Kindle Edition
Amazon
Leigh Podgorski Writer
Category:
Horror
Publisher: Solstice Publishing
ISBN-10: 1625267207
Pages: 81
Copyright: 01-14-2018
ISBN-13: 9781625267207
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Eric Bator just jumped off the razor’s edge into a malevolent universe of pure evil. Or was it just some whacked game?
Seventeen year old Slate Jake whistled softly as he shaved in front of the bathroom mirror. Slate was tall, blonde, with hazel eyes, and cool, so cool, but the last thing he wanted to do was wake up Antoine before Antoine was ready to be woken up. Been there done that, and it wasn’t pretty. Slate couldn’t be happier with the way things had been working out since the day Antoine de la Cruce dropped down in the middle of the dismal berg that was Indian Plains, Massachusetts, and found him in the process.
It was a drizzly cold night, six months ago now, just last April. Slate was standing in front of Friendly’s at the Eastfield Center, smoking a cigarette and counting his change to see if he had enough for French fries and a coke (he didn’t). Everybody else had gone home: Fat Boy, Sticks, Trigger. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. The usual in this boring nowhere town. But the last place Slate wanted to be was home. Home. That was rich. He’d never had a home. He had a house. Big beautiful house envy of everybody in Indian Plains. Right. You live there, then, with morose loopy Mom and Dr. Dad who was always everywhere else but there.
He’d been thinking of a way to get the cash for the French fries and coke. Man, he wanted those bad. Just a couple streets over were the Willamansett Projects. It was Saturday night, and there was always a couple three drunks idling curbside palms up. Quick move in, quick stash snatch…bingo…but before he could complete the mental picture, suddenly, like an apparition forming from a wisp of smoke, like some ghost suddenly embodied out of the mist and drizzle, he was there, standing right beside him.
Antoine de la Cruce. He was tall; he towered over Slate and Slate was 6’2”. His skin was olive, his hair silver and slicked back from his forehead; his eyes in the dim light looked as black as his hair. He introduced himself, holding out his hand. The skin of his hand was soft as plush as a velvet glove. He said he’d just moved into town, was looking for a place to eat, would Slate care to join him for dinner?
Slate was thunderstruck. It was as if Antoine de la Cruce had read his mind.
And that wouldn’t be the last time.
The blade knicked his face. Slate winced as bright red stains sprouted through the shaving cream. He drew his finger across the blood, and lifted the finger to his mouth. Then, he touched the finger to his lips.
***
Decked out in pin-striped perfectly tailored black suits complete with blazing white shirts, Slate and Antoine sped along the I-91 south to Hartford in Slate’s vintage black 1965 classic Mustang. The suits belonged to Antoine; Slate was wearing a hand-me-down that Antoine had tailored for him. Slate glanced over at Antoine as he lounged easily in the passenger seat, his head tilted back, eyes closed, rocking out to Ozzy Osbourne, his ivory serpent-tipped cane bobbing rhythmically along. Man, the guy could wear a suit! He could wear anything, actually, and look like a million bucks. Even in sweats and a tee as he worked around the house, Antoine looked suave, sophisticated, elegant. This was just one of the many things Slate vowed he was going to learn from this mystifying presence that so randomly dropped into his life. Learn as quickly as he could, before he disappeared as haphazardly as he had appeared.
They pulled up in front of one of Antoine’s favorite nightclubs, The Side Car. Slate had visited this club with Antoine often in the six months he’d known him. Here, Antoine was a VIP; he was greeted fawningly, shown the best table, and offered as many free drinks as the ones he paid for. And no one ever took a second glance at Slate or asked to see an ID. Antoine had that covered anyway if anyone ever did; he was a master at paperwork, even had some phony paper of his own, just in case…Slate never asked what the just in case part was; he figured if Antoine wanted him to know, he’d tell him.
The entertainment at the Side Car was wide-ranging and mind-blowing. They featured all kinds of bands from hip-hop to jazz. Slate had seen Big Bad Voodoo Daddy there and instantly fell in love with their music. Antoine bought him all their CDs. They had dancers—male and female—that were really acrobats, like Cirque du Solei performers, who could juggle, walk on stilts, breathe-fire, and even do high wire acts, all under the Side Car roof.
