The Dead Gentleman

by Matthew Cody

  As the attercop reached the floor, it twisted its grotesque body around to face me. Next it would rear back on its powerful hind legs and move in for the kill, striking with a bite that would paralyze in seconds.

  I managed to sit up—my back to the wall—and raise my lamp at the attercop. Most Explorers use hydro-gas lamps as a backup to paralight goggles. Hydro-gas is safer than lamp oil, less flammable and more reliable. But I keep my lantern filled with old-fashioned lamp oil for a different reason—I’ve made a few modifications to the device. As the spider beast lurched forward, I flipped a switch on the lamp’s handle and a small cylinder of pressurized air began to hiss. The lantern oil was forced out of a tiny spigot on the lantern’s front, passing through the open flame as it arched into a stream of liquid fire. I’d turned my lamp into a fiery squirt can. The burning oil landed directly on the attercop’s round back, running in flaming rivulets into its face, its eyes.

  The crevasse brightened with the flash of fire, and shadows flickered around me as the beast writhed in pain. It squealed in rage as it tried to brush out the flames, but the clinging oil just burned hotter as it caught the fine hairs that covered the attercop’s body. My lamp extinguished, I curled up in a tight ball and hugged the wall, avoiding the blind thrashing of the dying creature.

  After a few long minutes, the monster stopped its twitching. Though the lamp was spent, the crevasse was still lit by the burning, crackling body of the dead attercop. I almost threw up at the smell of cooking spider meat. My hands were shaky with adrenaline and pain from my injured foot, and my head was spinning with questions.

  What was the thing doing down here—waiting for me? Attercops were supposed to be easy opponents because they were predictable. Hit the web and the attercop comes running—always. They don’t wait in the shadows to get the jump on their victims because they aren’t that smart.

  Yet this one was. It had waited until I got close enough, dangling from my climbing rope and nearly defenseless. Even then it paused to strike at the last possible moment, as if it was afraid to act too hastily, as if it wanted to stay down in the dark, as if it was guarding something.…

  For the first time I took a moment to really observe my surroundings here at the bottom of the crevasse. The light cast by the burning attercop was already beginning to fade, but I could see, all around me, flickering reflections. Dirt and rock walls, no tunnels or visible exits except for the way I came down, and the floor beneath—smooth as a mirror. The floor was rock along the sides, but gradually the rough stone gave way to volcanic glass, deep black and flawless except for a single line cut into a six-foot circle in the middle of the floor. And in the middle of the circle was a handle.

  It was a door—a door that had been cut into the floor. A door that led straight down.

  I felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the attercop. Here was a real mystery.

  “Hey, Bernard! Get down here. There’s something you’ve got to see!”

  Peering up at the opening, I could see Bernard’s silhouette clearly enough—he was still peering over the ledge—but I got no answer. Merlin was uncharacteristically quiet, too.

  “Bernard?”

  This time he moved. I could see him shuffling around at the top of the hole, though why he was still silent was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he was so thrown by my fight with the attercop that he was too shaken to speak.

  “C’mon, Bernard. There was only one of these beasties and I’ve taken care of him. If you bring down the treats, we can make a roast of it!”

  Still, Bernard said nothing. Instead, my calls were answered by a new sound—the crack and rumble of rock sliding.

  I had a sudden, terrible image of the mayfly. Once activated, the little bomb would tear through the dirt, rock, whatever it found. In his panic, had Bernard let the mayfly loose, only to leave me here to die? Or was he really betraying me? The tunnel mouth above my head was collapsing, unearthing tons of rock that would close this portal forever—and bury me in the process. My mind wasn’t working right. I couldn’t accept that my friend and partner would abandon me now. I called, I begged and I cursed. I tried climbing, but more and more earth was falling down, blinding me, choking me.

  All that was left for me was the strange door.

  Some doors are meant to stay shut. Even then, Bernard’s warning hung in my mind. But I’d opened many doors before, followed paths no one had followed. That is what Explorers do—that is our calling, our purpose.

