(Brooklyn Bridge – historic Tobacco Warehouse – Photo and Photoshopped by Joe)

Okay, I’m back after a hiatus from posting. Who cares, right? No one. I sure as heck don’t.

Anyway, things haven’t been going so well on my side of the fence. I’ve been living at my boss Nick’s house, yet not going to work (though I do drag my butt out for job estimates). You’d think after weeks of not showing up at the job sites, Nick would say something, but to him I’m as inanimate as the couch or the table or the chairs. I don’t know who or what he cares about other than gambling, it sure ain’t me. I did ask him one college-football-Saturday if he wanted me to move out, and he just waved for me to move away from the TV. The man’s a stone. Whatever.

Most days I’ve been sleeping into the afternoon, and in the evenings I usually head over to this seaport dive on the Brooklyn side of the East River. I won’t say where the bar is exactly, except that it’s just outside the glitzy(to me it’s glitzy!) Brooklyn Bridge Park area, while the door to the place is three steps from one of my favorite views of the bridge. It’s a bar where you can really immerse yourself in the moment. The patrons tend to be euphoric and unbridled, particularly after midnight when rough-hewn characters begin to slip in among the crowd of slick-heeled wannabes. The dregs make a game of leering at the ladies, who don’t seem to mind much, though some give dagger-eyed looks. These men also love to violently cry out, sing, and yowl. I can hardly tell a word apart, or if they are truly singing or yelling at one another. Most peculiar is that although everyone sees and hears the dregs, they appear ghost-like, as they breeze in and out of the bar as if on jets of air. It’s no wonder that in looking back the day after, the night spent in the place always seems like a dream.

After one especially long night there, Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” popped up on me as I plodded to the subway. I can’t remember much of what he said, something about me having to change my ways, that I was on the path to becoming irrevocably nocturnal. It was all blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Oh, he also said that I was messing with the type of forces that lure in the mind, only to consume the body. Whatever. I haven’t talked to him about it since. Though the next day he did orchestrate a meeting between me and my estranged lady friend(LF). I was dying to see her, and didn’t want her mad at me anymore. Benny even came along and did a lot of the talking. He really helped smooth things over between us.

-

In the week or so since LF and I have been back together, I haven’t gone to that seaport dive. Plus I’ve been working everyday and even going to the gym. She is my everything. I know that, and so do my readers. I won’t go into our reunion, though you can read about our breakup. It wasn’t my fault. A trickle of demon blood made me sick. Read Episode Thirty-Four and Episode Thirty-Five, if you want to know all about it.

Otherwise, because of the dose of demon blood from that runt of a kid I met at the “House on the River’s Edge“, I do get sick now and again. When it happens, besides the fact that I get a little nutty, my extrasensory perception sharpens. Though you’d be surprised, things get very clouded, and I usually have to search the streets really hard to see a ghost or true spirit matter. As far as the nuttiness, I won’t go on about it, except to say that no one should fear me. I don’t want to bite anyone. And I don’t get that crazy, so long as LF is with me. I trust in her, and know after a few hours, I’ll be fine.

Unfortunately, Since LF’s in my life again, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) are back stepping on my tail. Not having seen them in two months, they appear more primitive and bizarre than ever. They seem thrust from a TV commercial, or sprung from the pages of a fashion magazine. They both work hard to evoke fashion-conscious personas; whether they’re on a street corner, at a bar, or at the dinner table waiting for a helping of garlic mashed potatoes, corn, cranberries, stuffing, and gravy, those two love to pose with pouty mouths and affected gestures. They are whacked, plain and simple.

-

Today is my first day back living in the old apartment with LF and num and nuts. In a little while the four of us plus Benny are going out to dinner. Afterwards, Benny wants me to meet someone who can offer some insight into NYC’s darkest paranormal secrets. It’s partly because I’ve been toying with writing a book on the subject. The old man thinks that’s a great idea, especially because he’s always telling me that I need to learn more about the supernatural to help myself. Benny says this person is someone who has lived many past lives, yada, yada. I don’t care. And as far as the book, I’ll be upfront and honest with you like I always am, I want to write it so I can make a few extra greenbacks. E-books are easy to do.

So, whatever, I’m really hungry and can’t wait to stuff my pie hole.

But I will say that I owe Benny one for bringing LF back into my life. I know I complain about the old man, and always say how I don’t trust him because he’s doesn’t tell me all he knows, but now I’m truly indebted to the bastard, that is, at least until I pay for his dinner tonight.

Thanks for reading.

Your friend,

Bald Punk aka Joe

P.S. I’m happy to be back blogging with you.

P.P.S.S. To that person from the Bronx with the demon problem, sorry I couldn’t help you directly, but let me know if my suggestions were of any help?

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Caged walkway/uncredited – Photoshopped by Joe)

As the night wore on, the sickness took my thoughts, my emotions, and then my breath. Soon after I began to slide, first off the couch I had been lying on, then down through a colorless abyss. Ineffably, the living, breathing, sentient world, was all around me, yet I was not part of it. I was dead inside, and was somehow being mocked by the forces of life. I remember being touched by a paralyzing sadness that didn’t penetrate my skin…

-

I woke to find that I was on my feet and already in motion. I blinked repeatedly as I tried to get my head right. I was on a dark city street. Rows of gray buildings loomed heavily. Twinkling lights were scattered all around, even hanging in midair. It looked like 50-something Street by 1st or 2nd Ave, but I can’t say for certain.

It took a moment to realize that I moved through a caged walkway, perched about 6 or 7 feet above the sidewalk. At every step, what seemed to be a shadowy mob kept ahead of me, just outside the cage. Some of them banged on the underside of the walkway. Others reached up and pushed wadded paper and plastic bags through the grated exterior. I didn’t know who or what they were, or what they wanted. But they were curious as shit to watch. It was as if they were all part of the same fabric, lapping at the cage like a single wave.

A lone man was slumped in a doorway. He was missing the bottom half of his body and his eyes were open. ”Welcome to the world of the dead,” he said with a crooked smile. (He didn’t actually say that. He just mumbled with a daft smile on his face. But that’s what I took “his words” to mean.)