The problem was the drinking. Slate was no push-over when it came to liquor—beer, wine, or hard liquor. He learned young and he learned fast, living in that cold dismal house, and alcohol sure had a mellow way of soothing his pain and easing his loneliness. It also catapulted him to popularity. Dr. Daddy off to who knows where, Mommy Loopy locked in her despair and dead to the world on her Xanax low—Party Time!
But he’d never met anyone who could put it away like Antoine—and he wasn’t just talking about kids. His relatives, including Dr. Daddy could pound the sauce like sailors on leave after six months on the high seas, but Antoine would’ve put any one of them under the table. That is what he did to Slate night after night every night they hit the clubs in Hartford. Slate always promised himself this night would be different, but it never was. The booze kept on flowing, and Antoine kept on grinning, and the dancers kept on breathing fire and swinging high above him and the music kept on playing louder and faster and the room kept on swirling until everything whirled into bright kaleidoscope colors, and time just collapsed and was swept away, until he woke up alone in his bedroom in Antoine’s house, the window open, the fresh breeze blowing, and his head the size of Mt. Vesuvius and ready to blow.
And so the night was, once again, the same. Ending once again, the same.
Slate forced himself to sit up, pushing up against the backboard of the bed.
The movement made his head spin. He felt bile rise in his throat. With great effort, he forced it back down. He would not vomit in this pristine room. This room that was his. This room Antoine had made over just for him.
The night he had dinner with Antoine, he offered him a job. He told him he’d just moved to Indian Plains and bought a Victorian Mansion on the prestigious North side right across from Indian Plains State Park, and he needed help with the renovations. Of course he didn’t tell him exactly which house he’d bought though that wouldn’t have made a difference, Slate was sure. He needed work. He needed good old-fashioned dinero, and he probably would’ve done just about anything to get it. Well, outside of the obvious bad stuff. Antoine had come to start a business in the Pioneer Valley, and there were lots of opportunities. He told Slate he was going into Education Knowledge, and he wanted Slate to work with him on his business, too. But first, was to get the old Victorian in shape.
Slate jumped on the offer. No more counting change under a streetlight for French fries and a coke and coming up short. He’d been painting houses since he was fourteen. Piece of cake no matter what shape the place was in. He almost fell out of the booth when Antoine told him what he would pay. Antoine just grinned. “All you have to do is earn it.”
Excerpt
Seventeen year old Slate Jake whistled softly as he shaved in front of the bathroom mirror. Slate was tall, blonde, with hazel eyes, and cool, so cool, but the last thing he wanted to do was wake up Antoine before Antoine was ready to be woken up. Been there done that, and it wasn’t pretty. Slate couldn’t be happier with the way things had been working out since the day Antoine de la Cruce dropped down in the middle of the dismal berg that was Indian Plains, Massachusetts, and found him in the process.
It was a drizzly cold night, six months ago now, just last April. Slate was standing in front of Friendly’s at the Eastfield Center, smoking a cigarette and counting his change to see if he had enough for French fries and a coke (he didn’t). Everybody else had gone home: Fat Boy, Sticks, Trigger. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. The usual in this boring nowhere town. But the last place Slate wanted to be was home. Home. That was rich. He’d never had a home. He had a house. Big beautiful house envy of everybody in Indian Plains. Right. You live there, then, with morose loopy Mom and Dr. Dad who was always everywhere else but there.
He’d been thinking of a way to get the cash for the French fries and coke. Man, he wanted those bad. Just a couple streets over were the Willamansett Projects. It was Saturday night, and there was always a couple three drunks idling curbside palms up. Quick move in, quick stash snatch…bingo…but before he could complete the mental picture, suddenly, like an apparition forming from a wisp of smoke, like some ghost suddenly embodied out of the mist and drizzle, he was there, standing right beside him.
Antoine de la Cruce. He was tall; he towered over Slate and Slate was 6’2”. His skin was olive, his hair silver and slicked back from his forehead; his eyes in the dim light looked as black as his hair. He introduced himself, holding out his hand. The skin of his hand was soft as plush as a velvet glove. He said he’d just moved into town, was looking for a place to eat, would Slate care to join him for dinner?
Slate was thunderstruck. It was as if Antoine de la Cruce had read his mind.
And that wouldn’t be the last time.
