The decrepit state of the southern wall was the first thing that I had noticed. The entire wall was a patchwork of inexpertly applied plaster and flecks of faded wallpapers that hung tattered and torn, which gave the wall the appearance of a telephone pole that had been covered in too many posters, flyers and stickers over the years. Yellow wallpaper peeked out from behind faded floral designs; strips of Chinoiserie paper peeled and commingled with destroyed bits of Damask in the upper left corner. Along the bottom of the wall I spotted torn treillage that had been hastily slathered over with Strawberry Thief. The overall effect was that of a train wreck, and I had a hard time peeling my eyes from the peeling paper.
“What’s the story there?” I asked, pointing at the wall with my chin as if our real estate agent could possibly miss what I was referring to.
“Oh, that? Well, you see..ermm..the previous owner didn’t use this room for anything but storage and…” His explanation faded away and ended, just as the previous owner had. I cleared my throat and waited impatiently for him to go on. He didn’t.
The wall was sorry and lumpy, like a depression era oatmeal breakfast. Along the top of the wall I spotted an exposed beam, walnut that was spotted with sloppily applied plaster. The wall was so ugly that it seemed even the beams were trying to part ways with it.
“Only used for storage, huh? Peculiar, considering this is the front room.”
The real estate agent bobbed his head in small rapid movements of agreement, making chittering sounds like a rat chewing a cracker.
“Yes, yes, peculiar indeed. The owner..well, she was a bit peculiar herself, at least that’s the tittle-tattle about town.”
I turned to my wife to see what she thought, not only of the wall, but of our strange little agent as well. She smiled and winked when our eyes met.
“Well, always good to know the tittle-tattle of the town,” she said in a playful tone. “We usually only hear the scuttlebutt and the muckrakes.” We shared a silent chuckle as our agent tried to process her words before giving up and bobbing his head again like a playground Spring Rider in a storm.
“Yes indeed, she was mighty peculiar. Lived alone she did. At one time this house was a much larger estate but it was divided up and scattered amongst family land.” He began to scurry out of the room, attempting to lead us towards the better features of the house like the kitchen, the two baths, or literally any other wall in the place. Still, something about that enfeebled southern wall held my attention until I practically lost sight of my wife as she followed the agent out of the room.
The remainder of the house was inexplicably well-maintained. Like the Wyoming Dinosaur Center in East Thermopolis, the place had good bones. By the end of the tour we were ready to make an offer. By the end of that work day, our offer was accepted.
Although we were able to quickly broker a deal, it still took us about three months before we were able to move in. It was quite a transition for us, going from a bustling city like New York to a quaint little town like Boothbay Harbor. Once we had our meager belongings mostly moved in, however, we couldn’t help but notice how much more peaceful it was here.
My wife was offered a position as an English professor and I, being a freelance writer, could pretty much work from anywhere. Seeing as how Maine boasted some of the greatest living authors to date, it all seemed like a win-win for us as a couple. As we got the house in order piece by piece, however, we began to learn some of the drawbacks of small town living. Back in New York there were hundreds, if not thousands of craftsmen we could contact to fix that hideous wall. In Boothbay Harbor? There were two. And one of them was away for the summer.
I got the contact information for the remaining handyman from a weathered business directory hanging from a chain in the library. When I called to inquire about his availability, I was told to try my luck down at the local pub. With no other plans to speak of, I rode my blue and yellow Gary Fisher Montare mountain bike to the pub and took up a spot at the bar.
“What’ll it be, pal?”
The bartender smiled at me while awaiting my reply. He seemed the kind of man you might pass on the street without a second glance. Average height, plain features, thinning but clean cut hair. His wardrobe was similarly forgettable: rolled-up sleeves on a shirt that had seen its fair share of spills, a worn apron expertly tied into a crisp and even knot. Although none of these features were meant to make him stand out, stand out he did.
Maybe it was the way in which he carried himself. Maybe it was the way his broad shoulders were open and ready for work, or perhaps the quiet intelligence that clearly shown in his eyes, as if he often sees much more than he lets on. His eyes were dual pools of thick amber, half-lidded from the weight of a tiring schedule and from the weight of understanding.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not sure what you might have available in a small town bar like this. Care to offer any suggestions?”
The bartender smiled in a disarming way. While he did so, a Nick and Nora glass seemed to materialize on the bar top from thin air.
“I think I’ve got just the thing. Where are you from?” When I told him I was from New York, he gave me a friendly wink which silently said I knew it.
“New York, eh? The city that never sleeps. I can relate, although my wacky sleep schedule is work-related, not cocaine induced,” he said with a voice that was thick with goodnatured ribbing. “I visited there once. Most polite way I could put it is that I wasn’t built for that place.”
