by Brian Bowyer
Chuck got up and took a shot of whiskey. “She’s gotta be around here somewhere.”
“She’s not,” Jenny said. “I looked all over the house. And I can’t find Kyle anywhere, either.”
Chuck took another shot, remembering the uneasy feeling he got every time he saw the way Kyle had looked at the little girl. He also remembered Jenny telling him that Kyle had been fired from the university because of a scandal involving underage girls.
“I’m still drunk,” Chuck said. “I need to smoke some meth and get my head straight.”
They went into the living room. Trinity’s pipe was on the coffee table beside the bag of crystal meth. They sat down on the sofa. Chuck smoked some meth while Jenny shot herself up.
Then they heard a little girl scream.
Jenny looked at her father. “Was that Trinity?”
The scream had sounded like it came from below.
“I don’t know,” Chuck said. “Does this place have a basement?”
“I think it does. There’s a door in the kitchen, but it’s locked, so I couldn’t open it.”
She got up, and then Chuck followed his daughter into the kitchen. According to the clock on Kyle’s microwave, the time was 4:06 p.m.
“Is that clock right?” Chuck said.
Jenny pulled her phone out and looked at it. “Yes. Didn’t think I would sleep that long. We have about four hours until the end of the world.”
She led him to a door between a corner of the room and the kitchen sink. The door could be secured from their side by a padlock, but it was not. The padlock was locked through the hole in the staple on the wall by the doorframe, but the hasp that was attached to the door wasn’t latched over the staple.
He tried to turn the doorknob; it was locked from the other side. “Want me to pick the lock?”
“You know how?”
“Of course I do.” He drew the gun from his waistband at the small of his back. Then he raised a leg and swiftly kicked in the door. It crashed open against the wall by a stairway that descended into a basement. “Ta-da.”
A weird stench hit them immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” Jenny said. “What the fuck is that smell?”
“I don’t know.” Chuck raised his gun. “It smells like lemons and ammonia.” He started down the stairs.
Jenny followed her father into the basement.
There was a light switch on the wall to Chuck’s right at the bottom of the stairs. He flipped the switch, and a series of lightbulbs on the ceiling came to life.
“Oh my god,” Jenny said.
Chuck said, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
The basement, evidently, ran the length of the entire house, and a long hallway divided it down the middle. And on both sides of the hallway, secured by chains attached to cuffs around bones and links in the cinderblock walls, the corpses of maybe fifty or sixty underage girls hung in varying stages of putrefaction.
“I had no idea that Kyle was a goddamn monster,” Jenny said. “No wonder he was always burning incense and spraying air freshener upstairs.”
“But still,” Chuck said, “the smell should be worse than this. Son of a bitch must use some kind of a witch’s brew to keep the stench to a minimum.”
And then they heard a little girl start screaming from somewhere down the hallway. They followed the screams down the hall to the last door on the left. The door was made of wood. There was a final bloodcurdling scream, followed by silence. Chuck didn’t bother trying to open the door; he raised his gun and simply kicked it in. Jenny entered the room behind him.
Kyle stood in the middle of the room. He was naked and had his back to them. He held Trinity’s severed head by the hair in one hand and a hacksaw dripping blood in the other. Her decapitated body lay on the floor. Blood was still fountaining from the neck stump and spreading all over the concrete.
Kyle turned around and faced them, smiling. His penis was fully erect. “The drugs made her hideous, but pain made her beautiful. She’s flying with all the angels now.”
Chuck aimed the gun at Kyle’s face. “Tell the devil I said hello.” Then he shot him right between the eyes.
“I wanna go home,” Jenny said. “I want to see Mom’s ghost before the world ends.”
Chuck nodded. “Me too.”
They left.
• • •
Chuck drove. Jenny rode on the passenger’s side. Chuck’s house was on the other side of town. According to the dashboard clock, the time was 5:31 p.m. Rush-hour traffic in the city always moved at a frustrating pace, but this evening, in some places, it was at an absolute standstill. There were stalled cars everywhere. The streets and sidewalks were becoming more and more clogged with people who abandoned their vehicles and took off walking. On the radio, there were numerous reports of people committing murder and suicide in the streets.
By the time they reached their destination, it was after six o’clock.
“Two hours left,” Jenny said. “Approximately.” She sat down on the living-room sofa. She dropped the bag of meth on the coffee table.
Chuck sat down beside her and took a shot of whiskey. “Did you bring Trinity’s pipe?”
“Yes.” She pulled the pipe from her duffel bag, along with her syringe.
For the next couple of hours, they talked and did a lot of crystal meth. They also listened to rock and hip-hop music. Chuck kept looking at the clock on his stereo; Jenny kept looking at her phone.
The sun began to set around eight o’clock. Twilight entered the world and the light withdrew. Jenny turned off the music and they listened to events on the radio. The announcer promised to keep broadcasting right up until the end.
There was a sound like thunder. Jenny scooted closer to her father and pulled him into an embrace. He took a shot of whiskey. Then he put an arm around her shoulders.
She looked up at a photo of her mother on the wall. “Do you think we’ll see her?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Me too.”
