Corpse Cold_New American Folklore

by John Brhel

  “I think it scratched me when I asked if you were walking

  around. But then it left after I was quiet for a while. I’m not going to say anything else until the alarm goes off. Just please don’t leave, Joey.”

  “Really? What was it?” I asked. But Jenny didn’t

  respond. Not long after, I heard a low growling from inside the room that my sister occupied. I backed up from the door and considered retrieving my aunt. But I was stuck between my fear of receiving the same punishment as my sister, had I gotten my aunt, and my youthful skepticism regarding the authenticity of the sounds coming from within the room.

  My sister liked to scare me, and had gone to great lengths in doing so over the course of our childhoods.

  I nearly panicked, and backed toward the stairs when I

  heard a shuffling from within the root closet. Then I heard glass tumble and break, and practically jumped onto the

  staircase, ready to make my escape. “Jenny! Are you okay?

  Did the shelf fall?” And as I said it, the wooden door itself began shaking, as if it were trembling from whatever horror

  • 44 •

  CzARNY LUD

  that was taking place inside.

  But I couldn’t leave her, no matter what. She had saved

  me from experiencing whatever was taking place within the

  dark cellar room. I remained still, prone on the staircase, silent, and the door eventually ceased trembling, and the

  noises waned, and I slowly crept back to my place of vigil on the stool. I couldn’t exactly tell time, and was just waiting on that bell to chime so I could free my sister.

  As I waited, terror balled in my drying throat, the likes

  of which I wouldn’t feel again until my first night at Army boot camp. The alarm ringer practically tore my heart from my chest when it went off. I jumped up and immediately

  twisted the bottom latch, then retrieved my stool so I could reach the top latch. And though it took longer than I would have liked, I finally twisted and yanked the latch free from the ring.

  • 45 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  I feared the worst as I rushed to free Jenny. The door

  was light, and it flew open at my over-exuberant tug. My

  sister shuffled out, rubbing her eyes as she got used to the natural light from the cellar windows. Her pale, glazed

  expression was indescribable. To this day, I still say she came out a different person.

  “What happened?” I asked, as I peeked into the small

  root room. Broken glass from six or so Mason jars littered the floor; none remained on the seemingly intact shelving.

  “Did you accidentally knock over those empty jars?”

  She looked me up and down, and for a brief moment it

  felt as if she had to recall who I was. “The jars weren’t empty when I went in.”

  “Huh? What’s up with your arm.” I grabbed her

  forearm and pointed out a long scratch, not exactly deep,

  but certainly fresh.

  “Joey, the jars were full of blueberries when I went in.

  It ate them.”

  I asked Jenny a million questions that day, and the days

  after, but she didn’t go into much detail regarding her time inside the root room. She didn’t say much to Aunt Cecelia

  about her time in the room either—but it was like they

  didn’t have to talk about it. Jenny had learned something about herself that day. When I asked her about the room,

  from time to time, Jenny would simply say that the Czarny

  Lud was very real.

  Soon enough, we were fully invested in our elementary

  school lives, and only saw our beloved Great-Aunt Cecelia

  on holidays and at birthdays. While the memory of those

  days near the tail end of the Summer of ’88 really stuck with me, because of what I didn’t know—the opposite seemed

  to be true for my sister. My parents were bewildered for

  some time by the sudden change. Why their once-fearless

  • 46 •

  CzARNY LUD

  daughter now refused to enter dark rooms, and wouldn’t

  sleep with the light off until her early teenage years.

  • 47 •

  • IV •

  CORpSE COLD

  There was a group of medical students at Binghampton

  College that loathed one of their own—a popular, and

  successful, student named Natalie Zietz. Roxi Gasaway hated Natalie. She was obsessed with the young woman; she made

  up rumors about Natalie, and badmouthed her to all her

  friends. Roxi wanted to hurt Natalie for taking the research position that she believed she had rightfully earned. Not

  only did Roxi resent Natalie for her superior position at

  their medical school, she had seen Natalie out with one of her ex-boyfriends the weekend prior to spring break.

  It was a Friday night in late April, and Roxi was plotting her revenge. She knew Dickie Greene, who dated Natalie’s

  roommate, Jordan, also despised Natalie—likely because

  Natalie had turned him down for dates ever since they were undergrads at Geneseo State.

  “So, Dickie will get Jordan to stay in his room tonight.

  She can’t know because she’ll tell Ms. Zits,” said Roxi, as she and her crew gathered in Dickie’s room on the floor

  above Natalie’s in their dormitory. “While we’re at the bar, Pete and Dave will get the cadaver from Dr. Stone’s morgue and get it into Natalie’s bed. Hopefully, she’ll be drunk

  enough to fall asleep with the stiff.” Everyone laughed.

  “Wait, Roxi. How are we supposed to get a dead body

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  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  across the quad without campus security noticing?” asked

  Pete. “And does Dickie have the key to Jordan and Natalie’s room?”

