be fired on from the front or rear.”

  Rose grinned at him, one eyebrow raised. “Really, Jake?”

  “If a line of advancing troops is fired on from the flank it’s defiladed,” he said with an exaggerated nod.

  “Okay, well done. That’s one point each on obscure French vocabulary.”

  “Two points to one, actually, my favor. I gave you two words.”

  “Technically, porte-cochère is two words too.” Rose held up one hand. “But let’s just agree we’re both sma
rt, shall we?”

  “Okay, fair call.”

  “So you could fire a weapon the length of a Dakota apartment, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Crowley grinned. “Yeah, I guess so. But there’s also access from the corridor or a hall, so it’s not like every apartment is a straight line, just the main rooms. It’s high society nonsense again, to be honest. The idea being that you could move guests from one room to another easily, but staff could discreetly service them without being seen coming and going.”

  “Look at us,” Rose said. “A museum researcher and a high school teacher, trying to out-nerd each other.”

  “Made for each other, you mean?” Crowley said with a smile.

  Rose kissed him, then turned her attention back to the building, staring up at it. “It’s weird to imagine, isn’t it? No thought like that really goes into the design anymore.”

  “Well, that’s not such a bad thing. When you design a home so the servants can work and not be seen, it says a lot about society.”

  “Yeah, we certainly need to move on from that kind of thinking. It’s just that buildings are so boring now. Look at this place! It’s amazing. Such character and style.”

  Crowley turned to gaze up at it with her. “It really is. Aunt Gertie told me all about the layout and said the other cool thing is that the apartments are open to the outdoors on two sides, the street and the courtyard, which was pretty rare at the time. The idea of that much space in New York City is bewildering.”

  “Rare at the time and even rarer now. Not to mention the overall size of the apartments, I’m guessing.”

  “You’re not wrong. Aunt Gertie’s main room is about fifty feet long, the ceiling is fourteen feet high. And the floors are all parquetry, in different shades of wood. There are ghost stories here, too, by the way.”

  “John Lennon haunts the gate?”

  “Yes, actually! If you believe the stories. And construction workers in the 60s apparently saw the ghost of a young boy, though no one knows who he is. And more recently, the ghost of a girl in turn-of-the-century clothing was reported by painters working here.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  Crowley half-smiled, sheepish. “I looked up ghost stories while we walked here after your firefighter one.”

  “Ten out of ten for effort, Jake. You know, there’s another creepy angle to this place for horror fans.”

  “Is there?”

  “It’s the building they used for filming Rosemary’s Baby.” When he didn’t acknowledge the relevance, she said, “Roman Polanski, 1968? Jake, that’s iconic cinema even if you’re not a horror fan!”

  “Sorry.”

  She shook her head. “We need to start planning regular movie nights.”

  “If you say so!” In all honesty, he relished the idea. He may not be much of a horror movie fan like Rose was, but the fact she was planning their future made him warm inside. And maybe with a good education from her, he’d come to appreciate horror movies the way she did. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll be late.”

  They crossed the street with the traffic light, and Crowley went up to the door, pressed the button for his aunt’s apartment. A few seconds passed, then her robust and vibrant voice came through.

  “Jake, darling! Come in, come in!”

  Crowley threw a smile at the camera and pushed the door open when it buzzed.

  As they walked for the elevator, Rose said, “So where does Aunt Gertie fit in your family tree again?”

  “Call her Trudy,” he reminded her. “But she’s actually my great aunt. You know I never knew my dad. He was killed in the Falklands while my mum was still pregnant, but I knew Gertie well.”

  “She helped raise you?”

  “Sort of. My mum and paternal grandmother, my dad’s mother, raised me. Gertie is my Grandma’s sister. So she was always around, always kind. Grandma was a bit of a hard case, it really hit her hard when my dad died. Must be a hell of a thing to lose your son. But she loved me and cared for me, even if she was tough. But Gertie was always soft and kind, she saw how tough it was for all of us, I guess. Then, when I was about twelve or thirteen, Aunt Gertie met and married Charles Forsythe, an incredibly wealthy stockbroker, and moved here to New York.” Crowley pressed for the elevator, uncomfortable talking about his connection to so much privilege. “Only a year or two after that, my Grandma died from a very aggressive cancer. Aunt Gertie said she always felt guilty to have moved away and would fly back to England regularly to visit us, and she always insisted on passing over some money to keep us looked after. In her sister’s memory, she always insisted. Plus, Gertie and Charles never had kids, though they tried for ages before giving up. I think that only made her more keen to keep an eye on me. And she has ever since. The Army looked after Mum and me as well, of course. So losing my dad was terrible, but we were fortunate in other ways.”

