Underground

by Craig Spector

  Always good to start a party with a felony, Justin remarked. Mia looked at Justin. Should we be doing this? she asked. Justin shrugged. Too late now. The others had already entered. Justin gave her a comforting hug. Relax, he said. It’ll be all right.

  And in they went.

  Inside, the great hall loomed before them, vast and cavernous and smelling of old men and dust. The portraits stared down disapprovingly, a stern and silent audience. Huge antique gilt mirrors hung on the walls, reflecting back shadows and silhouettes. There was a light switch on the wall, a turn of the century addition, wires snaking down to the baseboard. Justin flipped it, flipped again.

  No juice, he announced as Seth and Caroline came back hauling their stash from the trunk; Amy was nonplussed, courtesy of fresh batteries in her boom box. Just then flickering light appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall; Simon came out grinning, holding a blazing candelabra.

  Bloo-ha-ha-ha, he cackled, Chiller Theatre style.

  They set up camp in the grand ballroom, built a fire in the massive fireplace, and lit more candles, filling the room with a flickering glow that heightened the vibe and enhanced the proceedings. They broke out the brew and the pot; Amy popped in a Peter Murphy tape, his sinister baritone reverberating throughout the interior. It was fun for a while, everyone getting pleasantly buzzed in the spookhouse vibe.

  But Simon wanted more.

  It was just after ten when Simon called the group together and unveiled his stash. It was time to trip, he informed them all solemnly. It was a very important occasion, the last gasp for the Underground, and they needed to do it right.

  As it turned out, not everyone shared his ardor. While they all liked to party, Simon was a veteran of hardcore hallucinogens, almost evangelical in his avocation of them; by his own proud estimate, he had tripped over one thousand times by the age of eighteen, as if he thought by deep-frying his neurons he could get closer to the mysteries at the heart of the universe.

  Josh was up for it initially, and Justin. But Caroline chickened out on general principles. Amy was dissuaded by the manor's brooding vibe. Seth was simply cautious and not in the mood. And Mia…

  Mia, as it happened, was an acid virgin. For all of their wasteoid rebellion, all the lost nights of their willfully wayward youth, she had contented herself to kick back with milder things, and to stay within the limits she had set for herself. A little drink, a little smoke, nothing heavy, no needles; she didn’t even boost her mom’s prescription pills. She just wasn’t into it. And she wasn’t about to start now.

  Simon was pissed, as if her choice was a personal affront. But his jaw dropped when Justin then offered to forego the acid as well, if she was uncomfortable. This was the last straw for Simon.

  Fucking princess! he hissed bitterly. I knew she'd screw this up!

  Back off! Justin warned. She doesn't have to if she doesn't want to.

  Justin and Simon squared off; for a moment, it looked like they might seriously come to blows.

  I can’t believe this shit! Simon cried out. You’re siding with her and she’s fucking dumping you!

  Shut up, Simon, Justin growled.

  Fuck you Justin! Simon shot back. Open your eyes, man! She’s doesn’t love you, she’s just slumming!

  You’re full of shit, Mia said. I love him!

  Oh yeah right, Simon scoffed, getting up in Mia’s face. A year from now you’ll be with some preppie asshole and you’ll break his fucking heart!

  And that was when Justin punched him: straight-arming Simon in the chest and knocking every ounce of air out of him. Justin had six inches of height and thirty pounds of muscle on Simon, and even though he instinctively checked the blow, the force of the contact sent Simon flying to land flat-assed on the hard wooden floor.

  The rest of the group was aghast. Justin stood his ground, feeling pissed and guilty; Mia quivered with rage and indignation, and started to cry. Amy and Caroline rushed over to comfort her. Seth and Josh stood exchanging uncomfortable glances, not knowing exactly what to do. Simon scrabbled to his feet and gave them all a wounded look.

  You all SUCK! he cried bitterly. This is BULLSHIT!

  Then he ran out of the room, disappearing into the shadowed interior.

