Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  Putting aside thoughts of Kelly, he decided to close shop and check out the Chinese herb dealer’s latest offering. He turned off the fluorescent lights and locked the front entrance.

  Outside, he paused to admire his tat shop. Inkenstein made him beam with pride. At age twenty-two, he was the youngest tattoo shop owner in the city. Many envied his purist vision. He refused to compromise, refused to turn his shop into one of the many trendy tat and piercing parlors popping up all over town.

  He had tried his best to make Inkenstein reflect Portland’s true nature. From outward appearances Portland seemed a quaint city of modest size. Idyllic and pristine, the northwest metropolis was a jewel tucked into the Willamette Valley, surrounded by two rivers and the distant Cascade Mountains. As lovely as Portland seemed, an undercurrent of darkness lay beneath the surface; it’s beauty tainted by a sordid nature that was evident if you looked hard enough.

  Willy’s tattoo parlor tried to catch the essence of that seediness. His windows remained tinted and painted with gaudy sketches and garish symbols meant to simulate urban graffiti. The graffiti approximation served to keep the faint of heart away. He wanted only true hard core clients, ones who understood the true tattoo vision.

  He had done his best to make the painting of the mascot the window mural’s focal point. The hulking form of a Frankenstein type beast loomed out from the glass, its greenish body bathed in tattoos from head to feet. Naming the illustrated beast Inkenstein was an inspiration he was most proud of.

  Instead of walking straight down Second Avenue, across Burnside and over to Davis, he took the longer route by way of Fourth Avenue. This route took him through the extravagant gates marking the entrance to Portland’s Chinatown. The ornate gates with their red pillars and two golden lions guarding both sides of the street added a touch of exotic to an otherwise blasé neighborhood.

  Over one hundred dragons and other mythical creatures adorned the gates, appealing to William’s mystical inclinations. Perhaps it was those carvings that made his scalp itch and the ink on his skin tingle every time he walked by.

  Today, the Ouroboros on his left forearm responded to the pillars with a gentle fluttering like tiny butterfly wings trapped beneath his skin. The Mara tattoo inked between his shoulder blades and mid back emitted warmth that spread up through his neck and down through his buttocks to his calves.

  Was there a connection between black magic tattoos and the otherworldly carvings on the gate? Feeling obliged to explore that theory later, he turned his current thoughts to the Chinese herbalist’s latest phone call.

  He felt drawn to the black magic offer like a gambler to a roulette wheel.

  He turned right on Davis Street. Between Old Town Pizza and the adjacent building, a narrow walkway led to the secluded herb shop. He looked both directions. The Chinese shop owner insisted on secrecy. Seeing nobody, he prepared to duck into the path.

  “Hey William.”

  William turned away from the cramped entrance. He spotted Lorenzo Shaefer stepping out of Old Town Pizza with his wife and daughter in tow. Lorenzo was the last guy he wanted to see.

  “What a surprise,” William said, lifting his hand in greeting. “How are you?”

  “Not good,” Lorenzo said. He turned to his family. “Go to the car. I need a few minutes alone.”

  As his wife and daughter rounded the corner, Lorenzo stepped up to William, thrusting a copy of the Willamette Weekly into William’s hands. “Page eleven. I’m sure you’ll find that article most entertaining.”

  “What are you talking about?” William opened the weekly independent journal to the specified page. An article entitled ‘Portland’s Tattoo Blues’ leaped off the print. He skimmed the words, garnering a few details. It seemed some of Portland’s genuine tattoo artists were fed up with the encroachment of trendy tat shops and were starting to speak out. “About time somebody said what needs to be said.”

  “You and your so called purist friends better back off,” Lorenzo said. “I’ll do what it takes to protect my business.”

  “I had nothing to do…”

  “You better hope not.”

  “Or what, Lorenzo? If you can’t take the heat, get out of the game. I’m not the least shocked the subculture community is taking a stand. People like you with your tasteful little parlors are bringing everything down. Tattooing and piercing aren’t meant to be commercialized. You’ve turned them into the latest fashion trend and that’s unforgivable.”

