THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Ten 'The Crimson Chimes'

By Al Bruno III

 

January 4th: The owner and chief moderator of the FEAR AND TRUTH message board went by the username 50Fingers. His real name was Mike Whitehead, and he lived in Greenwich Village. When he wasn't moderating debates about whether ghosts can poop (they can't), he ran a record store. And I mean a real record store—Chelsea's Garage, which specialized in vinyl, collectibles, reissues, and every accessory for turntables you could imagine. He insisted I drive down to the city to meet with him, believing he might have a way to help Sara. So, I took the day off and started the 3-hour drive to New York City.

Three Depeche Mode mixtapes later, I walked through the front door of Chelsea's Garage. Inside, the store exuded old-school charm with polished wooden floors and walls lined with shelves of vinyl records. The rich, earthy scent of aging vinyl and the faint hum of a turntable created a nostalgic atmosphere. The layout was both organized and eclectic, with neatly categorized crates of records and rare collectibles displayed in glass cases.

The walls were adorned with posters of classic jazz legends and iconic album covers, giving the store a gallery-like feel. In one corner was a large vintage record player surrounded by turntables, amplifiers, and other high-end audio equipment. Warm, golden light from hanging fixtures bathed the space, casting a cozy glow over the rows of records. Mike Whitehead stood behind the counter, expertly handling a stack of records.

He was curly-haired and dressed in loose-fitting clothes. The shape of his face suggested he hadn't smiled in a long, long time. He came out from behind the counter and greeted me enthusiastically. His voice had a distinct tone, with a slightly lower pitch and rhythm. He spoke slowly, pausing at times, and there was a soft, muted quality to his voice.

And that was when I realized he was deaf.

He quickly ushered out his remaining customers and closed the store early. Then, after putting on some Nina Simone, we settled in the back room with coffee generously spiked with brandy, catching up on everything that had happened. Occasionally, he asked me to slow down and repeat myself so he could read my lips more easily. Once we finished catching up, he began discussing his research. "The first quote I found was in the 9th Edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, in a chapter about magic."

"That's not the starting point I expected," I said.

"It came out in 1880 and was significantly revised in the 1885 and 1889 editions," he said. "From there, my studies led me to Hippolytus's Refutation of All Heresies. He was a Christian theologian and martyr, and the magic chapter of the Britannica paraphrased his description of a ritual for Hecate."

I frantically scribbled in my notepad. "What kind of quote?"

He cleared his throat. "Infernal, and earthy, and supernal Hecate Chthonia, come!
Saint of streets, and brilliant one, that strays by night;
Foe of radiance, but friend and mate of gloom;
In howl of dogs rejoicing, and in crimson gore,
Wading 'mid corpses through tombs of lifeless dust,
Panting for blood; with fear convulsing men.
Gorgo, and Mormo, and Luna, and of many shapes,
Come, propitious, to our sacrificial rites!"

"Wow," I said. "It's definitely got an oomph to it."

"Hecate," he began, "that's what you're dealing with—the triple-faced goddess and patron deity of witches. Well, the bad witches, anyway."

I nodded, recalling childhood viewings of The Wizard of Oz, with its fairy godmother-like good witches and terrifying bad ones. "So all I need is to burn some sage?"

"You need more than that. This is serious, Brian. Hecate is a triple-faced goddess. Gorgo is her aspect that birthed the legend of Medusa, Mormo is the Chthonic Mother of the Barghests, and the Thousand-Faced Moon?" He looked worried. "It relates to her ability to change her form, but other sources, like the Constantinople Document, suggest it reflects her ability to inhabit the bodies of both willing and unwilling vessels."

"I don't like that. I don't like that one bit," I said. "But what about the clowns? They must be related."

"We need to go back to the Constantinople Document for that," Mike said. "There's a single paragraph that mentions a subsect of the cult called the Athanatoi, or the Ashen Hearts. However, the author spends the entire paragraph insisting that this subsect does not exist."

It was all too much; I buried my face in my hands. "What am I going to do?"

Unaware I had spoken, Mike got up, refilled our coffee cups, and put on a new stack of records. This time, it was the legendary Jimmy Scott. "There's someone I think can help you, but she's dangerous."

I looked at him glumly. "Do I have a choice?"

"I don't know," he said, draining his cup in a single gulp. "But her name is Ashley Fowler."

"Ashley Fowler?" I cocked my head. "THE Ashley Fowler?"

"Yes."

For those not in the know, Ashley Fowler is from my neck of the woods; she's rich, influential, and believes she's the Devil. She inherited her family's fortune after her father was killed by an intruder—well, that's her version of events, anyway.