I kept on moving, I don’t think I could have stopped if I wanted to. My attention was drawn to the walkway as I stepped on what felt like squirming crustaceans. It was someone’s fingers, extended like squiggly worms through a crevice. A few feet ahead, a bony arm stretched up through a gaping hole. It hit me how those bastards on the sidewalk below, really wanted to get inside the cage.

Luckily, the walkway was clearly lit. I noticed the light was shaky as if someone held a flashlight. I glanced back to see a tall skinny being, who had a bug-eyed face. He was a few dozen feet behind me. His bulbous head was bent, so as not to hit the roof. He was one of my demon nemeses, who for the past few hundred years have been conducting what seems to be a massive science experiment in NYC, and I have become an unwilling participant. But I don’t feel like going on about that right now.

So, anyway, the light came from the palm of the skinny bastard’s hand.

F–k him, I thought and continued on.

A line of people cued alongside a building across the street. They were behind a fence that ran in the middle of the sidewalk. Two behemoth bouncers stood in front of open double doors. Pink neon lights flashed behind them. I made out a central figure, who stood under the watchful eyes of the bouncers. It was a woman in a tinsy, leather bikini. She held a gun with what looked like a condom, swinging from the butt of the weapon. She selected patrons from the line, then stuck the gun to their mouths and fired. It made no sound, nor did it do any harm, as afterward, the person headed inside the club.

It was the pillshot…

I realized that the whole scenario, including the caged walkway I was on, was a scene from a short story I had written titled “No More Fairy Tales“. The woman in the leather bikini was shooting pills into the club goers’ mouths. The catch was, that one of them was poison. Inside the club they were having a party known as a death rave. The person who got the poisoned pill, would drop dead inside the club to everyone elses’ delight.

I quickly got the message. Those demon runts who love to terrorize me–they wanted me to know that not only did they put ideas for stories inside my head, but the stories had an element of truth. As mentioned, the tall skinny bastard behind me was one of them. Maybe they were showing me the future, too… Whoop-de-do. They can bl-w me.

(Sorry for the language. But I had that thought while I was stalking through what I thought was the world of the dead, and that’s how you talk when you’re dead. Unless you’re from Jersey. Then you still talk like you’re from Jersey.)

Not a second after I came to that conclusion, as I still moved along the walkway, one of the demons spoke to me. I knew the voice. It wasn’t the tall skinny one. It was the other one, the shorter, square-shaped creature. 

“We wanted you to have the dose of demon blood,” came its lively voice, that was a touch mechanical in tone and elocution. The demon blood came from a vampire child I had killed. Click right here to read about it. “It’s so we can welcome you into this world. We can now more clearly light your way through it.”

“What the f–k do you want from me?” I asked.

“We are mapping the future, and need to do it through human eyes–”

And that was it. I woke the next day on the couch.

-

Okay, so those demon bastards give me all my ideas for stories. I don’t care. I think I wrote somewhere, that I knew that the ideas for the books I wrote about Max Beckley, the revolutionary war soldier abducted by those same demons, came from them. (I haven’t published those books yet.)

My friend Benny, “the cigar store Indian” has told me not to write about them. But I didn’t stop. Maybe I can’t. So what?

Dunno what to think about them looking through my eyes. I know they do it through Max Beckley’s.

Maybe it’s like that poem called “Footprints in the Sand?” That’s the one about the man who looked back on his steps through life, and asked God something like, why when life was toughest, did I see only one set of footprints. And God answered, it was because He had carried him during those times. If you don’t know the poem, it’s below. (I think it’s a poem??? But wtf do I know. (Why the hell am I putting so much crap in parentheses??? There must be a rule against that.))

Anyway, I’m thinking, when I look back at the end of it all, the footsteps in the sand that I see will be those of my demons. Bastards probably have webbed feet. I’m screwed. So what.

— 

Episode Thirty-Five

Transformation

I Am The Night

A Trickle of Blood

Waiting for Worlds to Collide

Tales From The World Of The Dead

(Click until you get full-size version)

(“Footprints in the Sand”, uncredited)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(A cat on Christopher Street sidewalk, Photo by Joe)

The sickness has come again…

I’m in an apartment that my boss owns in Queens. On top of my head is a pool of sweat. I dip my fingers into it and paw at my damp face. My eyes shift suspiciously to the 36″ TV, then to the various objects in the adjoining rooms. The table in the kitchen is vibrating, inching ever-so-slightly toward the noisy refrigerator. The dusty pictures on the walls quiver and hang precariously. They look ready to take flight. Beside me on the couch–especially if I look from the corner of my eye–I spot movement inside the pillows. It could be eels.

For the past few hours, I can’t drink and I can’t eat. Thirty minutes ago I went to the corner bodega and bought a pack of butts, though I don’t smoke. I just needed something to consume. And they were the only thing in that damn place that I thought I could, although…

An old Hispanic guy behind the counter was sweating nearly as much as I was. He smelled like Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup. I could have sworn the beads of sweat on his neck were colored by blood. My tongue had lathered with saliva as I thought of lapping up blood-flavored, chicken noodle soup. When a female musk flushed through the balmy air, I saw a voluptuous, tanned woman behind me. Standing at the counter across from the cash register, I looked over my shoulder, trying to make it seem like I was interested in buying something else, though my eyes lingered on her nooks and curves. Her breasts and butt were respectively squeezed into a tank top and unbuttoned shorts that were like a white bud ready to flower. I kept thinking her blood was a secret I needed to know.

She had to lean past me, to also buy a pack of butts. Then I followed her out of the bodega, terrified of giving into the sickness. Because I wanted to taste her from the inside out; I wanted to know her blood. It was the gateway to a fantasy world…

There were plenty of people on the sidewalk, and the street was packed with traffic. For a second, I was able to calm as I eyed her butt. It was the only thing that I could focus on. ”I’m not a vampire,” I said to the curvaceous behind, before making a beeline back to the apartment.

Now as I sit and watch the furniture move, I think about how Benny, “the cigar store Indian” said drinking a person blood could make me very sick. But I’ve never trusted Benny. He’s an old homeless man and clairvoyant, who believes he’s lived many lives. I don’t trust him, because he knows way more than he ever admits to. But he’s all I have. My friends whom I could have turned to with this problem, have abandoned me.

