Blackened Spiral Down

by Pete Altieri

  As Elvis got out of the car, the cop closest to him grabbed him forcibly and shoved him up against the car. Careful of the paint job you fucker, he thought.

  “Grab the keys Tommy, and let's open the trunk. I don't see anything in the back seat from where I'm standing.”

  “What's going on man? I haven't done anything!” Elvis pleaded. Despite the fact it was Friday afternoon at a time when the roads were typically busy, it was eerily quiet. The cicadas were the only noise Elvis could hear right now. They were loud in the trees above.

  “Just be quiet son,” said the cop who had him up against the car. His grip was incredibly strong.

  The other cop took the keys out of the ignition and opened the trunk. Elvis watched him as the massive trunk popped open.

  “Oh Christ! Oh fuck! Sarge, come look!” His mouth was agape. He took a step back, putting a handkerchief up to his nose.

  The Sergeant who had a hold on Elvis pulled him toward the rear of the car with the trunk wide open. Inside the trunk were two young women. They were definitely dead, entangled limbs and hollow eyes in distant stares stuffed in the large trunk. One was blonde and wore way too much make-up. She was wearing a red bustier with a short skirt. Both of her shoes were gone. The other was older, brown hair, and glasses. She also had on a short skirt and was only missing one of her high heels. Their skin was a sickly gray color, like they had been dead a while. Elvis didn't know what to think. The world was spinning around him.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” said the Sergeant. “Get on the radio. Tell them we found the two hookers from the 76 truck stop from last night and the sick bastard who killed them.”

  Now he threw Elvis face first into the pavement, forcing his arms behind his back to prepare to handcuff him. His knee was planted firmly in his back. Elvis could hear the rattle of his handcuffs, and he prepared to put them on him.

  “What's your name you sick son-of-a-bitch?” He reached for one wrist to put the cuffs on.

  Elvis was trying to hold his face up off the hot pavement. Tiny pebbles were stuck to his sweating face. He spit out some dirt that got in his mouth.

  “Elvis. Elvis Lee Lewis.”

  The Sergeant laughed. “Yeah, right. You're Elvis, and I'm the fucking Easter bunny. You think this is funny? Do you?”

  “I didn't do anything wrong!”

  In the distance, Elvis could hear the other cop on the radio. He was talking about two hookers that were killed out at the truck stop on the west side of town, only a few blocks from Taylor's Tire and Auto. He knew they thought he killed the girls, but he had never seen them before in his life.

  “You got the wrong guy! I didn't kill anyone!” he cried out, wiggling to get free so he could explain that he just got off work and was going camping for the weekend.

  As Elvis wiggled, the Sergeant that was on top of him lost his balance and fell toward the squad car, hitting his head hard on the bumper. It knocked him out. Elvis acted on impulse and jumped up while the Sergeant was down on the pavement next to him, and the other was on the radio inside the squad car. It wouldn't be long before he realized Elvis was free. So Elvis ran. He ran as fast as he could, hoping that they would soon realize they had the wrong guy. But how the hell did those two hookers end up in my trunk? Some neighborhood kids who were playing catch with a baseball now stopped to watch the spectacle taking place on the side of the road. One cop was down, the other was a rookie who was stumbling out of the car with his gun and starting to run after the tall skinny guy with the tattoos. They hadn't seen this much excitement all summer, so they watched for as long as they could until the skinny guy ran down Evans Street and into the backyards of the houses that lined the east side of the street.

  Elvis darted from yard to yard, hiding behind whatever he could find. Garbage cans, swing sets, barbeques, bushes, flowers and hedges. He was cut up, scraped up, and gasping for air. He hadn't run like that since gym class in high school. Even then he was in terrible shape. His two-pack-a-day habit was definitely catching up to him. The fast food and colas were also not helping matters. Covered in sweat and soaked to the skin, Elvis was now under the porch where this strange story started, wondering what his next move would be. He figured it was close to 6pm. He debated whether he should wait until dark and then try and get away.