  Simon raced upstairs and through the many hallways, knocking things over, smashing dusty curios and forgotten knickknacks, hot tears streaming down his face. He was angry and ashamed, seething with misery and self-loathing: partly because Justin was the best friend he had ever had, more like a brother, and he knew he was right about her. Partly because he also knew that Mia was right, too: that escaping this place was the right thing to do, and that she would go on to do major things with her life, while any future he could imagine held only trouble for himself and Justin both.

  And in no small part because, deep down and secretly, Simon had always wanted Justin for himself.

  Simon reached the third floor, came face to face with an enormous mirror that graced the end of the hallway. It was nine feet tall and matched with another at the opposite end, creating a refracted and skewed hallway of seemingly infinite proportion. Simon stood, panting, as he faced a hundred panting Simons, extending out into oblivion. His blood roiled, heart pounding. And he knew he was right about something else: their much vaunted Underground was bullshit too. The one thing Simon had ever felt a sense of belonging to — the one thing that had ever made him not feel so screamingly, bitterly, alone in the world — was over.

  On the other side of the mirrors, something was watching. It was a corrupt, voracious force wedded to a vile, once-human personality, neither fully living nor truly dead. As such it was simultaneously native to this swamp-kissed plantation and old as the Earth itself, a soulless spirit of evil imbued with all the passions and prejudices of that which had once been mortal man. It was once in the body of a man, but it had always and forever gone by another name. It was the Great Night, and this place was its prison, and its domain.

  It watched, enraged, as these disrespectful children made mock of its sovereignty. It wasn't bad enough that they had come to defile this place, it thought. No, they had brought along a Jewess. And worse, they had brought along a nigger. As it stared into the eyes of the weak and willful boy before it, it saw an opportunity: for escape, and for vengeance. They had to be punished.

  And so they would be.

  Simon stared into the mirror, seeing something ripple across his own reflection, until the eyes staring back at him seemed not wholly his own. As if he were staring at something more than himself, yet not him at all.

  And just like that, a seed of thought blossomed in his brain, fueled by alcohol and weed and frustration and passion, and maybe just a little bit of hate. And as he stared, the thought took root and grew, coiling through him. A plan of sorts. A wonderful idea.

  Simon reached into his pocket, withdrew the wrinkled baggie holding his stash: a dozen tiny squares of purple-tinged paper, each containing a single drop of lysergic acid diethylamide. He pulled one free and placed it on his tongue; it began to dissolve almost instantly.

  Simon swallowed the hit.

  And then he did another.

  Downstairs, Seth stirred the fire as Josh returned with another six of tall boys, took one and passed the rest around. The others sat glumly on the velvet sofas, feeling hugely weirded out. They had listened to Simon’s rampage from afar for the last twenty minutes, not knowing what to do. Now it was quiet, and everyone was freaked.

  Maybe we should go look for him, Amy said.

  Maybe we should just go, Caroline countered.

  He’ll be all right, Justin said, taking a seat beside Mia. He gets like this sometimes. He just needs to chill.

  Mia said nothing. She leaned her head against Justin’s shoulder. An air of heaviness weighed over the party, which was beginning to feel more like a wake.

  Just then Simon appeared in the doorway, a bottle of wine in one hand, looking utterly contrite. He looked at them all.

  I’m an ass
hole, he confessed. He laughed nervously. Maybe I just freaked because I suddenly realized that being a professional burnout doesn’t look so good on a résumé. He apologized to everyone, lastly, and most pointedly, to Mia. Simon held out the bottle of wine as a peace offering. Justin eyed him suspiciously, but Mia got up, facing Simon.

  I’m really sorry, Simon said.

  Mia nodded and took a swig, then passed the bottle to Caroline, who drank and passed it to Amy, who continued the ritual. To Seth. To Josh. To Justin, who took a big guggling gulp and passed it back to Simon, completing the circle.

  Sorry, bro, he said, and hugged him Seriously…

  Me too, Simon said, hugged him back.

  Simon took the bottle and finished off the dregs. Everyone breathed a massive sigh of relief at the fragile détente, and when Simon tossed the bottle to smash into the fireplace, they whooped and cheered.

