Hell's Bells Read online



  Hell’s Bells

  By

  Vincent Bivona

  And

  Trevor Firetog

  Copyright 2013

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For Cody,

  My best friend and my biggest fan.

  Sleep well, buddy.

  —TF

  For the inspiration of this story.

  —VB

  In the silence of the night,

  How we shiver with affright

  At the melancholy menace of their tone!

  —E.A. Poe

  “Silver Bells”

  HELL’S BELLS

  Andrew clutched his broken ankle, sucking in air through his teeth. The way the sound echoed in the dark and damp tunnel it sounded like he had turned into a steaming teapot.

  “Quiet!” James hissed.

  “I’m trying,” Andrew said, “but it hurts!”

  “I don’t care. Do you want her to hear us?”

  Andrew shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so. Now, shut it. This is all your fault, anyway.”

  Andrew tried to protest, but James made a flapping gesture with his hand and returned his gaze down the tunnel. The way he stood, with his back pressed up against the dirty wall, one might have thought he was trying to turn invisible.

  “Do you see anything?” Andrew whispered after a while.

  James cringed, feeling his anger rise. He had already regretted inviting Andrew to come with him tonight. Now he was regretting saving his life. He should have just left him lying there for her. If he had, then he could have gotten away instead of being chased into the tomb-like catacombs under New York City.

  “Well?” Andrew prodded.

  James balled his hands into fists. “Just shut the fuck up before I break your other ankle. I can’t hear anything!”

  “Fine,” Andrew said. “You don’t gotta be a dick about it.”

  When he was finally silent, James returned to his watch. The subway tunnel was like nothing he expected it to be. From the platform, it had looked like a black hole that swallowed and spit out train cars. But now that he had jumped down onto the tracks and scurried two hundred feet into it, he could see that it was much more. It was true that it was almost pitch black, but that didn’t stop his other senses from sending his brain information. It was cold, claustrophobic, and disgusting. Water dripped from the ceiling somewhere off to his left, turning the floor into a giant puddle. Rats squeaked and chattered to one another, intermittently brushing up against his leg as they scavenged the ground for garbage. And it smelled. James had never smelled anything so rancid in his life. It seemed almost unnatural. Instead of the smell fading—or his nose adjusting to the stench—it continued to grow worse, as if the source was growing closer.

  From beside him, Andrew made gagging noises.

  “Quiet,” James said. “I think I hear someth—”

  A horn blared, shattering the silence with an ear-piercing dissonance. Following it was the giant white light of a subway car, bearing down on them and illuminating the tunnel. The light splashed onto the dirty tiled walls . . . and the ghoulish figure creeping towards them with her back hunched and her arms outstretched like so many monsters in nightmares.

  Earlier That Day . . .

  “You’re kidding, right?” James Dolt said as a rush of cold air slapped his face.

  “I’m serious,” said Andrew Rosenthall, flicking up his collar.

  “Sean did not die in the second book, I shit you not.”

  “Oh,” Andrew said. “Then which book did he die in?”

  “The third.”

  James plucked a cigarette from his inside pocket and put it in his mouth. He fished out his lighter and turned his back to the wind. “And you told me you were a Richard Gordon fan,” he said, talking around the cigarette.

  “I am! I just thought Sean died in the second book.”

  “Nope,” he said exhaling smoke. “And you better not say something stupid like that when we meet him.”

  Andrew laughed and nodded. “I won’t.”

  “So where is the subway from here?”

  They stood at the entrance of Penn Station, staring into the busy streets of Manhattan. Both of them felt an overwhelming feeling of confusion as they were caught in the middle of a swarm of New Yorkers bulldozing their way past them. They had never felt like outsiders more than they did at that moment.

  Andrew looked at James and shrugged.

  James flicked the ash off his cigarette. “Let’s go this way,” he said, weaving his way through the crowd.

  “Are you sure it’s that way?” Andrew asked.

  He laughed. “No.”

  Andrew followed James along the winter streets, only stopping to ask for directions or to simply admire a pretty girl walking past them.

  It took them nearly twenty minuets before they reached the subway.

  “See,” he said. “I told you I knew the way.”

  Andrew groaned. “Sure.”

  They trotted down the icy stairs of the subway station. When they reached the bottom, James extracted his metro card from his Jacket pocket.

  “Did you buy a metro card?” he asked Andrew.

  Andrew’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening. “Shit!” he cried.

  “It’s okay. I got two trips on mine; I’ll cover you for this one.”

  “Are you sure? I can just buy one now.”

  “No, just go. We’re already late enough as it is.”

  He swiped his card and let Andrew pass through the turnstile first.

  The platform seemed to be nearly empty. A couple of people were waiting sporadically among the station, but for the most part, Andrew and James were alone.

  “How long until the next train comes?” Andrew asked after pacing back and forth a few times.

  “Relax. It’s supposed to come every six minutes. We’re late but not that late.”

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, the ground started to tremble as the dark tunnel coughed out the F Train. James watched the dirty beast slide to a stop and open its doors.

  “You coming?”