  Nearly two hours had passed. Elvis was still under the porch. Dusk began to settle in. He thought he would make his move once it was dark. He was lucky that the porch he decided to hide under was at a house where no one was outside in the back yard, or had a dog that would know someone was hiding there. His mind was racing the entire time, not knowing how all this happened. He ran through the events of the day over and over while he hid, waiting for darkness. There was nothing that happened that made any sense. All he did was go into the bathroom at the Freedom and when he came out – BAM! It was 1957. As much as he loved the 50's, Elvis didn't know what would happen to everyone he knew. Would they be the same age like he was? Or would they not exist?

  It was just after 8pm, and Elvis decided it was dark enough to crawl out from under the porch. His plan was to make it back to the Freedom gas station and go back into the bathroom. Maybe it would transport him back to 2015? It sounded crazy, but then so did the entire course of events leading up to this moment. He was stiff from being under the porch all that time, and he brushed the dirt off his bare arms and jeans as he stood up and made his way back toward the Freedom.

  After moving as stealthily as possible, Elvis made it to a house next door to the Freedom, hiding in the hedges in front of the home. He decided the best thing to do was to just walk into the gas station and not hesitate. The sooner he could get into the bathroom, the better. He just hoped that the old man wouldn't prevent him from going into the bathroom in some way. Would the cops be there waiting?

  As Elvis walked up to the Freedom, he noticed that the lights inside were off, and the gas attendant was no longer outside in his uniform. It appeared the gas station was closed! He pulled on the doors and confirmed the Freedom was closed. The posted hours showed they closed on Fridays at 8pm. He knocked on the door, hoping maybe someone was still inside that would let him in. He didn't know what he would say, but it was worth a try. He had no other ideas.

  Just then, he heard a car from behind him, then a second and a third. The lot was awash in bright headlights and police car lights!

  “Freeze!” a loud authoritative voice cried out. “Get down on the ground, or I'll shoot!”

  Elvis slowly turned around, hoping no one got trigger-happy. He made sure his hands were up high.

  Just then, a shot rang out as he jerked back against the doors. A rookie cop thought he saw Elvis reach for a gun in the dim light. He was hit in the left shoulder. The pain was intense. Then another shot – and another. Elvis was now down on the asphalt in front of the Freedom; blood pouring from his wounds. Lying on his back, all the noise around him began to muffle as a feeling of peace swept over him. Elvis couldn't help but smile while his vision slowly dimmed, as one of the police squad cars was playing Hound Dog on the radio.

  Across town at the Bloomington drive-in, his parents Odell and Daphne were on their fifth date and having sex in the back seat of Odell's Pontiac Chiefton. Little Elvis was being conceived as 24-year-old Elvis was bleeding out in the parking lot of the Freedom Oil gas station, a cool summer evening breeze soothing him as he passed on to the other side.

  The Jesus Tree

  1

  I don’t think I will live to see another day. From the sound of it, they’ve got my house surrounded. If you could hear the creaking of the sturdy wood frame of this 60-year-old home, you just might understand my predicament. I don’t expect anyone to grasp the extreme peril that I am currently in. The candlelight I’m using is flickering now, and as the boards moan and groan under the tremendous pressure, I know time is short. I’ve taken to writing down the events that have led to this moment. There is a neat stack of papers I’ve got in the side table drawer next to my makeshift bed.
I’m going to try and stay awake all night to finish what has taken me nearly a month to compile; however, at my advanced age and condition, that has become increasingly difficult. My breathing is shallow, and I can feel the beating of my heart weaken with every stroke of the pen.

  They say that there are no atheists in fox holes. I believe that now more than ever. I never was much of a religious person (much to the distress of my mother), but after what started in July of 1925, I changed my mind. It didn’t take long for me to seek out the help of the clergy when things started to go wrong. With all their good intentions, even the men of the cloth weren’t able to do much more than prolong the agony a little.

  I need to tell my story, as difficult as it may be, so that people know what happened to Franklin Phillip Manville. I believe that once they are done with me, there will be nothing left. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust will be the literal end for this miserable thing I’ve endured called life. I can’t blame anyone but myself for all of this. When I’m done writing this down, I can only hope that in some way, I can prevent such a cursed thing from ever happening again.

