Blackened Spiral Down

by Pete Altieri

  Just then I heard footsteps above me! There was someone on the first floor, making their way toward the basement door. Did the stranger come back to finish his work with the fresh corpse? Was it someone else who maybe saw his flashlight in the basement windows that faced Old Farm Road? I knew that I had the advantage of surprise, as I shut off my light and crouched down, steadying the barrel of my shotgun at the stairway. My eyes had already started to adjust slightly, and I kept them fixed on the stairs. I heard the basement door open. Whoever it was didn’t call out, but began to descend the stairs one at a time, the creaking of the old wood filling the stillness of the basement. I could feel the tension. My heart was racing as I did my best to keep the barrel steady and my finger on the trigger. One by one, the figure in darkness made its way to the basement. I couldn’t make out detail, but it did appear to be a male. He didn’t stop, slowly taking one stair at a time, until he stood on the concrete floor.

  I knew this had to be the stranger. Who else would be here at almost midnight? I decided the best thing to do was to turn on my flashlight, in hopes of blinding him for a moment, and then sending a deer slug into his chest. Once he was dead, I could go to my house and call the police, knowing I would be considered a hero for capturing the sadistic killer and avoiding a costly trial for the county. I could see in my mind the Peoria Journal Star or the Bloomington Pantagraph, complete with my picture on the front page – above the fold of course. I would be standing outside the church with one or more of the deputies, beaming with pride that I had done my duty. I used my left hand to turn on the flashlight, so my right hand was ready with the gun.

  The click of the flashlight caused him to flinch, yet as the figure was awash in the bright light, I was taken aback and nearly fell over with shock at who was standing only ten feet from me! I knew it had to be a dream. There was no way he could be here in this basement right now. Yet he was, in the flesh, standing there and grinning at me.

  “Hi Ronnie. Seen a ghost?” he said, laughing at me. It was my grandfather, standing there in the same clothes I found him in that day in the basement, swinging from the water pipe. He had on an old pair of blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and a John Deere ball cap.

  I stood up, unable to say a word. I blinked a few times, hoping that I would make the mirage go away. That didn’t work. He was still standing there, now taking a step closer toward me. He didn’t seem concerned about the gun pointing at him.

  “Stop where you are!” I yelled out, pulling the trigger as my slug tore into his left shoulder. He only laughed as he jerked back, and then continued walking toward me.

  I put another shell into the gun. I shot at him again, this time I hit him center mass in the chest. It only stopped him for a moment, while the gaping hole barely bled at all!

  “I’m already dead Ronnie. That’s not going to do anything. You’ve been a bad boy here at the old church. Look at what you’ve done!” His voice was cold; his stare was colder.

  “I didn’t do any of this. I’ve been helping the police catch the bastard.”

  “You lying son-of-a-bitch! Just like you lied and told those cops that I killed your Grandma,” he continued to walk toward me, “after I told you to shut your mouth!”

  I moved back toward the three cells as he moved closer. I could see the bruises on his neck from where he hung himself years before. I was staring into the eyes of a dead man, but he looked very alive as he crept closer. He was now only a couple feet away, his rancid breath was cool yet foul.

  “There’s been no one over here but you, Ronnie. No one else. Just you and those poor girls. I’ve been watching. You were picking up prostitutes in Peoria or Bloomington and bringing them here. The ones you paid were the only girls that would have anything to do with you.”

  Images were rushing through my mind as he spoke. I could see a young girl in my car, driving down Old Farm Road toward my house. She was pretty, but dressed like a hooker, wearing too much make-up and trying to hide the track marks on her arms. Then I could see myself on a country road, stopping to talk with a girl walking home from her bus stop. She couldn’t have been older than 11 or 12. She looked very much like the girl I found in the basement alive! She was the same one that was on the table now, ripped open and spread-eagle.

  “You’ve been doing this for years. I’ve seen it all,” he said, only a foot away from me now, “I let it happen, because I wanted to damn your soul to Hell. You turned me in, your own flesh and blood. You knew I did that to put your Grandma out of her misery. You . . . “

  His hand reached out and knocked the shotgun from my grasp. More images were running through my mind. I could see myself sawing a woman’s foot off, with a leg tightly in my vice. I could see me standing back to admire the collection of severed heads, as if they were trophies in a case at a local high school. To me, I guess that’s just what they were.

  Now my grandfather was holding open the door to the middle cell and pushing me inside. I was helpless to resist. I felt as if I were a rag doll in his firm hold, as he put the manacles on my own wrists. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I tried to fight him, but there was no strength to do so. He slammed the door, and I could hear the lock engage. I was now trapped in one of the cells. His laughing echoed throughout the basement. It sounded more distant as he made his way back up the stairs. Faintly I could hear him walking on the floor above, and then silence.

  5

  Days pass, and I’m still in the middle cell. No one has come to give me any food or water, and I’m fading slowly. I’m left to my own thoughts, which, as I relive each and every encounter in this basement, are my own living hell. I can hear their screams and cries for help as I did those horrible things to them. I only wanted someone to love, but they wouldn’t love me back. No matter what I did to make their stay in the basement better, they still cringed in my presence. They still recoiled at the mere sight of me. When I raped them, they kicked and punched at me, until all I could do was knock them out and finish my business. I just wanted someone to love. Instead, I continued my spiral down into madness. Now, in the darkness of the basement cell, I curse my grandfather for putting me in this situation, and hope that death comes to call.