Soon, I’m going to go outside and wander the streets. I want to look at people and imagine the places their coursing blood could carry me off to. The darkness is not right yet. I don’t know what time it is. The cable box time is blurry. When I touch on my cell phone, I can’t make out a thing through the glare of the LCD light. All I know is that it’s dark outside, and getting darker.

But it’s not dark enough.

Before I got sick, I never knew there were different degrees of darkness. Maybe I’m waiting for midnight, or 2 or 3 a.m., or that “dead time” psychic investigators like to talk about. All I know is that a time is coming, when I can see, not clearly, but the spiritual world will be more in focus than ever before. Not that there’s something I want to see there. I just don’t want to get hit by a car, or walk into a street lamp or someone. The two times before when the sickness came on, each time I was almost killed in the street. Once was by a nut on a bike.

At the moment, I can’t judge distance properly, plus I get fixated by the shimmer and seeming movement of objects, and lose track of where I am. But when that special time comes, it seems to bring balance to my equilibrium. Though that’s not what happens exactly. It’s more like both real and non-corporeal worlds collide, or meet side by side. And I can see pretty good. I won’t be so nervous then.

Now I’m just sitting and waiting. Waiting for worlds to collide. I can’t wait to get outside.

—

Episode Thirty-Five

Transformation

I Am The Night

A Trickle of Blood

Waiting for Worlds to Collide

Tales From The World Of The Dead

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Living room)

Last time I had gone inside “the house on the river’s edge“, if I noticed anything out of the ordinary, I couldn’t say. But this time, it was like I walked off into a dream, one that would change me forever, and one that I will never, ever talk about again. . .

The exterior door closed soundlessly. Seconds later the deadbolt clicked shut. I went to a window in the foyer, just off to the side, and pressed my palm against a layer of paper thin glass. On the gloomy, dead end street, the three ghost hunters moved between parked cars and onto the sidewalk. They grew hesitant. The one with the video camera panned to his right, now filming a different home. It seemed they had lost sight of us, even before we had entered the ghostly house.

“Don’t worry about them anymore,” Benny, ‘the cigar store Indian’ said, who was right behind me along with my lady friend(LF). The pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) were a step further down the hall with the boy named James, who “lived” in the house.

“It’s pretty dark, I hope their film’s blurry,” I uttered, recognizing the elegantly furnished living room. On my first visit to the home, I had been so comfortable that I thought about nose-diving onto the plump-cushioned sofa. Now I couldn’t get my bearings. “But they might have been following us for a while.”

“None of it matters,” Benny said, leveling his tanned face up at me. His eyes were startlingly lucid. “This world hides its secrets very well.”

“It does,” James offered, a glint of red in his distant stare. He smiled up at me, then LF. The red was gone.

I shuffled into the living room. In the air was a soothing, minty potpourri scent. My focus was drawn inward, and I noticed two shadowy figures on the edge of my mind’s eye. One was square shaped. The other was tall and skinny, and wilted toward the squarish one in what I took to be fawning servitude.

They were demons who had toyed with me in the past. In particular, they had distracted me one day when I was out for a leisurely stroll in Brooklyn, and I had nearly been run over by an SUV. It was a clear message that they could kill me if they pleased.

Now it seemed they looked upon us through “a window ” in my head. From what I’ve been able to discern, they are fascinated with death. No one knows that better than Max Beckley, a Revolutionary War soldier they abducted, whom they still hold captive.

Dazed and calm, I couldn’t muster up the proper fear for LF. (She is my all, my everything, my one true path to harmony.) Her eyelids were nearly closed. Black hair angled from her shoulders to her plump cheeks that beamed from a recent salon treatment. Like all of us except for the boy, she clutched a wooden spike. “If your father could see you now,” I said to her, “he would put a dent in my forehead.”

Her eyes cracked open and she lazily smiled. “Joe,” she said sweetly as if she didn’t want me to wake her, while unable to fully meet my gaze.

“Probably deserve it,” I said and looked expectantly to num and nuts. Also bright-faced from the salon, their arms hung loosely at their sides, and they postured like two dog-tired children. They were too befuddled to chirp or nod in agreement.

“It’s too late to turn back,” LF said.

“It’s been too late for a long time,” Benny added.

“Just watch out for vampires,” James said. “They come out from places you’d never imagine.”

I eyed num and nuts again. The only reason they were in the ghostly home was because of their undying devotion to LF. It was good that they would be by her side. They provided a buffer, and could be taken first, until I had time to reach her in case a demon or vampire attacked. They were flotsam and jetsam.

At my feet was a wicker basket of dried flowers, fruit, and bark. I took in the couch, then the dining table off in the next room, and then another whiff of minty potpourri. This was a home, once, maybe. . .

I couldn’t shake the sluggishness. It felt like I OD’d on Ambien.

I headed back into the hall, and peered up the stairs. I told my friends not to move, and then ran up the stairs. I didn’t want James seeing anyone dead, especially his sister Lara. Spike at the ready, I check the rooms. They were all tidy. I thought James’ mother, after she had been turned into a vampire the previous night and possibly taken her own daughter’s life, had then set the beds, spiffed up the rooms, and disposed of her little girl.

(Camille Saint-Saëns – Danse Macabre)

“We’re going down the basement!” LF called up to me.

I chugged down to the first floor, and through an open door in the hall, then down another set of stairs, into the basement. It was cooler. Invigorating. A hazy light spread from the center of the room like a breath of tiny yellow stars.

Yet the basement was steeped in shadows, and I couldn’t see the far end wall. The floor space seemed much larger than the exterior of the home. The walls and floor were cement. Overhead ran wide joists. Pitched on an angle to my right was a dilapidated, wooden dresser with tools spilled across the top. In one corner was a furnace and oil tank. I was reminded again that the place was a home. But my feelers told me something different.

James ran his hands over one wall, and suddenly, an arched door appeared. He pushed it open, then moved through into a murky, arched corridor. “It leads out to the river,” he said.

“The East River?” I said, noticing Benny’s tensed expression, as if he was readying for something. Both he and James were not lethargic like the rest of us.

“I guess,” James said. “It’s not far.”

Now in my mind’s eye, it seemed my demon onlookers had moved closer. I reached out to them–to the stone wall in the corridor. For a second, it looked as if they were embedded deep in the stone. They had arrived to bare witness, but to what. . .