Soon thereafter came the sound of a roaring wind. Jenny closed her eyes. Chuck saw a fast blur of motion beyond the window.
Then blackness.
SCARLETT
Myla didn’t want to meet Archibald. After the year she had just endured, Myla had no interest in meeting anyone. First, her daughter got bone cancer: diagnosis at five; dead and gone by the time she was six years old. Then her husband left her for her sister.
“And what the hell kind of a name is Archibald, anyway?” Myla said.
“It’s unusual,” Katelyn admitted. “But it fits him. He’s an unusual man.”
Katelyn and Myla sold Manhattan real estate. They were in their late twenties. They shared an office on West 42nd Street.
“Archibald,” Myla said. “I wouldn’t name a dog Archibald.”
“He’s very attractive,” Katelyn said.
“It’s a terrible name.” Myla stared at her computer screen, looking at SoHo prices. She wore a designer suit and expensive shoes. “It’s like the name of a villain in a movie.”
“This isn’t a movie,” Katelyn said. “This is your life, and you need to start living it again.”
It was almost five p.m. on a Thursday. Their office was on the twenty-fourth floor. Beyond the bay window facing south, two rivers shimmered in the sunlight: the East and the Hudson.
“How do you know this Archibald?” Myla said.
Katelyn shrugged. “I’ve known him for a while, but I don’t remember where I met him. He’s the curator of an art gallery in Brooklyn.”
Myla shot her a look. “A curator?”
“Yes, but don’t let the title fool you. Archibald’s filthy rich. He’s thinking about opening his own gallery here in Manhattan.”
Though neither had yet turned thirty, Katelyn and Myla were worth about five million dollars each.
“How did he acquire his fortune?” Myla said.
“I don’t know. He’s very secretive.”
“
How old is he?”
“I’m not sure. I think he’s older than us, but I’m not positive. He seems older, anyway. But he still looks young. He’s very attractive.”
“Yes, you told me that already. What’s his last name?”
“Look,” Katelyn said. “I don’t know much about him. All I know is that he’s rich, he’s good-looking, he’s thinking about opening an art gallery in Manhattan, and that he’s ready to meet a woman.”
“Ready to meet a woman?”
“Yes. That’s how he put it. Those were his exact words. He told me that he was ready to meet a woman.”
“When did he tell you this?”
“Last night. At a bar.”
“Which bar?”
“JoJo’s Lantern.”
“JoJo’s Lantern? Over on Bleecker Street?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a restaurant, too?”
“Yes.”
“I heard they have good food.”
“They do. Anyway, Archibald told me that he was ready to meet a woman, and then I told him about you.”
“Why me?” Myla said. “Why did you tell him about me?”
“Because it’s time you moved on from the past,” Katelyn said. “Also, Archibald mentioned that he’s leery of meeting women who would only want to be with him because of his money. When I told him that you were independently wealthy, he breathed a sigh of relief.”
“What else did you tell him about me?”
“Not much. I told him you were divorced. I told him you lost a daughter to cancer about a year ago. And I told him about how much you love to draw, of course. About your interest in art. He was very happy to hear about that. I showed him a photo of you. Needless to say, he thinks you’re beautiful.”
“Do you have any pictures of him?”
Katelyn shook her head. “No. I’m not connected with Archibald through any social media. I do have his phone number, though. Do you want it?”
Myla shrugged. “Sure. Why not? I suppose it couldn’t hurt to meet him.”
• • •
She called him. They spoke briefly and exchanged a few text messages. They agreed to meet at JoJo’s Lantern on Saturday night.
Myla drove. Archibald was waiting at a table by a window when she arrived. The table had a candle on it. The window provided a view of traffic on East Fourth Street.
“Hello, Archibald.” She held a hand out. “I’m Myla.”
Archibald stood up. He smiled, and she noticed that he had nice teeth. He was tall, too. He looked the same as he appeared in the photo he had sent to her phone: dark brown eyes; a full head of thick brown hair; a lean face with sharp, angular features. He was forty years old but didn’t look a day over thirty.
He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
They sat down.
“Steak,” Archibald said, when the waitress came for their order. “Medium rare. Baked potato. Diet soda.”
“Grilled chicken,” Myla said. “Side salad. French dressing. Ginger ale.”
They ate in silence for a while, and then Archibald said, “Katelyn told me you like to draw.”
Myla nodded. “That’s true.”
“Are you any good?”
She took a pen from her purse, quickly sketched his face on a napkin, and slid it across the table.
His dark eyes lit up as soon as he saw it, and he smiled. “Oh my. This is spectacular! It looks just like me.” He took a photo of the portrait with his phone. Then he folded the napkin carefully and put it in his pocket. “I’ll keep it forever.”
“Katelyn told me you’re a curator,” Myla said.
He nodded.
“In Brooklyn?”
“Yes.”
“What gallery?”
“Paracosmos. Ever heard of it?”
“No, but I love that name.”
“So do I.”
“Is that even a word?”
He cocked his head. “I’m not sure. I know paracosm is a word. Do you know what a paracosm is?”
