Hell's Bells Read online

  The old lady watched this exchange, puzzled. “How about you?” she asked Andrew. “Do you have Facebook?”

  Rubbing his sore knee, he said, “No, I don’t. Sorry.”

  “Okay. Maybe we could exchange numbers and call each other. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  James giggled, and she stared at him with piercing eyes.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something’s funny. Tell me.”

  “I just—” James paused and shook his head at Andrew. “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” she said.

  Andrew watched as the crowd of people started filing in and finding their places. He hoped and prayed that someone would come sit with them and relieve the tension of this creepy old bum sitting across from them.

  No such luck.

  After an awkward silence of exchanging glares, Andrew finally decided to break the tension. “So… what do you do?”

  “Well, I’m unemployed,” she said.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m living the life I have always dreamed of.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled, savoring her achievement.

  James snickered. “Not having a job is your dream?”

  “No, not that. I enjoy traveling, visiting the places he references in his books. Everywhere I go is for Mr. Gordon. Me and him have this special bond.”

  “You know him personally?” Andrew inquired.

  “No. But I know his work. Maybe one day—” Here, she paused and smiled for herself. “Maybe one day he will write me into one of his books.”

  Andrew couldn’t help but bring up his earlier thought about the creature in Pleasant Nightmares—maybe he already has.

  He was about to lean in and whisper this to James when there was a sudden hush in the murmuring of the crowd. A tall man in a trench coat appeared in the doorway. Combined with his appearance and the way he paused, surveying the crowd, he looked like a cross between a deranged gunslinger and a vampire. He had paste-white skin, dark, piercing eyes, and long jet-black hair, which he kept slicked back against his skull. It was his demeanor more than anything that set his image. He just stood there, his thin lips, red as blood, pressed tightly together inside his immaculately-trimmed goatee.

  For a second, Andrew almost expected him to pull out a shotgun from under his coat and open fire. That or fly around the room biting people’s necks.

  Then the murmuring of the crowd resumed and Andrew caught snippets of conversation: “It’s Richard Gordon.” “He’s taller than I thought.” “He looks even scarier in person.”

  Because they had sat at the first table they could find, the two boys had front row seats for Mr. Gordon’s grand entrance.

  The old lady wasted no time. She shot up like a jack-in-the-box and ripped her most prized possession free of its protective wrappings. One second she was sitting on the bench next to Andrew, the next she was on her knees before the writer, thrusting her book forward, holding it out like a sacred object.

  Despite the murmuring, everyone could hear her supplications: “Oh, Mr. Gordon! Thank you, thank you, thank you, for coming out tonight! And thank you for writing! You’ve enriched us all with your imagination! Could you please, please sign my book?”

  The old lady destroyed the writer’s ominous image in seconds. Caught off guard, he leapt back, becoming the embodiment of someone who has been taken by surprise.

  “Please!” the old lady crooned, completely unaware of the scene she was causing. “Please, sign my book for me and I will forever be indebt to you!”

  “No, no, that’s okay, there’ll be no need for that,” Mr. Gordon said, digging his hand into his coat, fumbling for a marker. At last he brought one out and hastily scribbled something in the old lady’s book. When she looked at what he’d written, her face twisted in delight and she closed her eyes, bathing in ecstasy.

  Mr. Gordon, knowing when to seize an opportunity when it came, quickly slipped away.

  #

  The old lady purred with excitement as she took her seat next to Andrew, who once more scooted away.

  “Look, I was the only person whose book he signed before the event even started!”

  That’s because you practically shoved it into his face, James thought.

  Richard Gordon made his way through his fans and found his place behind the small podium on the stage. He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

  “I would like to thank you all for coming tonight,” he said, unfolding the paper. “Unfortunately, my publisher didn’t provide enough copies of my book tonight for me to sell. I will, however, be happy to sign any beloved books you might have brought from home.”

  “Shit,” James said.

  Andrew slammed his hands on the table.

  “So, without further ado, I would like to read to you an excerpt from my latest and perhaps greatest novel, Hell’s Bell’s.”

  He straightened his back and cleared his throat. His booming voice echoed throughout the room.

  “It was late that evening. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and my body tingled as she pressed her lips against mine.

  “‘I love you,’ she said. I looked into her eyes and watched them swell with tears.

  “‘I love you too,’ I said, pulling the blade from my jacket pocket. ‘I’m sorry.’

  “I don’t remember much after that, but I remember the empty, cold stare in her eyes as I shoved my knife into her belly. I remember the wet feeling of her wound closing over my hand. Most importantly, I remember the sound of bells.”

  As James was hanging on every word Mr. Gordon was saying, he felt something nudge his leg. He tried to ignore it, but he felt it again, harder this time.

  He looked over at Andrew, who wore a disgusted look on his face.

  What? he mouthed silently.

  Andrew cocked his head and motioned to the old lady. James looked and his mouth dropped open in astonishment.

  Her hand was buried deep in her sweatpants, and she was rubbing herself to the sound of Richard Gordon speaking. Her eyes were closed with her head lolled back. She ran her fury tongue along her cracked lips in a daze of ecstasy.