  And if I didn’t open this one, I’d die.

  And so, my mind made up, as the roar of the mayfly above me built to its explosive peak, I grabbed the handle of the black door with both hands and pulled.

  But it occurs to me now that I’ve started a bit late in my story. So many things that come to pass depend on what came before, but I guess that’s the way with stories. Still, I should think you would be confused, being dropped into the action like this without so much as an introduction. So before we go any further, I should take a breath, collect my thoughts and put the important stuff in order in my head. Next time, perhaps, I’ll back up and start at the beginning.

  Here’s hoping I have time to finish the tale.

  CHAPTER ONE

  JEZEBEL

  NEW YORK CITY, TODAY

  At first glance, the Percy Luxury was a sleek apartment building full of marble floors and shining brass handles. A neatly dressed doorman always waited outside to wave down taxis and tip his hat at passersby, and the smiling elevator man with too-white teeth never had to be reminded which floor was yours. But the marble and the brass were not the originals, and neither were the doorman and the elevator man for that matter—they were all part of a new renovation aimed at transforming the place into a stylish home for the very rich and the very snotty. “New” Percy had been “gentrified”—a word that, in Jezebel’s vernacular, meant it was now a good place to own a poodle or some other small, yappy dog that you could stuff into your purse.

  Jezebel’s Percy was full of peepholes and cracked-open doors. No one said much of anything, she noticed, and each neighbor made a point of seeming totally uninterested as they passed her in the halls—head down, busy examining the mail, no time for a “hello” or “good morning” or even “hiya” when you’re staring at your watch. But as soon as they made it inside their apartments, you could hear the click-clack of peephole shutters sliding and the creak of doors inching open. Walking down the hallway meant you were being watched, and if you were being watched, then it only made sense that you were being talked about.

  Snobs.

  According to Jez’s dad it had been a hotel long ago. Its status as an Upper West Side landmark was the only thing that saved it from being torn down when the coffee shops and pay-by-the-hour playrooms started moving into the neighborhood. But the renovations had also exposed part of the real Percy—sections of the old building that remained untouched by double-glazed windows and new crown molding. Underneath the new clothing was a set of very old bones.

  On this particular Saturday it was not yet noon, though you wouldn’t have known it to look at the sky outside. A thick pallet of black clouds lay over the city like a winter blanket. Sidewalk trees—skinny little saplings planted as part of the gentrification—swayed then snapped in the gusting winds. Jezebel watched out her bedroom window as the storm pummeled the city and churned the waters of the Hudson River beyond. She imagined the tall trees in Riverside Park whipping their branches against the blowing rain, cutting through the sheets of water. The park trees were old and strong, and they would do better in this gale than those poor saplings below.

  Jezebel’s bedroom window rattled as a thunderclap chased a lightning flash through the sky. That one had seemed too close. She backed away from the window and plopped down heavily onto her bed. Even an epic thunderstorm like this could hold her attention for only so long. She rolled around, sat up and grabbed one of her dad’s books that she had started at least ten times. She read for a few minutes before giving up a
t the same spot she always gave up at, and then laid back down and stared at the unfinished mural her father had started on her bedroom wall. It was a scene from an enchanted forest full of lush green trees, toadstools and fairies. She stared at the open white space he’d taped off that was just begging for a unicorn.

  Her dad had to be stopped.

  Of course, he meant well—parents usually do. These little gestures reassured him that he was an involved and present father. Jezebel’s mom liked to say that fatherhood had hit him like a knockout punch and he’d been reeling ever since. But he’d done what was expected of him, and then some. He’d made sacrifices—trading a painter’s career for a job in advertising, for one thing, which was why Jezebel let him have his way with the enchanted-forest mural.

