Space and Time Issue 121

by Hildy Silverman

  Taylor chuckled. “You sound like one of my students.”

  The security guard’s face turned glum. “I pleaded my case with Skyler but he was like a stone wall, completely unyielding. I advocated like hell for you and Jan…I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you for trying, Dan. I know it’s not easy communicating with him.” Not to mention pleasant, Taylor thought.

  “I’ve got an idea. I’ll secretly let you guys into the park to continue your investigation.”

  “No, I don’t want to get you into trouble. Besides, it’s not your park. Why do you care? It’s Skyler’s problem.”

  “Let’s just say I care about innocent people getting hurt. Call it the humanitarian in me. I’m a low-level security guard but I’ve got morals. Also, I wanna get to the bottom of this mystery.”

  “The murder?”

  “That and all the quote, unquote fatal accidents allegedly caused by this ghost.”

  Taylor nodded. “I see your point. Is it all hocus-pocus or is there some truth to it? I’m curious, too. I just don’t want to see you get into trouble.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Professor.” He frowned. “Plus, I’m getting sick of Skyler’s attitude.”

  “Join the club.”

  * * *

  In his hotel room, Taylor surfed the Internet, reading articles on Funland, Bizarro, and Skyler. He drank some orange juice and clicked on another article, this one about the history of both amusement parks. Strangely, there was no mention of a murder but there was some information about accidents. He reread a sentence: ‘Some park employees, eyewitnesses, and family members of the victims believe the fatal accidents were the result of the supernatural, specifically a ghost.’ He scrolled down the page. Another sentence caught his attention: ‘Several employees and visitors reported seeing the ghost of a clown in the park. Some say they saw the ghost in the Funhouse and the Haunted Goldmine, both of which are attractions at Funland, with the majority of sightings in the Haunted Goldmine. Park administration had no comment and did not return phone calls.’

  Taylor surfed the Internet further, not finding any useful articles on Skyler. The ones he came across gave very little information on him. Essentially, he remained a man of mystery. Taylor clicked on an article from the 1980s. The headline read: Murder at Funland. He reread a section: ‘Police say the victim, Larry Crenshaw, was an employee of the park. His body had been stabbed numerous times and was discovered by a park visitor inside the Haunted Goldmine. The victim was dressed like a circus clown.’

  Another article stated: ‘The murder of Larry Crenshaw was never solved.’ He leaned back in his chair, staring at the sentence.

  * * *

  That night, Skyler worked late in his trailer office. Taylor stood in the darkness, looking at the light inside. He tip-toed over to the open window, standing right next to it. Skyler was chomping on a cigar, his boots up on one corner of his desk, phone pressed to his ear.

  “What chu worried ’bout?” he asked. “Everything’s gonna be fine. You worry too damn much, that’s what your problem is. No wonder you got an ulcer.” He listened for a moment. “Naw, ain’t nothin’ gonna go wrong, hear? No one’s gonna find out…who? The witch doctor? I got rid of him…don’t worry, Hoss, he ain’t comin’ back here.” Skyler listened again, taking a drag from his cigar and blowing out smoke. The sweet scent wafted out the window. “So we gonna head to the casino this weekend or what? Or you wanna go to the racetrack? You can’t go wrong with Royal Flush…gotcha…okay…okay. Later.”

  Twenty minutes later, Skyler turned off the lights and left his office. After making sure he was gone for the night, Taylor returned to the trailer and picked the door’s lock. After several attempts, he was successful in opening the door. The sweet cigar scent was strong in the air. He left the lights off, using a thin pen light instead. He wore gloves and got behind Skyler’s desk, searching the drawers carefully. Nothing but porn magazines, empty cigarette packs, racetrack forms, casino matchbooks, and hunting magazines. In the bottom drawer he found a used condom, shaking his head in disgust.