  As I stare into the blackness, I fear I will be here for all eternity, waiting for someone to love me back. All I hear is their screaming in the silence, and it’s deafening.

  Elvis and the Two Dead Hookers

  Elvis had no idea where the two dead hookers came from. He had never seen the two young girls before. He couldn't deny the facts. The car was his. The hookers were dead, and they were in his trunk. It was as simple as that. Right now as the hot afternoon sun baked everything in sight, Elvis Lee Lewis was hiding in the shade under some random back porch on Clayton Street. He was panting heavily after running from the cops for the past half hour. He was out of shape, and the smoking didn't help. Speaking of smoking, he craved a Marlboro right now, but in his frantic foot race from the police, he lost the pack he kept rolled up in his shirt sleeve.

  Less than one hour ago, he had been cruising down Lincoln Street in his hometown of Bloomington, Illinois. He was on his way home from his job as a mechanic for Taylor's Tire and Auto on the west side of town. It was a blistering August day in 1982. It was Friday, and all Elvis (and his pelvis) could think about was getting home, taking a nice cool shower, picking up his girlfriend Cindy, and going out to Dawson Lake for her birthday. This had become an annual tradition for them and their close friends. Elvis and Cindy had been an item since their junior year at Bloomington High School. He had grown up a lot in the last few years and hoped they would get married soon.

  Elvis installed a modern stereo in the blood red 1950 Ford Mercury his grandfather left him when he died three years ago. He had restored the car as his first real project after high school and spent a lot of time searching for as many original parts as he could find. His dad let him use the garage at work when he needed it, since it had a hydraulic lift, and got him any parts he came across at the
junkyard. It was decked out with rear fender skirts and a chopped top, just like the 50's bad ass gear heads would have done it. The stereo needed to be modern so he could play his massive collection of 1950's music that he had. Elvis knew that people made fun of him and his family, but he didn't care much at all. Some days he wished it was the 1950's all over again - a much simpler time.

  With a name like Elvis Lee Lewis, it was no surprise that he loved the 1950's. Well, his parents were mostly to blame for that. His father, Odell, went by “Buddy” due to his obsession with Buddy Holly. He had an impressive 1950's record collection, but his Buddy Holly memorabilia was considered one of the most extensive in the country. Every year, on February 3rd, Odell spent the day listening to only Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper, in tribute to the fallen three on the anniversary of the plane crash that ended their lives far too soon. If he could, he would even take the day off work. His mother Daphne was also a huge fan of the era and loved to travel the Midwest with her husband to attend the cruise nights and stock car races during the summer season. She would shamelessly jump up and scream “go Big Daddy” when he rounded each turn. When Elvis was born, Odell wanted to name him Buddy, but Daphne won out by naming him after her two favorite 50's crooners – Elvis Aaron Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis.

  Their house on Bunn Street was small and modest, adorned with not only 1950's collectibles of their musical icons, but also old TV shows like Perry Mason and Maverick, St. Louis Cardinal stuff, vintage car models, and much more. They had a vintage jukebox in the living room that played nothing but 50's music. Odell sported a duck-tail hair style and worked at the junk yard on Bunn Street, across the street from their house, where he tinkered with cars all day. His hands were permanently oil-stained. He didn't make much money, but had full access to parts he needed for his own stock car that he raced on dirt tracks in nearby Fairbury, Farmer City, Canton, and Peoria throughout the spring and summer. He was also always in the middle of restoring at least two or three cars in their two-car garage. His mother had a poodle cut hairdo and wore vibrant colored dresses straight out of the 50's. So it's no wonder that little Elvis liked the 1950's as much as he did. It was in his blood.

  He glanced down at his dashboard and was surprised his gas tank was nearly empty. Elvis decided to stop at the Freedom gas station near his parents' house. He lived in a small apartment above their garage. He paid rent and helped around the house, so they didn't mind at all having their only child around in his 20's. All six of the pumps were busy, but as Elvis pulled in, one of the cars drove away – giving him access to a spot to fuel up. He got out of the car, his lanky 6-foot frame clad in jeans and a white t-shirt. He changed out of his uniform at work. He put the gas nozzle into the Mercury, showing off his tattooed fingers that said “ROCK” on the right hand and “ROLL” on the left. His short sleeves were rolled up and displayed the ace of spades tattoo on his left forearm and the pair of dice on his right. He also loved to wear his hair in a duck tail, but when he was at work, they required him to wear a ball cap to avoid getting his hair caught in a moving part of one of the cars he was working on. Most would look at Elvis with a bewildered amusement, but the Lewis family had been in Bloomington for a very long time, so they didn't give it much thought. He had his share of run-ins with the police as a teenager, but most of it was petty stuff that only made them bring him to his parents in a squad car. The kids in the neighborhood enjoyed watching the spectacle and hearing Odell give him the belt good when that happened.