Despite my areas of investigation and interest, I'd always steered clear of her. I always thought she was a crank of the highest order. "I guess she's my next step."

Mike sighed heavily, his frown deepening. "You have to be careful with her. She's the real thing."

I asked, "How do you know for sure?"

And then he told me the story of the night he met her, the night he realized the Devil wore a blue dress…

####

The Statement of Mike Whitehead

…Back then, I was the drummer of a six-man jazz combo called 'The Fifty Fingers.' We were pretty popular among Albany's rich and famous. We used to play at the Fort Orange Club all the time. You know the place—private club, big bucks, even the Governor was a member. One time, Jack Nicholson was there. He tipped us a hundred bucks each.

I'd been playing music since I was a kid. My father was a jazz enthusiast, and he got me started on the drums when I was just eight. By the time I was fifteen, I was already sitting in with local bands. My father was happy that I had found success at an early age, but he wasn't happy when I dropped out of high school to tour full-time with the Fifty Fingers.

Even if I hadn't been a sixteen-year-old kid, joining 'The Fifty Fingers' was like a dream come true. All of the other members were in their forties, but they never talked down to me or called me 'Kid.' I had been brought in to serve as a backup for their original drummer, whose health had begun to slip. He was a great guy, but Parkinson's made him hang up his sticks less than a year after I joined. The band toured up and down the East Coast. They taught me a lot—like how to fake a song we didn't know, how to get by on about four hours of sleep, how to drive, how to improvise, and how to make instrument repairs on the fly while on the road. I also learned that even jazz bands had groupies. Oh boy, did I learn that.

By the night I met Ashley Fowler, I was thirty years old and pretty much in charge of the band. It was practically a different band by then; all the original members had aged out but one. So there we were, 'The Fifty Fingers' playing another gig at the Fort Orange Club for some political bigwigs. The guests were dressed to impress—men in sharp tuxedos and women in elegant gowns dripping with jewels. There was champagne, caviar, and two hundred-dollar steak dinners. I didn't know if anyone was really paying attention to us. The bass player said we were just there to be background noise, but at least we were well-paid background noise.

Everyone noticed when Ashley Fowler arrived at the party. She wore an elaborate blue dress that flowed around her like liquid, with intricate beadwork and a sweeping train. She was gorgeous, with short red hair and black earrings that looked like flames. All conversations paused as she made her way to the guy hosting the party and gave him a casual hug.

From my vantage point behind the drumset, I could see the atmosphere changing. The band once had a gig in Georgia where we were the entertainment at a wake; everyone there acted like they were having a good time, but you could tell they weren't. That's what the party was turning into, but what did we care? We were just the band; we played on.

We took a break about halfway through the party. Most of the guys went to help themselves to the open bar or try and make small talk with some of the single-looking guests. I decided I needed a smoke break, and since it was too cold outside, I went down to the stairs in the back of the kitchen.

The cellar was dimly lit, with firewood stacked against the walls and a faint, musty smell in the air. I was leaning against a wooden beam, taking a drag from my cigarette, when I saw her walk out of a dark corner of the room I had been so sure was empty.

"Hey Mike." Her voice was smooth and confident.

I blinked, caught off guard. "You know my name?"

"I know a lot," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "I have a proposition for you." With any other woman, I might have mistaken that intense look for flirting.

"What do you mean?" I asked, drawing on my cigarette to play it cool.

Leaning in, she said, "I have a request. I want you to play 'Satanic Blues.'"

Raising an eyebrow, I answered, "That's a great tune, but it's Dixieland. Not really fitting for this crowd."

A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes as she smiled. "Oh, I'm sure you can make it work. And I can make it worth your while."

Finishing my cigarette, I narrowed my eyes. "Why's it so important?"

Her smile grew wider. "It'll give the Governor a headache and make him leave early. When he gets home, he'll find a very newsworthy surprise waiting for him. We need to get the timing just right."

Shaking my head, I said, "I'm sorry. No requests tonight."

Her expression shifted from eager to sulky. "I can make it worth your while."

"I'm not going to risk my career for a request," I replied firmly.

"What career?" she shot back. "You don't have savings, family, or a lover. If something happens to you, you'll end up alone and broke. Is that what you want?"

Growling, I responded, "Not everyone gets rich by shooting their dad."

Her expression darkened. "You should have listened. Now you'll listen."

Before I could react, she spat in my face and said something in a language I didn't recognize. I wiped the spittle away, anger rising in my chest. "Bitch."

