Purgatory: Episode I
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Purgatory: Episode I
Mark Tompkins
Published by Undead Literature
Copyright © 2014 Mark Tompkins
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any semblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Edited by Josh “Shotgun” Parsons.
Cover Art: Virgin of Carmel Saving Souls in Purgatory by an unknown artist.
This story is dedicated to ELana Tompkins.
Purgatory
I lived in Freeport, Florida. It was a small town back then so it was entirely possible for anyone passing by to recognize me standing outside the theater just before it burned to the ground. I kept my flashlight off, stuck to the shadows and constantly checked my surroundings. There was no one around, at least as far as I could see. I stood still, letting my eyes adjust and looking for movement out of the corner of my eye, I’ve always found my vision is better that way at night. I had hedged my bets, the theater had been abandoned for years and it was two in the morning on a weeknight; it was a pretty safe bet that no one would be awake to see me.
I walked down the sidewalk, a grey strip in the dark illuminated by the light of the full moon. The theater was lit up by Mother Nature on the very night it would go up in flames. It felt very theatrical and my excitement ramped up a notch at the simple irony of it all. The tall clumps of grass growing through the cracks in the sidewalk brushed early morning dew on my cuffs and wet the top of my socks. I reached the theater’s double wooden doors and pulled the crowbar from my long coat. Winter was mild in Florida, but it was still cold enough a coat wouldn’t seem out of place if I had been seen.
The door was held by a simple hasp held together with a padlock, but not for long. I placed the forked end of my crowbar behind the latch and yanked downward. The hasp failed to come off all the way. It took another solid yank to free it from the door and it made a lot of noise in the still of the night. I instinctively bolted around the side of the theater. I didn’t know if anyone heard the racket I’d made, but several dogs began barking down the street. I waited a few minutes and heard a man tell the dogs to shut up or he was going to do something horrible to them. The dogs acquiesced after a few more barks, as if to say, “I’ll shut up, but not until I get in a few extra barks just to let you know who’s really the boss.”
After the dogs quieted, I returned to the front of the theater and opened one of the doors. It was made of solid wood, built during a time when the quality of construction materials actually meant something. Green paint flaked off as my hand grazed its surface and a sharp pain lanced into my finger as I was pricked by a splinter. I’d have to dig it out later. I closed the door as much as possible, but the broken handle kept it from latching. I turned my flashlight on and spied an old black ashtray standing at attention by a frayed red velvet rope. I pressed its heavy base flush against the door as a jam. I had locked myself in as much as I could and it felt wonderful. The windows were boarded up, so if anyone happened by, my flashlight wasn’t going to be seen. I relaxed as the dread of being caught eased.
I shone the flashlight around the room, awed by the treasures there. It was as if everyone left their seats and walked out the door en masse, not bothering to take anything with them. Empty popcorn buckets rested on the glass counter which was dirty but still whole. I marveled that the glass was unbroken after all these years. No kid could have resisted the lure of so much intact glass in an abandoned building. Had no one but me had the urge to enter this place?
This place felt full of ghosts, the residue of the crowds of people that had thronged here, seeking respite from their work week. Large drink cups lay scattered around like dead soldiers in the aftermath of a battle. Cobwebs reflected the light, blurring the lines between the ceiling and walls and hiding God knows what kind of creatures. I imagined huge spiders watching me with interest, upset with me for bringing in the stinging light, but happy to have real food delivered after so many years.
The carpet whispered under my feet as I walked towards the glass counter. Underfoot felt weird, as if the material was not there at all and I shined the light onto it. The fabric was worn threadbare and afforded no cushion against the cement floor underneath. Investigating a brown patch, I found mushrooms growing from the disgusting cloth. The bright and colorful designs from the carpet’s heyday were replaced by dingy grays and browns. I briefly wondered if the mushrooms were the poisonous kind. If I ate them, would I hallucinate and die or just vomit after my stomach tried to digest them? Maybe they were perfectly fine to eat, but I didn’t think so and I pushed those thoughts from my mind. Why did I think about those kinds of things? I guess all people do, especially kids; it’s just what they do. It’s what makes them young, impulsive and stupid.
I pulled a candle and lighter from my coat pocket. I lit the candle and watched as the flame came to life. The flickering shadows on the wall enhanced the sense of ghosts in the old building, but I didn’t care; it was beautiful. Fire always made me feel happy and that time was even more special. I had never attempted to burn down something that big before. My biggest accomplishment until the theater was my neighbor’s gazebo. The fire department thought sparks from his grill had set the fabric on fire. The true story was this, when he went inside the house I flicked a match over the fence at the screen. I was just playing and never seriously thought the screen would ignite, but it did, in big fashion. The nylon screening went up in a flash and in seconds, the entire gazebo was alight. I think my neighbor was suspicious of me. He never looked at me the same way after that, but he couldn’t prove anything so things just stayed uncomfortable between us.
Burning the theater would be my greatest achievement, but it was dampened by the fact that I couldn’t tell anyone about it. I couldn’t share the joy with even my best friend. He would tell on me; it’s what normal kids do. I didn’t hold that against him, but I always hoped one day I would find someone just like me to share my adventures with. So far, that search has been fruitless.
With the lit candle in one hand and the flashlight in the other, I mounted the wide creaking stairs, walking carefully and checking for loose or weak steps. I alighted into a large hallway. Deteriorating, tattered curtains failed in their attempt to cover the arched openings leading to the second floor seating area. Several were pulled back or missing which afforded me a view into the bulk of the theater’s main room. The huge mass of open air seemed too big to fit into a building and it made my heart flutter to look off the balcony into the inky blackness below. My little flashlight’s feeble attempt to pierce the darkness across the abyss failed miserably and the other side of the second floor seating stayed hidden.
I crossed the hall and entered the projection room. The old projector was gone and the only evidence it had been there at all was the clean square on the floor where its bulk prevented spilled soft drinks and dropped candy from staining the concrete. I looked out the small hole where the images had shot towards the screen and imagined what it was like to visit this palace during its days of glory. I wondered how many celebrities had graced the now torn and tattered silver screen. Hundreds? Thousands? The enormity of it all humbled me and for a brief moment, I had second thoughts.
Should I destroy all of this history? I posited, this was much more than just a building; it was a repository of memories. It was the bas-relief of times past, carved on the walls of history one guest at a time, one actor at a time, one movie at a time, layer after layer. On the other hand, no one had been there in years. Maybe I would be putting the spirits of that place to rest by igniting the building. Besides, my lust for fire needed to b
e sated. After careful consideration, I realized my work had to continue. Out of selfishness or sense of duty I knew not, but as I gazed into the hallway, I realized that old glory no longer existed. The ghosts were no more; that place was full of emptiness and nothing. It was dark and devoid of energy, silent, brooding and awaiting an end. It began to seem my duty to lay this building to rest. I wasn’t able to bury it, but I could cremate it. It would be a much more fitting end to that grand building than continuing to let it grow old with cancerous rot bringing it to its knees. Yes, that building needed me to set it free and that is exactly what I was going to do.
That old theater was going to have one last climactic finale; I would reignite the energy in the old, dead place. I touched the candle flame to the wispy