My eyes set on James. He had begun to stride in an odd manner–more like he was stalking. His back was hunched, and he held his arms straight down and pumped his fists. When he came to a door, he never tested the handle before he spoke. “It’s locked,” he said, and oddly, did not face us.

“James, what’s going on?” I asked. He shrugged, and it was then I noticed how stout he had become since we left the basement. His blazer and pants were nearly splitting at the seams. And a thick roll of fat folded over on the back of his neck. Was he growling. . .

“He’s a changeling!” Benny cried, then looked in the other direction. With leaping strides, James’ mother was flying down the corridor. There was a brutish look on her sallow face. Her eyes were lifeless and her mouth was open in an oval-shape.

“Kill her,” James said with a snort. I glanced back to see he had turned. His face was wrinkled like a bulldog’s, and his hands had become claws with deadly, sharp nails. “She’s a hog! Hog! Hog!”

(Michael Wolgemut – The Dance Of Skeletons)

Benny ran to the woman. He struck her with a fist, only at the last moment did he reveal the spike in his grip. I heard the unmistakable sound of the instrument slam through skin and between bone. Her arms wrapped limply around Benny’s neck as they toppled to the floor. A yellow-faced little girl in a dress hopped over the two bodies. It was Lara. She loped to me with open arms, opening and closing her hands. She wanted to jump in my arms.

Before I could consider what to do–I didn’t think I could strike her down with the spike–LF screamed. James had sprung up, and clutched LF’s neck. Head cocked, he bore his fanged teeth.

Adrenaline finally surged through me, yet was too little, too late, as there was no way I could stop the demon boy from biting LF. Num and nuts were a step away. Both their faces were white with terror, and they seemed to be screaming.

Yet in a split second, they ”came to life” and pounced on the changeling with deadly ferocity.

“Turn, Joe,” LF huffed.

I wheeled around just as Lara leapt into the air, coming right at me. She had a sweet, vapid expression as she bore her yellow, fanged teeth. There was still a look of innocence on her face, which gave me pause. And she made it into my arms and snarled. It was her last embrace.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Four

House on the River’s Edge

Lost

What You See

How We Must Have Looked

The Last Embrace

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Photos by Joe)

How we must have looked as we traipsed uptown, the four of us and an invisible boy from a dream . . .

We stepped out from the shadow of the row homes on East 6th Street and into the late afternoon sun on 2nd Ave. The boy, whose name was James, became diaphanous in the brighter light. He scrunched his button nose and reminded us that he would disappear soon. My lady friend(LF) knelt down to whisper in his ear and then kissed his cheek. He nodded and gave a wistful smile. She then held his hand to ensure we didn’t lose him, while the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) began to watch him like two slouching hawks.

The five of us headed across the pedestrian heavy St. Mark’s Place, which is a main artery in the East Village. All around us, as is usual on the block, tourists, suburbanites and hipsters, all brushed shoulders. I checked the faces of those we passed. None of them seemed to light upon the boy. Yet most with “the gift of sight” would be surreptitious.

We went down into the Astor Place station. For god knows what reason, num and nuts swiped a MetroCard through the fare slot for James to pass through the turnstile. The blue-eyed boy’s face turned ruddy as he struggled to budge the turnstile arms. When a moment later I heard the clap and rattle of a train, I manipulated the arms, and guided him through with a hand on his sponge-like back.

There was a handful of empty seats in the polished, stainless steel subway car. James sat on LF’s lap. He turned fully transparent under the fluorescent lighting.

LF was radiant, having gone that afternoon to an East Village salon with num and nuts. I sat next to her and pushed aside her sleek black hair. A musky scent filled my airway as I kissed her neck. Her brown eyes popped open wide, and she touched the spot I had kissed. Right there blue veins rose gently under her pale skin. Her look told me that I shouldn’t have done that. Not now. Not given what we were about to possibly do.

We exited onto Lexington Ave and East 53rd Street. By now it was early evening, and bright orange clouds drifted beneath a violet  firmament. Once again, James became fully opaque, though it still seemed that only we could see him.

We came upon the dead end street in the East 50’s where I had seen James’ home, a home that I since could not find. A medium height man in an overcoat, stepped out of the shadows on the corner. It was Benny, “the cigar store Indian.”

(Antony Gormley’s Event Horizon – 26th St and 5th Ave)

“I got him a free cell phone from senior services,” LF said, cutting me off before I could get in a word. “And I texted him to meet us.”

Benny came upon us and gave a somber, gap-toothed smiled. The old homeless man smoothed his hand over James’ thick black hair. I assumed he knew the boy’s mother, if not a vampire, was a demon whom we might have to kill.

As we walked down the block, Benny discreetly gave out wooden spikes to everyone but the boy. The wood was gunmetal gray. It looked terrible in LF’s hand. I pictured her rearing back, in girlish awkwardness, to strike a killing blow.

Num and nuts slipped the spikes into their pants pockets. I didn’t expect them do anything with the instrument other than poke holes in their pockets and hurt them themselves.

When we could see beyond the last home on the right, James’ three-story home came into view. The facade had an insubstantial air, looking at it was akin to watching an old movie reel film. It was a sea foam green color and had three turrets that reminded me of rocket ships. The windows overlooked the FDR Drive and East River.

I slipped my hand inside my coat, and ran my fingers along the spike to the blunt point. I looked down at James. “You should stay outside with (LF),” I said, and looked at her. “We have no idea what we’re going to find.”

“The house has secret passage ways,” James said, his blue eyes confidently meeting mine. “When Pie-eyed Pete comes into the house, I can always smell the river. I’m pretty sure, I know the passage he takes.”

“I don’t think you coming inside is a good idea,” I said.

“I know all the secret doorways,” he said. “You don’t want a vampire sneaking up on you.”

At the mention of the word “vampire,” num and nuts began to squawk and banter like unruly parrots. Benny gave a shrug and gazed over his shoulder. He took a full step back.

“Okay,” I said with a huff, “we all go in.” I gazed up at the “grainy” doorway, then led the way up the solid wooden stoop. Our footsteps made no sounds. Benny hurriedly followed and waved his hand, urging us to go inside.

Two guys and a girl came diagonally across the street. All three wore black windbreakers, and one man filmed us with a video camera. I recognized them from the train we took uptown.