  Roxi sighed, handing a key to Pete. “This is the Resident

  Director’s key. It will open every room in the medical

  dorm. And I don’t care how you plebs get the cadaver across campus and into her bed; you frickin’ figure it out. Third-year med students have access to just about everything in

  the Vanderwyck Building. Bodybags, stretchers—heck, I’m

  sure Dave could just drive the student ambulance to the

  backdoor of the dorm.”

  Dave nodded. “We’ll figure it out, Roxi. Nat’s a bitch

  and we’re all-in on this.”

  “Couldn’t we just put a severed hand in her closet,

  or an amputated leg under her pillow?” said Kimmie, the

  final member of the group. “A cadaver could get messy, and it might be a felony…”

  Roxi interrupted Kimmie. “Stop! All you have to do is

  keep Natalie drinking with you at the Belmar after Dickie

  takes Jordan home with him.”

  Kimmie eventually relented, giving in to her

  overbearing best friend, and they set Roxi’s plan in motion.

  That evening, around 9 p.m., Natalie and Jordan left for

  their usual Friday night hangout, the Belmar Bar. They

  drank and talked with guys and other medical students for

  hours, before Dickie arrived.

  “Sorry, Nat. I owe him one,” said Jordan, winking at

  her best friend.

  “Keep it safe, girl,” laughed Natalie. She watched

  Jordan leave with her boyfriend, a guy she despised for

  putting her in many uncomfortable situations over the

  years.

  • 50 •

  CORpSE COLD

  Natalie finished her drink, and was about to leave,

  when Kimmie grabbed her by the arm.

  “Hey wait, Nat,” said Kimmie. “Let’s get a drink and

/>   catch up.”

  Natalie hesitated, looking around. She knew Kimmie

  from high school, but she was also wary of the girl, as she hadn’t really spoken to her since she became close friends with Roxi Gasaway. “Um, is Roxi around?”

  Kimmie shook her head.

  “Okay then; let’s drink!”

  The girls talked of high school, and what had become

  of old, mutual friends. Kimmie seemed genuine enough

  to Natalie that she let her guard down, and Natalie drank

  more than she had intended to. It was well after midnight

  by the time the girls left the bar. They walked back to the medical dorm together and parted ways in the stairwell, as they lived on different floors.

  Natalie unlocked her door and didn’t even bother

  flipping on the lights, stumbling into her room. She

  undressed, got into bed, and fell right to sleep.

  Roxi, Pete, and Dave intercepted Kimmie as she came up

  the stairs. “Dickie has Jordan in his room. The body is in place,” stated Roxi, giddily. “Let’s all go down and wait for her to lose her shit!”

  The foursome hurried down the stairs, and hung out

  in the student lounge, which was within earshot of Natalie’s room. They waited a few minutes in silence, anticipating

  the climax of their complicated plan. After twenty minutes had passed, Roxi began to get antsy. “Are you two sure you put the cadaver in the right room?”

  “Yeah, we’re not exactly idiots,” whispered Pete.

  Roxi took the key and went out to the hallway, while her

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  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  friends watched from the lounge. She looked both ways,

  then went to Natalie’s door, listening for a few minutes

  before unlocking it and peeking inside. Roxi then closed

  the door and returned to the lounge, visibly upset.

  “You fuckups! You put the cadaver in Jordan’s bed!” said Roxi, visibly upset, but still trying to keep her voice low.

  “Goddamn, Roxi. The guy was a fatty,” said Pete. “We

  must’ve got turned around. He was heavy and we were in a

  hurry.”

  “Shut up! Let’s go back upstairs and figure this out,”

  said Roxi.

  They went to Pete and Dave’s room and talked over

  their options.

  “Maybe we should just get the corpse and put it back,

  Roxi,” said Kimmie.

  “No! It’s too late. We’re already invested, and we’re

  going to get this bitch back for wrecking my life!” said Roxi.

  Dave really wanted to impress Roxi. He had an idea.

  “Pete’s got this sick hunting knife under his mattress.”

  “I’m listening,” said Roxi.

  “What if I go into Nat’s room and act like I’m Ted

  Bundy, stabbing up co-eds in their beds?”

  Roxi laughed. “Fucking perfect, dude. Stab that

  fucking corpse and make her think you’re stabbing her best friend—she’ll shit her bed thinking she’s next! ”

  They talked over the logistics for the next hour. Dave,

  dressed in black, put a knit cap on his head and a dark

  bandana over his face. They all returned to the lounge on

  the floor below and readied Dave for his murderous debut.

  “Okay, no one’s around. Keep the knife hidden and

  unlock the door—go in, and make fucking sure that you don’t stab Natalie,” said Roxi, pausing to think over the strategy and the inherent dangers within. “Actually, she’s probably

  • 52 •

  CORpSE COLD

  sleeping pretty heavily—so shake her to wake her up, then

  go over and start stabbing the corpse. When she starts

  screaming, chase her out of the room with the knife and

  just run back upstairs to your room.”

  Dave nodded. They were all a little scared, that is,

  everyone except for Roxi. She felt a small, dark bliss welling up from the pit of her stomach, in anticipation of Natalie’s reaction.