  The wind is howling outside. Despite the fact they have the house surrounded and in their firm grasp, I can hear it nipping at the asbestos cement roof shingles, and shaking the storm shutters. I can also hear the wood continue to creak, like it might snap at any minute and bring the entire house down upon my wretched self. I can also hear the faint sound of fireworks in the distance. That means that it’s the Fourth of July.

  Where my house sits, I can hear the annual fireworks from both Danbury on the Connecticut side to my east and the Brewster New York side to my west. For most people, the 4th of July is a time of fun in the sun, and a celebration of our nation’s independence. Yet for me, it’s an annual date with the reason why I’m hiding in my attic, eating canned goods, and praying each night that I live to see another day. Every Fourth of July she comes to pay me a visit. She slithers into my house, and no matter where I manage to hide, she finds me. I can smell the rot and decay before she shows herself. I can hear that high pitched laugh of hers from a distance, before she comes to call. She reminds me of what I did to cause the horrible curse that has descended upon the once great Manville family farm and estate. I see that grotesque face in my dreams each night. She never lets me forget. I know that just before midnight she will be here to taunt me. She will remind me once again what I did, and why my life has been one long, tormented curse. Today marks 50 years since that humid night in July of 1925 when this all began, and I shudder at the thought of what she has in store for our annual get together. I boarded up the attic access hatch, but I know it’s no use.

  For now, all I can do is write as quickly as my gnarled, arthritic fingers will allow. My body is falling apart slowly, and my mind has trouble focusing like it did in my youth. Yet I must continue, as the wind shakes the house to the foundation, and the cracking sounds of wood breaking begin to escalate with the ticking of my clock. It’s almost midnight. She will be here soon. I think I can hear that godforsaken laughing coming from downstairs. God help me.

  2

  I was born in 1887 in New York City to Christopher and Anna Manville. My father was born into the Manville family fortune that revolutionized the building industry with the wonder product of the early 20th century – asbestos. My grandfather, CB Manville, merged with HW Johns to form Johns Manville, and they made roof shingles as well as a variety of other materials with asbestos. These products were used in just about every building built in the early 1900’s and well into the 1970’s. The fortune was immense. My father was one of four boys and two girls, and all of them were born into privilege. Not all made good choices with their riches, but my father was definitely one who did. He decided to leave the hustle and bustle of New York City and moved as a young man to Putnam County, New York, very close to the Connecticut state line. In the sleepy town of Brewster, New York, my father built a beautiful estate on a 250-acre patch of ground where he started a very profitable farm. The farm was one of the largest employers in the area at the time, and he built rows of cottages where his best workers were allowed to live and raise their own families. My father was a genius when it came to business, which was a Manville trait of course, and before long, he had the largest apple orchard in western New York, and an extremely viable livestock business where he raised and sold cows, hogs, and even stud horses for wealthy men who enjoyed racing them.

  My father also invested in highly profitable real estate in neighboring Westchester County, where many of the more affluent who worked in New York City, but who wanted to get away from the city lifestyle, would build houses. My mother didn’t have to work, but kept herself busy with a variety of social functions. She often entertained at the estate, and had a knack for bringing in new money to the area. She enjoyed her time gardening and competing in the apple pie contest each June at the Putnam County Fair. I was their firstborn in 1887, followed by my brother Ernest, sister Cicely, and the baby of the family – little Raymond. We all did chores at the farm, because despite our tremendous wealth, my father always instilled a hard work ethic in us. He made sure we all knew what it meant to work hard for little money, so that we would all aspire to greater things.

  Little Raymond grew up to be the biggest of the brothers and moved to upstate New York after college to start a general contracting business. My sister Cicely was the brains of us all. She finished college and went into teaching at a prestigious boys’ school in Wooster, Massachusetts, then married a young heart surgeon from Boston. My brother Ernest joined the Army at the end of World War I, and got out after his enlistment to work for our grandfather, running one of the mills on the lake shore of Chicago. He died young in a freak accident at the mill involving a falling load from a crane.

