Joey and Bobby made a beeline to Jessup’s shop as their two girlfriends opted instead to have coffee at Martha Rodenbecker’s Café. The two young men giggled and prodded each other like silly teenagers, after three joints and a gallon of beer, they were utterly stoned. As they turned towards the entrance of the bookstore, they were startled by a life-size witch complete with a pointed black hat and a magical broom that safeguarded the entryway. Around her neck hung a wooden sign for all to read before entering;
We give no apology that you won’t find the works of the masters here…because in this hallowed place we choose with an eye towards terror…
Joey snickered, “A little fucking dramatic don’t you say?”
Bobby shoved him, “Come one, let’s go in.” As the two entered, they instantly came face to face with Jessup. Joey bumped rudely right into him and boisterously exclaimed to everyone within earshot, “Hey pal, we’re looking for ghosts!”
(What a jerk!)
Jessup’s ire could be easily raised if people made light of not only his lifelong passion but especially his hometown. For the most part, Brunswick had remained under the radar, and that’s the way the inhabitants wanted to keep it. They celebrated with lustre All Hallows Eve and welcomed people alike, but curiosity-seekers and hooligans were shunned and made uncomfortable. Bobby, the sensitive of the two, noticed that the owner was perturbed by his obnoxious younger brother. His brother had often started trouble with his big mouth; he pushed Joey aside, “I’m so sorry for my brother, he’s as sharp as a marble. We just drove up from New Jersey; I have to tell you that I love your shop (that will get him).” The tension seemed to dissipate; Jessup appreciated the niceties, even though they seemed shallow (I was right, a couple of jerks). The two became engulfed in a discussion about the town and its storied past. Bobby appeared to be genuinely interested, “We really would love to explore the town’s cemetery.”
“Not possible, that’s been closed to the public for years. You’d have to find Banger Doyle. He’s the caretaker of Pinewoods. He lives over by Poesten Kill.” Homel thought better of what he just revealed to an outsider, “Don’t waste your time, he will never allow you in.”
“How about that haunted school? You know the Little Red House?”
Jessup frowned; he had heard it all before, “Now why did you come from so far away for such a fool place? You can’t go inside; it’s also been closed for years.” He pondered for a second, he knew full well its lore; “Oh well, it’s your dime. It’s up in Clums Corner, out on the old North Greenbush Road. It’s going to be nightfall before you know it, it’s a winding road, and best you watch for deer up there. If you hit one, it’ll ruin your damn car.”
“Who do you think killed the little girl?”
“Son, do you realize how long ago that was?”
“Come-on, you must have been curious? You must have an opinion.”
Jessup decided to have a little fun, so he laid it on thick, “Well…at night around a campfire, there’s been mention of a beast. A sort of wolf if you may.”
“A werewolf? Do they still exist?”
“Son, did you hear me say werewolf, and when pray tell did they ever exist? If you boys came up here looking for Lon Chaney, you better head back to Jersey and turn on Creature Feature.”
It wasn’t as though Jessup was angry, but he needed to put outsiders in their place, “You ask a damn lot of foolish questions. Come over here, at least buy this book, it discusses the lore around these parts.” A sale always brought a smile to ole Jessup.
Bobby gently rubbed the leather-bound book, it looked old. Its gold lettering was deeply inset into the bright red cover. Bobby didn’t have many books to his name (besides a stack of Hustler’s under his bed), but this felt like the beginning of a new trend. Joey had left the store for another beer while Bobby went to the register and continued his interrogation, “Now that you mention it, in the movies with Lon Chaney, you could tell the werewolf by a pentagram in his palm. You remember; an old gypsy broad named Maleva warned him. Great movie!”
“Do me a favor son, will you please forget about Lon Chaney. This is no movie! If you must know, the actual legend says that the beast can be recognized by one of its fingers.”
“What?” Bobby exclaimed. “What are you talking about? A finger? Wow!”
