Ghost Rider: Stories by Jonathan Lowe

by Jonathan Lowe

  He forced himself to descend. His heart quickened at the prospect at being caught. But what could the old man do? Call the police? He didn't have a phone. Jamie grinned, feebly. If he wanted, he could clean the place out, chuck his mattress, and check into the YMCA. Looking around, however, he decided there was probably nothing worth stealing except the wood.

  In the living room he switched on the light. It certainly was warm, he thought, noting the filament space heater which stood beside one discolored wall. He stepped over the scattered newspapers to the card table, and put his hand into the aquarium. The straw at the bottom was also spotted, damp. Four other aquariums, their glass lids ajar, lined the hardwood floor.

  He went back into the kitchen, not knowing what to do. In the silence the old, battered Frigidaire—which in Jamie's apartment was used to store wood—coughed into a wheezing hum. He grasped the rusted handle firmly and pulled it open.

  At first he didn't know what he was looking at. Then the smell hit him. Beneath a 25 watt appliance bulb and stretched across two bent wire-mesh shelves lay the bloody hindquarters of a freshly killed animal, wrapped loosely in plastic. By the feet, he guessed dog. Blundering back into the stove, he also saw that below this were various fruits and vegetables—carrots, onions, bananas, oranges,and apples. None of these were even remotely fresh.

  Letting the door swing shut, he stooped and turned away, tightly closing his eyes. When he opened them again he was looking into the grate, where he could see sawed sections of bones propping open the flue. The ash was very white. So white that the image did not fade when, briefly, he closed his eyes even tighter.

  He stood, looking up at the trap. He was beginning to feel nauseous now. Then, as he was about to ascend, he noticed the closed pantry door. Not wanting to, but feeling compelled, he paused to twist the knob and nudge the door open with his foot.

  The shelves inside were lined with skulls. Canine and feline. Beneath a row of glasses were several stacks of torn magazines. Glossy photos of nude women. He kneeled almost involuntarily, reaching for a small skull among others. Practically indistinguishable, except by shape.

  The skull of a baby.

  He turned it over and over in his hands, staring as if at a relic. Then the rush of blood as he stood was accompanied by three sick plunges in his throat, and he dropped it, absently. It fell onto a burlap sack and rolled off against the particle board at the back ... Had it come to this? He staggered backward. His chest felt as if someone had hit him. Clutching his throat and looking down, he saw that the vomit-stained sack in the pantry was moving. He glanced quickly around for something, anything! A knife from the sink—he poked it at the sack. The sack flapped, once, twice. Angrily, he flailed at it. Again, the burlap seemed to respond to the attack, this time by folding in on itself and emitting a very low mewing sound. Appalled, he lifted it with the knife. Beneath the sack was a bat. It's wings had been cut out, like sails from rigging. The bat had a dog's face, like a Pekingese.

  It was a vampire.

  He heard movement in the yard. Glancing out, he saw that it was only a stray dog, emaciated, alone. But the distraction broke his attention and allowed him to flee. He climbed up into the attic, frantically, and pulled the trap shut behind him. There were the wooden boxes. He scrambled back to his own side, heedless.

  In his apartment he paced, back and forth, from front door to kitchen. Should he go to the police? What would he say? Done with waiting, he decided to confront Mr. Repler first. Or at least to follow him.

  He traced the route he'd seen the old man take down Ferris street to the train depot. Passing an auto graveyard, he watched as a gray sedan was lowered into the crusher. Beside the giant crane was a hooded man haloed in sparks, welding something. Wistfully, Jamie imagined that it might have been him.

  As morning slipped into afternoon he found it harder to concentrate on the images troubling him, and he sought company at the Brown Derby pool hall. The Texan from the employment office was there, straddling a worn leather stool, waiting. Smoke drifted lazily. Had constant need to survive broken Mr. Repler's sanity? Or, Jamie mused, was it the loneliness at being discarded as no longer productive? Perhaps the old man was only a victim now, like so many who'd let dignity slip away one glance at a time. Somehow, though, he knew the explanation wasn't adequate. He was rationalizing.

