by A. L. Mengel
He ran through the kitchen and back down the hall towards the back bedroom. “Gaye! I’m sorry. I forgot! I was outside and lost track of time!”
He flung the bedroom door open and saw Gaye under the sheets. “Oh, please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead!”
He ran to the bedside table to the pill reminder, and grabbed two small blue tablets. “Gaye!” He shook her motionless body. He shook her again. “Gaye! Wake up!”
After a few moments, she woke up and opened her eyes. She squinted. “What time is it?”
Relief washed over him as he held the blue pills down to her. “I am so sorry, Gaye. You have to take your medicine. I’m sorry I forgot. I’m late with it again.”
With great effort, she sat up in bed on her elbows and took her pills. “You were with the neighbor boy again, weren’t you?”
And George stood motionless, stunned at her revelation that she knew what he was up to. He turned, said nothing, and went to the master bathroom, and shielded his eyes when the bright lights came on. He turned the faucet and looked outwards into the bedroom. Gaye was shifting herself into a sitting position and reached over and snapped the bedside lamp on. George looked on from the bathroom.
“The neighbor boy? What are you talking about?” He looked back and forth – from his tired face in the mirror, increasingly concealed by the steam that formed on the mirror, to the bedroom – where he saw Gaye finally take her pills and drink a large glass of water.
“Yes,” she said, shifting herself in the bed and wincing. “The neighbor boy. Neil, is it? I can’t remember anymore. He’s a little young for you, George.”
He froze and looked in the mirror with wide eyes. Had she discovered what he was doing? With Neil and the others? How could that have been possible? She lies in bed all day and night for Christ fucking sake!
George turned towards the bedroom as Gaye tuned the lamp back off bathing the room in darkness. George could still see the outline of the billowing, white nightgown. He leaned against the door frame. “Young for me, Gaye? What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying friends that are a generation – actually two generations apart are exceptionally rare.”
“He’s graduated college.”
She shook her head as she burrowed down into her pillow. “I see you guys sitting in the driveway and drinking beer together. But what do you guys do when you come inside? I can hear the door opening, George. What’s going on down in the basement? I listen to your footsteps going up and down the stairs too. I may be bed-ridden, but my eyes and ears work just fine.”
George shook his head. “Gaye, he’s just a friend. A friend. Yes, he’s young enough to be my grandson. But we relate. I relate to him. I see myself in him.”
And he closed the door to the bathroom.
His eyes had not quite adjusted from the darkness of the bedroom and that brilliant light was shining in his eyes again; he held up his arms to shield his eyes from the assault of the bright light. And he saw that same shining light when he was sitting in the questioning room at the police station, and he had held his arms up to shield his eyes in a similar fashion.
“The story of the Four Hoodsmen will have to wait.”
George sat back in the cool, hard, steel chair.
The harsh light above him was making his forehead sweat. He was exhausted; all he wanted was a cool, comfortable bed, with a soft pillow, but here he was, sitting now in the fourth hour of questioning with Detective Jensen. The officer was scribbling notes in a file and on a yellow legal pad.
“Don’t you see?” George slapped his hands on the table. Detective Jensen dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair with a smug look on his face. “We can sit here all night.”
George shook his head, slammed his fists on the table and leaned forward, looking Detective Jensen directly in the eyes. “They will come for you, Detective! Don’t think I don’t know about the worms. The white worms. The white fucking worms! The white worms are coming to eat you alive!”
And then Detective Jensen stopped moving and looked back at George. “I never told anyone about that day.”
George smiled and leaned back in his chair. “You mean the day you saw the worm crawl out of Claire’s eye?”
Detective Jensen looked down and paged through George’s file. “It says here you were hearing voices.”
George leaned forward again. There was an edge to his voice. “You didn’t answer my question, Detective. You saw the white worms, am I correct? Or am I not?”
Detective Jenson dropped the file and looked at George. “Yes. Yes, I saw a worm.”
“And you know what they are supposed to do, right?”
George leaned back and laughed. “Do you think I know something about the worms? About what they do?” He shook his head. “I know nothing more of the worms other than what I’ve told you – and what she’s told me about them. I know that they exist. That’s the extent of it. What they do? What their purpose is? That she hasn’t told me.”
“Yet you knew I saw one? How evil are you, George?”
*****
The bodies that lay on the sidewalks, in their piles of filth and varying stages of decomposition, were what he wanted. It was the cadavers. It always had been. What looked like a cemetery of sorts on the sides of the streets; none embalmed, all dropped dead at the same time, at the same moment. And then, he stood, waiting to speak to them.
But he knew they would not speak.
In fact, the bodies were exactly what he wanted – an army of the undead, to do his evil bidding.
But an army of the undead required one small thing: renewed life. And, of course, he didn’t have that. He didn’t have what was required for eternal life; and for that, he had to create something. He had to create something – something that would serve as a beacon. Something that would call them out of their slumber. Something that would awaken them.