He lifted a bottle from behind the bar and measured out an ounce of Speyside single malt scotch whiskey. He poured this into a shaker cup filled with clear ice.
“I wanted to go see a broadway show. Instead I ended up losing both my way and my wallet,” he said with a chuckle. He added an ounce of blood orange juice, a dash of xocolatl mole bitters, and just shy of five grams of Fernet-Branca. “Vacations like that really make you appreciate being home. What brings you to my neck of the woods?” When I answered that I just bought a place up here, I almost tripped over my words; the addition of a large squeeze bottle of maple syrup had taken me by surprise. His eyes sparkled in a way that told me he’d noticed.
“No kidding. I’m assuming it’s that place up on the hill? The one whose previous owner was known to be a tad...peculiar is I think the word they chose around here.”
“That’s the one,” I told him as he shook the ingredients with dizzying speed. He strained the concoction into the Nick and Nora glass, which I just noticed was pre-chilled. “Do you know anything about the place? The real estate agent answered all my questions but, to be honest, he was a bit peculiar himself.”
The man smiled a knowing smile. Instead of answering, he took out a strip of grapefruit zest and twisted it over the surface of the deep orange drink. When this was done, he fashioned the peel into the shape of a candle flame and expertly applied it to the lip of the glass. It gave the cocktail the appearance of a ball of fire frozen in time. With another smile he slid it across the solid surface of the bar. It was a perfect slide, stopping just short of where my hands were perched and waiting.
“Something tells me you’ve done this before,” I said before lifting the glass and tilting it in his direction. “To new places and new friends.” I intended to take a small sip but it was so good that I drained the whole thing. Before my empty glass hit the bar he was already making me a second one.
“The best drinks come in pairs,” he said with a smirk. I nodded my agreement and then added, “I wish the same wasn’t true of your handymen in town. I’m told half of that pair is gone for the summer and I need a little help. I know I look manly and all but, believe it or not, I’m not very handy myself.”
Within a matter of seconds I had my second drink in my hand. Within another second or two, that one was gone as well. It was then that I noticed the barkeep looking over my shoulder and gesturing with his chin to a man in a back corner booth.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” the man said ominously, before cracking a winning smile and saying, “That man back there is Lester Kips. He’s the other handyman in town. And, far as I knows it, he’s never taken a vacation.”
I swiveled around on my stool and saw Lester for the first time. He looked like he was already halfway down the path to drunkenness so I figured now was the best time to approach. I got up, laid a crisp twenty dollar bill on the counter and asked the bartender, “By the way, what was this drink called? It was just what I needed.”
The man slipped the bill swiftly into the front pocket of his apron and gave me a final wink. “It’s called Dantes in Fernet. Fitting, isn’t it?” I agreed that it was with a light chuckle and headed to the corner booth.
The cracked vinyl of the booth groaned when I sat down. Lester, without looking up from his glass, asked me, “You’re the one who bought the old Abernathy place?” I said that I was, momentarily taken aback. That’s the thing about small town living I knew I’d have to get accustomed to. Everybody seemed to know everything.
“Well, I’m a little booked up this week on account of the wind storms we had and the fact that my biggest competition is currently sucking down daiquiris on a beach somewhere. I can squeeze you in sometime this Thursday if you need. Sooner I suppose if it’s an emergency you got on your hands.”
“No, no emergency thank goodness. Just a rather ugly wall.” At the mention of the wall, I saw a perceptible shake rattle Lester’s glass. When he spoke, I perceived layers of hesitation slow his speech down.
“I take it you don’t like the wallpaper?”
“That would be putting it mildly,” I answered.
Lester took another sip. Whatever was in his cup was brown and thick, looking more like molasses than alcohol. I wondered if it was just a cup of the maple syrup they had stashed behind the bar, perhaps that was just a Maine thing. He downed another generous gulp and then met my gaze at last. His eyes were red and scratchy, like a pair circular armpits afflicted with ringworm.
“So you want to put some new wallpaper up? I can see what I have in my storage.”
Despite myself, I snorted. “More wallpaper? Not a chance! I want that wall smoothed out, painted and patched at the top where the beams are exposed.”
Lester’s eyes went glassy before he said, “Wallpaper is the best you can do. That wall shouldn’t be trifled with. Mrs. Abernathy had her reasons to not mess with that wall anymore than she had.”
“Well I’m not Mrs. Abernathy,” I retorted.
“You certainly are not,” he agreed. He drained the last of the thick liquid in his glass and signaled for another. Lester then turned back to face me and said in a faraway voice, “The last man that tried patching a hole in that wall died on the spot. His eyes evaporated and his skin was as raw as hamburger meat. The very clothes on his body turned to dust and crumbled to nothing around him. By the end of that job, he was closer to an archeological discovery than a handyman.”