  I was the only one who decided to stay and run the family farm. The rest of my siblings seemed very eager to leave the nest and move away. I, however, felt an attachment to the estate and didn’t mind taking the business side over in 1910. I graduated from the University of Connecticut the same month our father had a massive stroke. It nearly killed him, yet despite surviving the ordeal, he was not able to return to work. It was hard to see our father, who was always sharp and willing to work 16-hour days, reduced to sitting in his chair all day and listlessly looking out the window of his bedroom. My mother was still very active, and faithfully stayed through the worst of it, and helped us with his care, until he died in 1919. She died six months later from lung cancer. Years of smoking had finally caught up to her.

  The farm was running great and business was good, as I became the sole family member at the estate. I moved my second floor bedroom to the first floor, in the rear of the house, with a picturesque view of the valley and mountains that comprised most of Putnam County. No matter the time of year, the view always takes my breath away when the sun comes up in the morning. I met a wonderful young girl, Amanda, from our local Holy Family Catholic Church. She was from nearby Pawling, and had recently moved to the area. I mentioned earlier I was not a very religious person, but I had always been taught it was proper to go to church every Sunday, and while my mother was alive, there was no getting away with missing mass. Our English ancestors had been devout Catholics. Amanda and I married after dating for a year, in the fall of 1919, and she began to put her touches on the house to show off her flair for interior decorating. She blessed me with twin boys in March of 1920. Elijah and Christopher were born very healthy and were the apple of my eye from the start. I enjoyed nothing more than spending time with them, as an escape from the responsibility of running the business. Thankfully, Amanda also enjoyed playing with the babies, and together with our housekeeper, they were well maintained but highly spoiled.

  In August of 1923, our housekeeper, Beatrice, asked if she could bring her niece along to help on days where she had a lot of heavy lifting or long shifts. She wasn’t getting any younger, and we agreed that it was a good idea to take some of the strain off her. Her niece was a
beautiful 16-year-old girl from Carmel, named Rosemarie. Rosemarie had long dark brown hair, bright blue eyes, and an angelic face with a surprisingly developed figure for a girl her age. The staff kept her busy, but I always made it a point to look for her each day to say hello. She was a bit backward, and blushed like a red rose in June, whenever I paid her a compliment.

  It was at our annual Christmas party in early December that year, when I saw her in a nice dress that flattered her curvaceous figure. I found myself keeping an eye out for Amanda, so she wouldn’t catch me talking to Rosemarie, even though our conversations were innocent enough. After seeing her in that blue dress and black silk stockings, I found it hard to look at her the same way again. The weeks that followed, when she was in her work uniform, things seemed different. I found that Rosemarie would seek me out during her shift, instead of me looking for her. She seemed a bit more flirtatious with me, which as a man in his mid-30’s, I found flattering. I still loved Amanda, but with the boys now age five, she was real tired at the end of the day, and so our bedroom life wasn’t much at all. Having a pretty girl fawn over you, despite her young age, can really boost a man’s ego. That’s exactly what it did to me.

  I began to dream about her. There was one instance when I woke up nearly soaked in sweat, with Amanda lying next to me, after a very inappropriate dream involving Rosemarie. I think it was at this time, very early in 1924, that our relationship crossed the line into something forbidden. I would find ways to meet up with the beautiful Rosemarie during lunch at a hunting cabin we had on the very south edge of our property, near Oak Grove Pond. During times of the year where the cabin wasn’t being used, it was the perfect place to get away. She would meet me there as often as we could, and after losing her virginity to me on an old rickety bed at the cabin, she became a teenage girl in heat over me. Once again, my hubris got the best of me, and just thinking about being with her got my pulse racing. Those blue eyes had blinded me to how incredibly stupid it was for me to be involved with the young girl on a variety of levels. At that time in New York, 16 was the legal age to have sex, and even get married without parental consent. It was wrong for me to be having an affair with anyone, but with a subordinate employee even worse. I prayed that our long time housekeeper, Beatrice, would never find out.