"Maybe." She turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply on the cellar's uneven floor. I was left alone, fuming.

I went back to the stage, trying to shake off the encounter. The rest of the gig went off without a hitch. I was relieved to learn that Ashley Fowler had gone home after our confrontation.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of wind chimes. Since I didn't own any wind chimes, I figured the noise was coming from my neighbor's apartment. The soft tinkling was faint but persistent, so I brushed it off, got dressed, and went about my day.

But the sound didn't go away. Everywhere I went, the chimes seemed to follow me. At first, they were barely audible, something I could ignore. However, the next day, the sound was louder. I tried to tell myself it was just a figment of my imagination or maybe some auditory illusion brought on by stress.

But I was worried I was having some kind of stroke or something. The longer I heard them, the more the sound became distorted. They began to sound less like metal and glass wind chimes and more like something being tortured and just out of sight.

I visited my doctor, who ran some tests and told me I was perfectly healthy. He suggested I might be overworking myself and also recommended I see a psychiatrist.

And the chimes grew louder each day, their sound becoming increasingly unbearable.

The intensity of the noise started to affect my daily life. It was so loud I could barely concentrate. I was constantly on edge, unable to focus on anything but the relentless clanging. I started missing gig after gig until the band had to hire a temporary replacement drummer.

At night, the sound became unbearable. I'd lie in bed, tossing and turning, desperate for escape. I began drinking heavily until I passed out just to get some sleep. When that stopped working, I started taking sleeping pills. Eventually, I began combining both, hoping for relief.

Finally, there was the last night. The chimes were like a thousand metal chains being dragged through my brain. I lay in bed shivering and sick until something in me snapped. I went to the kitchen and rooted in the silverware drawer until I found what I wanted and didn't pause to think about what I was doing.

I stabbed out my eardrums with a steak knife...

###

…That night over dinner, I told Sara everything I had learned—except for the part about the 'unwilling vessels' and the last part of Mike's story, the worst part, the kicker.

What Mike said felt like a splash of cold water. Even now, days later, part of me wants to insist that he was crazy or lying. But I've seen too much over the years to let myself believe things like that.

So what was the kicker? The last part of Mike's story?

"The chimes," he said. "I can still hear them, Brian. I can still hear them."

 

 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Nine 'A Trace Of Arson'

By Al Bruno III

 

January 2nd: How was your New Year's Eve? Don't feel bad if it wasn't great because I spent mine almost dying. In fact, I probably should have died tonight. I should have finally suffered the consequences of taking too many chances and chasing too many secrets. As the old saying goes, when you stare into the Abyss, the Abyss stares back into you. And then it's only a matter of time before the Abyss decides to kill you for staring.

It all started with the Halfmoon fires. Halfmoon is a quiet, rural town nestled between the growing cities of Clifton Park and Saratoga. Developers have been gobbling up the farms and pastures of Halfmoon for over a decade to build shoddily constructed apartment complexes and barely populated strip malls.

Gotta love progress, huh?

Probably the chintziest of these new apartment complexes was Clifton Corners. It had been poorly designed, hastily built, and managed in a way that suggested the owners outright loathed their tenants. If that wasn’t bad enough, the place also bordered one of upstate New York’s cruddier cemeteries. The owner of this depressing prefab cul-de-sac, along with half a dozen others like it, was a man named Trace Buskin.

What can I say about Trace Buskin? That he came up from humble beginnings to become a millionaire real estate developer? That environmental groups hate him but local politicians love him? That he has the county sheriff’s department in his back pocket?

Or how about the fact that tonight he knocked me out and tied me to a tree?

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

This is what happened. I had figured out that three of the five cases of spontaneous combustion either involved residents of Clifton Corners or had occurred within just a few blocks of the complex. The first thing I did was bring the results of my investigations to the sheriff’s department, but they dismissed them and instead continued to harass anyone with an arson record or a nontraditional amount of melanin.

However, my theories caught the attention of an editor at Metroland, the Capital District’s finest hippie rag. She asked me to look into the matter and write a full-fledged exposé.

And they say you can’t find success as a blogger.

Sara Bishop and I spent about a week investigating the phenomenon of Spontaneous Human Combustion. There are all kinds of theories about it: psychic volcanoes, freak reactions of intestinal gases, nefarious government experiments, and the old standby, angry ghosts.

I tried to interview some of the tenants, witnesses, or friends of the victims, but only one person would talk to me—a crazy old coot named Leo. That's when I fell back on my old standbys of spying and skulking. It didn’t take long to notice that, for an absentee landlord, Trace Buskin spent an awful lot of time at Clifton Corners. I also saw him coming out of the woods bordering the cruddy old cemetery a few times.