  Next, Taylor went to the file cabinet. Fortunately, it was unlocked. He scanned the folders quickly. Invoices, receipts, ledger books, canceled checks, vendor info, etc. He started on the third drawer. He heard a thud and spun around, looking out the window. Nothing. Nothing significant in the third drawer so he moved to the last one on the bottom. His hand felt along the top shaft of the drawer, as he’d done with the others, seeing if anything was taped or wedged up there. Something shaped like a paperback book was taped above the hanging file folders. Taylor carefully removed it, sitting down on a chair.

  He shone the pen light on the object in his hand: a small notebook. He flipped through it, having difficulty reading the handwriting. Worst than a doctor’s! Random observations were scribbled all over the place, with no connection to one another it seemed. Midway through it the name Larry was scrawled on a coffee-stained page. The bottom of the page read: ‘Larry will cease to be a problem. He-’ Taylor turned the page but it was blank. However, at the top of it someone had ripped out the page that was originally there, for the perforation line still had flaky bits of paper clinging onto it. He flipped through the rest of the notebook. Blank.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of an empty soda can being kicked outside. Taylor clicked the pen light off, peeking out the window cautiously. Nobody. He returned the notebook to its proper place and took off.

  * * *

  “Basically, Funland was like Playland at the Beach and Coney Island,” Dan said. “It had that fun, innocent atmosphere. But times changed and it lost that charm, deteriorating and becoming a seedy, dangerous place no one went to after dark. Gangs, drug dealers, and pimps roamed the park. The park ran into serious financial problems, eventually filing for bankruptcy. It shut down briefly before Skyler bought it, changed its name, and gave it a minor facelift.”

  Taylor nodded. “I read there was alleged mob involvement during that financial crisis.”

  “I heard that, too. Rumor has it that Funland management sought the mob to bail them out of dire straits. Various sources told me kneecaps got broken, legs got broken, and some poor souls wound up at the bottom of the river with cement-encased feet. None of this proven for a fact, of course.”

  “Skyler seems linked to the corruption and shady business deals.” Taylor told him about the notebook in the file cabinet and the words on the page. “Know anything about that?”

  Dan shook his head. “Fits in with the murder theory, though.”

  * * *

  On Thursday morning, Taylor interviewed a lecturer at the convention over breakfast. Afterwards, Jan sat at his table with a plate full of scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast.

  “How’d it go?” she asked curiously.

  “Excellent. Got lots of great info about haunted cemeteries and mansions that she investigated. Now I’ve got one more person to interview for the issue. Did you start the preliminary layout work?”

  “Yes. I came up with some new fonts and designs that I think you’ll like.”

  “Cool. I’ll check it out later.” He looked at his watch. “In the meantime, I’ve got another lecture to give.”

  She ate some eggs. “Poltergeists and EVPs?”

  “Yep. A coincidence that we’re going up against one of those now.”

  * * *

  The nighttime skies were clear and starry over Bizarro. Inside the Haunted Goldmine, Taylor, Jan, and Dan were waiting in the same tunnel again. Moments later, the ghost of the clown reappeared, standing before them on the track, an evil grin on its face. Suddenly, its white features solidified and color was added, as if someone was painting him. When the process ended he looked like your traditional clown, in the flesh now, down to the garish red lipstick that exaggerated his mouth.

  “Whoa!” Jan whispered.

  The clown approache
d them, a long knife in his right hand.

  “He’s not going to fly through us with that, is he?” she asked anxiously.

  The trio started backing away.

  “Greetings, we come in peace,” Taylor said. “We wish to communicate with you. Please identify yourself.”

  “Uhh, we tried this already,” Dan said. “Think it’s time for a new strategy.”

  “Remember, you got to give the Professor time to bond with the ghost, build a rapport with him,” Jan replied.

  Dan didn’t seem reassured. “Oh, right.”

  “We come in peace,” Taylor repeated, hands up in the air. “We mean you no harm. We only want to ask you some questions.”

  Silence. The clown kept walking towards them slowly.

