Read Space and Time Issue 121 Online

Authors: Hildy Silverman

Space and Time Issue 121 (8 page)

BOOK: Space and Time Issue 121
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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 approached 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), S
inister 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?”

I quickly looked back down. The woman—for some reason, I hadn’t noticed her before—was wrinkled and blue-veined, with bright silver hair hanging in a pageboy cut that made her look like some dried-up flapper. She was sitting under the tree in a wooden folding chair, a paperback in one hand. She put the other hand up to shade her eyes and squinted at me from under a blue cotton sun hat. “Are you the new tenant?”

“Excuse me?”

She shook her head in exasperation. “In number 8. Over there, where the bushes are.” She pointed to one of the houses which had a small “For Rent” sign stuck into the tiny lawn.

Oh. Right. I mentally shook myself. “I’m sorry—you must be Mrs. Delaney. Yes, I’m Jerry Dawson. The realty company told me that you’d have the key.”

She stared at me for a very long minute. “I see you’ve noticed the tree,” she said. There was more than a hint of Irish in her accent, speaking of an immigrant childhood, or at least immigrant parents. “What do you think of it?”

I shrugged. “It’s a bit weird-looking for a tree. But then, I like weird.”

Mrs. Delaney smiled and dipped into the pocket of one of the ugliest polyester jackets I’d ever seen. She pulled out a key hanging from a huge paper clip, and tossed it to me. “Take your time,” she said. “I want to finish this chapter.”

The house was indeed small; I’d seen apartments that were larger. The living/dining room and the tiny kitchen were downstairs (with, omigod, a dishwasher); two small bedrooms and a bathroom were upstairs. It was nice. It was a house. I was sold.

But wait, I told myself sternly. Did I want to try to fit into this obviously conservative little enclave? Wouldn’t I be happier in an apartment somewhere where the residents—and the opinions—were a bit more, well, mixed?

Hell no. This was a house. With a dishwasher. And a staircase. And a lawn.

When I went outside, Mrs. Delaney was still sitting under the tree. ”So,” she said, not looking up from her book, “you’ve decided to take the house, have you? Ah, well, that’s lovely. I’m sure you’ll like it here.” 

I offered her the key. “I’ll think about it,” I said, a little miffed at being taken for granted. 

It was obvious that nothing I could say would either offend or impress her. She just waved her hand at the key I was holding out. “Don’t bother,” she said. “Just call the people who gave you the directions and they’ll arrange for the lease. You can move in whenever you like.”

 

* * *

 

She wasn’t joking. I sent in my answer and my references; a two-year lease arrived in the mail the next day. My lawyer glanced at the lease and said it was completely standard. I signed it, faxed it, and two weeks later was watching the movers drive away with a good chunk of my change.

I stood outside my new home and looked around. The Court was quiet; it was a weekday afternoon and all the residents were at work or doing something else. I did see, just for a moment, a lace curtain twitch in the house next to mine, but when I turned to look nobody was there.

I went in, shut the door, and began to unpack.

After a couple of hours, I sat back and contemplated the piles of boxes still on the floor and on my couch. Part of me—the part I inherited from my efficient, no-nonsense mother—said that I should keep unpacking, and that the sooner I got that done, the faster I could get on with my life. The other part wanted to go check out the local bars.

“Nu-uh,” I finally told myself. “You can check out the bars later. Work first.” I reached out to another box.

Then I smelled it. Smoky. Strong. Very unpleasant. It was coming from outside. 

There were two windows in the front wall of the house, one on either side of the door. They were covered by cheap white blinds, which I had left up until I got something a bit snazzier to protect my privacy. I pushed a slat down and peered outside. 

In front of the house next door, the one with the lace curtains, a man was carefully pushing small sticks into his lawn and setting the tip of each on fire with a lighter.

Okay. So I had slightly eccentric people living next door. I was a New Yorker—I could handle eccentric. I decided to ignore the whole thing.

Five minutes later, I decided I couldn’t ignore it. The smell was getting intense, to the point where I had to crank open the back kitchen window and dig out my fan to try to air the place out.

Time to meet the neighbors. I went for the door.

Once outside, I just stood there, not sure what to do or say. The man acted like I wasn’t there—just kept slowly, carefully putting the sticks into the ground and lighting each one. Small plumes of brown smoke drifted up.

I cleared my throat. “Hi, there,” I said, in what I hoped was a conversational tone.

The man turned and stared at me. He was practically a caricature of an aging Brooklyn mook: somewhere in his 70s, with thinning white hair and an impressive paunch. “Hello,” he said, noncommittally, in the sort of gravelly, well-used voice I always associated with construction workers and carpenters.