  The elevator pinged and the ostentatiously decorated doors slid silently open. “So why is she a Fawcett and not a Forsythe?” Rose asked as they stepped on.

  “Well, sadly Charles dropped dead from a massive heart attack at 67. It was big New York news for a while, and after that, she went back to her maiden name. It was difficult being so closely associated with such a prominent New York name, she said. She wanted to have a more quiet life and has largely slipped out of high society since. At least, as much as she can with her money, living somewhere like this.”

  “Life has a way of messing up any plans we make, huh?”

  “You’re not wrong. She’s also proud of her heritage, she’s a Fawcett, distantly related to the explorer, Percy Fawcett.”

  “Really? Oh, that’s interesting. He was, like, the real Indiana Jones, wasn’t he?”

  “I think he was one source of inspiration,” Crowley said.

  Rose nodded. “How long have you been waiting to drop that bombshell?”

  Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “Bombshell? Most of the people I meet have never heard of him.”

  “Lucky for you I’m not most people.”

  The elevator pinged again and stopped, the doors slid open.

  From an open door just along the hallway, a well-dressed lady waved. She was slim and stood tall, with neat iron-gray hair in a modern style, her smile warm and welcoming. “Jake! So good to see you!”

  “Not bad for a woman in her seventies, huh?” Crowley said sidelong to Rose, then strode up to hug his great aunt. “It’s been too long, Aunt Gertie!”

  She scowled good-naturedly and pinched his cheek like he was a schoolboy. Then she kissed his forehead and stepped aside to shake Rose’s hand. “And you must be the delightful Rose. Please, call me Trudy.”

  Rose shook. “It’s lovely to meet you, Trudy. I’ve heard so much.”

  “All wicked, I hope? Come along, inside we go. Can’t stand in the hallway like vagrants.”

  They walked in, heels clicking on the beautiful parquetry floor Crowley had mentioned before. He enjoyed watching Rose take in the enormous rooms, high ceilings, all the artistic touches of architecture never seen in the modern age. Gertie kept the place neat and tidy, enough furniture that it didn’t feel minimalist, but nothing too grandiose. Artworks hung on the walls, Crowley remembered Charles had been an avid collector. Those alone were probably worth more money than he or Rose had ever seen. His great aunt led them through into the smaller lounge room and gestured to the floral couch under the window.

  “Please, have a seat. Gabriela is making tea so we can chat before dinner.”

  That was a name Crowley hadn’t heard before. “Gabriela?”

  Gertie made a rueful face. “Honestly, Jake, it feels terrible to have a staff. So bloody colonial, you know? But I’m not getting any younger. It’s not that I feel old or infirm yet, but at my age, you can’t be too careful. And I do tire more easily than I ever did before. Anyway, long story short, I have Gabriela now. She lives with me, takes care of small things, and keeps the place clean, vacuuming, dusting, that sort of thing.
And it makes me feel much safer to know that someone is always here should I have a fall or something like that.”

  “Well, that makes perfect sense,” Crowley said. “Actually, it makes me feel better to know someone’s here for you too.”

  “I did have a fall a few months ago. Nothing serious,” she said quickly at Crowley’s look of dismay. “Just some bruises, mostly to my pride. But for a little while I couldn’t get up, and that frightened me. If it had been more serious, I might have been in rather a lot of trouble.”

  “So you employed Gabriela after that?”

  “Exactly. She’s a lovely young thing. Only twenty, recently come to New York. Mexican, you know.”

  Crowley nodded. “Cool.”

  “And what about you, dear?” Gertie said, turning her attention to Rose. “You have a look of the Orient about you. What’s your story.”

  Crowley cringed, caught off-guard by the casual racism of the older generation. “Aunt Gertie, please–”

  Rose lifted a hand, smiling. “No, it’s fine, really. My mum is Chinese, from Guangzhou. Dad is a Londoner from generations back.”

  “That part is the same as our line, then,” Gertie said. “Jake’s is age-old English stock on both sides.”

  Crowley opened his mouth to change the subject when the other door to the room swung in, and young Latina with long black hair in a loose ponytail came in carrying a tray. It bore a ceramic teapot, cups and saucers, and a jug of milk. A small silver bowl held sugar cubes and tiny serving tongs. You can take the woman out of England, Crowley thought, but you’d never take the England from the woman.

  “Ah, thank you, Gabriela,” Gertie said. She gestured to Crowley and Rose. “This is my grand-nephew I was telling you about, Jake, and his lovely partner, Rose.”

  They made polite greetings all around, and as Gabriela was about to leave, the door intercom buzzed again.

  “That will be Matthew,” Gertie said. “Could you let him in, please, Gabriela? Then you can head off, we’ll be okay.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fawcett, of course. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”