  “Why do you haunt this place?” No answer. “We can help you move on, Larry.”

  The clown stopped abruptly at the mention of the name, glaring at them. Knife still gripped tightly in his hand. A moment of stillness passed. Then the clown resumed walking, his big, floppy shoes hitting the ground with a low thud.

  “Uhh, I think it’s time for plan B,” Dan whispered.

  “Larry, let us help you,” Taylor persisted. “Allow us to help you move on from this place. This environment is imprisoning your soul.”

  The clown stopped again, staring at him with its mad eyes. Was reason kicking in? The wicked grin painted permanently on its face.

  “Revenge,” the clown whispered ominously.

  “Can you elaborate on that?”

  Silence.

  “Were you the victim of the murder that occurred here years ago? Were you responsible for the fatal accidents that happened at the park?”

  The clown laughed devilishly.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Taylor replied. “But why kill innocent people? They did you no harm.”

  “Revenge,” it repeated in a low, creepy voice.

  “Please explain.”

  When he received no response, Taylor asked point blank: “Who murdered you, Larry?”

  Stillness.

  “If we’re going to help you, Larry, you need to assist us. You can trust us,” the professor said gently. “Trust me. Let me guide your spirit out of here...who murdered you?”

  But the ghost vanished.

  * * *

  The ghost convention ended the next afternoon. Following the wrap-up celebration party in the hotel ballroom, Taylor and Jan returned to his room to go over the magazine’s layout.

  He sat down in a chair by the balcony door, yawning. “Man, I ate too much! Can I take a two hour nap?”

  Jan laughed, clicking the laptop’s mouse a few times. “Oh-oh, food coma! Here, check these out.”

  Minutes later, Taylor’s cell phone rang and he looked at the number on the screen. “Hi, Dan.”

  “Hello. Just wanted to let you know that there’s a situation here at the park.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Skyler’s dead.”

  “What happened?” Taylor asked, noticing Jan looking at him with concern.

  “The old man was found hanging by the neck inside the Haunted Goldmine.”

  “Was there a suicide note?”

  “Negative. I don’t think it was self-inflicted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The word ‘revenge’ was scrawled on his chest, in his own blood.”

  “I see. Any sign of Larry?”

  “Negative.”

  * * *

  The Haunted Goldmine was closed, sealed off with yellow police tape. Time passed and it reopened. When it did the Professor and Jan returned there late one night with Dan.

  Dan pointed his flashlight at the ceiling, where a light fixture was. “That’s where Skyler hung from. The cops treated it like a homicide but found no traces of foul play.” He chuckled. “How do you arrest a ghost?”

  Taylor appeared philosophical. “Well...”

  They walked down the dark, quiet tunnel. Moments later, they felt that cold draft and that not-quite-right feeling again. Taylor shone his flashlight ahead. Standing there on the cart track was the clown, solidified once more, clutching the knife. In his other hand was what appeared to be a book. He threw it at them and it landed several inches from Taylor’s feet.

  He bent down and surprisingly was able to pick it up. He thought his hand would go through it. He looked at Larry and was about to ask him something but he disappeared.

  “What is it?” Jan asked.

  Taylor flipped through it. “An old journal.” Dan pointed his flashlight over it so they could read it. The pages were well-thumbed and yellowed. Taylor turned to a dog-eared page that featured legible cursive handwriting and read aloud: “‘April 1980–I found out that the park administrators violated numerous safety and environmental regulations. It’s not right, jeopardizing the lives of innocent people, especially children. The bigwigs know that I possess this information and want to silence me. I told them they could fire me, I could care less. I’m a humanitarian, an activist, I’m pro-people, and I’m going to the newspapers and TV stations with this. This ain’t small potatoes, this is huge! After this, Funland will be in even deeper financial chaos. There’s so much corruption here it isn’t funny. Just the other day, after work, I was followed home by two guys in black suits. I also received a note saying: ‘Keep your mouth shut or else.’”