  Dave unlocked the door, entering quietly. The room

  was darker than he would have liked, but he could make

  out forms in each bed. He crept toward the bed on the left, like Roxi had said, and heard a light snoring. He grabbed

  Natalie by the nape of her neck, and shook her until he

  could make out the whites of her eyes from the little light that shone from the walkway lamps out on the quad.

  Natalie mumbled something as she awoke, and Dave

  got into position across the room at the foot of the other bed. She quietly turned over onto her elbow, and stared at the dark form in her room. Before she could make a sound,

  Dave began stabbing at the body in the other bed, wildly

  thrusting into the corpse, watching for Natalie’s reaction as the knife plunged in, the mattress below him creaking.

  The young woman’s screams were deafening—shrill,

  piercing, life-altering screams. Dave was startled, not quite expecting the intensity of Natalie’s cries. He jumped up,

  forgetting about his plans to threaten Natalie, and ran

  from the room, now terrified at getting caught.

  Natalie didn’t move; she continued screaming until

  the entire hall came to her door. Campus security was on

  the scene within minutes. They corralled everyone out

  into the quad while they figured out what was going on—

  assuming there was an active, knife-wielding attacker on

  the premises.

  • 53 •

  CORpSE COLD

  While the students milled about outside the dorm,

  Kimmie noticed a groggy Dickie stumbling out the front

  doors. She ran over to him, and her friends saw and

  followed.

  “Dickie! Where’s Jordan?!” said Kimmie.

  “Oh god, don’t yell—my head’s pounding,” said Dickie.

  Roxi grabbed Dickie by his t-shirt and restated

  Kimmie’s question.

  “What?! We had a fight and she went back to her room,”

  said Dickie, smiling to himself, still intoxicated. “She was being a real bitch. Just like her roommate. Ha! Whatever happened with the cadaver and all that?”

  No one responded. Roxi ran to the dorm entrance,

  but she was held back by a policeman.

  “Nope. Wait out here, sweetheart,” said the officer.

  “Make way! Make way!” He pushed Roxi and her friends

  aside, as two stretchers were brought out of the building.

  The first carried a rotund, lifeless corpse under a white

  sheet. The second held the body of a young woman who

  had been stabbed to death in her bed.

  Roxi began sobbing when she saw the bloodstained

  sheet over the girl on the second stretcher. She looked

  Natalie in the eye, as Natalie walked past, accompanying her murdered roommate to the waiting ambulance. Roxi had

  gotten what she wanted. Natalie had been hurt, certainly

  traumatized, and would never again be the model student,

  or person, that Roxi had once detested.

  • 55 •

  • V •

  AmITYVILLE BEACH

  My son Jesse was acting especially strange that afternoon

  at the beach—even for a ten-year-old boy who was ‘on

  the spectrum.’ He was waving his hands, jumping up and

  down in the surf, trying to get my attention. It was Fourth of July Weekend, and I couldn’t tell what he was looking at, as the beach was really crowded. He was trying to point out something, and was growing frustrated that I couldn’t see

  what he needed me to see.

  I wa
s trying to change his little sister, Missy. She was

  flailing around in the hot sand, refusing to put on her

  bathing suit. The kind of attitude that only a four-year-old would cop on her first-ever trip to the ocean. It’s hard being a single parent and taking your young kids on vacation.

  You imagine making the sort of memories that might last a

  lifetime—and then they act out, fight, and whine the entire time. Still, I had one eye out for my son. And I was doing my best to make sure he didn’t wade out too deep, as I had heard that the rip current was strong that afternoon.

  Eventually, he accepted that he wasn’t going to get his

  message across, and ran to where we had set up for the day.

  “Mom! There’s a lady who looks just like you a little

  way down the beach! And she saw me!” He leaned over,

  huffing and puffing from his exertion. Seawater ran from

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  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  his sodden, navy-blue board shorts and down his spindly

  legs.

  “Relax, dude,” I replied, as I finally maneuvered the

  straps of Missy’s swimsuit over her shoulders. “You want a drink or something?”

  “Mom! She was even wearing khaki shorts and a white

  top!”

  I looked around, to humor him. It was uncomfortably

  crowded that afternoon, but not all that hot for Long Island in early July. “Jesse, half of the women here are wearing

  khaki shorts and white tops over their bathing suits.”

  “Christ! It’s really weird.”

  “Don’t cuss!”

  He sat down and drank a soda for a few minutes while

  Missy occupied herself in the sand. I finally had the chance to crack open my copy of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse.

  “Mom, can we drive past the ‘Amityville Horror’

  house?”

  I couldn’t help but sigh—and at times like this, a sigh is more a warning than an expression of frustration. “If you

  behave today, and give me a chance to read a little, we can drive past those poor folks’ home.” He grinned. Cute kid.

  “How would you like it if people stopped in front of your bedroom window, most every day of the year?”

  “I think I’d be more worried about the poltergeists

  inside!”

  It wasn’t a half-hour later when my wish had finally been

  granted. My feet were buried in the sand as I reclined in my beach chair, thirty pages into my novel. Missy slept under a towel beside me, and Jesse frolicked in the waves, close to shore. I couldn’t help but laugh. In a few years, he wouldn’t be caught dead out in public that carefree and completely