by A. L. Mengel
And that same cage contained each of them, all clad in underwear, bruised, blooded and scratched. They were equally starved, dehydrated and abused.
*~*~*
There were four coffins at the funeral; each was lined next to the other in front of the church, and they were all surrounded by cascading flowers and each covered with the traditional sacramental white Pall cloth with a red cross on the top, and the Pall was placed so the cross would be located over the heart of each body.
Earlier, the coffins had been opened in the atrium of the cathedral for a pre service viewing of the bodies.
The city arrived at the Cathedral of the Gardens for the funeral service. Four white hearses lined the avenue outside the steps of the church, and as the caskets were carried up the steps by pallbearers wearing black suits, the crowd congregated alongside the sidewalk and up the steps to watch the procession.
Father Bauman was to officiate the ceremony that morning, and he stood at the top of the steps in white vestments with a purple stole hanging around his neck. Two altar boys stood on either side of him, holding tall, burning chapel candles in brass holders. An assistant held the silver thurible; sweet incense burned from the slots, and as the caskets crossed the threshold, the priest and altar boys followed, as the thurible was swung around each casket, billowing smoke upwards towards the sky, as the heavy, wooden doors closed behind them.
*~*~*
Delia walked down Anastasia, leaning on her cane.
Her black boots clicked on the pavement, and her long, black dress caught the passing breeze. She stopped in front of Detective Martin Jensen. He exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke off towards the bushes, but Delia waved her hands in front of her face regardless. “This evil must be stopped,” she said, moving closer to the detective. “They are the reason those boys are in there.” She pointed up the steps towards the entrance to the Cathedral. “And he will keep on killing, it’s in his nature.”
Detective Jensen smiled. “Delia, we appreciate your help. We really do. But Stanley is dead. How could he have done this?”
Delia paused for a moment. “Detective, we are dealing with an entity that you’re not accustomed to handling. This is a matter for the church and The Astral and The Inspiriti.”
Detective Jensen’s face shifted. “The Astral? And the what?”
“They are both organizations equipped to handling a supernatural…situation.”
Delia looked over the Detective’s shoulder as Darius walked over in a black suit. His dark hair was pulled neatly back and tied behind his head. “Good morning.” He nodded at Delia. “Hello, Delia.”
“You’re looking better this morning,” Delia said, looking Darius up and down. “I see you took my advice.” She smiled, and then turned back to the Detective. “Martin, the only way that we can stop this killer is to exhume George’s body. That, I’m afraid, is the only way.” She looked down at the pavement and then back over at Darius. Her silver hair caught the wind and she brushed a few misplaced strands away from her forehead.
“I can’t just dig up a body,” Detective Jensen said, as he fished through his pockets. “There are court orders, a lot has to happen.”
And then one of the Cathedral doors swung open, they each looked up and saw a tall, pasty white man in a neatly pressed black suit.
“Ned McCracken,” Detective Jensen said. “Nice to see you again.”
Ned nodded and descended the stairs. “Good morning everyone.” Darius and Delia both nodded at Ned.
“The service has just started,” Ned said. “This one is going to be a long one, with four of ‘em. I think I’ll be out here for a while.”
Delia introduced herself to Ned and they shook hands. Darius followed suit. “So Mr. McCracken,” Delia leaned forward on her cane and looked at Ned more closely. “We have a theory here that George Stanley murdered these boys. In fact, I know that he did.”
Detective Jensen stopped fishing through his pockets and looked directly at Delia. “Just how is that possible?”
Delia smiled and balanced her weight on her cane. “There are many things which cannot be explained. But that doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. In this particular case, we have a man who was horribly evil in life, and now in death, he has caused additional torment. The only way that he can be stopped is to exhume his body and destroy it.”
“The heart,” Darius offered, stepping forward. “You must burn the body to ash and destroy the heart. That is the only way.”
“Come to my apartment this evening.” She handed him a business card. “The address is on the back. Please come this evening, detective, and I would be happy to explain everything.”
Detective Jensen tossed the card in his pocket. Delia looked over at Darius and they started up the stairs to the Cathedral. Delia looked back down at the Detective. “Don’t forget.”
Detective Jenson walked over to his cruiser and opened the door. He looked over at Darius and Delia. “Look. I don’t get into this hocus pocus shit. I don’t. And I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. But I am not giving you permission. If you think you need to dig this guy up, it’s on you. I know nothing about it. The only help you’re going to get from me is my ignoring it. But this man Stanley. I remember the son-of-a-bitch. I bet he’s burning in hell. But if you think he is still doing it from beyond the grave…well…get rid of the fucking bastard.”
And he got in his cruiser and drove off.
Darius leaned down. “Those boys I found…they aren’t boys anymore, Delia. Not in the least.”
“No, no, they are not.”
Darius looked up at the sky for a moment. “Do you think the service has started yet?”
“Yes, I believe it has. Ned went in a while ago.”
“Do you think I’m going to make it Delia? I can’t save their lives. It’s too late. I can’t redeem myself. Where’s my redemption?”