  Andrew unshouldered his backpack and pulled out a bottle of water. “Right behind you.”

  They stepped onto the train and sat down by the door. Like the subway station, the car was practically empty. Aside from the one man who had stepped on with them, there was only one other occupant: an old lady huddled in the corner with a bunch of bags spread out around her. She had dirty gray hair that hung in matted strips against her blemished face and a long curved nose half buried in a book.

  James elbowed Andrew and motioned in the old lady’s direction. “Gross. I’ve never seen a hobo before.”

  Andrew twisted his face in disgust. “At least she’s in the corner and not sitting next to us.” He was just about to turn away when he caught sight of the book clutched within her gnarled hands. “Hey, look what she’s reading.”

  James almost laughed. “Richard Gordon. At least she has good taste.”

  #

  Five minutes later the F Train came to a stop.

  “Come on,” James said. “This is where we get off.”

  The subway station was a photocopy of the previous one: dirty, dreary, and virtually abandoned. As James led Andrew through the turnstile and up the stairs, he wondered why Richard Gordon had to have his book signing in downtown Manhattan. It seemed that instead of moving toward civilization, they were moving away from it. It was almost as if this place was a ghost town.

  When he reached the top of the stairs and emerged onto the street, he got his answer. It was because this place was
creepy, and Richard Gordon loved creepy. The streets were dark and narrow, and the buildings were old, standing sentinel like decaying trees, frowning down at them with chipping bricks and filthy windows. Of course Richard Gordon would have his fans trek through this foreboding neighborhood to get to his book signing, almost like the way Red Riding Hood had to brave the sinister forest before she could arrive at her grandmother’s house.

  #

  They arrived at the venue and joined with a crowd of freezing fans standing outside, eagerly awaiting the arrival of their favorite author.

  “Oh great. They didn’t even start letting people in yet,” James whispered.

  The sun was starting to set, and the night air felt considerably colder. The warm breaths of the people clouded amongst the assembly and lingered for a moment before dissolving, becoming a part of the night.

  Scanning the crowd, Andrew and James observed people bundled up in their winter coats, wool hats covering their heads, mittens and gloves warming their hands. There was nothing distinguishable about any member of the crowd. They all appeared to be the same: tired, anxious, and cold.

  Through the pack of people, Andrew spotted the old lady that had been sitting on the train.

  Andrew elbowed James in the ribs.

  “Stop!” James hissed.

  Andrew elbowed him again and pointed at the old lady. They couldn’t see her face, but they knew it was her.

  “Look who it is,” Andrew said.

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Eh?”

  “She was reading a Richard Gordon book and was on the same train as us,” James aid. “Where else do you think she would be going on a Friday night? To see her boyfriend?”

  Andrew winced at the thought of her having a boyfriend.

  As they conversed, the old lady twisted her head in a funny way and looked right at them. They looked back at her, too. They could see her face now that it wasn’t buried in a book. They saw her listless eyes glaring back at them. Then they saw a smile expand on her slack skin.

  She started walking towards them.

  “Don’t say anything mean,” Andrew pleaded.

  “I won’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  With each step that the old lady took, her smell grew stronger. A putrid stench that inspired both Andrew and James to dry heave.

  “Hi boys,” she said.

  For the first time, they could see every hideous detail of the landscape that was her face. Her hanging jowls that flapped as she talked. The bumps and pimples that were overfilled with puss and ready to be popped. The large, potato-like tumor on the side of her neck that seemed to cause her head to tilt at an awkward angle. And the blackened, dead teeth that stuck crookedly out of her gums like broken tombstones, causing her breath to reek of an odor a thousand times worse than death.

  For one horrible moment Andrew thought he really was going to puke and had to turn away and suck in fresh air.

  When neither of the boys said anything, the old lady spoke again. “I’m Candyce.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Candyce with a ‘y,’ ” before cackling wildly. The mad laugher sounded like it had come from a hyena.

  Andrew scrunched up his face, shying away, afraid that if he got too close to this lunatic he might catch her disease. James was the more resolute of the two. He simply held his ground and said, “Hi.”

  “Are you boys here to see Richard Gordon?”

  James nodded. “Yeah.”

  The old lady didn’t seem put off by his one-word answers. In fact, she seemed more intrigued. She drew closer, extending her neck like a cat that wants to be stroked, forcing James to inhale her repulsive odor. “What’s your favorite Richard Gordon book?”

  James couldn’t stand it. He finally took a step back. “Pleasant Nightmares.”

  The old lady peeled her lips back, exposing her blackened gums. “I loved Pleasant Nightmares.”

  I bet you did, Andrew thought. The creature was probably based off of you!

  “I read it six times from cover to cover,” the old lady continued. “That’s actually the book I brought with me to have Richard Gordon sign. It’s my absolute favorite. My most prized possession.”

  As if to prove this, she removed one of the many bags that was slung over her shoulder and began rooting through it. While she did this, James and Andrew exchanged an uneasy look. It was the look one gives another when he is afraid he has just made a new friend and doesn’t know how to get rid of him.