  He left the Brown Derby and went to the YMCA to inquire about a room. The director was curt in dismissing him. Would he try again next week? Would he consider the floor of the gym for tonight?

  He walked the gray streets for miles. Twilight came on subtly, in imperceptible gradations. Passing a policeman writing a ticket to a teenager in a dark blue Camaro, he paused. But they were arguing now. With a contemptuous gesture toward both, he walked on under the cloud-crowded sky. Nearer his apartment, he saw an old alcoholic climbing stairs into a bar, steadying himself on the rail. Through the window of a service station he saw where a tired attendant saw in a wooden chair, head in hands, with only a credit card imprinter and a symmetrical stack of oil cans visible in the bare room.

  As he approached the house, his anxiety increased. Should he try to stay at the Mission? Brother Shoemaker would be sure to notice him, though. If he appeared too conspicuous, or they were forced to make too much fuss over him, he would be surely labeled as a freeloader. Being unable to blend in with the other transients, then, he'd be denied meals in the future.

  Seeing no light in Mr. Repler's windows, he went in and found his own room similarly dark and cold. Cursing himself inwardly for not remembering to get wood, he lit a candle and listened at the pantry door. Nothing. Dimly, he imagined himself stealing some of the old man's wood. But the thought of crawling over there again repulsed him. Instead he glanced up at the trap.

  Through a minute crevice, due to the misalignment of the door, he saw light in the attic. But hadn't he turned it off that morning? Of course he had. His breath caught in his throat. His arms sagged, and the candle was gutted. The thin band of light now split the room like a razor.

  He stood for what seemed a lifetime, listening. But he could hear nothing but the faint sweep of traffic along the distant bypass. Where were those people going? he wondered. Somewhere safe, probably. Safe and warm.

  Slowly, his hand reached for the dangling chain. He drew the trap down an inch at a time. At least his didn't squeak.

  He peered up, apprehensively. The attic was empty. Even Mr. Repler's boxes, whatever they might once have contained, were gone. Suddenly, he realized that the old man had moved out.

  He crawled across, pausing now and again to listen. And there cautiously descended into the dark kitchen.

  A low and now thinly-veiled moon illuminated an empty sink. The pantry door was open and murky. He tried the switch but nothing happened. Perhaps he'd taken the light bulbs too, forgetting about the one in the attic.

  He walked through the living room to the front door. Nothing impeded his progress. No bed, table, or aquariums. He tried the door and found it locked. A double-keyed deadbolt.

  Returning to the kitchen, he had begun stacking the remaining cordwood across his left arm when he felt it. A slight pull of air. Puzzled, he stopped for a moment, and then, horrified, realized that he'd neglected to lock his own front door. A sound like shuffling, although exaggerated through the traps and the cold, conductive medium of the attic, came to him hushed. In terror, he considered the possibility that the reverse might also be true, and numbed by the thought, cradled the wood in his arm like a sleeping baby. Then the silence returned, as if he'd just imagined it all. Or were they both waiting, listening?

  Blood hammered his temples, a sluggish throbbing that was enough to erase the feeble sounds of traffic. He clamped shut his eyes and tried to think of a face. His mother's, busy about the stove? His father's, driving him around the block in his striped yellow taxi? No ... Those images wouldn't hold, kept shifting. He saw instead the blurred faces of street people. Faces which appeared on corners for a day, or a week, tha
t just when you thought you knew them would vanish and be replaced. He saw Mr. Repler's face too, or what he could remember of it. How old might such a face be? Sixty? Eighty? Eight hundred?

  He smiled at the thought. But not long.

  He could hear the mumbling now. Distinct, unmistakable. When he realized it was not coming from inside his own head, and that something was indeed moving through the attic above him, he dropped the wood back across the pile and went to the front windows. But they were tight, shut on rusted hasps. The handle would not budge.

  He stepped back and kicked. One pane shattered. Jagged pieces hung from the mildewed frame. He kicked again. This time the frame cracked and another pane exploded into fragments. But the pieces would not fall out. The struck the woven mesh screen and heaped in a pile, like shards of ice in moonlight.

  The breeze which wafted around him chilled him, and he turned. Mr. Repler's mouth bore a twisted, almost toothless grin where he stood in the middle of the room, facing him. His fingers worked on undoing his heavy black coat. Jamie pulled back one fist, instinctively.