Spying and skulking isn't easy in the middle of winter with snow on the ground and an icy breeze threatening to snatch the straw fedora from your head. I know it was the middle of the night, but you'd think I would have heard footsteps on the snow or glimpsed Trace Buskin coming up behind me with a tree branch the size of a baseball bat.

When I woke up, I found myself tied to a tree with my own shoelaces. I tried to speak, only to discover that he had gagged me with my own belt. I struggled to break free, to scream, but there was no escaping. Meanwhile, Trace Buskin paced and ranted. He wore nothing but a three-piece suit, no coat, no hat, nothing. It was starting to snow again, but he seemed oblivious to the cold.

“And you!” he pointed at me, “What are you doing following me around? I’m a respected entrepreneur!”

“Mmmph mmph! Mmmmph mmmmmph!” I replied.

“I’m doing the best I can. I’m a human being. I work long hours because I have to! But do you think Gladys understood that? Men have needs.”

I shrugged sympathetically but it didn’t stop the ranting. “It was all their fault.” Trace Buskin’s voice became distant, “They made me.”

Oh great. I thought.

There are three things you never want to hear someone say because they're always a sign of impending disaster:

“They made me!”

“Hey watch this!”

And of course:

“There’s no such thing as flesh-eating land mollusks!”

Trace Buskin started trembling. Veins of yellow-white phosphorescence spilled out from where he stood. The snow around his feet melted and steamed, while the wet grass beneath it burned and blackened. Those fiery veins started advancing toward me.

At moments like this, I can beg for my life with the best of them, but all I could do was make more “Mmmmph!” sounds. I can also run pretty well, but I couldn’t run anywhere until I got myself loose, and I didn’t see that happening anytime soon.

So, you can imagine my surprise when someone started untying me just then.

The belt was the first thing to fall away. I turned my head to see who my rescuer was.

“Leo?” I gasped...

###

Transcript of Leo Peter’s Interview

 

...You want me to talk into that thing? OK. You kids with your phones, they’re like computers and cameras and every other damn thing. When I was a kid, my Dad said there’d never be anything like Dick Tracy’s two-way TV wristwatch. His eyes would bug out if he could see all this.

What was your name again? Brian Foster? You don’t look like a Brian. You look like a Darrin or a Karl.

The fires? Sure, I know about the fires. I told the police and the fire department everything I knew, but they didn’t want to hear it. They said I was disparaging a great man. A pillar of the community. Hah! I knew Trace Buskin when he was just a punk selling drugs on the street corner.

Oh yeah. He was a drug dealer back in the seventies. Trust me, Brian, you look far enough back into any rich man’s fortune, and you’re gonna find at least one crime was at the start of it.

What does this have to do with people catching on fire? It all started with him; it started back in May when Patty Kransky got a hundred-dollar fine from the complex. It was total bullshit. Her family came to visit, and she let her grandkids play Frisbee outside her apartment. So management hit her with a hundred-dollar unaccompanied minors fine.

Yeah, unaccompanied minors. It's one of the many bullcrap rules Buskin shoves down his tenants’ throats. No kids are allowed to play outside unless there is an adult right there watching them, even if you live here and they’re your own kids! Even if you’re watching them through the parlor window.

Bad enough they nickel and dime us with all kinds of other stupid fees, but what they did to Patty was just awful. She’s retired and on a very fixed income.

And when they hit you with those fines, they want the money with your next month’s rent, no negotiations allowed. I loaned her the money, but I also went down to Buskin’s main office and chewed him out.

Well, let me tell you, the high and mighty Trace Buskin doesn’t like getting called on his nonsense. He tries to feed me some cock and bull story about liability insurance, but I don’t buy it. I told him, ‘No reputable apartment complex would do this.’

Then he called me a toothless old bastard, which I am. Hee hee! Before I left his office, I told him he should kill himself.

Oh, you should have seen the look on his face.

A few days later, I get woken up out of a sound sleep by this high-pitched screaming. I get out of bed, look across the complex, and see flickering light in the window of Patty’s apartment.

Me and about a dozen other people called 911. One of the guys living next to her, this big Irish kid named Dana, he kicked her door in, but it was too late. She had burned up.

It was like you said. Just Patty burned up, none of her furniture, none of her carpets, not even her damn clothes!

Now, the cops and fire company aren’t there five minutes when Buskin shows up. He lives in Saratoga, so I was thinking to myself that he got there pretty fast. I figured he was at some kind of a party because he was all dressed to the nines in a suit that probably cost as much as my rent.

Yeah Brian, very suspicious. I can’t tell you anything else about what happened except that prick Buskin charged Dana for the damage he did kicking in the door.

A few days later, I’m up around 4 A.M. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping thanks to injuries I got back during the Tet Offensive. No. Nothing heroic, when the shooting started, the damn LT panicked and ran me over with his jeep. Broke a bunch of my bones and dragged me about twenty feet. Somehow he still ended up going home with a medal; I went home with a medical discharge.

Where was I? Oh yeah, 4 A.M. I’m watching TV, I get up to take a piss, and when I come back, I see Trace Buskin wandering around the complex. Now I’m thinking to myself that maybe he’s got some kind of girlfriend living here, but all the women here are middle-aged or older, and if a rich man’s gonna fuck around, he’s gonna fuck around with a young filly. Otherwise, why be rich? Huh?

I thought about saying something, but my show was coming back on, so I went back to the parlor.

That morning, they found Dana burned up in his bathtub; the damn shower was still running.

After that, I tried to keep an eye out for him, but when it came to every other fire, I was a day late and a dollar short.

But everyone that died, they were friends of mine. Even the two guys that died in the car fire near the overpass? They hung out with me at the bar sometimes.

None of it makes sense. Buskin’s a prick, but he isn’t a murderer. Rich men don’t kill people for kicks. But then who’s doing this?

You got your work cut out for ya, kid.

###

…near as I can guess, Leo was following me while I was following Trace Buskin. I'll give the old coot props; he did a much better job of not getting caught.

Now, I’m not one to look a gift rescue in the mouth, but while Leo fumbled with the triple knots securing my hands behind my back, those trails of fire slithering along the snow-covered ground toward me were getting awfully close.

Then Trace caught sight of the old man. I didn’t think it was possible, but his expression became even more crazed. “You!”

His rage was a physical thing, washing over me as a wave of heat. It scalded my flesh and set my eyebrows smoldering. I screamed at Leo, “Hurry! For the love of God, hurry!”

The knots loosened enough for me to snap the shoelaces. I got clear of the tree just as it started to burn.

“Don’t you run from me!” Trace called after us. “Don’t you dare.”

I would have loved to make a run for it, but if I did that, I would have had to leave a seventy-year-old war veteran behind to die in my place. The snow crunched under our feet as we tried to back away.

“How the hell is he doing this?” Leo grabbed my arm as we retreated. “What is he?”

“I don’t know. Let me think... Let me think... Maybe we can talk him down or something.”

Trace Buskin was stalking toward us, and every tree he walked past went up like it had been doused in gasoline, the snow around them evaporating instantly. When he spoke, his voice crackled, “You think you know me? You think you know what I had to do? What I lost?”

“You think we care?” Leo spat back.

I face-palmed. So much for talking him down. More tendrils of fire bled toward us; I thought to myself that this sure as hell wasn’t some overactive intestinal gases.

Which, I realized, might mean...

No more backing away. I stood my ground as the woods went up around me. “Trace Buskin!” I said in my loudest and most accusatory voice, “You are dead. I don’t know for how long, or what happened, but you are dead.”

He laughed smokily and kept coming. Leo made a frightened noise. The iron fence of the cruddy cemetery was just a few feet behind us, the snow against it piling up. We were cornered.

All I could do was keep talking, “You are dead! You must have died weeks ago. Don’t you remember?”

Trace Buskin slowed, his expression of rage becoming one of confusion. This time when he said, “I am a respected entrepreneur,” it didn’t sound like he believed it. He pointed at Leo, “He made me.”

“You. Are. Dead.” I said, my voice an angry staccato.

“I’m a human-”

“What happened?” I cut him off. “Was it a heart attack, or did you take Leo’s advice and kill yourself?”

He looked down at himself, his expression incredible in its grief. The rivers of flame recoiled backward, lashing themselves up and over his body. Now he burned, now veins of fire crisscrossed over him until he was nothing more than a smoldering jigsaw. That jigsaw folded and twisted in upon itself and collapsed.

Then it was gone.

The woods grew darker as the fires went out. It wasn’t a gradual thing; it was like it had all been a special effect that someone had decided to turn off.

We stood there in stunned silence until we heard the sounds of sirens approaching. Leo turned to me, “What did you do?”

A full explanation would have taken too long, and I was too tired. So instead, I just adjusted my straw fedora and said, “I guessed.”