  After fueling up, Elvis went inside the Freedom gas station to pay and also to use the restroom. The colas he loved to drink by the bucket-full were catching up to him, and he wondered if he would make it home without taking a piss while there. There was a long line at the counter, so he decided to use the bathroom first. It was a small one-man-show with a toilet that looked like it hadn't been cleaned for a year and a urinal that was perpetually running water into the disgusting pool of scum at the bottom. The smell of sour piss was strong, and Elvis did the best he could to do his business and run water across his hands to make it feel like he washed them before shutting off the light and closing the door behind him.

  As Elvis emerged from the restroom, he could not believe his eyes. It was as if he was in a dream, and he actually shook his head a couple times back and forth. What he saw before him was a completely different gas station than he saw less than two minutes before. There was none of the same merchandise displayed as was there before. They were replaced by old-fashioned coolers with only Pepsi, Coca-Cola, 7-Up and Hires Root Beer. A small display of candy lined the small space under the counter. Two aisles of grocery items were there too and the store was immaculately clean. There was a black and white checkered ceramic tile floor and a large display of motor oil in old-style containers like he had seen in his grandfather's garage growing up. Even the man behind the counter was different than the scruffy 30-year-old cashier he saw moments before. He was much older, with a military-style haircut and some thick horn-rimmed glasses, similar to the ones that Buddy Holly used to wear. He was smoking a cigarette and staring at Elvis – like he had seen him before.

  Elvis wanted to say something to the man, but he thought maybe someone was playing a joke on him, so he didn't want to look any more stupid than he already felt. Now there was no one else in line, like there had been a few minutes before. He took out his wallet and put a $20 down to pay for his gas. He was fixated on a calendar behind the counter that showed it was 1957! It definitely had the look of a gas station from the 50's, but how was that possible?

  “You already paid the gas jockey son,” the man said, pushing the bill back toward him.

  “I did?” Elvis was surprised, since he knew he didn't pay anyone. He also wondered what the hell is a gas jockey?

  The man nervously smiled back at him. Then he looked down like he was trying to find something. Elvis stepped out of the gas station and into the bright summer afternoon sun.

  As Elvis walked toward his car, he saw what he assumed was the mythical gas jockey the old man referred to, washing someone's windshield as the gas pump filled up their thank. Elvis had only seen that in movies. Even the gas pumps, now only two instead of the six that were there when he arrived, were the old style that he had only seen pictures of. The sign out front said the gas was only 44 cents a gallon! What the hell is going on? He stared at his car, which looked like someone had put a fresh coat of paint and wax on it while he was inside! The blood red paint job was glistening in the bright sunlight. It looked amazing!

  Opening the door of his car, he marveled at what he saw. The interior leather was pristine, like it had been in 1950. As he sat down behind the wheel, he immediately noticed the cool chrome skull on the floor shifter, wired to the headlights to glow when they came on! This was definitely not in his car before he went inside, and it looked so cool, he couldn't believe it. That's when he noticed the radio. It was not the modern stereo he installed, but the original radio that came with the Mercury. He turned it on, and thankfully on came the music he loved - Jailhouse Rock by Elvis Presley. Still, Elvis could not understand what was going on.

  He began to look around and noticed that all the cars at the gas station and driving the streets were classics like his. He saw old Chevy, Pontiac, and Ford cars and trucks like he was at a cruise night somewhere. The houses in the neighborhood on Lincoln Street were also different. The kids that ran the streets wore clothes from the 1950's. Their hairstyles were from the 1950's. Elvis was shocked and wondered again if he had been dreaming. Could it be possible that he was somehow transported back to the 1950's? It had always been his dream, but now that it was his reality – it was disconcerting.

  “What the hell?” he said out loud. He fired up a smoke and drove off, leaving the time capsule of Freedom Oil behind. The massive big block engine of his tricked-out Mercury roared.

  Now Elvis wondered what he would find when he got home. His parents should still be there. His dad had a race tonight in Fairbu
ry, but they would probably not be leaving for another hour or so. Maybe they could explain what was going on to him? Maybe he would awaken from the dream before he got home?

  He barely drove two blocks before a police car sped up quickly behind him and then suddenly the lights and siren turned on. Elvis pulled over and put the car in park.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” he exclaimed, slamming his hand against the dashboard, not wanting to be late to pick up Cindy. She's going to be pissed off, he thought.

  His bony fingers nervously tapped the steering wheel as he saw not one but two cops exit the squad car. Both had .38 revolvers drawn! Elvis could feel his pulse quicken, not knowing why the cops would be approaching a simple speeding violation like this. He assumed that's what they were stopping him for.

  Only a few feet from the car, one of the cops stopped and crouched, with his gun pointed at Elvis. The other cop stood on the passenger side of the car, his gun also drawn.

  “Get out of the car with your hands up!”

  Elvis couldn't understand what was going on. He knew they must think he was someone else. He didn't think he did anything wrong at all. Not even speeding! Then he wondered if the old man at the Freedom called the cops, saying he didn't pay for his gas. He knew he didn't pay, despite what the man behind the counter said.