“Yes, a dead giveaway. If they still exist, and I didn’t say they do, one of their index fingers will be longer than their middle finger.”
“What! On which hand?”
“Hell, how in the dickens would I know which hand? Here, buy this other book, it’ll explain,” abruptly sticking Stephen King’s Cycle of the Werewolf novel under his arm and simultaneously ringing it up on the register. Meanwhile, Jessup continued his rant, “I’ve been living in this area for over seventy years, walked the mountains and haven’t been bitten by one yet. I think you and your friend should hold off on smoking any more of that wacky weed!” Bobby sensing that he needed to bring in the heavy artillery flashed his infectious smile. It always worked with the ladies; surely it would work magic on an old yokel. Jessup relaxed a bit, he removed his glasses and wiped them with his hanky, “Listen, you boys better be careful about opening doors and inviting things in.” He thought again, maybe that was a little too ominous, “Just you watch out and come back and tell me what you find out there…would love to know.”
The two brothers had all they needed, including Jessup’s final futile warning, “You two should stay out of that cemetery, going to be dark soon anyway.” As they sped away Jessup thought aloud, “Damn fools asked about everything in the town, except for a damn place to stay, hmmm?”
CHAPTER 5
CHARLIE
When justice is done, it is a joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers.
-Proverbs 21:15
William made a beeline over to Mr. Homel’s bookstore the minute the school bell signaled the end of the day. Jessup was still standing outside, watching the New Jerseyites speed off, when William rushed up to him. He gave one last look at Bobby’s car and shook his head in displeasure (damn fools, they’re surely headed for the cemetery).
The youth had been a terrific customer, snapping up anything that had to do with monsters, but Mr. Homel was now intrigued by William’s sudden interest in Mohawk lore and local history. While the rest of the world received most of their information from small, hand-held screens, William loved real live books. Jessup had ordered a title for him which, as promised, had come in that Friday afternoon. Mr. Homel wrapped the book in brown paper. “Come Monday; tell me how you liked the book son.”
“W…wi…will do Mr. Homel.” William tucked his new prized possession in his schoolbag and hurried home. The moment William burst through the front door; Anne Justice was waiting for him. Her handsome face was distorted with a scowl that was meant for a despised nemesis, not your good-natured stepson. “It’s nearly 4:30, where have you been. You know that it is Friday and I expect you to rake the leaves before dinner.”
“I…I…I’m sorry A…Anne, I st…stopped by the bo…bookstore.”
“Anne? Why would you call me Anne? Darling, you know its mom, and stop that goddamn stuttering. I’ve heard you with your little friend, Lilly? You don’t stutter with her. I think you do that just for attention!”
“O…O…Ok sorry.” (I really hate her)
When no one was around, she continually berated him about the way he spoke, he never told a soul. Besides he thought, she could punish him all she wanted; no matter what, he would never call her mom!
She grabbed at the book that he had under his arm and tore the paper wrapping open, Mohawk and Mysticism. Her face seemed to twist with an odd sense of rage and apprehension, “You have time for this rubbish, but
you never have time for your chores. I’m going to have to speak with your father, this has to stop.” William knew that his father would never fault him for reading, even if it was about black magic and mysticism.
Even as a lenient father, James had his rules. There was of course raking the leaves, daily moving of the chicken tractors and gathering their eggs. Every other day William had to milk the few goats they had, but when it came to food, he was unusually strict. You had to eat what you killed, and finish what you took, he didn’t believe in wasting food. If you took it, you had to eat it! Food left on your plate would conveniently be waiting for you in the morning. At times when James wouldn’t make it home for dinner, Anne would take that rule to another whole level; she’d purposely cook things that William detested. One evening she cooked pork liver, the thick slab was bloody rare. She stood over him, “If you don’t eat it, you will have it for breakfast tomorrow.”
(I don’t care what you do, I’m never eating this!)