Myla took a sip of ginger ale. “Yes. I remember the term from an old psychology course. A paracosm is a highly-detailed imaginary world, usually created by a child.”
Archibald sipped his diet soda. “Yes. Paracosms often have their own geographies, histories, languages, and all kinds of fascinating stuff.”
“So I guess,” Myla said, “that a paracosmos would be a universe consisting of paracosms created by children.”
Archibald smiled. “Or artists.” Then his smile quickly disappeared. “And speaking of children: Katelyn told me about your daughter. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” Myla glanced out the window. Pedestrians and vehicles were streaming in both directions on East Fourth Street.
“Cancer, was it?”
“Yes. Bone cancer.”
“How old was she?”
“Six. Her name was Miriam, by the way. Miriam was six years old when she died.”
“Who knows?” Archibald sipped his soda. “Perhaps Miriam’s in a paracosm of her own, right now, as we speak.”
Myla shrugged. “It’s a comforting thought. But a paracosm, by definition, is imaginary.”
They ate in silence briefly. Then Archibald said, “Katelyn told me you’ve recently divorced.”
Myla looked up from her plate. “I wouldn’t call it recent. Miriam’s been dead for a year, and Nick left me right after she died.”
“A lot of marriages,” Archibald said, “do not survive the loss of a child.”
Myla cocked her head. “That wasn’t it at all.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. Didn’t Katelyn tell you?”
“She told me you were divorced. She didn’t go into detail.”
“Nick left me for my sister. Marlow.”
“Oh my,” Archibald said. “I had no idea. How awful.”
“Yes,” Myla said. “I was devastated. Marlow’s only a year older than me. She had always been my best friend, you know? My rock. My mainstay. I loved her as much as I loved my daughter and my husband. And here’s what’s really fucked up. Right after Miriam died, Nick and Marlow revealed to me that not only were they in love, but that they had been having an affair behind my back since even before Miriam was diagnosed with bone cancer. The two of them got married not long after my divorce from Nick was finalized. So yeah, it’s been a rough year for me. In the past twelve months, I’ve lost my daughter, my husband, and my sister—who was also my lifelong best friend.” Myla sipped her ginger ale. “Definitely a difficult year.”
Archibald shook his head. “I don’t even know what to say about that.”
“So don’t say anything. Tell me about yourself.”
He shook his head again. “No. Tell me about your art.”
“My art?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
He took a sip of soda. “Well, you’re obviously very good at drawing. Do you possess similar skills with a paintbrush?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve yet to paint anything, in fact.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m waiting for a story to tell.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. Some whisper, and others scream, but all works of art must say something. And I definitely want my first painting to say something. I’m waiting for a story to tell.”
“There’s a painting,” Archibald said, “with quite a story at Paracosmos that would probably interest you.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. Supposedly, the painting is haunted.”
“Haunted?”
“Yes. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Absolutely.” Myla took a drink of ginger ale. “I grew up in a haunted house, so I definitely know a thing or two about ghosts.”
“Personally,” Archibald said, “I have no experience with ghosts. And the painting has never communicated with me. Apparently, it doesn’t speak to just anyone. But I can te
ll you that the painting has spooked so many customers in the brief time we’ve had it that we’ve deemed it inappropriate for public viewing.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s no longer on display. We keep it in a back room of the gallery.”
“Well you’ve certainly piqued my interest,” Myla said. “Tell me more.”
‘It’s a painting by Steven Alenzo. Ever heard of him?”
Myla’s eyes widened. “Steven Alenzo? Isn’t he the artist who tortured and killed all those people?”
“Yes. Allegedly.”
“Did they ever find him?”
Archibald—finished with his meal—put his fork down and pushed his plate to the edge of the table for the waitress. “No. He managed to avoid apprehension. He fled before he was ever arrested. So now he’s just been a fugitive from justice for a decade.”
Myla, too, pushed her plate to the edge of the table. “Wow. Ten years is a long time to be on the run from the law.”
He nodded. “Yes, it is.”
She finished her ginger ale. “So how did you end up with this supposedly haunted painting of his, anyway?”
“A young woman from Brooklyn brought it to us at Paracosmos. She never told us her name, how she acquired the painting, or anything else of that nature. She said she was hearing voices in her head, and claimed that the painting was talking to her. She also said the painting was causing her to experience intense headaches, and she just wanted to get rid of it. I don’t even know if she knew that the artist is wanted for murder, even though Steven Alenzo’s signature is right there on the bottom of the canvas. She passed the painting along to us at no cost whatsoever, and then we never saw the woman again.”
“Interesting. Does the painting have a title?”
“Yes.” Archibald finished his diet soda. “Blood Moon Rising. Alenzo put the title on the back of the painting.”
Myla leaned forward. “I want to see it.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the gallery’s closed, but of course I have a key. You feel like going to Brooklyn?”
“Yes.”
“You want to ride with me?”
Myla shook her head. “No. I’ll follow you in my car.”
“Very well.”
Archibald summoned the waitress, and she brought their bill. He paid for their dinner with a credit card at the service desk.