  Parents. Her mother feared for her—she worried about the “emotional fallout” left from the divorce. Her father over-compensated by filling their weekends with quality time, but she had survived so far without any deep mental scars, so he must’ve done something right. She thought that he should accept some culpability for the twelve-year-old baby fat that was turning out not to be baby fat at all, and for her nearsightedness and tendency to freckle. In fact, she had a whole list of genetic complaints, but the actual child-rearing part he’d pulled off quite well. She’d told him that once, in those very words, and he’d kind of looked grim and defeated about it. Maybe he just didn’t know how to take a compliment.

  Jezebel tried once more to go online, but the storm had been messing with the Internet all morning and she waited five minutes just for her profile page to load. Cell phone reception was spotty as well. It was like living in the Stone Age. After the connection timed out twice, she gave up and grabbed her shoes instead.

  Time to check out the basement.

  The basement had been recently uncovered as part of the renovations. A small door in the corner of the lobby, long ago plastered over and forgotten, led to a basement that no one had seen for maybe eighty years or more. It must have been covered up when the old hotel was converted into apartments, although why anyone would go out of their way to wall off an entire basement was beyond Jez. But then again, that’s what made it interesting. It was mysterious. She thought it especially odd that the elevator had no B button, either. Whether it was accidental or deliberate, the basement had been hidden away for a long time. There was no telling what could be down there.

  Elevator Man smiled at her as she stepped inside. He was new and Jezebel was terrible with names, but the weather seemed to be his thing, and he was always ready with the forecast—today’s, tomorrow’s or the ten-day extended. It only made sense that today’s unusual storm was a topic of excitement. It was like a little holiday in Elevator Man’s world.

  “Winds are gusting close to thirty miles per hour,” he was saying. “Even though there was a zero-point-zero percent chance of any precipitation at all. Can’t get ’em all right, I guess. Going to be flash flood warnings all over the place, too. ’Course we don’t have to worry about that up here, but down in the subway tunnels? Boy, they better have those pumps working overtime, because …” He kept on about the ins and outs of subway maintenance as he smacked his gum. Jezebel had yet to see him when he wasn’t chewing on a wad of gum, and if he leaned too close you could be bowled over by the overpowering scent of wintergreen.

  “Um, excuse me,” Jezebel interrupted. She didn’t want to be rude, but he had a habit of talking at you rather than with you, and for exactly as long as it took to get from your floor to the lobby. If you wanted to get a word in at all, you needed to be bold about it. “I was wondering about the basement they just found,” Jezebel continued. “Do you know why there isn’t any button for it?”

  “Huh?” he answered, apparently thrown by the sudden shift from monologue to conversation. “There’s a basement?”

  “Yes,” said Jezebel. “Well, at least there’s a door in the lobby that leads down to somewhere.”

  “Awfully odd to build a brand-new elevator and not have it go all the way down, but that’s architects for you. If my elevator doesn’t stop there, then it’s not worth the trip. My advice is, stick to floors L through thirty.”

  At that moment the elevator stopped with a ding. “Ah, speaking of—here we are. Lobby,” he said as he opened the gated double doors.

  She smiled at Elevator Man as he disappeared back up the shaft, leaving her alone. Despite the gaudiness, the lobby was usually Jezebel’s favorite thing about her home. It was always such a bright place—sunlight glittered through the prism of a crystal chandelier, coloring the room in soft rainbow hues that reminded her of one of her dad’s paintings. Outside the open entrance, the doorman was always whistling.

  But today a pitiful few rays of sun managed to make it through the heavy rain clouds. Tarps had been laid over the crushed velvet rugs to catch the drywall dust that came down as the workmen tore away eighty years of paint and wallpaper. Instead of a shower of light, the chandelier cast a long, dull shadow across the floor. And if the doorman was whistling, Jezebel couldn’t hear him over the sounds of the wind and the rain. She went to the foyer and looked for him beneath the awning. Dressed as he was in his rain-slicked, lumpy black overcoat and waving his spindly old umbrella against the rain, he looked more like a troll in a storybook than a doorman.

