Ghost Shadows (18 page)

“Oh dear Lord
,
”
t
he other man cried as he
,
too
,
saw the image on the shutter.
 

The shutter was charred completely black. Three faces seemed to rise from the surface as if sculpted from a solid piece of wood. Two near the bottom of the shutter were of a man and a woman, both of whom seemed to be contorted in horror as if screaming in agony. Their faces were scorched and burned flesh seemed to
hang
in flaps from their charred skulls. Two skeletal hands held each of the images by their heads, leading upward to a third image. It was that
of a wild-eyed burned and scarred man who appeared to be laughing hysterically, his eyes wide with insanity.
  

 

 

The beat up circa 1970s Chevy van eased its way to the curb in an abandoned area of the city so decayed and desolate not even the craziest of the city's walking wounded, nor the homeless street people or not even the most brain-fried of the crack-heads would go near it. It was, by far, one of the worst areas of the city. Locals often quipped, if one were to take the time to look up “urban blight” in the encyclopedia, he should not be at all surprised to find pictures of that district prominently displayed.

During the early part of the twentieth century, this four-block region along the river had been a booming garment district, with many multistoried clothing factories, employing thousands of people. There were also a few buildings set up for light manufacturing and assembly as well. Millions of dollars were made here for the owners of the businesses and the workers were always paid a fair wage, resulting in the building of hundreds of nearby row-homes and apartment buildings
.
N
eighborhoods quickly began to spring up, and just as rapidly began filling with immigrants flocking to the city in search of employment.
 

However, things started to decline in the late 1950s and early 1960s as the labor unions became stronger and the wages became higher, while foreign competition flooded the market with dirt cheap products. Somehow a few of the businesses managed to hold on, at least for a while.

Then throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s, much of the work began to leave the country for places like China, Malaysia, Thailand
,
and Mexico while here the businesses were saddled with harsh fines and government imposed environmental regulations. Some businesses were accused of dumping harmful toxic chemicals and dyes into the river, which had the potential of polluting the
neighborhood water system.
 

By the end of the decade in 1989, it was all over but the shouting, as all of
the
businesses had either moved their operations to foreign countries or had simply gone belly-up. The job market dried up, and the huge buildings were left abandoned. Soon the local neighborhoods were likewise left deserted, as former mill workers fled the area in search of new employment.
 

It was not long afterward
that
the urban decay began in earnest as the criminal elements of society moved in and vandals started breaking windows
and
looting whatever scraps they could from the abandoned buildings
. O
ccasionally
they
start
ed
random fires, which quickly escalated into blazing infernos, turning both the local residences and factory buildings into burned out hulks; skeletal remains of what were once thriving and noble structures.
 

Then it wasn't long before the druggies and the crazies moved in; squatting and trying to survive among what little shelter the ruined buildings were able to provide. However, something drastically changed in the area during that time, near the end of the twentieth century. No one ever said for certain what had driven everyone away but it had to have been something so horrible
;
it was apparently terrifying enough to scare off even those most depraved characters, which were often considered on the bottom of the societal dung heap. And as a result, this mysterious unknown phenomenon had prevented any others from venturing into the area as well.
 

Even local gangs with the most violent of hardened criminals chose to avoid the menacing
,
disreputable buildings. It was as if the place was marked, or cursed somehow, and word of mouth obviously must have spread among the lowest of the low, because seldom was it anymore that even a solitary soul could ever be seen within the four-block area, especially after the sun went down. There had been talk and rumors among the homeless people in surrounding shelters; stories of unsolved disappearances, missing friends, presumed dead but whose bodies were never
found.
 

It didn't take long for the stories to reach urban legend status, as people began to speak of "sightings" of creatures, possibly human, but perhaps not quite
,
who apparently controlled the area from their subterranean lairs. The tales said the creatures hunted and murdered their victims, cannibal
s
devouring anyone they came upon. The lurid stories never quite made it out of the city into the suburbs
,
however, since the two cultures seldom, if ever had any opportunity to comingle. So
,
on occasion, groups of young people from the 'burbs would wander into the burned out ruins seeking adventure. Most of them were never were seen again.
 

The weather-beaten van idled at the curb, shaking slightly from the vibration of the ancient engine chugging persistently, giving the van the appearance of trembling in terror, which was apropos for a place with such an ominous reputation.

Inside the van, the driver, a young man named Cameron Johns, turned to look at his best friend Chase, who was seated on the passenger side.

“So here we are
,
” Cameron said with a slight bit of unease in his voice.
 

Chase didn't seem to notice Cameron's discomfort, and turned to look into the back of the van where two girls sat awkwardly on a pair of oversized bean bag chairs. “Well
,
ladies, are you ready for this?”
 

“I'll tell you one thing,”
t
he girl named Crystal said from the dark back of the van, “I'm most certainly ready to get out of this potentially syphilitic,
AIDS
infested death trap you call a van.”
 

“Hey!
”
Cameron retorted. “
C
areful how you talk about my
. . .
love machine.”
 