  Josh grabbed a dance dub tape and popped it in the player. The music swelled and filled the room, and the party started again.

  They had no idea, and indeed would never have dreamed, that Simon had spiked the bottle with the other ten hits of acid. They never even knew what hit them.

  13

  Justin had wandered out on the porch and was seated on the steps, smoking a cigarette and staring into the night, when Mia appeared in the doorway. Inside, music and muted laughter sounded; outside, fireflies glowed in the trees like some distant imaginary city.

  You okay? Mia asked.

  Yeah, Justin replied. It sounded not at all convincing. Mia sat beside him, taking the smoke from his hand and taking a drag.

  This place sucks, Justin sighed.

  Yeah, it’s kinda creepy, she said.

  No, I mean here, Justin gestured widely. This town. This whole place. He hesitated. You’re doing the right thing, he said. We should all get out.

  I’m sorry, Mia said quietly. I love you…

  I love you, too, he replied.

  They talked — about visits to California, about coming home for Christmas, about how one day maybe he’d come out and they’d get a place eventuality. Beautiful dreams, all. But real was still real. And they both knew what the simple force of attrition could do.

  A breeze rustled through the trees, making their skin tingle. Mia suddenly shuddered, curving into him.

  Wow, she said. I’m like really high…

  Me too… Justin replied. They looked at each other: in the dim light, they seemed to sparkle, the barest halo of light outlining their forms. Mia touched Justin’s hair, smoothing it back.

  She kissed him. He kissed her back.

  As they did, an electric rush passed through them. It was a moment of perfect freefall, her soft skin and softer lips radiating heat and exquisite hunger. Mia shuddered as Justin’s hand glided up and under her shirt to graze the curve of her breast; she shuddered more as his fingers found her taut nipples and caressed them. Mia arched her head back and took a deep and trembling breath. For that fleeting moment, Justin thought that the trembling was because of him.

  And then it turned violent.

  Upstairs, Caroline sat at the edge of the bed buttoning her blouse, as Josh pulled on his pants. Twenty minutes before, she had grabbed him and led him off to one of the bedrooms, driven by simple drugged lust and something darker, infinitely more complicated. The sex was manic, rushed, and not that satisfying, less a meeting of bodies and souls than a release of bodily fluids and pent-up angst. Portraits of dead ancestors frowned down on them throughout the act, making Josh feel profoundly watched. To compound the weirdness, as Josh withdrew they both realized that the stale condom pressed into his wallet had broken, casting a pall over the post coitus vibe. Josh reached over to her and she twisted away. He asked if she was okay.

  Fine, she told him curtly and continued to dress. Josh didn’t buy it; he pressed her for a real answer.

  Nothing, she told him, meaning anything but. He pressed harder, wanting to know the truth.

  And that was when Caroline snapped, pushing him away, telling him to fuck off. But the truth was, she couldn’t tell him, because she wasn’t sure herself. Part of it was simple jealousy: of Mia’s happy news, of the fact that she was escaping, whereas Caroline felt trapped. Part of it was jealousy of Mia herself: beautiful, perfect Mia, whose very existence made Caroline feel like sloppy seconds. And though she projected it onto Josh, deep down she knew she had only herself to blame.

  Now they faced a broken rubber and a nagging uncertainty. Caroline told him not to worry about it. Josh promised her that it would be all right. Somehow.

  Amy was in the library when she heard Justin’s scream reverberate through the halls. They ran down and saw Josh and Caroline scrambling downstairs, looking equally freaked out and alarmed. Just then Justin came crashing in clutching Mia, who was shaking uncontrollably. Justin looked up at them, his pupils huge and black and terrified. As he laid her down on the couch, he looked at his hands and saw trails rippling off them like an aurora borealis.

  Oh God, he gasped. Justin looked at the others, who were starting to feel it, too. It didn’t take long to figure out what was happening, or who was responsible. Simon, Justin said. He looked at the others. WHERE IS SIMON?