  Taylor flipped to another page and continued reading: “‘May 1980–The other day another kid got injured riding the Serpent. Bigwigs didn’t do squat. An old woman had a heart attack riding Jet because no safety rules were posted. Okay, world, get ready for the bomb I’m going to drop. Skyler and his gang are toast.’”

  Taylor looked at Jan and Dan. “Obviously, Larry never made it to the media, otherwise we’d all know by now.”

  “So Skyler had his fingers in lots of pies, including murder,” Jan said.

  Taylor nodded solemnly. “Yep. But at least Larry’s been freed from this place.”

  “How do you know that?” Dan asked.

  Taylor pointed his flashlight at chalk-like handwriting on the tunnel wall: ‘THANK YOU FOR REACHING OUT TO ME. FAREWELL.’

  * * *

  Derek Muk is a writer and social worker from California. His short stories have appeared in various online and small press magazines, including The Dead Walk (anthology), Sinister Tales, Infernal Ink Magazine, and Tales of the Talisman Magazine. He has three chapbooks published: Three Parts, The Sacrifice and Other Stories, and Sin after Sin. He has Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in social work. The Occult Files of Albert Taylor is his first full length collection of short stories. His website address is: http://theoccultfilesofalberttaylor.wordpress.com/.

  UNDER THE BAY COURT TREE

  by Barbara Krasnoff

  artwork by Alfred Klosterman

  I met Mrs. Delaney the first time I entered Bay Court.

  It had been a long six weeks. My old neighborhood had recently become chic, so I wasn’t all that surprised when my landlord told me my rent was being raised to obscene levels. I couldn’t afford it on a freelancer’s income and told him so, hoping he’d give me a break. He didn’t.

  I had exactly two months to find someplace new—which turned out to be a lot harder than I thought. I was starting to wonder if I’d end up in New Jersey, or have to leave New York entirely, when the realtor called and said she had something in south Brooklyn that might suit.

  “Two bedrooms, a living room, a dining area and a small kitchen,” she said, and then quoted a rent that wasn’t low, but was definitely within my budget.

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s the catch? Why are they actually moving out? Bedbugs?”

  “Apparently, they didn’t get along with one of the neighbors,” she said. “Look, Jerry, what do you care? Just go and take a look at the place. If
you like it, and the caretaker likes you, you’re in.”

  When I emerged from the subway a couple of hours later, I found what looked like a fairly typical working-class Brooklyn neighborhood. There were stores on one side of the street, a large old-fashioned church on the other; around me, harassed mothers pulled raucous children along while they darted in and out of the shops; retired men sat glumly outside of a dark bar sucking on paper cups filled with beer; teenage girls in school uniforms surreptitiously passed around a cigarette. Nothing unusual.

  Following the directions the realtor had given me, I found the right street, turned into it, and walked toward the middle of the block. About halfway down, a small green sign reading “Bay Court” pointed to a stone staircase between two red brick houses. I climbed the six stairs—and stared.

  I had expected some bleak apartment complex. Instead, I was standing in a small, quiet courtyard lined on either side by narrow two-story attached brick homes, each with a yard hardly larger than a bed sheet. It was quiet and nearly deserted—any sounds from the streets around seemed muted, far away.

  A sudden chatter from my left: a mockingbird sitting in a nearby bush scolded me for a moment, then flew to the center of the courtyard—to the biggest, strangest fir tree I’d ever seen outside of Rockefeller Center.

  It looked like a cross between a tree and a huge green lollipop. For the first ten feet, the trunk was as straight as a telephone pole, although it was wreathed in so much ivy that you couldn’t see the color of the wood beneath. Suddenly there were a few green branches, and a few more, from which a torn web of what looked like netting dangled. Past that were huge, thick branches that reached out so far they nearly touched the roofs of the houses on either side. I craned my neck up; the tree had to be 20 feet high, at least.

  “And who are you, young man?”