by Matt Cole
Gertie Pappas, the manager and former wedding guest of Deena and Joseph’s, totaled her purchase up along with the software she had recommended.
“So you’re going to be a writer now, huh?” Gertie asked.
“I’m going to give it a try,” answered Deena.
“Good for you,” Gertie replied. “So you and Joseph didn’t work out, huh?”
“I guess you can say that.”
“Um…do you think he’s ready to date again?” Gertie’s question disgusted Deena. Everyone in Strafford loved Joseph Hopping. He was the golden boy with movie star looks and shit for brains. Deena laughed to herself.
“I’m sure he is seeing that he was screwing any girl he could when we were married.”
“That’s no way to talk about Joseph Hopping. Perhaps, you just didn’t cater to his need, that’s all, huh?” Gertie said with a smirk.
“Honey, if you want him, take him, please. You would be doing me a favor. He’s in Florida; maybe you should go and join him,” Deena snapped, grabbing her receipt and heading out the door. Bitch, she thought.
The dog was barking when she got home, and Maggie’s black Cadillac was pulled up in the driveway.
She pulled up next to the car.
“Morning, Deena,” Maggie offered.
“Good morning.” She had to raise her voice because of the dog.
The dog stopped for a second before starting up again.
“Heavens to Betsy! That dog’s been at it since I got here. How do you stand it?”
“I don’t. It is a problem,” Deena said. “I asked if they could do something with it last night and they rudely declined. They keep the beast chained out back in the cold, all day, and all night.”
“Someone should call animal control.”
“I just might,” Deena said. “I just might.”
They talked back and forth about the house, the upcoming holiday season and planned to have dinner together often.
“I’ve told some of my friends about you and you’re decorating,” Maggie said. “They are interested in seeing what you could do for their houses.”
“Um…thanks…but I don’t know if interior decorating is right for me. I was kind of hoping to start a writing career.”
“And how is that going?” Maggie asked.
“Just bought the computer today, and I’m good to go,” Deena replied enthusiastically.
“Wonderful. Good for you. But that doesn’t sound like it will pay the bills, dear.”
“Not yet, but I have a little saved up and the divorce pending, so I’ll be all right,” Deena said.
That was a lie. Her savings were dwindling more each day and there was no telling what would happen with the divorce.
“Well, give it some thought. It could help support your writing career until that takes off,” Maggie finally said.
“I will think about it.”
“Good,” Maggie said, reaching into her purse. “Here’s your first client. Her name is Eloise Blanchard and she lives not ten minutes from here. I’ve already spoken to her and she’s willing to pay fifty dollars an hour to you to redecorate her house.”
“What?” Deena yelled.
“I’m sorry, dear. Did I speak out of turn? I was only trying to help. Good heavens, forgive me. The last thing I want is to alienate you. I’ll give Eloise a call and cancel.”
Arlene backed away.
“There’s no need. I’ll give her a call later and set up a time to go over and see her house. But I don’t want to be surprised anymore. If one of your friends needs a decorator, then ask me first before committing me to it, okay?”
“Okay.”
Inside the kitchen, Maggie walked over to the door to the basement. She reached for the knob. That is when she noticed the smell.
“Oh, my. What is that odor?”
Deena rushed to usher Arlene away from the door. “It’s been here since I moved in. Must be from the fire and all the construction afterward. Did you know that a family died in the fire?”
Arlene got red in the face. “Unfortunately, yes. Not all of them died, though. The oldest boy, Mike Leopold, survived with some burns. You know they actually suspected him of setting the fire for a while. But they couldn’t prove it.”
“I didn’t know that. Where is he now?”
“Around. The poor boy doesn’t have anything or anyone to live with and he roams the streets. Homeless.”
“Why hasn’t anyone helped him?”
“Lord knows we’ve tried. But he…” Arlene became silent. She blushed again.
“What? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, forget him and what happened here. It would be best,” Arlene said.
“Best for whom?”
“It is nothing, Deena. Nothing to worry about.” Arlene felt the cold dagger stare from Deena and could not hide anymore from her. “Well, Mike Leopold claimed that the house was haunted.”
“Yes, you and Willard mentioned that many people around town thought this house was haunted before it burned down. So why are you being so secretive?”
Arlene shrugged. “Nothing, it’s just that it wasn’t so much the house he spoke of as being haunted as the basement.”
“The basement is haunted?” Deena laughed. “Come on, Arlene, that’s nonsense.”
“Is it?”
“No, the basement is really haunted by some big ghost. Come on, that is crazy.”
Arlene smiled. “I guess you’re right. I’m just being silly. But it wasn’t a ghost that Mike Leopold claimed haunted the basement, it was a monster.”
“Beautiful. I rent a house with a basement that houses a monster; no wonder it wasn’t put in the real estate ad.”
“It does sound stupid and silly, doesn’t it?” Arlene remarked.
“Yes, a little.”
“Forget I said anything,” Arlene said.