I walked over to him and stretched out my hand. “Jerry Dawson. I just moved in.”

“Yeah,” he said. “We saw.” He gave my hand a cursory shake. “Bob Halloran.”

“Nice to meet you. I was just wondering...” I got a better look at the sticks he was planting. They were what we used to call punks, bamboo sticks with a brown coating, used to light fireworks.

The man saw me staring and shrugged. “We got an animal problem here. Squirrels, cats—they dig, crap on the lawn. I figure this will keep them away.” He gave a wide wave toward his lawn, which I now saw was mowed down to about a quarter of an inch, so perfectly that the grass might have been painted on. 

“Oh.” I was trying to figure out what to say to this when a large woman with streaked blonde hair and wearing a bright purple track suit came storming out of the house directly across from mine. “Bob Halloran!” she yelled, heading for us like a truck out of control. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I took a step back—she looked like she was planning to plow right into us—but Halloran just narrowed his eyes and stood his ground. “I’m minding my own business, Vivian,” he shouted back. “What is your problem?”

“You know damn well what my problem is,” the woman huffed, stopping just short of the row of smoking punks. “I’ve got two kids coming home from school in half an hour, and all I need is for them to burn themselves on one of these...things.” She made an abortive move to kick one over, then thought better of it and pulled her foot back. 

She looked as though she would have said more, but a thin, white-haired woman wearing curlers and a bright pink apron that read, “Grandma Cooks Great!” came running out of Halloran’s house. “Vivian, what is your problem?” she demanded. “There’s nothing dangerous about punks—you used to play with ‘em when you were a kid, and you know it.”

After that, it became a verbal free-for-all. The three shouted at each other so enthusiastically I wondered whether I should call 911. Suddenly Mrs. Halloran’s eyes widened. She closed her mouth and gave each of the other combatants a quick stab with her forefinger. At this signal, the other two immediately stopped and followed her gaze.

Mrs. Delaney stood a few feet away, her arms folded. “I’m sure they can hear you out in Jamaica Bay,” she stated, quietly but quite firmly. “Certainly, they can smell those foul items.” She nodded at the smouldering punks. “The stench will pollute every living thing in the Court. Bob Halloran, I’d appreciate it if you’d remove them.”

She didn’t wait, but turned and strode briskly back to her house. I turned back to the trio. Vivian just smiled and nodded at me. “Come say hello when you’re ready,” she said, and went back to her own place. The Hallorans glanced at each other, and then quietly started pulling the punks out of their lawn.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t over, though.

A week after the incident with the punks, Halloran installed an electric fence two feet off the ground, which sparked unpleasantly every time a suicidal insect decided to pass by. That lasted until a small black poodle belonging to the elderly lady in the first house on the right ran into it and scurried away uttering a frightened whine. It wasn’t an hour later that a police officer was banging on Halloran’s door and the fence came down.

A couple of weeks after that, Halloran placed several jars of water on his lawn because, he stated categorically, “Cats are afraid of the effect.” Somehow, the cats seemed to have conquered their fear; they saw it as a great place to get a drink, as did the local squirrel population. When a neighbor’s three-year-old managed to spill the contents all over himself, the jars disappeared as well.

For a while after that, things were quiet. I finished most of my major unpacking and dragged the less important stuff down to the basement. I took a couple of days to strip the bedroom of some really vile wallpaper and paint it, and then settled down to make up for all the time I’d lost—as a freelancer, a couple of weeks could make a major difference in my income.

One afternoon, around week 12 of my residence at Bay Court, I was working on a proposal and listening to the voices of some of my neighbors gossiping outside—when the weather was warm, the center courtyard was a social gathering area—when I suddenly heard a sharp yelp and a loud squeal. It sounded almost like a baby screaming. I rushed to the door and stuck my head out.  

Several neighbors were forming a tight circle on Halloran’s lawn, staring at something on the ground. There was another high-pitched, awful squeal that ran up my spine; without thinking, I strode to the circle of people and looked down.

A squirrel lay on the lawn, pawing frantically at the grass, its back leg caught in what looked like an old-fashioned mouse trap. 

“My god,” I said. “What happened?”

“Halloran seeded his lawn with traps,” said Vivian scornfully. She stood there, shaking her head. “He musta done it last night, or somebody would have stopped him. Now look.”

The squirrel’s screams were terrible, but nobody moved. It was as though they were waiting for permission, or the cops, or something. The hell with that—I was still new there, but somebody had to do something. I stepped forward. “Someone get a pair of gloves. Heavy gloves, if you have them.” I looked at Vivian; she nodded and walked quickly back to her place.

BOOK: Space and Time Issue 121
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