He had observed many of those who had survived the setting of the sun each evening; it was either those who were somehow lost, or perhaps had crossed over to a different state of existence, or others who were never lost but neither living. It was only one of the two. Either those who once had lived, or those who had not been living for a long while.
Other than that, all were simply dead.
Awaiting coffins, lying on the side of the street, as the sun rose and the darkness faded, he stood amongst the dead, rising from the fallen dead in a long, hooded robe, which reached downwards towards the sidewalk, and then the hooded man stopped, standing in front of a glass door; the glass was broken in the frame, the vertical blinds were hanging outwards onto the sidewalk, and catching the wind as the breeze would strengthen.
But not everyone remembers the hooded man.
He did not always appear at moments where the bodies would pile up on the sides of the streets; he did not always move through time and dimension to collect the corpses; no, it was never that. It never, never really was.
For the dreams were where he would usually live.
He would live on hardened beaches of rock and broken shells, under a red sky painted with black clouds, next to a still and silent ocean. Where the wind would blow, but so very faint, that the sweat would hardly dry on one’s face. He was always there, in the middle of a different type of perception, but never in reality.
Until today.
When he stood, waiting to collect the bodies, waiting to wake them from their slumber, waiting to resurrect them from the dead.
For they would want to drink.
They would want to drink from the decanter…
…Anthony and Doug sat in an interior office in The Astral. As Anthony reached behind the desk, he pulled out two crystal glasses, and slapped them on the desk. He nodded and raised his eyebrows as Doug nodded.
“Ethan is the man who was lying on the sidewalk out there,” Anthony said, as he fished a bottle of scotch from the lower desk drawer. “I just could have known that this ‘Hooded Man’ go
t to him.”
*****
The Cathedral of The Gardens was packed the morning of the four funerals.
People lines the sidewalks and up the sides of the steps to the Cathedral to get a glimpse of the caskets of the victims that had been plastered all over the local news stations in the preceding days. The sun shined brilliantly down from the sky as each casket was removed from a line of four black hearses, parked one by one, in a row in front of the front steps leading up to the Cathedral doors.
Father Bauman officiated over the funeral, and he stood at the top of the steps in white and black vestments as the caskets were carried up the stairs.
The entire event became somewhat of a spectacle for the city – the four young men who were to be remembered and buried that day had been featured on all of the local television news programs, and, were local celebrities upon their deaths.
Several news vans lined the streets in the shadows of the rising spires on the holy building, their rising antennae’s creating shadows of their own on Andelusia Avenue in the midst of the rising, brilliant morning sun. A light rain started to fall from a cloudless sky, but as the service concluded, the clouds started to form and gather above, but copious rays of sun still managed to find their way to the pavement.
The doors to the Cathedral opened and two altar boys held the doors wide as the congregation filed out and lined the steps, leading downwards towards the hearses waiting on the side of the street. After a few minutes passed, a heavyset deacon in flowing, purple vestments, carried a crucifix on a long, steel pole, raising it upwards towards the sky, followed by Father Bauman. Behind him followed each silver casket, in close succession, carried by pallbearers in black suits, sunglasses and white gloves. The men raised the caskets up on their shoulders as they descended the steps, and stopped moving once they reached the hearses.
The deacon, altar boys, and priest followed, and stood on the sidewalk, as each hearse door was opened, the congregation bowed their heads as the priest raised his hands over towards the casket and spoke a final blessing. “Oh, Heavenly Father, guide these souls towards your reward.” Father Bauman held a stainless steel thurible – a small handheld incense burner swung by a chain – in his right hand, as smoke billowed from the grooves on the side of the censer. The sweet smell of burning incense filled the air, and remained, as the air was windless that morning. He held the thurible upwards towards the sky, and swung it slowly back and forth, like a pendulum. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirt, we commend their bodies to the earth.” He walked towards the last casket in the procession. It was placed on a runner with wheels just behind the open rear door on the hearse. Father Bauman walked around the casket, swinging the thurible back and forth around the coffin, as smoke wafted from the tiny holes carved on the side of the steel incense burner. The two alter boys made the sign of the cross and they proceeded to each casket, until each coffin was placed in its hearse and the doors were closed.
*****
Across the street, George watched from afar. There was a distinct feeling of grief that overcame him, as he watched the caskets being loaded. And when the hearses slowly pulled towards the street, he hung his head low.
But George knew that there wouldn’t be granted the gift of freedom for much longer. It was only a matter of time. He knew. He watched enough crime shows on television. He left too much of a sloppy trail.
And as the hearses pulled away, and the crowd dispersed for the cemetery, he looked across the street. And he recognized the man who stood in a cheap shirt and tie, sipping on a cup of steaming coffee. And the man recognized him, for he waved at George, and smiled.
Detective Jensen.
*****
George had fallen asleep in the squad car.
He had surrendered right in front of the Cathedral, without incident. As they drove him downtown, he had fitful dreams.
