I thought about all this, about how there would be jovial chaos on the streets next week with a large and raucous party outside the Savoy. I thought about how staffs were thin on All Hallows’ Eve, and security was distracted by the bands of children who came ‘round to all the downtown shops and hotels. I thought about how, at this most festive time of year, it was about time I paid my poor, shivering, enterprising brother his final visit.
All Hallows’ Eve dawned paler and drearier than it had in many turns of the year. I awoke in the storm drains beneath the Savoy Hotel, where I had been sleeping every day since my resolution had formed itself. I stopped in at the pub every night to catch the evening news and noted that, as each day went by with me sleeping beneath him, my brother grew more fraught and exhausted. Perhaps it was from the constant haranguing of the determined locals, loath to let this foreign billionaire come in and ruin their homes. Perhaps it was from the weather, so chill and dreary—quintessential English weather that seemed to dampen and ebb the endless fires in my brother's belly. Perhaps, I thought as I smiled quietly to myself, it was because the yin which Romulus had thrust upon me now lay closer to him than it had been in millennia.
I made, therefore, a point of spending most evenings and mornings under the Savoy. I would have ventured up into its floors of finery had I not wanted to spoil my opportunity to pass unnoticed on All Hallows’ Eve. I returned to the pub every night and watched the blotchiness turn to pallor, watched those black, thankless eyes grow more fretful and anxious with every new interview.
I wondered if he thought of me. I wondered if my brother had some inkling that the sibling he had killed on the hill so long ago was in some way responsible for this sudden illness in him. So long ago had it been, his crime so sudden and thoughtless, I wondered if he thought about me at all. We had each undertaken to build our keeps, from which we would inspire the hearts of men to greatness, each in our own way on those hills of Italy. Romulus had boasted and crowed for months about the formidable castle wall he was to build first around his demesne; he had always been preoccupied with war, invasion, and conquest. I laughed at him about his preoccupations; I didn't take his piratical ways seriously then, back when I was alive. I suppose it was that lack of gravity in the face of Romulus and his rapacious appetites that led to my own demise. More importantly, however, it was because Romulus could never stand to be the butt of a joke.
Not even one of his own making. I had reluctantly decided to build a wall around my kingdom, mostly to keep Romulus from mocking it mercilessly and decrying my realm by doom-saying its swift and complete conquest without any noticeable defenses. I had carried stones from the Tiber up the hill with my long legs and placed them with my wiry arms, one upon the other, until at last the wall I had built was as tall as my arms could reach, which was quite tall—I had always been the thinner and more skyward of the pair of us.
On the appointed day, we met at my hill to examine our work thus far. I was eager to show my brother who, for all his stormy and tempestuous tempers, was still my best friend, the work I had completed. I was proudest of the layout of the city, with its large communal area where my people could gather and celebrate life together. We didn't get past the outer wall.
I could tell this structure, stretching two or three feet over his head, had displeased my brother. His ruddy, doughy face grew more russet as he looked up at the stones that had been so easy for me to place. He strode up and down its perimeter, testing vaguely for weakness. His mood darkened when he found none. I grew concerned as I watched him; I knew I had angered him in some way but at the time, naïve as I was, I did not know how.
He refused to enter the wall to look at what I thought was the true accomplishment of the city. He reluctantly followed me back to his building site, trailing behind me as my long legs easily closed the distance to his city.
Romulus was still coming up the rise behind me as I beheld his construction. He had done very little to manifest his building plan; the innate lassitude of his character had beaten out the megalomaniacal desire. Before me was a half-finished wall that only came up to my admittedly tall bellybutton. The stones of the ramshackle wall had been placed lazily without regard for structural integrity.
I stared down at it. So, this was Rome, the great fortress. This was the wall about which I had been hearing so very much.
Then I made my fatal mistake. I laughed.