Delia took his hand, and they started walking down the street. The sun was shining brightly and the wind was cooling. “It may be too late to save their lives, Darius. But it’s never too late to save their souls.”
*~*~*
And the boys.
They weren’t boys, they were men.
At least physically, anyway. They had yet to gain the wisdom of maturity, but they had enough experience in life to be considered adults.
When they encountered George Stanley, they viewed him as an older father figure. Mr. Stanley (as he was called by the young men) had all of the latest gadgets and technology in his house.
The eldest of the boys had just turned twenty one, and the last time he encountered George, he was home from semester break at University of Miami.
George stood in his driveway, looking over at the boy, who was shirtless and tanned, mowing the lawn at his parents’ house across the cul-de-sac, his bronzed skin glistening with sweat in the sun, muscles taught and tight against the skin.
George walked to the end of his driveway, staring at the boy, waiting for him to cut the mower. Eventually, he did. “Hey Norman!” He waved.
Norman looked up and over at George. He waved back.
“Got some beers on ice over here, Norm! Want to sit for a few?”
Norman stopped what he was doing and surveyed his parents’ lawn. There wasn’t much left to cut. So he left the lawnmower sitting at the side and hopped over to George’s for some free beer.
George pulled two plastic lawn chairs to the edge of his driveway, along with a cooler loaded with canned beer on a mountain of ice. “Sit for a spell, Norman! Grab a cold one!”
Norman stopped for a minute at the edge of the driveway. “Hi Mr. Stanley. How’s your wife doing?”
George opened the cooler and grabbed a can of beer and tossed it over to Norman, who caught it with little effort. George bent down and grabbed another can of beer, wiped it down on his shirt, and sat down in one of the plastic chairs. “She’s hangin’ in there, Normy. So why don’t you sit down for a spell?”
Norman took
a step, and took a long swig from his beer can, and then stopped. George gestured with his arm. “Come on, boy, I don’t bite. I may have forty years on you, but I don’t bite.”
Norman chuckled, and sat in his chair. George noticed the sweat glistening on the boy’s chest, the sun reflecting against the tight and worked out muscles. “So Norman,” George finally said. “Tell me a little bit about things at school.”
Norman shifted in his seat. “What do you want to know?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Norman held the beer up to his mouth for a second, took a sip, swallowed. “Uh…what kind of question is that, Mr. Stanley?”
“It’s pretty straight and direct, don’t you think?”
Norman held his beer can between his legs and looked up towards the sky. “Straight and direct, yeah…”
“So?”
George raised his eyebrows and looked Norman directly in the eyes. He noticed the beautiful olive complexion of his skin, the tight cheekbones, the piercing eyes and brows, and the youthful hairline. Oh, how he longed to revisit that part of his life again. But he was now an old man. The boy before him was just a figment of his past.
But the boy drank the rest of his beer and sat back in his chair. “No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
George broke out of his trance and reached down for the cooler. He handed Norman another can of beer, who accepted it, popped it, and took a long swing, and sat back in his chair, and belched loudly.
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, listing to the sprinklers come on down the street, and then, as George finished his can, and tossed it in the trash, as it crashed against the other empty cans. “So then…how do you take care of it?”
Norman stopped and looked over at George. His face shifted a bit. “What do you mean?”
George laughed, and sat up in his chair. He reached for another can. “You can’t go that long at your age, I’m sure.”
Norman stopped drinking his beer. His mouth hung open.
“A young, strapping man like you has needs,” George said, standing up. “Am I right?”
Norman stammered. “I…”
“What if I offered you a night with my wife?”
Norman got up. His set his unfinished can of beer down on the chair. “Look, Mr. Stanley, I’m sorry, I have to go.”
George grabbed the boy’s arm. “Don’t go, Norm. I’m serious. A night with her. Get your rocks off. Satisfy your needs, right?”
George looked down at Norman and smiled.
Norman’s eyes got wide and he started to pull away. George shook his head for a moment and waved his arm. “Okay, okay. Not into that kinky shit, right? Too much of an age different? That’s fine. Why don’t you just come inside? I’ll make you a real drink. We can sit and chat for a bit. No pressure. Just men.”
Norman looked up at George. “Why would I want to fuck your wife? And she’s so sick!”
George chuckled. “Let’s just go inside, Norman. Let’s have a drink together. You’re a man, right?”
Norman nodded.
“Then have a bourbon with me.”
And so, the two went inside the house, and shut the door behind them.
*~*~*
“Are you comfortable, Norman?” George went to the bar on the side of the living room, and picked up a crystal decanter. He looked over at Norman, who was still shirtless, settling into a large yellow sofa.
“I had suggested a bourbon,” George said, pouring the amber liquid on ice. “But I thought a Canadian Whiskey would be better.”
Norman shrugged.
George brought two glasses of whiskey on ice and sat on the sofa just next to Norman. He held the glass up to the young man, who looked down at the glass, over to George, and reached for it, as if waiting for permission. George shook his head. “Take it!”