As the car pulled away, he lay his head back on the seat, and thought of earlier that morning, when the phone rang. He had been up late the previous night. His head throbbed, and his mouth was so dry it stuck together. He lay in bed, motionless, wishing the shrill pierce of the telephone ring would stop cutting into his morning sanctuary. And after a few minutes, it did. But as the road rumbled as the car picked up speed, it massaged his thoughts into a swirl of the subconscious.
And George drifted off to sleep –
He opened his eyes to darkness. He was no longer in the safety and confines of his room. He looked down, towards his hands, and held them in front of his face. He appeared to be glowing – as if there were a translucent luminescence. A feminine voice broke the silence.
“And there you are looking at your essence.”
George looked in the direction of the voice, but saw nothing. “Where am I?”
“You are dreaming,” the voice answered. “You are in the place beyond your physical reality…but not so far inwards as in another dimension. I have come here to speak to you and tell you what I need you to do for me.”
“Do what for you?” George felt the spongy consistency under his feet, lifted his legs, and looked over and straight ahead. The darkness was lightening; and in that process, which revealed a barren sky with dark, swirling clouds, rising forests and thick moss and mud below his feet, he saw the source of the voice: her femininity was absolute; she didn’t exist yet she did.
“She is gone, George. That ringing phone – means she’s gone. You have no other choice but to come with me.”
George had lay in his bed that morning that the phone rang, and when he opened his eyes, he saw her. The most beautiful woman he had laid his eyes on, for years. Supple, bright red lipstick accentuated her red hair. She walked around the bed as George looked up at her and followed her every move. “I know it’s been a long time for you, George. I have been watching you for many years now.”
George swallowed.
“Now that she is gone, you can stop resisting your urges. You can go and be who you really are.”
George sat up as she sat on the edge of the bed near his feet and looked over at him. “Who am I?” George asked, rubbing his eyes and looking around the room.
“I have been speaking to you for years, George. Have you been listening to me?”
George nodded. “Yes, I have. I have heard you.”
“And do you understand your feelings? What they could mean for you?”
George looked down and thought of the night before. The cooler was probably still in the driveway. “I…don’t think I have the feelings that…” And then he closed his eyes. Neil was in front of him, tanned, toned and wearing a small muscle shirt. He smiled a brilliant, white smile, ran his hands through his full, stylish hair, and peeled his shirt off.
George opened his eyes.
“I can get them for you. To like you George. Like they never did in school. They will like you. You will be popular. You will always be the popular one. You’ll never have to repress who you truly are ever again. All you have to do is follow me and do a task for me.”
“What is that?” George asked. He looked over at Claret and she smiled.
“Come with me to your basement and I will show you.”
THREE
“The life, the blood, it is the life.” A small man paused for a moment before the stacks of books, holding a large book and reading aloud. He had the look like he was once “one of the chosen” – years earlier he had most certainly been a clean-cut, attractive young man – but was now one of the ones who had passed their prime, but remained fashionable, still were attractive enough to be sought after, had salt and pepper hair, and a general youthful and fit look nonetheless.
It was well into the evening, and the library was readying to close. He stood on his toes, leaning against the shelves, reaching upwards and stretching his arm, and his fingers upwards until he found it. “Ah ha!”
A somewhat younger woman raised her eyes and looked over towards him, over her glasses. She pushed the small laptop that she had be
en typing on over to the side. The man held the massive book in his arms. The book was so large that he seemed to struggle with it, but he managed to heave it over onto the table. “The blood is the life! Exactly!”
The woman sat back in her chair, folded her arms, and raised her eyebrows. “Yes, Hector?”
And then he closed his eyes.
He remembered the day when the sea went dry; when the sun went black, and the winds howled. He shivered and felt a chill pass through his body. “This book…this book reminds me of when I fought them. When he came.”
And then she closed her laptop. “Hector, sweet Hector, please stop remembering. You are sweating! Put the book down. Do it now!”
He listened, and stepped back. The book lay on the table, as if taunting him. But the terror subsided. He looked down at the book and shook his head. “Le Livre De Vampires. Why does it taunt me so?”
“Don’t open it,” she warned. “Don’t you open that book!”
Hector pulled a chair out and sat. He looked over at the woman, who returned a smile. She reached for her laptop and opened it once again. Hector noticed that despite her youth compared to his age, she most certainly appeared middle-aged, at the youngest. Her eyes, however, sparkled with youth. She seemed that she was still a young woman now trapped in an older body. She flipped her long, blonde hair back over her shoulder, and pulled the laptop closer to the edge of the table. “Thank you for meeting me, Hector. Now, I saw how you reacted to that book. That is why I wanted to have this discussion in the library. I wanted you to see the book. I wanted to see if we could review it and determine how accurate some of the passages are.”
Hector leaned back in his chair as some of the overhead lights snapped off. “And you work for The Astral?”
“No, no I do not.”
“Who sent you?”
The woman smiled and looked over at Hector. “Here’s my card.” She handed it to him and sat back as Hector examined it.