To me, it was a light-hearted, surprised exclamation. I certainly meant no harm. I opened my mouth to ask my brother if he wanted my help to finish his wall when I felt the knife in my back. Romulus had crested the hill in time to hear my laughter and after the shame of his accomplishment and the shock of my own, it had been the final straw.
He stabbed me and stabbed me and finally, as I lay bleeding the last life I ever had onto his soil, he choked the rest of it out of me. His black eyes glowed with hatred, his thick hands strong and relentless.
Needless to say, I hadn't seen him since. He had left me there to wash his hands in the river. As the sun set, the spirits of the dead had come and taken me away, a merciful act of pity so Romulus could not defile me further when he returned. I wondered if he had thought anything about how his brother had disappeared, if he ever imagined I had lingered on as a ghost or a spirit, let alone in this deathly corporeal form. I liked to think that maybe he did, now that the cold and miserable yin year chilled him even in his luxurious penthouse.
I waited underneath him, a spirit of the cold earth, sapping his lusty strength until All Hallows’ was finally upon us.
It was, of course, the day when the spirits of the dead could return and visit the living. Surely Romulus was aware he should be expecting company as the night drew its inky cloak around the towering hotel.
I had even less problem than I thought making my way to the penthouse. The employees were preoccupied, as predicted, by the festivities and I had become a familiar and harmless face about the place. No one noticed as my thin hand took a keycard off the front desk; no one cared when I slipped into the secured elevator to the penthouse.
I had planned my ingress well. As the elevator climbed, I set the manual stop for a moment. I removed the light bulbs in the ceiling fixture, leaving the cube in complete darkness. I had a way of melting into darkness, travelling into shadows cast about rooms. It would give me a chance to enter unnoticed, if not unexpected.
I knew I would have very little time. I had to erode the light and the yang in the room if I was to get a proper chance at him. The elevator was a start.
Setting the elevator in motion again, I half closed my eyes and let the yin-ness of the dark bleed into me.
The doors opened and light streamed into the elevator. I saw my brother for the first time since my own murder.
He looked up and his eyes grew wide, even in his bloated face, with terror. The sight of an unwarranted elevator opening on Hallows’ Eve, black and abandoned, would alarm anyone. I could tell by the quiver in his cruelly over-sensuous lip that he worried the elevator was not abandoned at all, and that its occupant was his long-deceased brother.
I smiled and closed my eyes. Two of the lights in the room, ones closest to me, popped and went out. Sudden shadows cast into the penthouse, and into those I crept, silent, unnoticed save for the cold breath of air moving with me.
Romulus called out in his harsh voice. “Who's there? Who's in the elevator?” As he did so, he crept toward the gaping elevator, instinctively keeping to the illuminated parts of the room.
His preoccupation with the open door made it easy for me to sneak around to the patio. I wanted as much of the cold Hallows’ Eve air as possible inside this absurdly opulent penthouse. I flung the French doors wide open and an obligingly damp, ominous fog blew into the room, puffing out the curtains to perfect effect.
Romulus turned and stared at the patio behind him. Immediately, his teeth chattered. His black eyes suddenly became ringed in white. His hands shook. With no small effort, he managed to press the elevator b
utton hard enough to make the doors close. His focus distracted, I moved in behind him, my soundless, dead feet lithe on the thick carpet.
He watched as the doors shut, locking him into his ornate lodgings. “I know it's you,” he whispered to the marble-lined doors. “You can't scare me.”
Another, more-living man might have quipped a quip at that point, something along the lines of, “I'm not trying to scare you. I'm trying to kill you.” A more powerful and actually evil dead spirit might have done something impressive and visceral at that point to pique his victim's fear.
As for me, being so close to my brother, my killer, after all this time, made me decide something in my heart. He was huge, bloated with his own ego two times the life energy he should have had. He was old; he failed in his resolve and had certainly been guilty of mind. He was, for his gabardine suits and his high-handed tactics, a wretched thing after all—more wretched, in fact, than I. I had my friends, hard-working people. I had the night. I had the moon and the stars. He had only this incredibly expensive bastion from which he could hide from the many, many multitudes who hated and resented him.