She then pushed her long fingernail into the liver, thick coagulated pigs blood oozed from it, William was gagging. She lifted her finger to her mouth, “Can you smell it? Blood has such a distinctive aroma.” She pushed her finger against the tip of his nose smudging the blood all over, he winced and pulled back. She then slowly raised the bloody digit and nonchalantly licked it, flicking her tongue back and forth. She relished the words, taking such great pleasure in demeaning the boy. William was holding tightly onto the bottom of the chair, he mustn’t say anything, it was useless. He looked deep into her eyes, he had such hatred, he also knew better than to tell his father, it would only make things worse. Anne thought she had her stepson trapped, but he wasn’t deterred. Even at such a tender age, he knew that there something sinister about his stepmother.
. . .
Immediately after dinner, he ran to his room with Charlie in tow, locking the door behind them. He was eager to dive headlong into the book. Instead of baseball cards and sports figures, his room was cluttered with every Universal monster that ever existed. On the back of his door was a seven-foot high poster, a glow-in-the-dark image of Frankenstein that he purchased from the back of a comic book. His bureau was jammed packed with an army of do-it-yourself models of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the Mummy, Dracula, and the Wolfman. He was addicted to monsters; on the wall going to his bathroom was a photo of Lon Chaney Sr. as the Phantom of the Opera. Pasted on the ceiling over his bed was the original poster from Abbott and Costello Meets Frankenstein. Anne had railed against James, insisting that William get rid of his collection (just isn’t normal for a young boy). James had been a boy himself in the not so distant past, and he knew different. He felt anguish for his motherless son, his love for him was helpless. Besides in the scheme of things, they did no harm; these monsters would remain.
William turned his television on; his set was old enough that it was made in the USA. It still had the old tuner dials and proudly sported aluminum foiled tipped rabbit ears. Charlie jumped on the bed, lying at his usual spot at the foot (Hey Charlie, leave room for me). Trying to get the best reception, William twisted the ears pointing them towards the near window, he turned on a local Troy area station that was celebrating the thirty-one days of Halloween with a nightly horror classic (how cool is this!). Tonight, was going to be The Curse of Frankenstein with the English actor Peter Cushing. William was a connoisseur of horror (if it isn’t Karloff, it ain’t Frankenstein).
Sporadic static cut the image in half; he pushed the ears further towards the window. His curtains were partially opened, though the window was tightly shut and securely locked. Something out in the dark was softly whispering to him, (William, come out and play). It was kind and inviting (come and see, we’re waiting for you). Should he look? He was so terribly frightened. No, he wouldn’t dare allow his eyes to go there. What he’d seen outside last evening was sending chills down his back. Curiosity then got the better of him (I’ll squint my eyes, just look through the slits), he quickly glanced out the window (Oh thank God), the coast was clear. The voices must have been all in his head. He took a deep sigh of relief and jumped into bed, careful not to kick Charlie and positioned himself on his stomach. He wedged a pillow under his chest, he wanted ultimate comfort and then flipped the cover of the book open. Mr. Homel had assured him that he would love what was contained in this book because it all happened in and around Brunswick. He reached over, grabbed a bag of Skittles and turned on the lamp; he cleaned his glasses and dove in…
There was an ancient history that helped to form the hoary and storied bones of Brunswick. It was its connection to the mythical Mohawk tribe of the Iroquois nation. They were the dominant tribe in, not only Brunswick, but most of the New York region for a thousand years. Their ferocity and strength made them known among the Iroquois as “The Keepers of the Eastern Door.” They fended off other Indians as well as interlopers from across the Atlantic. Like everything else around Brunswick, there was a dark undertone to the history of their Indian ancestors. The Mohawks were most renowned for their cruelty towards other human beings, often ruthlessly torturing war prisoners. There was evil reasons behind their cruelty. You see, the actual name of the Mohawks in the Iroquois language was Kanien’keha:ka; which translated to “Flint Stone Place.” As time went on other tribes renamed them ‘Mohowawog,’ or as the English called them Mohawk; which eerily translated to “Eaters of Men.” Now for the good part, these indigenous people who populated Brunswick and helped to create its wicked mojo, were actually cannibals. Now, these weren’t your run of the mill cannibals, they didn’t digest human flesh for nutritional motivations; instead, there was both a sinister and mystical reasoning. While still alive, Mohawks would slice off pieces of flesh from their victims to barbecue and consume. And when the victim finally died, they would cut out his heart and eat that, while medicine men and priestesses would cup their hands to catch the blood and drink it. What on earth for? Well, so they could ingest the victim’s courage along with his flesh, and blood in the hopes of gaining eternal life…and then there was the legend of Atsi’tsiaka:ion or the Sky woman.