“They’re ghost hunters,” Benny said, as we filed into the front door.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Four

House on the River’s Edge

Lost

What You See

How We Must Have Looked

The Last Embrace

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(“Home” – Photo art by Joe)

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” – Michelangelo on creating the David.

Weeks ago I told Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” about a haunted house in the East 50′s that mysteriously disappeared. My lady friend(LF) and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts), were with me when I spoke with Benny. The five of us had gone to a Tex Mex restaurant.

Benny, who is an old homeless man with clairvoyant powers, said the home I had seen was in a dream, weaved into reality. The reality part explained the emails I received from the boy I had met in the dream, as well as a phone call he had made to my boss. Benny also said that if I found I was at the home again, to tell myself that it wasn’t real. Then he said I should just forget about it as I did most any other dream. He didn’t say what to do about further phone calls or emails, and I didn’t ask.

-

After a long day of demolition work in Flatbush, I came up from the Astor Place subway and treaded to a hair salon in the East Village to meet LF. Just days from the start of Spring, there was a touch of warmth in the afternoon air. It was as welcoming as a cold beer.

The salon was tucked away on a quiet street, lined with cars and five-story walkups. The sidewalk in front of me was empty. The budding leaves on the trees caught my attention, before I noticed the silence was uncanny. My senses came alive.

A boy loped between two parked cars and paused on the sidewalk ahead. His arms were behind his back, and his head was angled to meet my gaze. It was James. He was the boy I had met at the haunted house that disappeared. He was the boy from the dream. Yet he looked real.

I became conscious of each step, wishing someone else was on the street to see the boy. LF was in the salon, less than sixty feet away.

“You never came back,” James said pointedly, seeming aloof yet angry. His short black hair was neatly combed to one side. His blue eyes were icy.

“I did come back, but couldn’t find your house,” I said, texting LF: ”Come outside right now…”

“How could that be?” he said, wearing a similar outfit as the time I met him: a collared white shirt, “high-water” slacks, and polished black boots. Though now he had on a stylish blazer.

I tried to touch his arm, but he jerked it back. “You’re not real. You’re from a dream world,” I said, seeming to have no reason to question my consciousness. “Somehow you’re weaved into reality.”

“What about my mother and my sister, you met them too?” he said.

“They’re not real either.”

“Good, so then you won’t have a problem, because,” he wiped his forearm across his eyes, “it’s going to get messy.”

“What happened?”

“That ghost in my house, it wasn’t a pirate, or maybe he was at one time–” James lifted his right arm for me to touch.

I clasped the elbow and marveled how it was soft and pliable, more like the arm of a doll. I looked up. LF and num and num came out of the salon. Immediately, they set their sights upon James.

“–His name is Pie-eyed Pete,” the boy continued. “He’s a vampire.”

“How do you know,” I asked as LF and num and nuts came within earshot.

“I knew his name all along, but not that he was a vampire.”  He cupped his mouth. “Then he–he and my mother!”

“Your mother didn’t believe your house was haunted,” I said.

“And now she’s dead! Or undead.” He sniffled.

“Undead?” LF wondered, her black hair and white face glinting even though we were in the shadows. “What do you mean?”

“Last night while I slept, she came to me,” James said. “When I woke, she was bent over me. Her eyes looked like the eyes of a wild animal.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. ”There was blood on her mouth . . .  and her nightgown. And the air smelled like blood.”

“Did she have pointy teeth?” I asked.

“I don’t know?”

“Where was your father?” LF asked.

“I haven’t seen him–in years,” he said. (This conflicts with what I first was made to understand.)

“And Lara, your sister, where was she?” LF asked fearfully.

James looked up at me and wiped his cheeks with both hands. “If you could have come back, maybe it wouldn’t have happened!” His pale face was streaked with red. “My mother,” he said and took a deep breath. “My mother jumped back from my bed and hid her face from me. ‘Run for your life, James’ she said. ‘Mommy is dead. Your mommy is dead.’ She was crying when she said it.

“I got out of bed and ran to Lara’s room,” he sobbed. “The sheets and covers and stuffed animals were thrown on the floor. Lara was face up on the bare mattress, dressed in her communion dress. My mother must have put it on her. But I couldn’t look at Lara or go closer. I ran out of the house.”

Everyone was sobbing. LF knelt and hugged James, who went limp. I heard him whisper, “I have no where to go.”

“You can stay with us,” LF said.

It was some time before James recovered enough to speak again. He looked directly into LF’s eyes. “Soon, you should know, I’m going to disappear, but I’m not really going to be gone. I will still be with you.” He embraced her again, and pressed his head into her shoulder.

“Okay, don’t worry James,” LF said.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Four:

House on the River’s Edge

Lost

What You See

How We Must Have Looked

The Last Embrace

—

Some photos from Greenwich Village:

Tompkins Square Park

Avenue A in the East Village

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village

Around Cooper Square

First Presbyterian Church in Greenwich Village

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(E 79th St and York Ave – Photos by Joe)

Nearly a week passed before I found time to return to the “house on the river’s edge.” The demolition company where I work had previously gotten a call for an estimate to cart away junk from that home. In part it had been a trick by a boy named James. He wanted my help with a ghost that terrorizes his little sister. On that initial visit James’ mother had taken my business card, seemingly unaware of her son’s plan or the ghost, and said her husband would get in touch with me.

Given the guilt the boy had managed to lay on me, I should have gone back that first night. Maybe there would have been a way to lure the ghost or whatever it was, into the street.

In the time since, the husband has not called for a proper estimate, while James, who had first contacted me via email, doesn’t return my emails. Plus I’ve called their number, but it just rings and rings.

(E 78th St by York Ave)

As I remembered, the home was at the end of E 51 St, just south of the Queensboro/59th St. Bridge. In the last post, I didn’t identify the street number or mention that it intersected Sutton Place. That was in order to maintain privacy for the homeowners.

Upon my return, I was vexed when I didn’t find the home on E 51 St. So I proceeded to walk up and down Sutton Place, and look for it on all the dead ends streets which intersect Sutton. Then I headed up past the Queensboro, and did the same on York Avenue.

My boss had received the original call for the estimate. When I called and asked him if he remembered the address, all he had said was, “You f–king went ‘dare.”