  Deep in the woods, Simon ran, brambles tearing at his clothes and scoring his skin. The woods seemed to glow and writhe, tendrils snaking out to claw at him. He could dimly feel the pain, but it didn’t matter: he was in the thrall of the Great Night. It had arisen to slap his soul from his body like a rotted tooth, and now the boy was firmly in its possession. And it had much to do.

  Simon came to the edge of an inland waterway, where a crumbling dock stood. An old and worm-eaten skiff lay banked in the dank and sticky muck at the edge of the shore.

  Get in, said the malevolent voice in his head.

  Simon pushed it out into the black and murky water and climbed in. There were two oars lying in the bottom of the boat.

  Row, it commanded.

  Simon rowed, pushing out into the mist, to a tiny islet barely visible in the night, where a little shack stood. Simon entered and saw a weed-choked and forgotten altar upon which sat a rusted iron pot. A faint and putrid scent filled the close air of the shack; Simon lifted the rusted iron lid and stared down at its source.

  The nganga: the cauldron of souls.

  The stench that arose from its depths was overwhelming; beetles, worms, and centipedes writhed in the foul paste that coated its interior.

  Simon had a Zippo lighter in his pocket; the Great Night bade him to light a fire under the pot. This he did, the scent of woodsmoke mixing with the odor of death and decay. Simon looked down, saw a pitted knife in his hand —- the one the Great Night had bade him to take from the kitchen. He dropped it in the dust.

  Pick it up, the voice said. The boy hesitated. PICK IT UP, it ordered, booming through his skull.

  The boy did as he was told. The cauldron hissed before him.

  Feed it, the voice said.

  Simon was sweating, wanting not to hear. His hand was shaking as it came up, the knife brushing against his cheek.

  Simon’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  Bloody strips of meat fell into the pot, hissing as they made contact with the heat. The smell of cooking flesh merged with the smoke and crisping insects. Simon moaned and sliced, feeding the boiling mass. The Great Night savored the scent, and the pain. And the appetites it awakened.

  Back at the manor Justin threw his keys to Seth and told him to get the car. They had to get out of there, now. Seth raced outside, his heart pounding wildly. He stopped, staring in shock. The tires of Justin’s car were slashed into steel-belted fillets.

  They were trapped.

  Justin and Mia were huddled in the great hall as Seth returned. By then they were all chemically and psychically pried open, their nerves jangled and twitching. Escaping on foot and on massive drugs was out of the question; they had no choice but to hunker down and ride it out.

  Josh looked around. Where’s Amy? He a
sked. No one knew. She had wandered off. Mia had stopped shaking and was semicoherent but fragile; she reached up and touched his face with cool and clammy hands.

  Make it stop, she said. Please make it stop.

  Justin looked at her tearfully. I can’t, he said. It’s just a bad trip. It’ll be over soon…

  But of course it was only just beginning.

  Amy wandered the uppermost floor, searching for the source of the sound: a high, keening wail, faint and furtive at first, growing louder as she reached the attic door. Someone, or something, was crying. As she touched the door, the sound became louder and was joined by another voice. And another. And another. The cries from the other side grew in intensity, and she heard a scraping sound: fingernails desperately clawing at the wood. They were wretched, pitiful, tormented. Their voices filled her head.

  Let them out, Amy said, twisting the knob. It stuck stubbornly, unyielding. She began to pound on the door.

  LET THEM OUT!!

  From the other side, the cries stopped. And then the shrieking began.

  There were ghostly flames leaping from the husk of the burned-out barn. Seth stood transfixed in the drive, watching it burn. He knew he was tripping, knew it was a hallucination. He knew that barn was already burnt and gone; he had seen its charred remains. But still, there it was: engorged and aflame, the fire etching its long-fallen form perfectly against the night.

  It was one thing to see it, another to feel its heat radiating outward or hear its crackling roar. Even tripping by surprise and against his will, Seth was not a virgin to the experience; he knew the sensory tricks the mind played as the drugs did their synaptic mix ‘n’ match on his senses, and knew that even though riding it out was a little like trying tell time with a Dali clock, it was the only thing to do. As hallucinations went, this was pretty thorough and, he had to admit, more than a little bit fascinating.