“Right
,
”
t
he other girl, Jen
,
replied. “This piece of garbage may have been a shaggin' wagon back in its day, but it stopped being a love machine the day you bought it.”
 

“Who
a
!” Cameron said, “That's harsh! You know, ordinarily that would hurt my feelings—”
 

“—if it wasn't so true
,
” Chase interrupted.
 

He and the two girls laughed hysterically while Cameron sat sulking, pretending to be insulted. The
group often took turns exchanging barbs; it was simply a part of their special relationship. Then Chase asked
,
still chuckling, “Cameron, why don't you tell the girls about that burnt out old hippy dude who sold you this piece of shit.”
 

“Chase!” Crystal scolded from the back seat. “Language! Please! You know I am trying to keep my aura clean and pure by avoiding such negative and crude language.” Crystal was bit of a flaky sort of personality, who seemed to bounce from one new age religion to another. The other members of their group assumed
that
with a name like Crystal, and two former earth-children hippy parents, it was inevitable
that
she would follow such
a
path in constant search of enlightenment.
 

Most recently she had discovered some new form of cosmic mysticism
,
and after reading several books on the occult, decided she was reincarnated from an Egyptian princess, although having failed geography she most likely didn't even know where Egypt was. She also fancied herself as a sort of medium, even though she had absolutely no clairvoyant abilities whatsoever. She dressed in a strange hodgepodge of various fashions from Bohemian to Far Eastern and even Gothic, depending upon her mood. This strange choice of garb tended to produce unusual looks from just about everyone who saw her.
 

The four were part of a group of five close friends who had known each other since grade school and all shared one thing in common; they didn't fit in anywhere socially but within this special cadre of like minds.

“Whatever
,
” Chase replied to Crystal's rebuke. “Come on
,
Cameron. Tell them about the old guy
. . .
that smelly hippy dude.”
 

Cameron laughed in spite of himself, and said, “This dude was so time-warped. He was like sixty-some years old and the guy still wore tie-dye shirts and had this long white goatee and Fu-Manchu mustache. He was like totally bald, with just this weird ring of white frizzy hair around his head. He must have tried hard to hang onto his long hair forever ‘cause he had like five hairs that were about a mile long, all wrapped together in a ratty looking ponytail.” The group laughed while Cameron continued, enjoying their reactions. “He said he was the original owner of the van and told me if the van could talk, boy could it tell some wild tales.”

Crystal squirmed uncomfortably in her beanbag chair, tucking her legs tighter up under herself, not certain she wanted any of her clothing or heaven forbid, her flesh to come in contact with the worn shag carpet surrounding her conspicuously. Her stomach turned when she thought of the amount of spent DNA most likely still lingering in the fibers.

“He told me he always wanted to give the van a Viking funeral when
it
finally died
,
” Cameron explained, “You know, take it out in a field and burn it when he couldn't drive it anymore. But he said it just kept running.”
 

“So why did he want to sell it?” Jen asked, not seeming to mind sitting so close to the carpet as Crystal had. Jen was a bit more tom-boyish
than
Crystal and always seemed to be on a level playing field when it came to dealing with the boys at school. So she was not really fazed by the van's disreputable history or the thought of what disgusting elements might be lurking in the deep pile
of
shag carpet.
 

“Get this
,
” Cameron said with a smile, continuing with his tale. “The dude got into some trouble with the cops for growing weed in his back yard and now he has a bunch of legal bills to pay. So the van had to go 'cause he needed the cashola. I picked it up for a song.”
 

Crystal interjected, “I wouldn't be surprised if that song you bought it for was a funeral dirge. This thing is a dump on wheels.”

Cameron countered, “It might seem like a dump to you and might be a bit rough around the edges, but it got us here tonight, didn't it?”

“Yeah!” Chase retorted, “And speaking of which, are we doing this or not?”

The “this” to which Chase was referring, was a special Halloween adventure the boys had planned and suggested to the girls, who after some cajoling and daring had reluctantly agreed. The idea was they
would go down in to the worst area of the city on a Saturday night of Halloween weekend, and go into one of the spookiest of the buildings, check it out
,
and stay there until after midnight.
 

The original plan was to stay all night, but they were all seniors in high school and the logistics of pulling off something like that with their parents was not even worth considering. It was tough enough to come up with the appropriate lies to be able to stay out past midnight. Cameron was the only one with a senior license, while the other three were still operating with their Cinderella tags
,
which meant no driving between eleven at night and five in the morning. In fact, the fifth member of the group, Stacey
,
couldn't get her parents to agree to let her come at all, so they were four instead of five.
 

And now here they were at nine
pm
in one of the seediest neighborhoods in the city, sitting at the curb in what at one time was a gorgeous metallic red Chevy Van with smoke colored moon windows and sunroof and chrome trim
. B
ut now
it was just
a faded shadow of its former self, held together with duct tape, primer
,
and badly applied body putty.   
 

“So
,
which building are we going to explore?” Jen asked with some reservation.
 

Chase said, “Me and Cam were down here scoping them out last weekend and we decided that one over there would be a good one to try.”