  James cupped his hand over his mouth and tried his best not to scream.

  Enough was enough. He might have been able to stand her talking to them outside, or coming into the event and sitting with them, or even asking for their numbers. But fingering herself? This was just too much to bear. She had to pay for making them observe this revolting display.

  While Andrew stared, his eyes glued and helpless to turn away, James reached under the table and pulled the book Richard Gordon had signed for the old lady out of her bag. With a speed that would have made a sleight-of-hand artist proud, he transferred it into Andrew’s backpack.

  #

  “And now, it follows me around. It haunts my dreams. It is both beautiful and terrible. The sound of those bells will follow me from this world to the next.”

  The room burst into applause. Richard Gordon once more folded the piece of paper and stuck it back into his pocket. He then stepped away and took several over-exaggerated bows, pausing every now and then to allow the adoration of his fans to wash over him.

  James pushed back his chair and stood up, using the sound of clapping to mask his exit.

  Andrew gave him a confused look. He almost opened his mouth to ask, What are you doing? when James pressed a finger against his lips and motioned toward the old lady. Her head remained lolled back, her gnarled finger still exploring, her eyes squeezed blissfully closed. James wanted to get out of here before she peeled them apart. Just like Richard Gordon, he knew when to seize an opportunity when it came.

  Andrew took the hint immediately. He groped for his backpack and slid ever so carefully out from the table.

  Once outside, he said, “What was that about? That old lady was creepy and all, but we didn’t have
to leave so soon, did we? We could have met Richard Gordon! I know we didn’t have any books for him to sign, but we still could have shaken his hand.”

  “We did have to leave,” was James’s response.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Check your backpack.”

  “My backpack? Why would I check my—”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  James could barely suppress his smile. He watched as his friend unzipped his backpack and froze.

  Very slowly, Andrew pulled out the old lady’s signed book. “James . . . what did you do?”

  “She was pissing me off, so I swiped it.”

  “You—you what?”

  “She was pissing me off. I took it. Why are you getting so bent out of shape? She was a fucking creepozoid!”

  “I know she was creepy! I was sitting next to her while she was fingering herself, for Christ’s sake, but you still didn’t have to steal her book! I mean yeah, we lied to her and made fun of her and everything, but this isn’t right. This is too far.”

  James opened his jacket and fished for a cigarette. Lighting it, he said, “Fine. You want to go in there and give it back to her then? Because I sure don’t.”

  Andrew paused. At last he said, “No . . .”

  “Good. Then let’s get the hell out of her before she realizes what happened.”

  They started walking away from the club and into the chilly night. They were both silent, trying to figure out what to say.

  “I’m hungry,” James said at last. “Let’s get some food.”

  “I think I just want to go home,” Andrew said.

  “C’mon!” James said as he punched Andrew in the arm. “Don’t let that crazy bitch ruin our night.”

  “You ruined our night.”

  “You serious?”

  “I wanted to meet Richard Gordon.”

  “We kinda did…”

  Andrew clenched his fists. He seemed to almost turn red. “Whatever. Let’s just try to find the subway. We can grab something to eat by Penn.”

  “Sounds all right to me,” James said. “I really want to put distance between us and that old bag.”

  As they walked, a sad scream echoed through the night. It startled them, and made their hearts palpitate. They looked at each other, stunned.

  The scream called out again, and crying ensued shortly afterward. At first they refused to believe what they were hearing. They hoped that they were just paranoid, but in their hearts, they knew the cause to that cry.

  “Subway,” Andrew said.

  James looked out into the night. They had already turned the corner and the club was no longer in sight, but he imagined the scene that was happening.

  “James,” Andrew said again.

  James looked at him.

  “Subway. We need to go. Now.”

  “Oh shit.” James threw down his cigarette and started picking up the pace. “Oh shit, oh shit.”

  #

  When the subway terminal stairs came into Andrew’s sight, he wanted to fall down to his knees and kiss the ground with glee that they had finally made it. During their dash from the club to the station, something didn’t feel right. They didn’t feel alone. The smell of dead fish never left their senses.

  As they were running down the stairs, they slipped on the sheet of invisible ice that coated the concrete. James fell back and grabbed onto the railing for support. Andrew fell forward. When he hit the ground, he landed awkwardly with all his weight on his right leg. In the seconds it took for him to fall, he heard his bones grinding together. He felt the pressure on his ankle building up to the point of break, where the bones finally gave way and pierced through his skin.

  “Fuck!” he screamed.

  James made his way slowly down the rest of the stairs, careful to avoid any more ice.

  “Oh shit! Andrew, are you all right?”

  Andrew rolled over, moaning and howling in pain, exposing his injury. It was worse than James had feared. What had once been a straight leg was now a twisted question mark. Blood saturated Andrew’s jeans, dripping so furiously that it began to form a puddle where he sat. When he pulled up the stained material, James nearly doubled over and vomited. The serrated end of the broken bone had punched through the skin, staring at him like an organic periscope.

  “D-don’t move!” James stammered. “I’ll call for help!”