  Lorenzo brought his face inches from William. William could smell beer and pepperoni on his breath. “I’m just a capitalist who saw an opportunity. You want to lynch me for that?”

  “Yeah, I do.” William resisted the urge to rip Lorenzo’s token ear hoop out. Lorenzo types who got a single tat and single piercing just because it was the latest craze made him sick. The city was full of them; one of the reason why Lorenzo’s empire of aesthetic parlors now stretched from Forest Grove to Gresham.

  Lorenzo literally stood on the verge of creating the industry’s first franchise. If he wasn’t stopped, Fashion Tats & Piercing parlors would be the next Starbucks; one on every other block and one at the airport for good measure.

  Lorenzo patted William on the shoulder. “Just don’t do anything stupid. Don’t step on my toes and I won’t step on yours. Easy enough?”

  William bit down on his lower lip. Nothing worse than a yuppie trying to fit into the subculture. With one ear piercing and a copycat Shaq superman tat on his forearm, Lorenzo looked ridiculous. He should have kept his job as an artist for the PDX Ad Agency. He had no right bringing his consumerist methods to the tattoo and piercing fields.

  “Just pass the message along to your compadres and everything will work out fine.” Lorenzo turned on the heels of his Rockports and hurried away.

  William stood dazed by the bizarre threat. Taking a seat at one of the scant sidewalk tables outside Old Town Pizza, he read the Willamette Weekly article with a keener eye. His initial impression was confirmed. A few anonymous tattoo shop owners had decided to speak out against Lorenzo’s expanding empire of soccer mom tat joints.

  When a culture or way of life gets backed into a corner it usually faces two choices; quietly fade away or fight back. His comrades seemed ready to fight back, possibly with a vengeance that would shock the Rose City. William wouldn’t hesitate to join the cause.

  Not wasting any more time on Lorenzo, William made sure the streets were empty and darted into the narrow passage. At the rear of the confined passage a brick wall appeared. Three splendid Chinese silk tapestries exhibiting the ever popular yen and yang symbols hung loosely from the brick. A common passerby would think nothing more of the cloth hanging from the wall. To them it would look like a typical dead end. William knew better. He pulled the tapestries aside and rapped his knuckles against a beaten wooden door.

  No answer at first. Moments passed before he heard something stir from within. The weathered door creaked open. The acrid smell of incense wafted out.

  Outlined in the smoke, the wizened Chinese man studied William with rheumy eyes. Although old in appearance, Chung looked majestic in his black Mao tunic and matching trousers. His bald head glistened from the heat emanating from the shop.

  “Come in,” Chung said in a gravely tone, bowing low.

  William entered the candle lit twilight of the shop. After his eyes adjusted he glanced around the familiar interior. Lighted candelabras lined the two side walls. A primitive display case, nothing more than a large fish aquarium empty of water, sat on piled cinderblocks and ran the length of the rear wall. The glass showcased hundreds of herbs in jars. Behind the makeshift glass counter, a purple velour curtain concealed a private back room.

  William felt light headed. The pungent incense and dancing shadows from candle light toyed with his imagination. He thought he saw undefined shapes in his peripheral vision; unformed beings trailing through the air, disappearing each time he tried to fix them with his gaze. He felt the presence of
power much as he did at the Chinatown gates.

  “The energy is restless today,” Chung said, sitting on a stool in the center of the room. “A good sign, perhaps.”

  “What energy?”

  “Qi. The energies that make up life or death.”

  “Death?”

  Chung nodded, sitting rigid on the stool. “You know why I chose this location for my shop?”

  William shook his head.

  “The Shanghai Tunnels. The spirits of those tortured souls still wander the underground passages. Energy from the dead is just as inspiring as energy from the living, don’t you think?”