Another, more compassionate man might have taken his brother by the hand and led him to the sofa for a long overdue heart-to-heart.
I merely fastened my long fingers tight around my brother's neck and jaw, twisting round and up with all my cold, dead might. I felt the bones in his neck give way and let the immense weight fall from my grip—finally. I had neither desire nor need to announce my presence or my intent. I would leave the proclamations for the living—tonight was the night for the dead to settle accounts.
About Anthony Stark
Anthony Stark is a writer and publisher. He is a paramedic and has a background in engineering and the sciences. His latest novel is 'An Incident in El Noor'. He has also been published in Tales From Space, Sleuth Magazine, and Starklight Anthologies. You can find him at:
www.starklightpress.com
Resident 7K
By Rachael Steele
Meaghan’s new home was on the sixth floor of a brick 1939 building. By how slowly the elevator moved one could be mistaken in thinking it was a lot higher. Every time the doors opened to her floor, she noticed the hallway always seemed so eerily quiet. Having lived here for two months, Meaghan had yet to see a neighbor. Pushing open the heavy brown door, she threw her keys down onto the breakfast nook and kicked off her heels. She liked this new apartment and hoped she’d stay here a bit longer than the last place.
Pulling down the wall bed, she could hear the wind rattling the windows panes. A bolt of lightning jolted across the sky, knocking her backwards into the armchair with fright.
“What’s going on with me? She murmured. “Why am I so jumpy?”
Reaching for the window ledge, Meaghan pulled herself out of the chair, her eyes peering just over the high sill. Through the blackness she could see the apartment building beside hers; only a few windows were lit. A second bolt of lightning slit the sky, followed by growls of thunder and raining suddenly spitting at the window with a vengeance.
Pulling the curtains closed she went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. Hopefully this will pass over before my Halloween party on Saturday. Nobody likes wet candy. She smirked at her reflection in the mirror.
Rolling over to look at the time, 3am blared out from the alarm clock. Meaghan thought the thunder had woken her until she realized it was the upstairs neighbor and his heavy boots. Ever since she had moved in, all she ever heard from above were heavy boots and slamming doors plus the creaking of the bed springs. The ritual repeated most nights. Tonight, the boots seemed to be shuffling, going backwards and forwards across the maple oak floors above. He groaned in time with the scraping of whatever he moved.
Something heavy hit the floor. Sitting bolt upright, a shudder went down Meaghan’s spine. A creaking door, more shuffling, more groaning. Then the door slammed shut. The footsteps shuffled back towards his front door, still dragging something.
Not realizing she had been holding her breath, Meaghan fell back onto the bed, gasping for air. She forced herself to calm down before the irritation got to her, but she jumped out of bed and grabbed her robe. Surely, he’s just moving furniture, she thought. Opening the front door just enough to get a clear view of the elevator, she waited for it to descend. She could hear the doors shudder open and the sound of the man’s boots stepping inside the elevator with the dragging noise behind him. Another crack of lighting snapped through the sky, causing her to jump back against the cold brick wall. The elevator doors clanged shut, and she stood there waiting for it to slowly descend past her floor.
Wrapping her arms tightly around her stomach, she felt herself getting nauseous. The small circular window in the elevator would only align with its counterpart on her floor for a few seconds. She knew there wouldn't be much to see, but felt compelled to look. As the light came down, all she saw was a man wearing a blue hat, his eyes hidden by the brim. She quickly retreated into her apartment, slamming the door behind her.
At least I can have some peace and quiet now he’s gone out, she thought. Pulling the duvet up to her ears, she listened to the wind as it whipped the leaves off the trees and left behind the dry, cracked branches that now creaked outside her bedroom window.
The next morning, Meaghan felt so tired. She reluctantly got ready for work and made the extra effort to stop by the trash room to drop off her recycling. Absently sorting plastic from cardboard, she stopped abruptly as something caught her eye. An object jutted out from under the large cardboard boxes, and she turned slowly to try to make it out. Dropping the recycling bag, she crept towards it, her heart pounding in her ears.