The blade knicked his face. Slate winced as bright red stains sprouted through the shaving cream. He drew his finger across the blood, and lifted the finger to his mouth. Then, he touched the finger to his lips.
***
Decked out in pin-striped perfectly tailored black suits complete with blazing white shirts, Slate and Antoine sped along the I-91 south to Hartford in Slate’s vintage black 1965 classic Mustang. The suits belonged to Antoine; Slate was wearing a hand-me-down that Antoine had tailored for him. Slate glanced over at Antoine as he lounged easily in the passenger seat, his head tilted back, eyes closed, rocking out to Ozzy Osbourne, his ivory serpent-tipped cane bobbing rhythmically along. Man, the guy could wear a suit! He could wear anything, actually, and look like a million bucks. Even in sweats and a tee as he worked around the house, Antoine looked suave, sophisticated, elegant. This was just one of the many things Slate vowed he was going to learn from this mystifying presence that so randomly dropped into his life. Learn as quickly as he could, before he disappeared as haphazardly as he had appeared.
They pulled up in front of one of Antoine’s favorite nightclubs, The Side Car. Slate had visited this club with Antoine often in the six months he’d known him. Here, Antoine was a VIP; he was greeted fawningly, shown the best table, and offered as many free drinks as the ones he paid for. And no one ever took a second glance at Slate or asked to see an ID. Antoine had that covered anyway if anyone ever did; he was a master at paperwork, even had some phony paper of his own, just in case…Slate never asked what the just in case part was; he figured if Antoine wanted him to know, he’d tell him.
The entertainment at the Side Car was wide-ranging and mind-blowing. They featured all kinds of bands from hip-hop to jazz. Slate had seen Big Bad Voodoo Daddy there and instantly fell in love with their music. Antoine bought him all their CDs. They had dancers—male and female—that were really acrobats, like Cirque du Solei performers, who could juggle, walk on stilts, breathe-fire, and even do high wire acts, all under the Side Car roof.
The problem was the drinking. Slate was no push-over when it came to liquor—beer, wine, or hard liquor. He learned young and he learned fast, living in that cold dismal house, and alcohol sure had a mellow way of soothing his pain and easing his loneliness. It also catapulted him to popularity. Dr. Daddy off to who knows where, Mommy Loopy locked in her despair and dead to the world on her Xanax low—Party Time!
But he’d never met anyone who could put it away like Antoine—and he wasn’t just talking about kids. His relatives, including Dr. Daddy could pound the sauce like sailors on leave after six months on the high seas, but Antoine would’ve put any one of them under the table. That is what he did to Slate night after night every night they hit the clubs in Hartford. Slate always promised himself this night would be different, but it never was. The booze kept on flowing, and Antoine kept on grinning, and the dancers kept on breathing fire and swinging high above him and the music kept on playing louder and faster and the room kept on swirling until everything whirled into bright kaleidoscope colors, and time just collapsed and was swept away, until he woke up alone in his bedroom in Antoine’s house, the window open, the fresh breeze blowing, and his head the size of Mt. Vesuvius and ready to blow.
And so the night was, once again, the same. Ending once again, the same.
Slate forced himself to sit up, pushing up against the backboard of the bed.
The movement made his head spin. He felt bile rise in his throat. With great effort, he forced it back down. He would not vomit in this pristine room. This room that was his. This room Antoine had made over just for him.
The night he had dinner with Antoine, he offered him a job. He told him he’d just moved to Indian Plains and bought a Victorian Mansion on the prestigious North side right across from Indian Plains State Park, and he needed help with the renovations. Of course he didn’t tell him exactly which house he’d bought though that wouldn’t have made a difference, Slate was sure. He needed work. He needed good old-fashioned dinero, and he probably would’ve done just about anything to get it. Well, outside of the obvious bad stuff. Antoine had come to start a business in the Pioneer Valley, and there were lots of opportunities. He told Slate he was going into Education Knowledge, and he wanted Slate to work with him on his business, too. But first, was to get the old Victorian in shape.
Slate jumped on the offer. No more counting change under a streetlight for French fries and a coke and coming up short. He’d been painting houses since he was fourteen. Piece of cake no matter what shape the place was in. He almost fell out of the booth when Antoine told him what he would pay. Antoine just grinned. “All you have to do is earn it.”
Available as Standalone or in Anthology Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.
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