  "You get out of here, old man,” he said, his voice almost pleading.

  Repler's smile faded, not really a smile at all. His face seemed suddenly older—old and pathetically tired. “I've almost made it,” he said, hoarsely. “But the help I've had isn't enough."

  "You're still sick,” Jamie agreed, “whatever help you've had."

  "That's why I've come back to you,” said Repler. “To see if I can be ... like you. Did you turn me in?"

  "I should have. Maybe I still will."

  "Will you?” the old man asked, opening his coat.

  Inside, surrounding his thin and haggard frame—as if in protection—were nestled hundreds of bats, hanging wingless, close. Their eyes reflected red, dully. Their faces were twisted miniatures of Repler's own face, piteous but rapacious.

  As Jamie groped for a piece of jagged glass behind him, they waited for his reply.

  THE NEXT BESTSELLER

  (originally published in Blue Murder magazine)

  August 2

  Dear Sir,

  While we at Stillwater Press appreciate your considering us as a possible publisher for your “latest potential bestseller,” we nonetheless find it inappropriate for our audience, which consists mainly of formerly devout Catholics in search of inner peace as they leave the faith to follow humanistic, non-religious lifestyles. In other words, we do not publish advice or self help books purportedly rendered by fictitious and/or mythic gods or goddesses. Your suggested title ZEUS COMES OUT, while amusing, would hardly resonate with our readers, nor would any of the other titles which you propose for the book, such as THE WORLD ACCORDING TO ZEUS, or ZEUS ON MARS—AND VENUS, or ZEUS VISITS MAIN STREET—AND WALL STREET, and especially not CHICKEN SOUP, ANYONE?—FAVORITE RECIPES FROM MT. OLYMPUS. No doubt you have tried all the major publishing houses with your “latest potential bestseller” under these and other titles, and they too have turned you down. And so you have come to us, now, desperate but perhaps naive, thinking that we are somehow naive as well.

  Normally, as you must be painfully aware, when a publisher rejects a book, it returns the book with a pre-printed form rejection letter or slip, sometimes of pastel color, saying what I am saying here: ie., that it “doesn't meet our needs at this time.” I am taking the time to write you this letter because you may not be getting the message, even after receiving a sufficient number of such rejection letters to compress into slow burning logs and keep a family of four warm for the Montana winter. What am I saying? Simply that no one is going to publish this book, sir. Do you understand? No one. Not Bantam, not Warner, not HarperCollins, not Aardvark Press of Newark. Not even St. Martins. If you want it published, I suggest calling the 800 number to Vantage Press, and getting out your checkbook. Although I must tell you, even they may be reluctant. For whoever publishes your “latest potential bestseller,” it will inevitably be used as fill under freeways once it bombs on the thrift shop circuit at ten cents a copy.

  Somehow I feel the need to emphasize this, and to rephrase it for you. You will never be on Oprah either, sir. Trust me. You won't even be reviewed by the Wickenburg Sentinel or the Clucksbury Gazette. The only radio you will ever be heard on is Channel 14, but only if you happen to own a CB. The truckers who hear you will probably switch to Channel 15, or tune in Waylon Jennings on the AM once they hear whatever title you ultimately arrive at choosing. Am I getting through to you yet? If I didn't have a conscience, I would suggest a book doctor or editorial service which will charge you two thousand dollars only to make your manuscript even less marketable, but many of those people are now either in jail or under indictment.

  Give it up, sir, and get a life! You do not need to do this to yourself. Did you know there are literally hundreds of thousands of bored housewives, plumbers, sales clerks, bartenders, and college professors who, just like yourself, also hope to add “published author” to their name, and are willing to give up their other identities, their free time, their hobbies, their friends, and even their religions to do it? Do you have any idea how many people are writing books and screenplays, many of which are actually good, but which will never, ever see the light of day? Here's the bottom line: If you're not famous already—if someone would not actually go out of their way for your autograph already—you have a better chance playing the lottery, sir. That's the truth, or the Pope's not Catholic. And I'm talking about if you have a good book to sell, which you and half a million other people just like you do not. Do you understand any of this?