  She thought for a moment about going out to say hello—but the wind was blowing so hard now that it actually seemed to be raining sideways. She just couldn’t work up the nerve to brave that kind of soaking.

  So she went for the basement door instead. It was so deeply set into an alcove beneath the main staircase that it was nearly invisible, even with the plaster taken down. There was a sudden flash of lightning outside, and for a brief second the lobby was lit in the color blue. A second was long enough for Jez to see that the door was open just a crack. A rumble of thunder swiftly followed the flash, and Jez jumped as a hand touched her shoulder.

  “What do you think you’re doing there, little miss?” said a gruff voice in her ear.

  Jez turned around, ready with a kick to the shins, but it was only Bernie, the building’s ancient superintendent. She’d known Bernie since her dad moved into the Percy two years ago, and yet he remained one of the sourest human beings she’d ever met. She’d heard once that some people aged like fine wine and some aged like vinegar. Old Bernie was vinegar, through and through.

  “I’m just … nothing,” she said, immediately regretting how guilty she sounded. Why should she feel guilty? Were there laws against looking in the basement of your own apartment building?

  “Well, actually I wanted to take a peek in the basement,” she admitted, straightening her shoulders. “Is that against the rules or something?”

  Bernie let go of her shoulder and scratched at his whiskered chin. He had a face like an old saddle, full of cracks and creases. Bernie had to be at least twice her father’s age, but though he walked with a limp and a stout cane, his wits were sharp.

  It occurred to Jez then that unlike the nice doormen and smiling Elevator Man, Bernie wasn’t a part of this new Percy. He looked out of place against the Italian marble. He was worn and crotchety and creaky, like the building underneath.

  “There’s no rules against going down to the basement, miss,” Bernie said. “But I’ve been down there and I wouldn’t advise you going. It’s a dark place, dank and full of roaches. And rats, of course. Big ones. Mean-spirited, too. Definitely not a place for playing.” As he spoke he sort of arched one eyebrow for effect.

  “There’s talk of making it a laundry room,” Bernie said, suddenly dropping the drama. “But I doubt they’ll ever get around to hooking up the hot water pipes. Why don’t you forget about the basement and run along and find someone to play with? I don’t see you with your friends much these days. I remember when you first moved in you had a whole bunch of snotty-nosed kids hanging around you. What about your friend Sasha? The one who’s always scuffing her shoes on my floors—”

  “I’m not ten
anymore,” was all Jezebel said. She had had a lot of friends once. Bernie would think it was ridiculous, but those two years of difference seemed like a lifetime to Jez.

  But surprisingly, Bernie’s face softened just a touch, as something gave way in the corners of his frown or the crease of his forehead.

  “Of course you’re not, little miss,” he said. “Roaches and rats and all teasing aside, the basement’s really no place to be. Trust me.”

  Bernie was right. Jez knew that he was right. There was no reason on earth why she should be going down there. No reason at all.

  Except that she’d just been told not to.

  She put her hand on the basement doorknob. He pursed his lips in disapproval but otherwise did nothing.

  Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she pulled the door open a few more inches.

  “Wait,” he said, disappearing into his little studio apartment around the corner. Jez waited for a moment, her hand still on the doorknob, and peeked down the stairwell. Nothing but blackness. The air smelled different—no fresh paint, just earth and wet stone. And something else she couldn’t quite place.

  When Bernie reappeared with a large flashlight, she let out a sigh of relief. On second thought, it would be nicer to have someone down there with her.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing her the light. “There’s a working bulb here over the steps, but you’ll need this if you decide to go any further.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re not coming?”

  “Why should I?” Bernie asked, with that same eyebrow arch. “It’s just a basement.”

  Jez took the flashlight and stood at the top of the steps, staring. Just a basement. Only now that she was getting ready to actually go down there, it seemed somehow different. As she peered down the steps, it looked darker. Deeper. Worse.

  The storm must be getting to me, thought Jez. All she had wanted to do was have a look around, but now she felt like she was in the middle of a bad horror film. Don’t go into the basement!