Forget. Deena knew that she would never get a full night’s sleep again. Monster in the basement, that could explain the smell, she thought. No, Deena you’re just being foolish, she kept telling herself over and over again as she led Maggie to her car.
* * * *
Rosemary Spiner was not dead—yet.
So the next time Frank Marsden came into the basement, Rosemary heard him before she saw him.
She was still squatting in the shallow grave, err pit, cramped beyond belief, when Marsden thumped down the stairs. This time, though, he had someone with him—a woman who was crying and saying she didn’t want to go.
“Shut up!” she heard Marsden say. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Despite the radio which was still blaring away, Spiner heard him repeating the shackling procedure with the new arrival. Finally, Marsden came over and slid the board back. Reaching down, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up. She was so stiff she could hardly stand. She was dizzy, too, from lack of food, and the whole world seemed to be spinning. It was then she realized something else for the first time—she was covered in ooze—slime, to be more precise. A thick fluid that had the consistency of honey and the color of used automotive oil covered her from head to toe.
“Nasty,” Marsden said with a smile. “But look what it’s done for your figure.”
He held up a hand held mirror for her to see and she appeared to have lost twenty pounds in the short time she’d spent in the ground.
“Oh my God!” Rosemary gasped. “Give me a towel or something…please!”
“Guess again,” mumbled Marsden. “It wouldn’t help. Besides you’ll just get another coat later, so I suggest you learn to live with it.”
Rosemary nearly fainted. The world continued to spin out of control. When it slowed down she looked up, straight into the eyes of a dark-skinned, pleasant-looking woman about her age. The woman’s jaw hung slightly open and her eyes looked as big as saucers. The woman didn’t comprehend this at all, Spiner realized. She didn’t know what was going on.
“Rachel,” Marsden said, using the only name by which he
knew Rosemary Spiner, “this is Angie.” Turning to the new woman, he said, “Angela, this is Rachel.” He might have been introducing two women at an afternoon tea party.
When Marsden left, Angela explained her name was Angela Quirino and that she had known Marsden for five years.
“I met him when he used to hang around Moran,” she said, explaining painstakingly to Spiner that the Moran Institute was an institute for the mentally and physically handicapped which was located on Trevor Boulevard, across the Shoemaker River, on the other side of town.
“Frankie was good to me,” Angela added. “He used to bring me here all the time before the fire and take me to McDonald’s or Wendy’s. We used to have a lot of fun.”
“Did you ever have sex with him?” Rosemary asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Angela replied. “Him and Vinnie both.”
“Who is Vinnie?” Rosemary wanted to know.
“Vince Marsden,” said Angela. “Frankie’s brother.”
Rosemary looked carefully at Angela. Her skin was a deep, chocolate brown and as smooth as an infant’s. She had rather large, sturdy bones and carried herself well. Basically, she seemed to be a happy person, caught up in a circumstance she could not comprehend. In fact, Angela, formally classified as mildly retarded, could not understand why her friend Frankie had suddenly turned against her.
“What happened to you?” she asked of Rosemary.
“I wish I could tell you, but, honestly, I’m not sure myself,” Rosemary answered.
Angela began to cry and they were big, deep sobs that made her whole body shake.
“Come on,” Rosemary said, stopping herself before she said that everything was going to be all right, because she truly doubted they would. As Angela cried, Rosemary thought about her own life and how it contrasted markedly from Angela’s. Although Angela had a high school diploma, she had graduated through the special education program. Rosemary, too, was a high school graduate, but she was the product of a tough inner-city girl’s school run by Catholic nuns. While Angela led a protected home life, watched over carefully as possible by a solicitous mother, Rosemary had been on the streets as long as she could remember.
Rosemary was twenty-six years old, with the heart and cunning of a fifty-year old; Angela, the same age, had as much savvy and sophistication as a fifteen-year-old.
* * * *
About an hour later Marsden returned with a welcome chant. “It’s dinner time,” he said, producing a handful of crackers and a bottle of water.
Rosemary looked at the meager offering and cursed herself for refusing the sandwich and juice the day before. If she had it in front of her now, she wouldn’t have had any qualms about digging in. Being poisoned was probably better than starving to death. At least it was quicker.
Without another word Marsden turned and again retreated up the stairs, leaving the women to get better acquainted. In a way, they were sort of related: two wives in a growing harem.
A few hours later Marsden returned and resumed digging in the pit, anxious now to make it large enough for two. Again, after some vigorous digging, he stopped and went over to Angela. Rosemary knew what was coming; she had been there already. She was quickly learning his pattern. First he forced Angela to take his penis in her mouth, and then he entered her in the conventional way. Then he forced Rosemary to have sex with him too. Afterwards, he turned mildly talkative.
“Angie has wanted me for several years now,” Marsden said, confirming what Angela had already said about their relationship.
* * * *
The next morning, after preparing and serving the women a breakfast of hot oatmeal, they all were startled by a loud pounding.
“Yes, master—I know you hunger for more. I’m doing my best,” Marsden said out loud.
The entire basement felt as if it was going to explode due to the pulsating and pounding, which made Angela cry again.