  Most Portlanders knew about the underground city and Shanghai Tunnels. They represented a portion of the city’s seedy past. An intricate network of underground passages originally used to ferry goods from the Willamette River to bars and hotels, later became notorious for human trafficking in the mid 1800’s. Unsuspecting victims were drugged or knocked out and hurled down trap doors known as deadfalls. Their captors held them in underground cells until they could be sold as slaves to corrupt ship owners.

  William knew many of those notorious tunnels ran through Chinatown. Daily tours to the Shanghai Tunnels originated just around the corner.

  “Can you get to the tunnels from here?”

  Chung shook his head. “I’ve boarded them up. As much as they inspire my work, I can’t have the dead interfering with my efforts.”

  “What efforts?” The sinister talk made William’s head spin more than usual. A sudden burst of movement overhead drew his attention. Twenty or more silk tapestries billowed from the ceiling, swaying in some mysterious breeze like ghosts trapped beneath sheets. William blinked his confused eyes.

  “I’m a man of secrets, Mister Hendricks. I practice many things people fear. I keep my shop hidden, so as not to be bothered by questions from those who can’t understand.”

  “I want to understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. A lot of power can be found in this part of town. Every time I walk through the Chinatown gates I get this strange feeling as if there’s something alive there. I don’t know if it’s the dragons or the symbols or what.”

  The herbalist grinned. “Yes. Symbols have always been a source of power in the Chinese culture. Some have used them as curses, others as a source of protection. You are very astute.”

  “Can you teach me more?”

  “Ah, I’m afraid that’s not why you’ve come today. You’re interested in my offer, no?” Chung left the stool and shuffled towards the aquarium display case.

  “You bet.”

  The old man made his way behind the counter and William edged closer to the case, hoping to get a glimpse of the private back room. As Chung pulled the purple velour curtains aside and slipped through, William saw a bright lit room. It looked half the size of the ill lit room he stood in. Shelves lined the walls, loaded with Mason jars, cardboard boxes, books and oriental trinkets.

  The rear wall claimed most of William’s attention. Made of brick, it appeared solid and inaccessible. At some point, however, someone had chiseled out an archway, perhaps an entrance.

  If it was indeed an entryway to the legendary underground city nobody had passed through it in a long time. A haphazard blockade of wooden pieces had been nailed into the brick mortar. Planks and plywood fragments lay across the archway at inconsistent angles as if whoever built the barricade had been rushed and had used whatever materials were immediately available.

  William hopped back to the center of the murky interior before Chung caught him spying. He sat on the small stool and waited for his return.

  “Ah, these just came in yesterday,” Chung announced as he swept through the purple curtains, buzzing with enthusiasm. He held three tiny glass vials between his fingers. “Wonderful specimens I must say.”

  “What do you have?” William wiped away the steam accumulating on his glasses.

  Chung squatted in front of him and presented the first vial. A dark fluid sloshed inside the glass. “This is from a scorpion.”

  “A scorpion? You had me come down here for that?”

  The old man patted William’s knee and held up the second vial. “Okay, okay. How about Orca?”

  “Like the whale? Come on. I was hoping for something truly special.”

  The herbalist showed his wide toothed grin. “Yes. I was just testing your level of interest.”

  William rolled his eyes. “For god’s sake, you know my level of interest. You’ve already given me an Ouroboros. I don’t even think you can possibly top that, unless you have a vampire or werewolf.”

  Chung’s watery eyes seemed to clear. He jutted his jaw as he leaned forward, holding up the third vial.

  Before anybody could speak, a tremor passed through the small shop. The jars in the glass aquarium rattled and the swaying tapestries above increased their tempo. A loud wet thud like fresh butchered meat thrown against a granite wall came from the back room.

  “Jesus.” William jumped from the stool. “What was that?”

  “The energies are very interested in what I have to offer you.”

  “What are you...you mean the dead?” William moved away from the herbalist.

  The wet thud sounded again from the rear room. The patchwork wooden barrier groaned from the force thrown against it.

  Incense, candle smoke, stifling heat, shifting shadows and strange forces beating the walls threatened to catapult William into panic. He fought the onset of vertigo, taking three quick inhalations to try to clear his head.