  A lot of good that would do. The subway station was as desolate as before. Not a soul was around. Not even a rat. It was completely empty . . . save for the smell of rotting fish.

  This last concerned James even more than his friend’s injury.

  Very slowly, he whispered, “Andrew, we have to go.”

  Andrew looked at him as if he was crazy. “Are you kidding me?”

  James glanced around, his eyes darting from the stairwell to the turnstiles and back again. “Dude, I’m serious. It’s her. She’s coming. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “You’re crazy! My leg’s broken. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you are,” James said more firmly. “I have a really bad feeling about her. She’s not… normal. You heard how she screamed. There’s no way we should have been able to hear her. We were too far away.”

  “I hate you!” Andrew yelled. “Why did you have to steal her book?”

  “Will you shut up already? It was just a joke.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, who’s laughing now?”

  “I am! Okay? Har-de-har-har! And I’ll be laughing even more as soon as we get the hell out of here. Now, come on.”

  He bent down and slung Andrew’s arm over his shoulder. Like partners in a three-legged race, he led his friend over to the turnstile. He was just about to dig his hand into his pocket and pull out his Metrocard when a lamenting scream shattered the silence: “You stole my book!”

  The tiled walls of the subway station amplified the sound, making it sound impossibly loud, impossibly human, the voice one hears in his deepest, darkest nightmares. The banshee-like scream echoed in the turnstile vestibule, curdling James’s blood like milk that has gone sour.

  James dug his hand into his pocket more feverishly only to remember that he had used up his Metrocard earlier when he paid for Andrew’s fare.

  James looked around him. The station seemed like a ghost town. Even the person who normally occupied the ticket booth was missing. This gave James an idea.

  “C’mon buddy,” he said digging his hands under Andrew’s arms.

  “What? What the hell are you doing?”

  With each moment that passed, the soft whimper of the woman seemed to grow louder, and the smell of fish became almost impossible to bear.

  “James, what the hell? Buy a metro card!”

  “She’s here! That bitch is here!”

  James shoved Andrew, and he stumbled over the turnstile. His broken ankle slammed against the floor and a wave of pain vibrated throughout his body.

  Over his torturous scream, that laugh came again.

  Refusing to waste another second, James hopped over the turnstile. He lifted his friend back up and started shuffling over towards the platform.

  “James! James stop!” Andrew screamed. “This is illegal!”

  “It’s fine.”

  “James, you should pay! I don’t wanna go to jail!”

  “I’ll write them a check! Let’s just get the fuck out of here!”

  When they finally reached the platform, the smell of rotting fish was almost completely gone. They were finally on their way to safety. More importantly, they were getting closer to civilization.

  The train spilled out of the tunnel and screeched to a stop. James helped Andrew on board and sat him down. He walked from the front of the empty car to the back, looking for signs of other people.

  “This isn’t right,” James said.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  Andrew glanced around and hung his head
in pain.

  “This is too much, man. Just too much.”

  James inhaled deeply and tried to think rationally.

  Something towards the rear of the car moved and knocked him out of his trance. Needing to know if it was the woman or not, he slowly crept his way to the back. Once there, he looked out the window into the next car.

  It was her.

  She sat in her seat, her purse in her hand, staring blankly into space. The car, like theirs, was empty too.

  She opened her purse and stared deeply into it with loving eyes. She dug her grimy fingers all the way to the bottom and slowly pulled out a fluttering beetle.

  She held it up to her trembling lips and pushed it into her mouth. Her face fell into delight as she chewed the creature. A rope of white juice gushed out of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. Her tongue dipped down and salvaged it.

  James nearly vomited.

  “What?” Andrew asked, seeing his friend’s disgust.

  “Nothing. We need to get off the train.”

  “Wait. Get off? But it’s not our stop!”

  “I don’t care. We need to get off. Now!”

  “Why?”

  James didn’t answer. He just looked out the windows, willing the next station to come into view. To his misfortune, the only thing to stare back at him was the infinite blackness of the subway tunnel.

  Frustrated at not receiving a response, Andrew grabbed onto the pole in front of him and carefully pulled himself up. The second he did, he wished he hadn’t. Sure enough, the old lady was sitting in the next car. She had finished her work on the first beetle and was now holding a second, slurping out the innards. What disturbed Andrew more than this nauseating display were the other beetles. Hundreds, maybe thousands, seemed to pour out of her purse and tumble to the floor like a waterfall.

  He nearly gagged. “Oh God! Do you see that?”

  James refused to look. He kept his eyes glued on the window, desperately pleading for a chance to get off the train.

  Andrew said, “She can’t be human! She just can’t!”

  Almost preternaturally, as if she had heard him, the old lady turned her head in his direction. The movement was choppy, broken, as if the swivel joint in her neck had rusted. But when her gaze settled on Andrew, she raised one of her gnarled fingers and pointed. Andrew had to blink to make sure he was seeing things right. One moment the beetles spilling out of her purse were scuttling aimlessly about her car, the next they lined themselves up in neat formation. He didn’t need to read the old lady’s lips to make out the command she issued. All he had to do was watch the way her minions marched forward to know that they were coming for him.