Yeah, but where . . . It’s like I lost my car in a parking lot, and I can’t even find the lot. I spent over two hours searching up and down Sutton and York, before I figured either the house was never there or???

The latter two pictures from the previous post were taken when I went on the estimate. They are proof I was in the right place. Though interestingly, the area populated mostly by apartment buildings and stately homes, nothing I saw resembled the more modest, suburban-type dwelling I had originally visited.

(Church of the Epiphany on York Ave)

I keep thinking about things James said in his emails. In one he had cryptically stated, “You have a friend here. He’s been here since the beginning,” while another mentioned that I would know the house but didn’t elaborate.

Then there is the little girl. I think I heard the mother call her Lara. I know what it’s like to be tormented by the supernatural. For an innocent, it could only be much worse.

My lady friend is upset that I didn’t speak up sooner. She thinks there is a chance Lara is being abused.

Today is the rare Saturday that I’m off from work. So my lady friend and I along with the pizza and Chinese delivery guys are going to see if we can find Benny, ‘the cigar store Indian.’ I’m hoping he can set me on the right path.

(PS158 on E 78th St and York Ave)

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Four

House on the River’s Edge

Lost

What You See

How We Must Have Looked

The Last Embrace

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

Tall apartment buildings on the avenue shaded the intersecting, dead end street of row homes. At the end of the street was a flagstone wall set before a high, wrought iron fence. Below street-level was the FDR Drive and just beyond was the East River, where a burst of sunlight reflected across the water and over the Queens-Brooklyn shoreline.

A glance at the addresses put the home I searched for at the extreme right, overlooking the river.

My boss at the demolition company had given me the address in the morning and said they wanted an estimate. He had no idea what they wanted done, though had pointed out that the home was in an exclusive part of town. “They got f—ckin’ money,” he had said. “They can pay.”

The home had a small porch with a three step stoop and on the upper floors were a combination of dormers and turrets with windows that opened to the river from a three story perch. White shades were pulled three quarters down in all the windows and each had a candle placed in the center.

I stepped up on the porch. A shade to my left shook, and before I could knock, it retracted all the way up. Already in motion was a young girl in a dress who skipped happily in a circle. Her right hand was raised in a sign of welcome. A closed mouth smile was plastered on her face. She reminded me of a marionette.

A blue-eyed boy opened the door. No older than twelve, he must have been the one to open the shade. He had short black hair, a collared white shirt, “high-water” slacks, and polished black boots.

“I’m from — Demolition,” I said. “Here for the estimate. Are your parents home?”

He craned his neck to take me in a little better. “My mom is here, come inside,” he said pensively.

The dancing little girl now stamped about in the far left corner of an elegantly furnished living room, which had an inviting sofa with plump cushions. I watched the little girl for a moment longer. She paraded like an Indian in a ceremonial dance. In her eyes was a startlingly distant look.

(Upper East Side building)

“I like your blog, a lot,” the boy said.

I rolled my eyes and said, “What’s going on, kid?” I looked past the little girl for an adult, then down the hall in front of me, and then up the burnished hardwood staircase on my right, which led straight to the second floor.

“You wouldn’t come; the estimate was the only way to get you here,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I keep emailing you, but you never replied, except once. You told me to call Epic Paranormal.”

“Oh crap,” I said, thinking he was the one emailing about a haunting. One of the emails had said I would know the house but didn’t elaborate. “You have a friend here. He’s been here since the beginning,” the last email had said.

My formal posture of presentation sagged. “I told you, if you have a problem with a ghost, I’m the not the one to call.”

“I know,” the boy said, frowning.

“There’s a phonebook full of people you can call. Epic is real good, and nice, too.”

“I read your blog. I thought you would want to help us.”

“You know I have problems of my own.”

“We have a ghost. I see his shadow; sometimes I hear him speak.”

“Ghost busting is not my thing,” I said, trying to sound nice(I’m not just writing that I was being amiable to put myself in a better light, though if he was older, I would have jetted out of there).

“My sister sees him clearly, she says he looks like a pirate.”

(Brick apartments)

“I really have to go, kid.”

“He makes her cry and I can’t stop him. My parents don’t believe her. They had her see this doctor that doesn’t believe her. He gave her medicine, because he doesn’t believe in ghosts–” the boy looked over his shoulder.

I lifted my gaze in anticipation.

“–she just lays there and doesn’t scream, but she cries. I hear her.”

A tall woman in a casual business suit breezed into the living room. I rifled through my head, searching for something to say. The girl came up behind the mother and hugged her hip.

“This is the guy I told you about,” the boy said. “He’s the man with the garbage truck. He can junk dad’s crap.”

“James!” the woman said.

“Well?” he said, “it’s now or never.”

“We could also haul your belongings to a warehouse of your choosing,” I said, as the business-side of me stirred.

“Oh, okay, I’ll take your card and speak to my husband. But wait here a minute,” she said, and stepped through the living room.

The boy’s eyes were big and glossy. “Come back tonight and I bet from the street you can hear my sister cry,” he said.

The woman returned and handed me a twenty for my troubles. I gave her a business card and said goodbye with hardly a glace to the boy and girl, though I could feel the weight of their disappointment.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Four

House on the River’s Edge

Lost

What You See

How We Must Have Looked

The Last Embrace

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(*Homes in Queens)

At 96th Street in Manhattan, I jumped on a downtown subway line. A duffle bag of clothes was slung from one shoulder, and I had a laptop bag on the other. There were plenty of places for me to go. But I didn’t want to explain the clothes and the need for a bed or a couch or the floor. I didn’t want to fake it.

For the time, my lady friend and I are heading our separate ways. But I don’t want to go into that right now.

It didn’t take long to conclude that there was only one place to go, my boss Nick’s house. He owns the demolition company where I work. Not much “human anything” takes place around him.

Everyone calls him Nick, though he has a real fancy first name and an old money last name. He has a son in Brooklyn, who never comes to see him, and an ex-wife that I know nothing about.

Two tall blondes in the subway car caught my eye. A time nearly three years ago came to mind. It was just after I had started working for Nick. I remembered how a pretty Russian realtor in Manhattan Beach failed to spark the man to life. After we had gutted one of her homes, she showed up on-site to pay the bill in tight tan riding pants and high black boots. She had cash, too. Yet neither the cash, nor her handsome face or curvaceous figure managed to illuminate Nick’s face.