  William tried to calm himself with a reminder that the reason he was here was his enjoyment of secrets. There were your more typical secrets, like the ones extracted from Kelly’s puzzle box. Even more fascinating were the strange uncanny powers that streamed through the streets of Portland undetected by all but the most observant. Mister Chung remained his best link to those ones.

  The situation might not be as bad as it first appeared. Maybe the shadowed interior, the candle light and talk of the dead were all part of some sales shenanigans. The wet banging from the rear of the shop could very well be staged theatrics to make the herbalist’s latest offer seem more mysterious and enticing.

  Chung straightened and held out the vial as another moist thump sounded from the boarded up entrance to the Shanghai Tunnels. “The energies sense the greatness of I’m holding. Are you interested?”

  William nodded, leaning on the aquarium for support. “What is it?”

  “The blood of Mother Mary.”

  William reeled, as if struck by a physical blow. His head spun faster. He clutched the glass counter. “What? You mean the Virgin? Our Lady of Sorrows?”

  “Yes. Imagine being tattooed with the blood of the Virgin. Would you like that?”

  William couldn’t answer. The idea sounded both lovely and terrifying. Black magic tattoos had always been his passion. No other type of ink stained his skin. However, he had deliberately stayed away from Catholic iconography. Although a non practicing Catholic, the idea of black magic tats in the form of religious personages, especially the Virgin herself, seemed borderline sacrilegious.

  “Well?”

  William could not speak. Conflicting thoughts and desires bombarded his mind.

  “Perhaps I underestimated your enthusiasm,” Chung said.

  “No. You haven’t. Just give me a minute.”

  The blood of the Virgin?

  William had never considered such a possibility and for a moment he questioned the herb dealer’s legitimacy. The old man had been candid about his herb business being a front for more sinister activity, namely the pursuit of Eastern mysticism. He bragged about contact with a secret society of monks responsible for gathering and protecting the blood of creatures; including human, bestial and mythical. According to Chung, the lineage of this secretive clan of monks stretched back to a time when dragons, demons, gargoyles and other legends actually tread the earth or flew in its skies.

  Thus Wil
liam believed all the tattoos he had received in this shop were special. He believed the Ouroboros on his left forearm contained blood from the legendary dragon. He believed the tattoo on his calf had been needled with a mixture of gargoyle blood and ink. He believed it right down the line with all the art decorating his skin. They had all been inked incorporating the blood of the particular object the tat portrayed.

  So why did he doubt Chung’s latest offer? Perhaps it wasn’t doubt but rather fear of tromping on the sacred grounds of his Catholic upbringing that hindered him. The point of pursuing black magic tattoos, however, was to trample on normalcy, to obliterate the mental stumbling blocks created from a religious childhood. It would be foolish to pass up an offer that could propel him once and for all past those hang ups.

  William flicked perspiration from his goatee and offered a faint grin. “How much?”

  “Ah, you really want this? You don’t look so sure.”

  “Just do it before I change my mind.”

  “Certainly.” The hunched Chinaman slipped back through the purple velour curtains. He returned with a stainless steel equipment stand on which sat a large bottle of ink, some smaller empty disposable containers, ointments, latex gloves and the vial of Mother Mary’s blood. Alongside the divinity’s blood sat a few ancient looking tattooing devices. The Chinaman favored the traditional Japanese techniques over Western methods.

  “Take a seat.” Chung motioned towards the small stool.

  William gave himself no time to change his mind. He sat and lifted his sweat soaked shirt over his head. He pointed to his right bicep, the spot where he wanted the fresh ink and blood.

  Chung poured some ink into a container. He empowered the ink with a few drops of blood from the vial. He picked up the tattooing tool, nothing more than an elaborate bamboo handle to which a bunch of needles had been secured by hemp twine and dipped the needle points in the mixture.

  Before making the first puncture, the wet thud sounded again, this time with a force William thought for sure would break down the tunnel barrier.