  A second later the old lady produced a rectangular shape wrapped in a towel. She held it out with reverence, carefully peeling back the fabric. Nestled inside was the same shape enveloped in newspaper. And within that: a plastic Zip-loc bag.

  “Here it is,” she exclaimed, sliding out the Richard Gordon book. “Pleasant Nightmares.”

  To James and Andrew it looked like any other battered book either one of them might stumble across in a used bookstore. Its spine was cracked, its cover dog-eared, and there was a ketchup stain on the side of the pages. Yet the way the old lady was holding onto it, it might as well have been a bar of gold.

  “I’m Mr. Gordon’s biggest fan,” she said with a beaming smile.

  James nodded. “That’s nice.”

  “I’ve read all of his books at least twice.”

  Andrew and James smiled politely and attempted to turn away.

  “What book did you bring with you for him to sign?” she asked, stopping them in mid-turn.

  “We didn’t bring any books,” Andrew said.

  “Well,” she said, sealing her book back in the combination of protective sheets. “You’re not fans then.”

  Andrew looked over at James, who was rolling his eyes, his hand deep in his pocket, digging for another cigarette.

  “No, that’s not it at all, ma’am,” Andrew said. “We were going to buy some of his books here. We didn’t want to carry our books around the city—”

  “Stop!” she snarled.

  A draft of rancid breath spilled from her mouth. The boys could see the cloud it formed in the cold air seconds before it tumbled into their faces, invading their senses and sinking down, settling in the pit of their stomachs.

  James put his hand over his mouth and keeled away with queasiness, taking this opportunity to torch his cigarette.

  “You are posers,” she said. “But I like you anyway. Where are you boys from?”

  “Jersey,” Andrew muttered.

  Her eyes lit up as she screamed, “Jersey? That’s where I’m from!”

  “That’s nice,” James said. He watched as the smoke he exhaled drifted in front of him, temporarily covering her face from view. He relished this moment with pure bliss.

  “You wouldn’t mind if I caught the same train home as you boys.” It was more of a fact than it was a request.

  James shook his head as Andrew quickly ransacked his brain for a believable excuse.

  “We’re going out to dinner afterwards,” Andrew said. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  She smirked. “Well that’s fine. I could join you.”

  Andrew looked at James, pleading for help.

  “No,” James cut in. “We’re meeting up with some family.” That was the lie.

  “Well. We’ll just see about that,” she said.

  Before either of them could question what she meant, the door to the venue opened and a burly man in a ski cap walked out.

  “Form a single-file line, please,” he grunted.

  “Finally,” Andrew whispered.

  As they all started forming their line, the old lady waddled in front of them, waiting for the perfect moment to strike up a conversation.

  “Oh!” James said, tapping her on the shoulder. “One more thing, did Sean die in the second book?”

  The old lady’s smile dissipated. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  James turned to Andrew and pushed his lips together in a smile. Andrew shook his hea
d in shame.

  “Posers,” she repeated, turning around.

  #

  The inside of the venue didn’t surprise James or Andrew in the slightest. Like the streets they had to navigate, it was dark, desolate, and downright creepy. Walls the color of blood framed a dimly-lit room with low-hanging lights. At one end was a slightly raised wooden platform acting as a stage, at the other a bar flanked with posters of black musicians blowing trumpets and saxophones.

  “I think this is some sort of jazz club,” Andrew said to James as he shuffled in.

  “What gives you that idea?”

  Andrew pointed at the posters. “Those.”

  From directly behind him came the voice of the old lady. “It is. Mr. Gordon loves jazz. He posted on his blog that he was hosting his event here so he could help promote the club.”

  James muttered something and took a seat at the first table he could find, desperately trying to escape the presence of the smelly old lady. Andrew took the hint and quickly slid in across from him, occupying a spot on the bench against the wall.

  This didn’t dissuade the old lady in the slightest. As calmly as ever, she ambled up to the two boys and asked, “Would you two gentlemen mind if I sit with you?”

  Andrew’s jaw quivered. He tried to say something along the lines of No, sorry, you can’t or at least make up some excuse, but no words came out.

  It seemed that James was having the same problem.

  Either choosing to ignore the telltale signs when someone doesn’t want you around, or misinterpreting them, the old lady said, “Thanks,” and slid in next to Andrew, who shied away and let out a groan.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Andrew took one look at her blistering, puss-pimpled skin and said, “I’m not sure. I think I might be getting sick.”

  Her ruined face lit up with genuine concern. “I hope you don’t. You don’t want to miss Mr. Gordon read from his new novel. I read an excerpt on his Facebook page, and it really is something else. Do you boys have Facebook? We could discuss the new novel when you finish it.”

  James shook his head. There was no way he wanted any contact with this lady after tonight. “Nope. Sorry.”

  Andrew looked at his friend as if he had five heads. “What are you talking about? You were on this morning.”

  James glared at him. “No, I wasn’t,” he said through gritted teeth and kicked Andrew under the table. Andrew let out a startled cry that he instantly transformed into a cough.