But he’s not dead inside—not completely.

Nick’s like a summer home on the beach where a storm blew through, stripped it bare and left only the shell. Unfortunately, “this home” is beyond repair. He’s like Nick Adams without Hemingway.

In Times Square, I hopped on an eastbound line that went across Manhattan and the East River, out to his house in Queens.

His house is one of the thousands of humble, semi-attached vinyl dwellings in that borough. For some reason, they stuck all these in Queens. Probably because Brooklyn didn’t want them, Staten Island doesn’t do humble, the Bronx is just plain too gritty for much vinyl, while Manhattan is all about the bedrock.

During the work-week, when I shoot by there to pick up tools, the door to the house and garage are always unlocked. Countless times I’ve told him someone might rob him. “Nothing to steal there,” he had said once, the sentence in itself a marathon of words for the man.

(“Open door in dark room” – Photo art by Joe)

When I opened the storm door to Nick’s house, through the inside door, I saw him seated in front of the TV. I rang the bell instead of knocking or just letting myself in, thinking it would make him notice me a little more.

Surprisingly, he rose to open the door, though I guessed it would save him the human connection of waving me in.

Fully gray, in his late fifties, Nick is a powerful man, and it shows in his broad shoulders and equally wide frame. He has a small pot belly and arms that dangle like clubs at his sides from his height of over six feet. There is a hint of waddle in his walk as he leans forward in stride. Knowing first hand his brute strength, I sometimes think he’s ready to break into a sprint and tackle someone.

From the elevated doorway, Nick looked over my head and held the door open. “Cats,” he said, and stared into the street as I passed. By his tone, I figured he had a problem with them.

He was watching college football from an old cloth-covered recliner. I dropped a bag of chips on a cluttered table by his knees and set a can of Budweiser. He snapped open the beer and tore open the chips. I went and put the rest of the beers I bought in his refrigerator. The fridge, like the house, was cluttered with crap, but it was kinda clean. A wife of one of the guys at work cleans the place a few times a month. That was my doing.

Nick rarely lifted his eyes from the 35 inch CRT TV. Occasionally, he called his bookie. That call was unintelligible.

Jumping from channel to channel, the games did elicit slight facial changes from Nick. Already before him were a few empty cans of beer. Soon he retrieved a somewhat suspect can of Coke. He would alternately take a sip of the beer then the Coke. I figured he had “mother’s milk” in the Coke can.

Well, I thought that was cute, trying to hide his alcohol. I didn’t think he wasn’t a drunk. He just likes to drink. Not like he is saving himself for anything or anyone.

(“Shadow Between”)

Over the next few hours I relaxed somewhat. I had a few beers and a cup of Jack that I’d sip from.

I fell back and spread my arms over the couch. It was an old couch. Nick had probably fallen down on it face first, drunk and exhausted, hundreds of times over the years. Some of the men from work slept there, too. A few were transients.

After a time spent with muddled thoughts, a moment of clarity came over me, and I noticed the darkness in the living room. I was impressed by what seemed palpable layers of midnight blue haze. It seemed as if the light from the TV and an incandescent shining through the kitchen archway couldn’t reach me.

The windows were shaded and had curtains pulled tight. The room had a tall ceiling, about nine feet. It looked dingy and didn’t reflect the light very well. Stairs on one side of the room led directly up to the second floor.

My eyes returned a few times to the ceiling. I thought I might drift off to sleep. But I kept looking up and had no idea why, except that maybe I found the ceiling more interesting than the football, especially because Nick kept switching channels.

I felt so alone.

(“Dark plane”)

On the ceiling, I perceived a shadowy outline and cracked a smile. It was in the shape of a body. It clearly wasn’t a living body, or even an apparition. It was just a shadow on a dirty ceiling. I smiled because it was in such an interesting position. The shape looked like that of a person who had fallen backward into the ceiling. Or one that was hurled into that position, arms and legs turned out.

I got another beer and some more Jack. When I next cared to look up, the shadowy figure was gone. I switched my position around and still saw nothing. I took a swig of Jack and watched the football games for a while.

My attention drifted to the right of Nick. From the corner of my eye, I saw another shadowy outline of a body on the wall. A cluttered dining table cut off my view to the body’s lower half. I could just see how the face was angled perfectly toward Nick’s head.

All at once, I became certain that the linear figure was an evil spirit. I reached for the silver cross around my neck that my lady friend had given me. I thought of a **house blessing I had heard her say. As I spoke, I could hear her voice echo mine.

“We believe in living deeply, laughing often and loving always . . . We believe that everyone’s feelings count, and that the uniqueness of each of us strengthens all of us–”

The evil spirit’s face turned to me. I saw it had big, black, watery eyes. They were like that of an anime character. It struck me as the face of a young girl.

” . . . We believe in the power of forgiveness to heal and the power of love to carry us through. We believe in one another, in this family, in this home.”

Nick looked over at me with a dull look, though the light of curiosity came to him. It was strange, because I knew ”words” were gathering in his head.

I began to think of another house blessing.

“Waaa you doing?” Nick said.

“I’m aaaa,” I started, not knowing how to explain the blessing, or if he knew or believed in that type of stuff–evil spirits included. I didn’t know anything about Nick other than he liked Bud, Jack, and college football.

His eyes opened wide and he perked up in his chair. “No house blessings,” he said.

“It’s a good thing,” I managed to say, wondering what had just taken place with him . . .

“Stop it,” he said, looking me square in the face.

(“Monolith”)

All I could think was that the evil spirit had spoken to him. There was no way he read my thoughts. Not Nick. It was her. She had told him what I was doing.

I looked around and thought about how I had also just been under the spell of a demon.

“And don’t do what you’re doing with the cross,” Nick said motioning with one of his big hands.

“She’s evil,” I said, my thumb behind the cross, which I held out to the evil spirit.

“Stop it.”

“If it’s dead and it’s still here, then it’s probably evil.”

“Are you gonna stop?” Nick asked.

It was then, in this lowest of low whispers, I heard someone pleadingly whisper: “Nathaniel.” It was Nick’s Christian name.