Norman took a sip. George smiled and set his glass on the coffee table.
“You’re a man now, my boy. Now drink up.”
As the sun began to sink in the sky, the two men sat and drank whiskey. But not long after, Norman saw the room spin in front of his eyes. He tried to stand, and stumbled, and caught himself just before crashing into the glass coffee table.
George laughed, a deep, billowing laugh, tossing his head back and heaving his abdomen. He set his drink down, got up, and steadied Norman. “How are you feeling Normy?” He led the young man across the room. “I know you can’t possibly feel like this after one drink, but don’t worry. I planned it this way. Now lie down for now…you’ll be feeling very sleepy. Just relax.”
He escorted Norman back to the couch and lay him down.
George ran to the kitchen and opened the basement door. Gaye was sleeping, she was always sleeping these days, so he didn’t bother to be quiet. His heavy footsteps creaked on the wooden basement stairs, and when he was down below, he reached for a pull string and a dusty, dull bulb illuminated the area.
The basement had dark, grey cinder blocks which comprised the walls, small windows at the crest of the ceiling, which offered very little daylight at even the brightest hours of sunlight. Wooden workbenches lined the walls adorned with beakers, Bunsen burners and plastic containers of various colored powders, some bright pink and clear liquids, and a rack of test tubes.
Not far from the work area were several cages – about three feet by five feet, with black steel bars. One had a dirty blue blanket inside. The others, just a hard plastic flooring. George flipped on a small, late model television that was in view of the cages, to the local news. On the other side, in the darkest corner, he sat in a small folding chair in front of a full length mirror and lit a candle.
He looked at himself and shook his head. His eyes were glassy and his cheeks were red. But he could still make out the fine wrinkled lines around his mouth. The wisps of grey hair.
“Alright you fucking bitch, come and get him.”
George looked upwards towards the first floor when he heard footsteps scuffling on the floor above. He got up from the chair and dashed up the stairs, flung the door open and went back into the living room.
Norman was standing, but staggering, steadying himself on the piano. George rushed to his side. “Hey ol’ boy! Let’s go get some rest. I guess you’re not much of a man after all, are ya?”
George laughed and grabbed Norman by the shoulder, yanking him across the room. “Come with me boy!”
Norman spilled onto the floor and passed out, his front teeth broke off and lay on the hardwood in drops of bright, fresh red blood.
There was a pounding at the front door as the skies went dark and thunder crashed directly overhead. George rushed Norman over to the basement door as the pounding continued. The voice that yelled through the door was feminine and muffled. “Open the door George!”
George dragged Norman to the kitchen in a trail of blood, and tossed him down the stairs, and he toppled all the way to the bottom as his neck snapped and laid still as blood started to seep and pool on the floor below him. George slammed the door and retreated back to the living room.
George! I have come for you…
He paused at the front door with his hand on the lock. He looked down at the handle and closed his eyes, for a moment, and opened the door.
There she was.
Her red hair blowing in the wind, her eyes frozen in anger, the scowl painted on her face.
Claret stormed in, her coat caught the breeze. She brushed her red hair out of her face and smiled. George couldn’t help but notice her bright red, full lips. “Where is he, George?”
“He is down in the basement.”
She walked with determination towards the back of the house. Her boots were heavy on the hardwood floor. Her steps were confident as the boards creaked under her weight. She opened the basement door, looked downwards, and saw Norman lying in a pool of blood. “I thought I told you four.”
She turned and looked George in the eye, her stare piercing. “I distinctly told you four. Where are the other three?�
�
George took a few steps back. “He has some friends.”
Claret shook her head. “Cage him. Get the other three. I need four. One doesn’t do me any good. Is he even still alive?”
She turned and walked back towards the living room. “Now I’m going to leave. And I need you to follow through, George. Don’t make me angry.”
She opened the front door as the storm raged outside. She turned back around and smiled. “Now don’t you think it’s time you tended to your wife?”
*~*~*
Gaye Stanley passed away ten years before George followed her into the Great Beyond. Despite her age, she died rather suddenly of a heart attack. George had remembered the day very vividly for the rest of his life – for it was the one mistake that he had made – the one error in judgment that most likely cost Gaye her life.
The rain had fallen heavily that morning through intermittent thunder. George could still smell the refreshing scent of rain wafting through the windows, as a breeze caught the shears. Gaye was still asleep next to him. It was still very early, but daylight was beginning to finger its way across the city.
George swung his legs out from the sheets and onto the chilly tile floor, and looked over at Gaye. She was covered up in the covers, they were pulled tightly up to her neck. She was not moving.
“Gaye? Are you okay?”
There was a slight movement. “I…”
He bent down closer, over her. “Gaye?”
“I am not feeling well this morning, George. I feel very light.”
“Light?”
Gaye sat up and clutched her chest, hunched over. “George!?” She started to roll off the side of the bed as George shifted his weight across the bed and reached to keep Gaye from falling off the bed. He fell short, just grabbing her nightgown, and she spilled to the floor.