  We are a tiny press, sir, with a niche audience. By “we,” of course, I mean just me and my wife Allison, when she isn't selling real estate or burping the baby. If I thought you had a creamsickle's chance in hell of having a “potential bestseller” here, do you not think that I would snatch it and buy it instead of using the time I've set aside for cutting the grass to write you this letter? Why am I doing this? I am asking myself this question, now. Call it charity, a favor. You owe me big time, I think, sir. In fact, I've just now decided to do you yet another monumental favor by destroying your manuscript instead of returning it. The U.S. Postal Service and my ex-lawyer Bernie both tell me that anything which I receive unbidden in the mail becomes my property to do with as I please. I can only pray that you do not possess another copy of this “potential bestseller” to continue your charade, and I do not want to know if you do. I will sleep better that way, my service to humanity realized.

  Someday you will, perhaps, thank me for curing you of this addiction, sir, which can be just as overwhelming and time-wasting as sports addictions or counting one's rosaries. Let us leave the bestseller lists to the famous, the lucky, and moderately gifted, and get on with our lives, shall we? I see no other way to maintain sanity in an unfair, superficial, and illiterate world.

  Sincerely, regretfully, mercifully,

  Simon O. Schwartz, publisher

  * * * *

  August 9

  Dear Editor,

  I've enclosed a copy of the potential bestseller I believe you've been looking for all your life. It's title is, simply, YING AND YANG'S GUIDE TO LIFE AND DEATH. I've been working for 48 hours without sleep or food, and am now satisfied that this is my final draft. It feels complete, and so do I.

  Hopefully yours,

  Walter H. Pascot, Jr.

  * * * *

  August 15

  Dear Mr. Pascot,

  I believe we have passed on this manuscript before. The title has changed, as have the characters to whom you imbue your bizarre viewpoints on various aspects of family life, the arts, religion, and philosophy. I would suggest that you consult an editorial service or book doctor to get your thoughts in line, and I would be happy to suggest one for you. However, we at Hammonds-Rickter Publishing of Omaha will have to decline this {and all future correspondence} from you. Best of luck to you in the future as you continue to pursue your literary career.

  Cordially yours,

  B
ernard Apperson, editorial assistant {and ex-lawyer}

  * * * *

  August 29

  Dear Editor,

  Enclosed find my manuscript titled THE 12 STEP PROGRAM FOR SPORTS FANATICS. It has the potential to be a bestseller, as you will soon see. Do you have any idea how many people—how many plumbers, bankers, sales clerks, and chimney sweeps are addicted head over heels to sports? It is totally insane, what people are doing to themselves. And for what? Just to watch some overpaid “god” or “goddess” toss a ball into a goal? There are other things in life to think about besides sports, and we need to get back to those things. Now, at last, here's help!

  Game, Set, and Match?

  Walter H. Pascot, Jr.

  * * * *

  Sept. 4

  Dear Mr. Pascot,

  We enjoyed reading the opening to your book, but we here at Dobbs Ford/Honda/Jeep primarily publish car owners manuals and not literary works to be sold in bookstores. May I suggest calling Vantage Press, in your telephone book's yellow pages? Hope that helps.

  Best,

  Eddie Hatcher, printer's apprentice

  PS} Your book's title doesn't seem to match the manuscript you sent us. Not much about sports here, just other stuff. What's wrong with sports, anyway?

  * * * *

  Sept. 18

  Dear Editor,

  Enclosed find my latest manuscript, titled THE OFFICIAL GANG GRAFFITI FIELD GUIDE. As you know, the symbols found scrawled on buildings and subway cars can sometimes be indecipherable. You can't stop it, so why not try to understand it? Surprisingly, these “young punk taggers” are really misunderstood artists and poetic philosophers with real points of view, which they are trying to express. Craving a meaningful identity and some meaning in life, they too deserve to be heard, and to have their language interpreted. Here in this book everything is explained, allowing both the layman and streetwalker alike to learn as much as if they had graduated from gang skool in the ‘hood. Certainly, given the millions spent on graffiti cleanup each year, this book will be the next bestseller. So...