Nick planted his hands on the armrests of the chair and lifted himself a few inches. His brow furrowed with deep concern.

“Nick?” I said and let the cross fall back inside my shirt.

“You best be goin’,” he said.

I was slow to my feet.

“You need money?”

“I’m good,” I said.

Nick stood tall with a firm stance. I put on my jacket and hefted both my bags.

“Lock the door on your way out,” Nick said.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Three

Empty Spaces

The Demolition Man’s Secret

Shapes

(*Archie Bunker’s House, 89-70 Cooper Ave, Queens, NY- uncredited)

–

**House Blessing: “We believe in living deeply, laughing often and loving always. We believe we were brought together to support and care for each other. We believe in celebrating together — our faith, our heritage, our traditions. We believe that everyone’s feelings count, and that the uniqueness of each of us strengthens all of us. We believe in the power of forgiveness to heal and the power of love to carry us through. We believe in one another, in this family, in this home.”

Update: The above is a traditional house blessing, and not necessarily a ditty that will rid your house of ghosts. It’s a little more involved. See Google for more.

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Scrappy Doodles – Photos by Joe)

My gloved hand along with a red leash was outstretched to Scrappy D, who had led the way into the northeast corner of Central Park. Splayed out in front of us was the Harlem Meer. Ice had started to form on the lake’s still waters. The sun beamed just above the buildings on Fifth Avenue, and yellow rays spread through gray clouds. The sky loomed like it held a summer thunderstorm. The Meer didn’t smell much like water, nor did it smell like city grit or like the barren trees or grass in the park.

It was too cold to smell properly, but not to feel.

We had just come down Broadway, in an uptown section divided by a tree-lined median. We passed Scrappy’s favorite grocers and restaurants on Broadway, where he sniffed up a storm and proudly marked the turf. Here and there, I had picked the little guy up and gave him a hug. He loves hugs; he digs his head in my neck, and I swear it feels like he hugs me back. He’s awesome. But I was in a bad way and didn’t want to use him too much. I just love him. I love how he struts with his head high as if he’s leading a parade. In his bug eyes there’s almost always a remarkably clear, confident look. While like normal dogs, he enjoys smelling sh-t and getting into stuff. He doesn’t mind when strangers pet him. Most everyone who meets the little guy, loves him. Sometimes I have a desire to emulate Scrappy. I know that’s crazy, but he’s flat-out awesome.

Minutes ago when we came upon Central Park’s northern border at 110th Street, I thought how I should have steered the little guy into Morningside Park, that was a block behind us. I saw Scrappy D lift his curious eyes to Central Park’s stone wall, before gazing at the trees. The leash became taut. I didn’t have the heart to change his direction.

My problem with “woman x” had started after I received a threat from a demon in Central Park. And now back at the apartment my friends were performing a house blessing to exorcise woman x. All week I had been trying to convince them that she was not an evil spirit. They didn’t believe me. After some harsh words in the morning, I had grabbed the dog and left.

(Harlem Meer in September)

Twenty minutes had passed since we entered the park. By now the cold stung my cheeks. I pulled on Scrappy D’s leash and told the little guy it was time to go home.

On Broadway, as we approached our street, I began to needle my gut. It felt like an open space had sprouted inside me. I knew that my friends had been successful. They had banished woman x’s spirit from our apartment and my life. Days ago she had promised me that she would be my personal seer and protectorate. I believed her. (I had developed strong feelings for her.)

When I entered our uptown apartment, I saw standing to the side of one my four friends, the legendary psychic named Mona. In NYC’s paranormal circles, all one need do is mention her first name. She is one of our ”heaviest-hitters.” On occasion she has appeared in my dreams. I believe it’s not a coincidence, and that her volition enables her to do so.

I raised my brows to my lady friend(LF), who diverted her gaze. All we do lately is argue, and it’s getting difficult to think about the times when we didn’t. We have trust issues, actually, she does.

The pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) flanked LF with their shoulders high, as if they guarded her. LF was dressed in a cream-colored pants suit and had makeup on. That evening there was a Christmas party to attend at the pizza delivery guy’s mother’s townhouse on Staten Island. I still had to shower and shave, and they looked sharp and clean–ready to walk out the door.

“She’s gone,” I said to Mona, who had been studying me. Next to her was Benny, “the cigar store Indian.” The two had their jackets on, and they were edging toward the door.

Mona didn’t respond, though she seemed to be reading my face like it was a crystal ball.

I let my eyes trace the apartment walls. If I was upset that woman x was out of my life, I didn’t let it show.

“You did a great job,” I muttered. “Place seems spiritually bereft.”

Mona nodded.

“She wasn’t a bad demon,” I said.

LF gave a cold stare.

“In times of good, possibly,” Mona said carefully. “Though good is boring to most supernatural entities who are not free. This one was bound to your life, eventually she would have destroyed it, and you.”

“Now she’s gone,” Benny said and opened the door to the outside hall. He put a hand in the small of Mona’s back. “We have to be going, too.”

Benny, who is an old homeless man, wore a new wool suit, and I thought of the times I had seen him picking through trash cans. What the hell does he look for? It wasn’t food or aluminum cans. Once he had found an engagement ring, I remembered. Benny is also a clairvoyant. He is the person I turn to when I have problems with the paranormal. For the most part, he is secretive about his sources. I thought that he must have a personal seer like woman x.

(Broadway by 110th Street – Morningside Heights)

“Call if you need to,” Mona said to me with a ring of concern and left with Benny.

I shrugged, slighted that they were leaving so soon and with so few words.

“We have to help set up for the party tonight,” LF said in a monotone voice, and took Scrappy D by the leash. “You can meet us there later.”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” I said dejectedly.

LF didn’t respond. Once num and nuts realized I wasn’t going with them, their eyes sparked up.

I glared at LF and she turned away. That killed me. Then her red lipstick hit me as sexy, but if I wasn’t going with her–who were those sexy lips for?

“Okay, bye,” she said. There was an awkward moment as she left without a kiss goodbye.

It felt like another empty space had opened in me. I sighed and folded my arms, noting again how the apartment appeared to be wiped clean of any traces of incorporeal life.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Three

Empty Spaces

The Demolition Man’s Secret

Shapes

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels