THE UNBURIED
story by Patrick Breheny pjbreheny@hotmail.com
Just because Malcolm Stone was a funeral director---maybe because he was a funeral director---didn’t mean he had no spirit or humor about him. In Asia the building he owned would be called a shophouse, meaning it was both a business and a residence. Malcolm’s enterprise, the funeral home, was at ground level, and he lived in the second floor apartment, The third floor was a storage area, but mostly a showroom for caskets
He lived alone. He was a lifelong bachelor, never a candidate for the clergy, but he saw his occupation as a calling, despite his jokes in the Avon, the bar around the corner where he occasionally had a nip There he dropped jokes like “I’ll be the last to let you down,” but he was respected because in the real world he had a sensitivity when grieving families came. The denizens at the pub recognized his banter as only that.
As funeral director, his role was to interact with and console grieving families He didn’t relegate that but had subordinates who discussed packages, the wake and cemetery arrangements, showed coffins, and at a moment when people were not equipped for negotiating, quoted prices.
Malcolm’s empathy was genuine. He had known many of the deceased, and some incidents were tougher than others. .If the departed was 85, it was at least expected, accepted. When it happened to someone young, suddenly or not, it wasn’t .He took his role as a calling. It was God’s will he was single and celibate, He banished any thoughts that that was due to inadequacy or lack of self esteem. He was there for his community.
Or had been. His property taxes were high, and he was on a fourth mortgage. Business was off. People hadn’t stopped dying, but they hadn’t left funds or insurance sufficient for funerals and cemeteries. Families stopped burying them. Wakes were shortened. Two nights, or a night and a morning-before special There was still the church, but no line of cars. The pallbearers put the casket in a hearse that took the deceased to a crematorium.
He was having coffee on a weekday morning when there was no wake, not even one scheduled, and Richie Hanson his embalmer called his mobile, not a usual occurrence, and never with no work.
“What’s going on, Rich?”
“Can I come upstairs and talk to you?”
Richie of course had access, keys to downstairs, but, “You’re here today?”
“Just tidying up a little.”
“Coffee’s on.”
“Be right there.”
He’d known Richie since high school. Richie learned the trade from ‘the old man’ and the old man himself was buried out of Stone’s, though Malcolm free lanced with a different embalmer than Richie for that one. Malcolm had inherited the mortuary from his old man. His second floor dwelling was a typical city apartment, called three rooms---kitchen, living room, bedroom---and he was sitting at his kitchen table thinking how uncharacteristic this call was. Malcolm wasn’t accustomed to company. On days when Richie was working, he never came up to visit Malcolm.
He opened the door to the knock, let Richie in, poured him a cup of coffee, and they sat across from each other on hard highbacked chairs around the steel and plastic table.
Just to make conversation, and to establish he wouldn’t be getting carried away with this hosting, Malcolm said,
“I never eat in the morning. No appetite.”
“Thanks for the coffee.
“Least I can do.”
“Sure. I didn’t come here to eat.”
It was a reminder that, despite the fact that Richie worked for Malcolm, there was a rivalry between them from when they were kids on the basketball team. Richie was a star. Malcom wasn’t/
“What I mean is, you’re welcome to what there is. You’d just have to cook it.”
“Never got far with that talent. I had breakfast.”
Malcolm read that as a reminder that Richie had a wife and three children, achievements he didn’t have. He tried not to sound vexed.
”There’s nothing happening here today, so what’s going on?”
“Okay, well, you know we’re not getting the deceased like we used to from the hospitals.”
“There’s been a decrease, but the hospitals still send the bodies when the families tell them to. A lot of people are skipping even a wake now, just doing cremation.”
Richie was shaking his head at that.
“You want to do more free lance for other mortuaries, I understand.”
His hand was up to stop Malcolm.
“You got a full time job offer?” Who’d be that busy?
“No.”
“You want a raise, the timing is awful.”
More head shaking.
“You’re considering another profession. Going to learn computers?”
“None of that. I don’t know how to begin. The first time it happened, I thought it was a one off, it won’t happen again. It keeps happening”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’re getting corpses sliced up.”
“Sometimes there are autopsies.”
“Not autopsied. Organs missing.”
“Which hospitals are they coming from? I’ll call about this.””
“All I know is it has to be done fast. The brokers want the organs right away, as soon as someone dies. Maybe a little before is better.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Who did we embalm who was like that?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Don’t say you can’t tell me. I’ll call the police.”
“Don’t call anybody. We’ve been warned.”
“Warned by who?”
“Who do you think would warn me?”
“Why are you telling me at all then?”
“They want you to know. They say they’ll compensate you. Want your complicity I guess.”
“How long has this been happening?”
“Too long.”
“How long?”
“A while, okay.”
“Get out of here, Richie.”
“You can fire me but you won’t find anybody else. I’m a dying profession.”
“I’m not in the mood for undertaker jokes.”
“You? The last to let you down?”
“Go.”
“It isn’t my doing.”
“Who warned you?
“One of Popsy Saturn’s guys.”
After Richie was gone, Malcolm met his conscience. This was happening to community people If he couldn’t stop it, he didn’t want to be part of it. Maybe he could get out, quit the business Sell the mortuary. Who’d buy it? Or the building? It was generations old. Maybe his best buyer’s bid would be to default on the mortgage and let the bank have it. Something he’d have to consider if business didn’t pick up. And if it did, he’d have the wise guys’ gruesome enterprise
He’d had no wakes or funerals for two weeks to make Richie’s intel relevant when Richie called again on a cool morning in early October. There was no straightening up to be done and Richie was on his own cell.
“You can’t be downstairs.”
“I’m out front.
“Well, things are still slow.”
”I know. I brought some pastries and coffee.”
“I just had two cups, but I’ll accept our treats.”
They sat again across the table and Malcolm asked, “Why are you bribing me with cinnamon rolls? You must have some method.”
“Maybe a madness.”
“Nothing as morbid as the last gem, I hope.”
“Just… unorthodox.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, you haven’t been going to the Avon pub lately.”
“Budgeting. You’re on a scouting expedition? Checking on my well being?”
“Not quite.. I don’t know how this idea got started, but the crowd at the Avon came up with a novel idea for Halloween.”
“Oh?”
“They want to make it a spooky night. and they thought of you as M.C..”
“Me? I don’t have the personality for such a thing.”
“They considered that too.”
“So then what? I just stand around at the Avon and pretend I’m an undertaker??”
“Not in the Avon.”
“No? Where?”
“Here.”
“ NO! Not in the funeral parlor.”
“Right,, no, of course not in the funeral parlor. They considered offending people. Using downstairs for a party would be blasphemous.”
“You just said here.”
“Yes.. Here. Not in the parlor. Here in your apartment. You live here. You can throw a party once in a while.”
“This is no location for any kind of party.”
“They’ll pay you rental.”
“Sell my soul?”
“They’re offering a thousand dollars for the night.”
“How can a bunch of guys from the Avon spend that kind of money for a foolish party?”
“It’s not an invitation party.”
“What other kind is there?”
‘They plan to sell tickets.”
“The only reason I’m not throwing you out is because we’re old friends.”
Not the only reason. With a thou in cash, he could make the next mortgage payment. He’d received no new cadavers, and no wise guys had been around with gratuities. There was no indication they’d be paying retroactively. And as to the morality of benefitting from that which had already been done, what was done was done. But it was hard to ask them questions. They didn’t have a website or keep a corporate office.
“I need time to consider this.”
Time to consider that if he didn’t have any paying clients by mid-October, he night have to have a party.
“They need to promote it, sell tickets. They say they want an answer this week.”
“And what will they do if I say no?”
“You’re not the only undertaker in town.”
“Why me?”
“You’re from the neighborhood.”
Okay, so why not him?
By the end of the week, nobody had died and been sent to him, so he felt he had to go along with it, and it was then that Richie told him there were other terms.. Accepting the K meant he had to let elves in on the afternoon of Oct 31 to drag in temporary furniture, set up a mobile bar, decorate with paper silhouettes of ghosts and witches and skeletons.
They carried all his household furniture up to the third floor showroom with a promise to bring it all down the next day. Oh, and, Richie told him, there was another perk promised the guests. Anybody who wanted to, could pay to sleep it off in a casket.
“But”, Richie said, “You can negotiate your own prices with them on that one.”
Malcolm stipulated firmly, “Only one body in a coffin\”.:
“All they were ever intended for,.”
He let Richie MC and tried to just stand around like an undertaker, but the party was a rejuvenation for Malcolm. Amazing---or was it?---how dour his line of work had made him. Lots of the gang from the Avon came as expected, but also other friends he hadn’t seen in years, and there were younger people too,, who were effusive with praise. One young lady complimented his ability to accept his maudlin career with such humor and still celebrate living.
Having the party didn’t help his reputation or business, but wasn’t it…dead…anyway?. He made the mortgage payment, and had enough left to spend some time at the Avon It was there, with both of them sitting at the bar, that Richie came up with another idea.
“When I was in the Army, stationed in Korea, I went to Tokyo once on leave, and they have these places there they call capsule .hotels. These capsules, they’re like coffins stacked three high, just space to sleep for the night.”
“Who would stay there?”
“They’re called business hotels. Office men who need to catch a few hours but live way outside Tokyo.”
“But we’re the opposite, see. The Bronx is far away from Manhattan. Anybody who works downtown and comes up to the Bronx after work, lives here”.
“There are people interested..”
“Who? The Bronx isn’t a tourist destination, and anybody who did come here on vacation would probably like a bed.”
“You got a write up in a Greenwich Village newspaper for the Halloween party. It’s become a thing with some millennials. I opened a website, and…”
“You opened a website? You’re advertising already.”
“I just had an inspiration.”
“And there are people who want to rent coffins for the night.”
“There are.”
“What might they do in them besides sleep?
“What happens in a coffin, stays in…They have other hotels in Tokyo, just for couples, called love hotels.”
“I bet those have beds.”
“Probably, but this could be a blend.”
“I’m not opening a brothel. I found a used condom in a satin lined casket after the party. Nasty.”
“I’m asking first. If you’re interested.”
Was he interested? The November mortgage bill was looming.
“Just don’t play up that love hotel angle.”
Would people take the D train from West 4th Street to 205th Street in the Bronx to sleep in a box? More than a few did, and then Richie, who now was around Stone’s regularly, arrived another morning with more pastry boxes.
“There’s no reason, just because Halloween is over, to not continue the parties too.”
“I have to live here.”
“Couldn’t you move upstairs?”
“No room for me and furniture with the coffins.”
“You could move them down here.”
“What would be the point? Have the parties on the third floor? Just more stairs for customers to climb.”
“Have the parties on the ground floor.”
“We’ve had this conversation, Richie. No party in the funeral parlor.”
“No, of course not. What I mean is---turn the ground floor into a bar.”
“A bar? We’re getting capsule business, but you think a bar will mean subway trains from Greenwich Village filled with people who want to drink in a former funeral home and sleep in a coffin?”
“Well, maybe not filled, but Bronx people will go for it too. You know, when things get trendy. They loved Halloween here. Keep the name Stone’s Funeral Home and the bar will be a good theme business with locals too. The capsules can be an optional sideline. Drink too much, maybe meet a sweetheart or hope to meet one, spend the night.”
“I’ll think about it.”
And he did. Could he do both? Run a bar in the same venue when there were no funerals? Getting out of the funeral business would get him free of Popsy Saturn.
Malcolm knew Popsy. He wasn’t Popsy when Malcolm was 13, he was Patsy, a name few ever ridiculed him for. Potsy/Patsy was in his late 20s then.
Malcolm smoked cigarettes at 13. His parents didn’t know, but if they had, wouldn’t have been giving him money to buy them. So, how he smoked was by bumming them. He quickly learned not to ask an adult. That got him a lecture and no cigarette But…older kids, boys .In those days, the packs were proudly, visibly displayed in a shirt chest pocket. He’d get a lot of put down and ridicule but just stood and took it because the pack always came out and he got the cigarette. That was how he paid for his habit.
He was sitting in a luncheonette on Webster Avenue with two friends from 8th grade. That part of Webster was at the southern end of the parish, a bit rawer than his section. They sat with just a swallow of cola left in their cups to justify staying out of the cold when in came an older kid---looked to still be a kid---with a pack on parade.
Malcolm approached. Asked, “Can I get a cigarette?”
The guy appraised him carefully. Then he took the pack out and gave him one. Malcom subsidized his habit by at least carrying a book of matches, but he’d used the last one. Had to ask, “Can I have a light?
The guy had fast hands and flicked a Zippo under his nose.
“You want me to kick you in the lungs to get you breathing?”
“The light will be enough.”
“You know who I am?”
A guy with a pack of cigarettes.
“I’m not from Webster.”
“When I go, ask your friends. Next time I see you again, I want two cigarettes.”
Okay, if he gave him time to bum them...
The guy was there for a Daily News, which Malcolm noticed he didn’t bother paying for. Then he left and Malcolm returned to his pals. Who were regarding him with wide eyed disbelief.
“You just bummed a cigarette from Patsy Saturn.”
After that he did often see Patsy who became Popsy. Popsy never called in the loan. It just became a continuing joke. ”You got my cigarettes, kid?” Still calling him a kid when he was 50. So maybe now the organs were his way of collecting. At least he had what seemed an amiable acquaintanceship with Popsy, so when Malcolm saw him on a stool in, of all places, an ice cream shop, he went in. Popsy had several empty seats on either side of him, Malcolm thought because people were afraid of getting shot sitting near him.
Malcolm asked if he minded if he sat next to him. He looked lonely.
“You got my butts?”
“I quit smoking.”
“Fuckin’ kid.”
Malcolm ordered an egg cream and got to the point.
“I’m thinking about getting out of the funeral business.”
“Open a crematorium.”
Why didn’t he or Richie think of that? Popsy had to be joking. He wanted the spare parts. But cremation wouldn’t eliminate dissection first.
“Richie told me about the arrangements you want.”
“What arrangements would those be?”
“You know, The organs.”
“What?”
So he told Popsy what Richie told him. He wanted Popsy to understand he wasn’t getting enough cadavers anymore to help him.
“Is Richie smoking crack now?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Because I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”
He handed his check for the malted to Richie.
“It really is time you made good on your debt.”
They were in the Avon, sitting in stools at the bar.
Richje said,” I had to motivate you. And I see the business exploding There are people in lower Manhattan who believe they’re vampires, and want a box to sleep in. during the day. Right now they’re limited to closets, hiding under beds.”
“These can’t be New Yorkers?”
“Some are, but I talked to a few who came from Florida, California. Like Venice.”
“Wouldn’t they be dangerous?”
“Not when they’re sleeping. We can rent capsules day and night..”
“The night people might not appreciate checking out before daylight.”
“We’d have to separate the two groups. Put up a partition.”.
“We, Richie?”
“Just a figure of speech.
“You really believe these wannabe vamps will actually take the subway up here at the break of dawn to sleep in a casket?”
“It’s preferable to digging one up.”
Malcolm was still a mortician, he even had a funeral, but he gave it a trial on a weekday when there wouldn’t be any party people in residence. A lot of ‘vamps’ came. He had to concede Richie’s crazy ideas were generating income.
In the evening after they left, he and Richie did housekeeping on the caskets. There was no used condom this time, but strange paraphernalia was left---cherry pits and stems, medals of a figure with a dagger that seemed to be Jack the Ripper, Valentine cards with bleeding hearts, pamphlets praising Jeffery Dahmer and Henry VIII. Most unsettling were rust colored traces that appeared to be dried blood in the box linings.
Richie acknowledged, “They satisfy their fantasy with animal blood, mostly buy it from butchers, but I made sure they didn’t bring any animals here.”
“So where are the stains from?”
“From their mouths. It’ll wash out, but we’ll have to impose hygiene. Make sure they brush their teeth when they come in.”
The amulets left by the vamps were getting Malcolm thinking that just believing they were vampires made them dangerous, but he couldn’t get the occasional week night guests out before dawn.. That hour wasn’t quite satisfactory to someone wanting to sleep off a jag. So to enforce the segregation- by- partition, Riche had to be there at 5:45 AM
The vamps were soon to be confronted with their delusion. Cleaning up one morning-after, Malcolm discovered his cardinal rule was broken. Somebody closed a coffin He summoned Richie and together they raised the top. Inside was a young male dreadlocks one, who had tried to escape. His fingertips were bloody, fingernail scratches on the inside of the lid, his face twisted with terror and pain.
Malcolm had to call the police. There was already an issue about the legality of capsule hotels. There was no law forbidding such, but neither were there any regulations for it.
The coroner ruled Death By Misadventure, meaning, not quite stated officially, that it wasn’t a suicide because he tried to get out, but he was a moron for closing the top. This mortal death was a great embarrassment to the vamp community. It revealed he wasn’t a vamp, and laid doubt on the validity of all of them.
When the M.E. got through with his calculations, the body was released by the family--his vamp wife and two vamp siblings---to Stone’s Mortuary. They all stayed in capsules the next morning, and as darkness fell held a one hour viewing, many of them wearing capes. Then the hearse departed with a procession of vans, campers, rickshaws, motorcycles, bicycles and hitchhikers, that took the Grand Concourse down to the South Bronx, crossed the river to Manhattan, went unabashedly down 5th Avenue to the Village, and over to Vamp House on 7th Avenue .The remains were there mummified and to this day are displayed inside a large aquarium tank. An inscription below says he was slain, by a silver stake to the heart, in an epic battle with a werewolf..
Once again they were in the kitchen of Malcolm’s second floor apartment. Richie had taken to annoyingly calling him ‘Boss’.
”Boss, I have another idea.”
Malcolm wasn’t being ironic when he said, “I’m afraid to ask.”
“There’s another group interested. They call themselves Sleepwalkers Net. They’re concerned about their safety. They wake up walking in traffic, driving, cooking, mowing a lawn, using powers saws.”
“How will we keep in the boxes. We can’t close the tops.”
“I thought of that too, Boss.”
“Stop calling me Boss.”
“If you make me a partner, I promise I will. Or a VP or CEO with a share in the profits I’m generating.”
“Let’s how you’ll prevent them from sleepwalking here.”
“Coffin straps. Like seat belts, restraints to keep them from getting out.”
“Where is this Sleepwalkers Net located. Are they Village people too?”
“East Village. About that profit sharing?”
“Let’s see how it works out first.”
The walkers came, and community elders were seeing all this as disrespectful and sacrilegious. Richie had another suggestion for countering that: Charity, in the form of offering free sleeping to the homeless.
As it played out, after the give-away evening meal at the church was served, there was then a parade of the down and out through three blocks of the neighborhood, directly to Stone’s, which only infuriated residents more.
Malcolm got angry too. He’d tried to do good and people and complained. Even some of the walkers objected to the vagrants. And having desperate indigents in house could hurt the party business too.
He didn’t blame Riche, but this was at least an opportunity to deflect his profit nonsense.
“We have to stop the free capsule stuff. This last scheme of yours was a bad idea.”
“I’m still bringing you business?”
“How about I make you VP? Or CEO? With a raise, of course.”
“Profit sharing?”
“First let’s see how this new plan works out.”
“YOU have an idea?”
“No. it was yours. The party people are my fans. If people are offended about the homeless, l’ll really offend them. Let’s make the parlor a bar.”
“Alright!”
Malcolm moved to the third floor, the caskets down to the second. Richie somehow fast tracked a bar license. It didn’t mean Malcolm was giving up the funeral business. He didn’t renovate the parlor into a bar establishment. He used caskets from the showroom. There were already lots of comfortable seats and settees that gave the bar that artificial ‘better than at home’ wake feeling, and beside those he placed closed coffins for tables. For the actual saloon bar on which to serve drinks, he set two closed coffins end to end on the platforms that were usually placed under them at wakes. Behind this caskets bar were wall units filled with bottles, and a keg of beer. For a funeral, all these props could quickly disappear. Recorded music came from You Tube on a big computer screen.
They started on a Friday night, and by 11:00 the place was indeed lively. It was quite a mixture of groups---neighborhood women of varied ages, construction guys, longshoremen, mixed genders of vamps, and walkers not tired enough to sleep yet.
Also present was old Sam, a bar fly of repute sitting in a plush chair, and when Sam was drunk enough he decided to open the coffin he’d been drinking on. Inside was a walker in his restraints. The bright lights woke him. He looked around, at first confused, then seemed satisfied with his environment, and said to Sam “Open me straps, mate.” Sam did, and the walker climbed out. The music energized him. He began to move. He wasn’t awake enough yet to register rhythm. No matter Sinatra was singing “My Way”, the walker started break dancing to the whoops and cheers of all the house
When the bash was over, the parlor was filled with drooping streamers and littered with glasses in need of washing, ashtrays full of butts despite the no smoking rule,
Richie said, “So we must have mixed up the coffins.” The ‘we” were the guys from the casual labor office he’d hired in the afternoon to carry the coffins down.
“Why didn’t that walker suffocate too?”
“Probably not in there long enough.”
And with a non-sequitur Malcolm thought was to get off that topic, Richie asked,
”What do you think about hiring a band?” .
“We don’t have a cabaret license..”
“If we got one? We don’t have a bar license yet either. It’s temporary.”
. “That much noise would be the end. The neighborhood won’t put up with live music.”
“Well, the walkers will dance without any.”
The vamps wanted to be woken up about 5:30 PM. Malcolm did that chore because Richie was checking them in at the break of day. Malcolm had been delayed in the apartment sending an e-mail, so was about fifteen minutes late. The walker usually arrived together, but were not supposed to check in before 5:30. However, during the few minutes Malcolm was delayed, one of the walkers had come up to the second floor, and one of the vamps had awoken himself. Malcolm, unseen, stood still at the top of the stairs and observed the interaction between them. The vamp approached the walker who (asleep? oblivious?) didn’t seem to notice as the vamp embraced him, planted a sharp hickey on his neck, and seemed to drain his blood through the throat artery. The walker was unaffected in any way by this, but the vamp began to violently throw up, and not human blood. What came up was more unspeakable than any vomit has ever been: Blood worms whole, chewed bats, a thousand mosquitoes (estimated, he couldn’t count them), many still alive and buzzing angrily.
The doubled over vamp then noticed Malcolm impersonating a statue and spouted,
“Zombies! Couldn’t you warn us?”
Malcolm wanted to deny to himself what he just saw, even deny to who did it. “Your friend who died in a coffin?. He wasn’t a vampire.”
“Oh, we’ve been infiltrated since then. We’re the real deal now. Why did you take the homeless away. I mean they didn’t taste good either, but zombies! The blood is stale and dried up. We’ve tried it as a powder mix, like instant coffee, adding boiling water.”
“This was not satisfactory for you?”
“Is instant coffee? Ah, but you have a lovely neck.”
Malcolm said, as firmly as he could in this situation, “I remind you I am the funeral director. Without me, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, that’s been getting you a pass. But…temptation. We want to bring an aquarium tank here for our mosquito larvae program.”
“Well, if that might provide you with your need, I’m sure we can find some place to put it.”
“That would be lovely. There so full of blood.”
“I’ll make it a priority.”
“Thank you. Mosquitoes are only a substitute though. So small, no matter how many.”
He made a necklace of garlic that he wore day and night, replacing it as it spoiled. .He thought Richie must know what was happening, and was innovative enough to find his own protection.
A life long resident over a funeral parlor, Malcolm had never experienced a ghost, didn’t believe in them. Yet he knew of the phenomenon reported by those who say they encountered them. One of which indicators he was experiencing as he went into his apartment. It was an early November afternoon, winter was coming, but New York was having Indian summer, it was warm on the street, so his apartment should not be cold. But as soon as he closed the door, he met the cliché that so perfectly expressed what was inside. He felt chilled to the bone.
He was a grown man, under stress by events here, should not let himself get further psyched. He sat in his comfy armchair, picked up the remote control from the end table, and looked at the TV Guide. As he clicked to turn the TV on, the set instead suddenly went airborne, flew across the room, extended to the length of the chord, then, abruptly stopped by the chord, pivoted and crashed into the wall, the screen smashing. into small shards. Before he could speculate on how such a thing occurred, about how pressing his remote control had set off something like a bomb, the apartment door opened and slammed three times.
He knew he’d put the night chain on, always did of habit, but he looked anyway.
It was on. Nobody outside, even with a key, could have fully opened the door with the chain secure and slammed it so hard. And certainly no one who was outside could have put the chain back
The windows? He checked. He’d left the living room window open a few inches from the bottom, secured on one side by a lock twisted into the frame, and in place. The gap over the sill was too small for anyone to fit through, even to reach up. The kitchen and bedroom windows had been left locked and closed and still were. The culprit had to be in the apartment. Got in while Malcolm was out, and the door chain wasn’t on?. Not impossible. Even with dead bolts and police bar locks, a common question from burglarized Bronx people was, “How do they get in?” He though about calling the police, but they didn’t come for hauntings.
The window scouting had visibly eliminated the kitchen and living room as hiding places. There was no spot in those rooms to hide. That left the closet in the hall between the kitchen and living room, it left the bathroom which he hadn’t gone in because there was no window, and it left the bedroom where possible hiding places could be another closet, or under the bed.
From the cutlery drawer he removed the longest carving knife, then held it out of sight behind his back. The bathroom was easy. The door was ajar by two feet, so he could see all of the room except behind the door, and even most of that area was visible through the crack. There was a chance someone could be lurking there holding his breath. He gave the door a kick, and the doorknob slammed into the wall.
At the hall closet, he bent his knees to brace himself, and, with a sudden dramatic yank, poised to strike with the knife, pulled the door open only to meet his suits and sports jackets hanging undisturbed and unperturbed.
By the time he got on his hands and knees to look under the bed with the phone flashlight and had to resolve to do something about the neglected dust, his sense of adventure was fading.
But he still had the closet, and it wasn’t closed all the way. He knew he’d left it like that, but---wasn’t this the most likely spot. Was that why he left it till last? He held the knife in position beside his head, over his shoulder, prepared to strike, braced again, and…something rustled, was moving in there. He didn’t attack with his bayonet. He retreated several steps to comprehend. And suddenly the sound identified itself. A large black cat lunged from the closet top shelf and ran out of the room.
He chased it, into the living room, and there, in that space of open window at the bottom, it leapt out. That had to be how it got in. But the cat couldn’t throw his television across the room. Could it? Was it his imagination that he thought he felt that chill again while he was at the closet, was just too preoccupied to register it in the moment with his adrenalin surging.
Sensibly, he’d close the window so the cat couldn’t come back. He had enough problems with vampires and zombies. A cat ghost? Whoever heard of such a thing? Maybe it was what they called a ‘familiar’? No, that was witch talk. But maybe witches were ghosts? Whatever it was, now he was deciding he wanted it to come back. He was afraid, but he was curious too. He had questions to ask it. Wanted to talk to a cat. What was happening to him? He left the window open at the bottom.
He saw his bitten zombie again. At least he thought that was him. Or her. They were all starting to look the same, regardless of age, gender or race Just like the dead. Without formaldehyde, everybody’s undistinguishable in a few days..
How many of them were providing the vamps with that instant blood mix? Whether the same one or not, this specimen also had bite marks and was an early arrival for the evening, so he had a moment to speak to it. He expected it wouldn’t speak back. Now they just threw their money at him and crawled into a box.
But he’d try. The zombie was standing. Malcolm didn’t dare sit.
“Don’t take this personally, but you’re just look kind of a dirty, rotted Why don’t you fully decompose?”
Its reaction was to walk across the room with no apparent objective. Was that its way of answering?
“Because you move around? Exercise?”
It surprised him by objecting emphatically and verbally. ”We don’t just move for exercise. We have objectives.”
“Yes of course. You ride on the subway. What’s that like?”
“We usually get a car to ourselves.”
“How did you feel about getting bit?”
“It just tickled. And it’s our way of getting even. They get sick.”
“Getting even for biting you?”
“Oh no. that’s nothing.”
“So, for what?”
\ “We’re competing.”
“How?”
“We’re different. And they’re taking our boxes”
“So it’s like a war between you?”
“They can’t beat us but we can’t stop them either.”.
“I’d better order more boxes.”
“That might solve it for a while.”
The cat came back. If Malcolm could talk to a zombie he could talk to a cat that might be a ghost. It seemed to cooperate also for an interview. The cat sat attentively to listen. He didn’t expect it to speak English, but suspected it understood. .He didn’t feel any chill this time, and wasn’t positive he felt one when it jumped from the closet. He wondered what was happening to his mind
He asked it that most unanswered of existential questions:
“What’s the difference between a vampire and a zombie?”
The cat seemed at first not to react to that, but then it purred.
“Are you a ghost or a zombie?”
The cat came over, climbed up on the armchair, and curled itself beside him.
“Can’t you answer me?”
“Meow”
He thought that was a yes. Yes, I’m a ghost or a zombie.
“Can you make that chill again?”
Nothing happened. Just like a cat, it was only going to do what it wanted.
Maybe it was just a kitty that got in the window, happened to be there the same time as a ghost. Why were plausible explanations now seeming implausible to him?
He put his hand on its back to stroke his new pet, but the cat’s body was as hard as marble. It was then then that he felt the chill again.
The police were bothering him about missing persons last seen at Stone’s Funeral Parlor Pub. Was he supposed to watch after his customers like children? And the neighbors were complaining that the bar was breaching community standards, attracting undesirables. Richie had told him about a petition being circulated.
Malcolm found an artist in Soho who worked in silver, and commissioned him to make a silver stake. The design, and finished work, looked a bit like a sword with wings. It had a hand grip measured to the size of his hand. and the wings could be folded to carry it in a scabbard, but Malcolm preferred to keep it ready in his hand.
Richie came back to his apartment one evening after vamp checkout to tell him he’d just been served the petition Malcolm read it. It wasn’t a legal summons or subpoena, just, as he now saw it, a list of complaints by a bunch of whining malcontents.
His ghost pet was there, had just taken a long nap, but was now active.
Richie said, “That cat is creepy. I always feel cold around it.”
“We are moving toward winter.”
Richie, as Malcom expected, had found his own deterrent. He had fake bite marks on his neck. At least that’s what he said they were. But they looked real, and in the world of now, yesterday’s friend could become today’s enemy.
“You’re not a vampire?”
“Oh, Boss, you’ve seen too many movies. You don’t need the stake on me.”
“I’m sure the bites are fake, but then you don’t mind if I examine them.”
“Could it be without that sword pointed at my chest?”
“Afraid it could not, but if you’re telling me the truth you have nothing to fear. I’m going to look.”
“They’re fake but well drawn. Have a gander.”
Malcolm moved in, carefully scrutinized Richie’s neck.
“I can’t be sure. I don’t have my reading glasses with me.”
“You can borrow mine.”
“That won’t be necessary. Just a little more detail.”
Malcolm got closer, eyeballs at Richie’s skin..
“Convinced, Boss?”
“Oh yes. Yes, I am. Forgive me for doubting you.”
“You can make it up to me. The profit sharing…”
Malcolm plunged his long fangs deeply into Richie’s throat. Richie stood, seemed stoic, accepting, resigned to the inevitable transformation. He managed, with his last words as a human, to gasp, “Why the stake and necklace?”
Malcolm didn’t reply until satiated. Even then, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, licked as much as he could off of it, and managed a grotesque smile before taunting,
“Richie!”
“To throw me off?”
“If it consoles you, we are full partners now.””
Kitty was beside him, back arched by the activity, rubbing urgently against Malcolm’s leg. Then Kitty sunk her sharp teeth into Malcolm’s calf. Malcolm didn’t mind, didn’t feel any pain. It was a food chain kind of thing.
.He did wonder about a vampire cat ghost? How could such a thing happen? But then, all things considered here, why couldn’t it happen? He was thinking also, the holidays are coming. He had big plans for them. They ‘d probably be dark for Christmas, that was family, people don’t go to bars on Christmas Eve, on Christmas Day maybe they do dinner, a movie. He could make Thanksgiving interesting, but had big ideas for New Years. He and Richie and Kitty, vamps and zombies and locals, maybe ghosts. the whole gang. Speaking of, even Popsy Saturn had been coming around, checking on the potential here. Popsy didn’t bother him anymore. Let Popsy come too, bring his guys. Fresh blood. The more of that they could put in reserve, the healthier the community. It was a Ponzi scheme after all. Somewhere, sometime, they’d run out of human blood.. Maybe that explained the riddle regarding the difference between a vampire and a zombie.. Could zombies be vampires bitten by other vampires?
No matter, there was time left before they’d deplete all the natural resources. He’d made his resolution for the holiday in advance. New Years Eve at Stone’s Pub would be a celebration the likes of which had never been seen before.
Richie wasn’t like just any vampire. He had a craving for blood, but he’d had other destructive cravings before, and found a group of people who showed him how to overcome them, though he himself first had to resist. He did that now, and with the help of a remedy particular to his trade that he anticipated would work. He didn’t go home, did not infect his family He spent his time at Stone’s preparing for New Years and gave his family that reason for his absence
He had his plan. A couple of days before the New Year bash, in the now saloon, he presented Malcolm with his special holiday cocktail. They had a former beer keg that was now filled with blood, and another with tomato juice, for the newbies early in the evening. By the ‘auld lang syne’ hour all would be vamps, and as a toast a Bloody Mary---real blood and a half a glass of vodka straight from the bottle--- would be served.
Malcolm,. from his recent Greenwich Village associations, thought the idea avant garde and Richie served him the first authentic Bloody Mary. Malcolm fell almost instantly to the floor, a dead- as- -a doornail vampire.
Richie embalmed Malcolm, put him in his austere black undertaker’s suit, and into a suitable casket. There was a dumbwaiter in the old building, and to fit the casket in and hide it, it had to be placed upright. There was not enough space to leave the coffin open. .He’d save that surprise for the finale.
They came to the party from everywhere.---vamps, zombies, millennials, gangsters, retirees, neighborhood people, out of staters, foreign tourists, and Richie recruited bartenders, who were already themselves vampires, as servers who would share in the toast at the end .Many were asking, “Where is Malcolm?” and Richie promised “He’ll be here?” One, with an exotic sounding European accent, said it was like ‘Waiting For Godot.” Richie didn’t know who Godot was except he’d heard he was some guy who never showed up, and said “I don’t think so.”
The pouring began a couple of minutes before the ball would start falling in Times Square. Even Kitty was lapping Bloody Mary from her bowl.
As all were all imbibing, Richie opened the dumbwaiter, pulled Malcolm’s upright coffin out and opened it. There was Malcolm, as reserved as ever, dressed for his wake. There was an audible synchronized gasp. Not because there was a body. Because this was--- a dead vampire! Much as he’d been missed this evening, Malcom’s disappearance before tonight had not been noted because, well, there wasn’t anybody who would notice he was missing.
They all started falling over . One managed in a weak whisper, ‘The vodka. It was strange…”
“Yes,” Richie said. And it was indiscriminately killing vampires, zombies, ghosts and hybrids, bartenders and guests, every man, woman and feline of them. He had filled the vodka bottles with the chemical of his trade, and let them all know with the last word they would ever hear. ”Formaldehyde.”
Richie quickly sprayed and spread formaldehyde around the room and on the dead and dying ghouls. It’s a highly flammable substance, and just as the TV big screen was showing the ball dropping in Times Square, several miles north in the Bronx Richie dialed 911 on the land line, disguised his voice, and said where there would be a terrible explosion and fire. He hung up, walked calmly outside, lit a rag in the neck of a vodka/formaldehyde bottle, and tossed it gently through the doorway he’d just left from. He strolled away, be it at a jog, before the blast behind him went off, and then he went home to his family.
Investigators had a time figuring out exactly what had been going on in there, but hadn’t they all just brought it on themselves?
As to Richie’s whereabouts, he was home with his family all evening. While Malcolm was still Malcolm, besides the fake bite marks for protection, Richie had ingested a low dosage of formaldehyde, just enough he believed to not make him too sick, yet he hoped would negate a vampire’s bite. And it worked. Like a vaccination. But it wasn’t strong enough to harm the vampire when it happened. Richie was recovered now. He would bite no one. He wished he could have saved the innocents who came to Stone’s just for New Years’ fun. Malcolm too, if he’d known in time how to protect him, and he never dreamed it would be Malcolm who’d bite him. But a greater good was found, a deterrent to vampirism. Formaldehyde. He’d get that message out.
He still believed good can triumph, but only with perseverance-- and a little trickery thrown in.