Marsden left the basement in a dash.
When he left, the two women looked unhappily at each other. Instinctively they knew darker days were ahead.
Chapter 4
“Let me get this straight,” Arlene said. “You believe that there is a monster living in your basement; the basement of the house which I rented to you? Did I miss anything?”
“You make it sound so crazy when you say it like that,” Deena replied.
“I think it is, Deena,” Arlene said as gently as she could. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to make you more comfortable in the house. But it does sound a tad bit crazy to me.”
“I know it is so crazy to think that there could be a monster living in my basement. Just saying it is ridiculous. But there is something going on down there. I can feel it.”
“I just think you are a little freaked out that your landlord lives in your basement. And to be perfectly honest it is strange but not unheard of, Deena. Perhaps if you had a boyfriend or something…”
“The last thing I need is another man in my life, Arlene. The last one turned out to be something totally different than he appeared on the outside.”
“So does that mean that perhaps your view of men, including Frank Marsden, could be skewed a little because of how men have treated you? So you think of all men as monsters?”
“Oh my God, I am crazy! But is it crazy to want to know everything about the house and the people who have lived in your house? So I do wish to investigate the house and its previous inhabitants further; you understand, don’t you?”
It did have a bizarre kind of logic, Arlene thought, and a vision of the house how it was previously viewed and thought of around town rose in her mind. There had been stories of the place being haunted for years. Arlene released a sigh.
“I do understand. And I will see what I can find out for you. I have some friends down at the newspaper and will ask some questions for you.”
“Do you know anyone on the police force or anyone associated with the fire that burned down the house?” Deena asked.
“I don’t…” Arlene paused and Deena sensed that Arlene was holding back. “But Willard Swader is friends with the coroner. I’ll talk to him and see if he can’t get you a meeting with him. That is if you really wish to dig into the matter that deep?”
“I do. Let’s say it is my inner author coming out and I can always sharpen my investigation and research skills.”
* * * *
For Angela Quirino and Rosemary Spiner, life in Frank Marsden’s begrimed basement settled into a nightmarish routine. They adjusted as best they could, despite Rosemary’s coat of slime, but it wasn’t easy, considering the grim surroundings: the bare, littered floor, the empty walls, a constantly pulsating coming from underneath the floor, and an overhead light that never went off; the cold, damp—the sheer indignity of it all. And now the goo that covered Rosemary from head to toe seemed to be making her very sick and drowsy.
Since the only article of clothing they were allowed to wear was a thin shirt, they would have huddled together, but Angela had been a tad reluctant as a result of the slime. Yet the cold forced them to huddle together for warmth and they had pleaded for blankets and more clothing. Even worse was the lack of contact with the outside world, the constant sexual demands by their captor, the ever-present threat of being beaten, and—always present—the hunger. Marsden fed them little, and what he did give them was hardly appetizing. Occasionally he served them oatmeal for breakfast or cereal, but usually it was fast food or bread, not even toasted or with anything on it. Dinner was rice and shriveled hot dogs, and for special treats, takeout Chinese.
The two women were totally subject to Marsden’s sexual whims, Angela now more so than Rosemary due to her deteriorating condition, which was more patterned than bizarre. He preferred the first contact to be oral-genital, but he did not want to climax in their mouths. His aim was not sexual gratification but a single-minded desire to get them to do whatever he wanted. Every day, at least once a day, he would visit them in the cellar and demand sex from Angela. She didn’t even
consider refusing.
Marsden warned them over and over not to scream, not to yell, not to do anything that would alert anyone to their presence. His threats were not always heeded. When Marsden took to beating them, Quirino and Spiner howled and shrieked, cursing and begging for mercy. That usually made Marsden madder and he beat them harder.
He wasn’t particularly worried about the neighbors taking notice or his tenant upstairs, but just in case, he tacked soundproofing material to the ceiling to help deaden any noise they might make. But the best remedy was to convince them not to make any noise at all. If they did, he beat them with a shovel handle. Or he put them in the pit, “the hole,” and covered it with a board and put sandbags on top. So far only Rosemary had suffered this severe punishment, and each time she came out the worse for wear, covered in more slimy substance and physically more weak and lethargic. Then Marsden would feed them only bread and water or nothing at all for a day or two. Or he used the stretch chastisement.
Soon after he brought them into the basement, he screwed a large eye hook into the ceiling beam so it would be about seven feet off the floor. If one of the women misbehaved, he would put a handcuff on one wrist and the matching cuff through the eye hook. The woman being reprimanded would then have to stand, for hours on end, with one arm above her head, unable to lie down, sit, or shift positions.
These castigations and precautions were necessary, he told them, because there was a constant danger they would be discovered and his plan would be wrecked.
* * * *
Owen Sheehan’s office was a cubbyhole back of the main entrance at the Strafford morgue. He smoked, the air was foul, and Deena and Arlene involuntarily wrinkled their noses.
“Sorry, ladies.” He wheeled back in his chair to the small window and yanked it open. It was cool and breezy out; the smoke and stench of death started to clear.