She was the mother goddess of the Iroquois tribes, said to have fallen through a hole in the sky. She was also said to be a Limikkin, which translated to shapeshifter or skin-walker. It was told by the Mohawks that she could change into various animal forms through witchcraft. Like the werewolf, the shapeshifter appeared to be human at times, and at other times took on the aspect of an animal, usually at night. In its animal form, a skin-walker may be virtually anything, including a wolf. According to legend, skin-walkers can have the power to read human thoughts. They also possess the ability to make any human or animal noise they choose. A skin-walker may use the voice of a relative or the cry of an infant to lure victims out of the safety of their homes. A shapeshifter can only be defeated if one can discover his or her human identity. While it is virtually impossible to kill a shapeshifter in human form, there are magical ways to protect oneself and even to kill a shapeshifter. A powerful shaman would perform ceremonies to protect one from the danger of the shapeshifter, or a person going out at night could cover his or her body with corn pollen, cedar ash, or juniper berries. If a person discovered the human identity of a shapeshifter, he could kill the witch. Legend had it that the Sky Woman’s orenda, or magical power, was so great, the only time of the year that she was vulnerable was during the Hunter’s Moon. This occurs only once a year after the Autumn Equinox, which was Halloween. Legend also said that the Sky Woman was not only a shapeshifter, but she had conquered all things unholy and in a monstrous way had successfully discovered the quest for eternal life. To attain this, she needed to find young female girls prior to puberty and to drain their blood, and during that same Hunter’s Moon. It was exactly at that moment that she would be most vulnerable.
The mystical Blood Moon impacts shapeshifters as well. This moon shines infrequently, sometime
s appearing decades apart. While under its gaze the shapeshifter can attain not only eternal youth but also invincibility that is nearly impenetrable. During the eclipse of the blood moon, the monster will pray to the heavens, waving at the moon nine times, and then ravage its sacrifice. It’s the most dangerous time to challenge such a beast…
William closed the book; wow, as Mr. Homel had promised, it had scared the living daylights out of him. He now realized that the evil veil that hung over his town had to be coming from an entity like the Sky Woman. William jumped out of bed and grabbed for his Farmer’s Almanac. He flipped through the pages, it had to be here. He found it on page 231; he carefully checked the phases of the moon again and again. He took a pencil and circled what he had just discovered; it would be a blood moon during this Halloween. My God, how often does that happen? This would be the most malevolent of times. He was so excited that he wanted to call Lilly with the news, but he glanced at the clock, and it was nearly 9:30, it was too late. The anxiety that book had caused kept him from sleeping most the night. He surfed the television channels for something to occupy his mind, but after midnight all he could find was infomercials (a knife that didn’t need sharpening and a frying pan that would never stick), and by two they all switched over to televangelists; all loudly hailing fire and brimstone. One guy in a bad toupee with coke bottle glasses hooped and hollered from a pulpit made from Formica with a lone arrangement of cheap pink and white plastic flowers positioned directly behind his head. He slammed his meaty fists again his flimsy lectern as he raged on,
“My dear friends in Christ, I’m coming to you from the Second, yes I said the Second Evangelist Church of Buffalo!”
A Wistful Tale of Gods, Men and Monsters Page 4