The bartender placed another glass of brown sludge in front of Lester and then slid me another Dantes in Fernet in front of me. “On the house,” he said, before slipping silently back to his place behind the bar. Lester took a slow gulp and said, “That house…that wall..well, let’s just say there’s a history there.”
I frowned. “The real estate agent didn’t say anything about any problems there, other than age and general wear and tear.”
Lester finished half his drink before he said, “The real estate man wouldn’t be obligated to tell you. If it’s not flooding or fire damage or mold, there’s no legal reason for him to tell you. I’ll tell you though. That house, or rather, the man who built it..” He allowed his words to trail off in order to take another thick sip. “That Mr. Abernathy was the devil himself.”
I took a sip from my own drink, allowing myself to take a moment or two to digest what the man was saying. He was clearly drunk or deranged, maybe both, but still, he was the only handyman in town and I could ill afford to offend him during our first meeting. Who knew the ramifications that could have in a small town like this.
Choosing my words carefully, I asked him, “So you won’t repair that wall for me?” His sad, red eyes locked onto mine.
“That wall cannot be fixed.”
We both finished our drinks in silence. When I was rising to leave, he reached out a shaking hand and said, “Tell you what. You go and get yourself some two by fours and some plaster wood and I’ll build you a new wall right in front of it. How would that suit you?”
The effect that the third drink had on me was that I no longer felt able to tiptoe politely around the lunacy Lester was suggesting.
“A new wall? Because the current one is a devil wall, have I got that right?”
The heavy thunk from Lester’s glass slamming onto the table made me nearly jump out of my skin.
“By your flippant attitude I’d say that you’ve got it entirely wrong,” he said, his words laced with alcohol and anger. “You may have city smarts, and I’m guessing a degree in some random BS but I’m telling you right now that doesn’t mean a god danged thing in that house.” Lester rose angrily to his feet, swaying from the suddenness of the action and the fermented goop he drank. He stood so close to me that I could feel his hot breath on my face. It smelled like sap, sanitizer and sadness. “I saw that nice ring on your finger so I know that you must have at least one loved one. If they live in that damned house with you then you’d better listen and listen good. Don’t go touchin’ that wall. Don’t. Touch. That. Damned. Wall!”
Thankful that I had already paid for my drinks, needless to say I just got the hell out of there. After unlocking my bike I pedaled hard in the direction of home, the encounter with Lester had countered the alcohol in the drinks with adrenaline in my veins. Just before I had gotten out of earshot of the pub, I heard Lester screaming from the doorway.
“Don’t go pulling up that paper! Don’t go pulling up that paper!”
I got home and saw my wife’s car in the driveway. I stashed my bike on the side of the house and walked in to the smell of maple syrup. My wife was making breakfast for dinner. Any other day and that smell would be a welcoming one. After my confrontation at the bar, it smelled like trouble.
“How was your day, honey?”
I told her she wouldn’t believe the day I had. I told her all about the scene at the bar as she served pancakes and sausage links, which I just picked at and moved around my plate. At the end of the meal, she asked me what I wanted to do about the wall.
“I guess I’ll just do it myself.”
My wife eyed me with mock suspicion, one of her eyebrows arched like she was doing an impression of Dwayne Johnson. “Oh really, Mr. Handyman. Should I remind you of the bathtub caulking incident of ’09? Or maybe the floor remodel of ’14?”
“Those were unrelated incidents,” I assured her. “This is a wall. Completely different.”
I could tell by the way her eyebrow lowered, but not all the way, that she wasn’t buying it. But then she shrugged and admitted, “Well, since it’s that wall, I don’t see how you could make it any worse. Go for it.” Now that I had my wife’s blessing, I decided to get to work.
I gathered up all the supplies I guessed that I would need from the local hardware store. When I arrived back home, I was greeted by a note from my wife saying she’d went to check out that pub I told her about and that she would be back later. Perfect. I knew that I could now work without supervision or judgment and, hell, maybe she’d even be impressed with the work I did when she came home. Alcohol can do that.
I unloaded the supplies and went right up to the big ugly wall. I noticed that the floor leading up to the wall was coated in a thick black dust, almost like soot. In the back of my mind, I heard the handyman’s story about the clothes of the last person that touched the wall turning into dust. I wondered if this soot had been overalls in a previous life, maybe a nice button-up or a pair of wool socks. I smirked to myself and stepped into the mess.
The entire wall was a tapestry of dilapidated papering attempts. Gold and yellow and red and black intertwined with stripes and dots and branching designs. It was like a maze mixed with a magic eye poster that was run through a paper shredder. The effect was dizzying and made it hard to know where to start. Soon my eyes settled on unusually thick clump of plaster and paper and decided that spot was as good as any. I used my finger and a dull trowel to dig at the lump until it fell away into black dust on the floor below me. My satisfaction only lasted a moment before it turned to terror.