“This is crazy. What the hell am I doing looking at other people’s trash?” she whispered.
She couldn’t help herself; she tugged on the object crudely wrapped in black plastic. It was haphazardly held together by a thin, dirty yellow rope. Removing a steel nail file from her bag, she punctured one of the corners, peeling it slowly back to reveal a faded blue rug beneath. Hearing footsteps stop on the concrete outside, she looked over her shoulder at the door, praying silently for whoever it was to walk past. The shadow of feet was just visible from where she squatted. The person standing outside the door rummaged around in their bag for something, then walked back towards the building and away from the trash room.
Megan returned to her exploration. It’s just a rug. People throw out rugs all the time. She sighed, pushing it back under the boxes. She turned to leave, putting all her weight onto a puddle on the slick floor. Frantically trying to steady herself, she slipped and fell back onto the object. Her left hand plunged into the now-exposed end of the wrapped carpet, and she caught sight of a reddish stain on the inside of her wrist. Meaghan stopped, slowly withdrawing her hand. She felt a something sticky and wet coating her fingers. Trembling, tugged her hand out.
Rushing to the small dirty sink in the corner, she scrubbed her hand raw with the small bits of cracked soap, trying to remove any trace of whatever this was. Her mind raced with what it could possibly be. Blood, paint, cooking sauce. It has to be one of those, she thought, allowing her mind to linger on blood.
She grabbed her recycling bag and scurried out of the room before anyone saw her.
***
Riding the No1. Subway into Manhattan, she couldn’t stifle a yawn.
“Rough night’s sleep?” Her neighbor Zoe smiled at her.
When she’d first moved in, Meaghan had noticed Zoe exiting the building directly opposite her own each morning, walking down the steep stairs towards the subway, even stopping at the same coffee shop on the corner. After a week of shadowing each other, they bonded over the half and half.
“The neighbor above me seems to keep some strange work hours.”
Too embarrassed to tell her about what had truly happened, Meaghan held her hand out in front of her to inspect it again for any trace. Maybe it was paint, not blood, and maybe it was a dream, she thought.
&
nbsp; “Don’t talk to me about neighbors. I have a family above me who bears more similarities to a gaze of Raccoons than to the human race.” Zoe chuckled. “Hey, Earth to Meaghan. Are you okay?”
Meghan realized her hand still hovered in the air. Dropping it quickly, she turned to Zoe and tried to focus.
“So, what’s it going to be? Ghouls and Ghosts, Vampires and Zombies for your birthday party?” Zoe asked.
Meaghan stood to get ready for her stop. “Zombies have been done to death. Meet you at 28th Street station around six?” Zoe nodded and Meaghan stepped off the train.
A gentle rain greeted her as she pushed her way through the morning crowd of people, all vying for pole position in their struggle to get to work on time. Pulling open the glass doors of the Library where she worked, she made her way towards the back office. After rezoning the children’s section today, she would browse through the horror section for some party inspiration and maybe a quick nap in the break room.
It was still raining when she met Zoe after work. Puddles formed on the pavements, creating a patchwork quilt of wet through which they tried their best to navigate. Deciding on an evil pumpkin theme, they bought enough strings of orange and black beads to decorate New Orleans. After drinks and the subway home, she couldn’t wait to get to bed.
“Have a good sleep tonight. Don’t let the neighbor stress you out.” Zoe waved from across the street. As Meaghan waved back, she noticed a missing person’s poster taped to the lamp post. Stopping quickly to read it, she felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. The girl was the same age as her.
***
Waiting for the elevator, she looked around at the tired ‘Art Deco’ foyer of the building, imagining it in 1939—pristine, admired by all who wandered through it. Now, patches of wallpaper peeled off to reveal the dirty plasterwork underneath and coupled with a musty smell nesting there.
The Grim Keepers Page 10