Pouring from the newly opened space in the wall was a flood of inky black, a formless darkness that seemed to suck in all of the light around it and smother it into nothingness. It poured slowly like molasses, but weightlessly. It poured itself out with purpose. Soon, the darkness formed into a solid square of black that grew to the length of the wall and then began to creep forward, closing the space between it and the rest of the room, and the room between it and me. As it advanced, I smelled it as strongly as I saw it. It was the stench of death and decay. It was the stink of evil and hate. It was suffocating.
I choked and coughed as I stumbled back, stars filled my vision as my pupils struggled to right themselves and make sense of anything. Within that blackness, there was also a noise. The sound got stronger with every passing second, a low muttered humming that vibrated from deep within the wall of darkness. I coughed and sputtered and retreated until my back found itself pressed up against the inside of my front door. Just as I flattened myself against it, I felt a heavy and persistent knocking from the other side. Stifling a scream of surprise and fear, I reached behind me until I found the knob and ripped the door open.
I expected to see my wife, perhaps smelling faintly of liquor, ready to tease me about my progress. Instead, I saw the stern and flushed face of Lester Kips. Lester’s red eyes looked over my shoulder, seeing the cloud of deep blackness that was subsuming the interior of the front room. His lips pulled up in a snarl.
“Sam the bartender told me that you were from New York, so I figured you were an idiot and might end up needing help anyway. Appears that I was right.” Without another word, he rushed back to his rusted pickup truck that was idling in the driveway, returning a short moment later with a bucket in one hand and a rectangular tool box in the other. “We need to patch up whatever holes you put in that damned wall, and fast too, before the darkness gets out.” Lester shouldered his way past me, pulling up a sweaty handkerchief from around his neck and placing it over his mouth. I shut the door behind us and the oppressive darkness seemed to lurch an inch or two closer.
“What is this stuff?” I asked Lester, feeling useless in many ways. “Is it some kind of living substance or something? Where did it come from?”
Lester lowered his kerchief and spat on the floor. When his spit landed, a small plume of black dust scattered and swirled. “Don’t know,” he said simply. “But last time someone messed with this wall, enough of it got out to kill him. Can only imagine what it would do to the rest of us if it continues to spill out.” He mixed some lime with the plaster in the bucket and began to feel around in the dark cloud, trying to locate the opening that he needed to spackle shut. When his arm retreated to adjust his face covering, it was red and raw, as if it were being slow roasted over a campfire. The sleeve of his shirt was stiff and disintegrating with every minute movement, like a fall leaf crumpled in a tight fist.
We worked furiously, both of us trying to ignore the burning sensation on our skin and the suffocating feeling that it may have already been too late. Soon enough we were both working blind; the wall of darkness had fully absorbed the front room. When I hit the switch to turn on the overhead lights, not a single shimmer shown through. Even the sunlight from outside the window refused to penetrate the dark. Madly my mind wondered what would happen if the oily black got outside. It filled my room and home so quickly, how long would it need to take over the town? The state? How long until it completely consumed the sun?
Lester and I worked until our entire bodies tingled and our throats were scraped raw. We worked with all of our strength until, finally, a simple triangular patch of plaster was sloppily applied to the wall, thick enough to choke back the blackness. The job done, I grabbed Lester by his crooked arm and led him outside, out into the yard, out into the still burning light of day. We spat and coughed on the lawn as the scorched remains of our clothing fell away into dusty nothingness, as if they were ancient and rotten.
Today, although we have now lived in the old Abernathy home for the better part of two years, the front room is still kept off limits. There are no longer any exposed beams, no visible mosaic of massacred wallpaper and plaster. There is instead a new wall, built right in front of the old wall. Plain, strong, permanent. More than just a wall, it is a locked gate, a barred door, a fortification against inconceivable, unrelenting darkness.
Dantes in Fernet
Ingredients:
- 1 oz Speyside single malt scotch whisky
- 1/6th oz Fernet Branca liqueur
- 1 oz Blood orange juice
- 1/3 oz Maple syrup
- 1 dash Xocolatl mole bitters
- 1 Nick & Nora glass
Directions:
1. Pre-chill the Nick & Nora glass
2. Prepare garnish of grapefruit zest twist
3. Shake all ingredients with ice
4. Fine strain into chilled glass
5. Express the grapefruit zest twist over the cocktail and affix it to the lip of the glass as a garnish
This cool drink is perfect for soothing a sore throat, one that has been ravaged by illness, screaming, or an otherworldly darkness. As you sip, please remember that a good drink, like a sturdy wall, can be used to keep the darkness at bay, at least for a while.
Enjoy.
Add comment
Comments