The Belfry

‘Twas 9 beers into Santa Con When all through Times Square, Staggered thousands of Derricks, With spiky gelled hair. They’d come from Long Island, New Jersey and Philly And wore Santa caps with intent to be silly.

By noon they were wasted on bottom rung liquor, and barfed up their nachos and buffalo kickers.

Bar owners regretted their choice to register, as bros accused busboys of banging their sisters.

They smashed up pint glasses. They peed on the seat. They asked poor bartenders for “Fireball, neat.”

New Yorkers all cowered away in their condos, as streets ran blood red with Old Saint Nick ensembles.

And this I have witnessed for quite a long time, through grates of the sewer, enshrouded in slime.

I’m a horrible thing of demonic descent, entrusted to smite those who blaspheme Advent.

I sleep til December, when I feed myself, on meatheads named “Vince” dressed like Buddy the Elf.

Their beer-addled brains are so easy to fool 'cause booze brines their brains up deliciously ::drool::

I’ve devoured three Connors, nine Brians, two Johnnys, four Tylers, eight Michaels and one Giuliani.

Each wicked and boorish in Santa disguises, each meeting their fate in passed hors doeuvre snack sizes.

But this year I spotted the king of these sinners, some frat boy from upstate, a promising dinner.

Dressed in red and white garments bought from Party City, he tortured New York passerbys without pity.

He cat-called a nun, poured Red Bull on a dog, and lewdly referred to his crotch as “Yule Log.”

He jaywalked and big-talked, hogged ADA bathrooms. Then tipped 4% at packed Murray Hill saloons.

I waited of course 'til he strayed from his friends, then dragged him by his Sperrys to meet his just end.

He shrieked and he hollered to little effect, for his pals ranged from “blackout” to “totally wrecked.”

And as “Jingle Bell Rock” played from a D'Agostino’s, this boor met his doom wearing Gap discount chinos.

Before his last breath as he stared at my jaws, he cried “What ARE you,” and I said “Krampus Claus.”

So back to my slumber I’ll go 'til next year, when rowdy, rude d-bags besmirch Yuletide cheer.

It’s difficult to get scared in a studio apartment.

Unlike big old creepy houses with their dark hallways and shadowy corners, you can see every inch of a studio apartment. There’s no place for awful things to hide.

Unlike big old creepy houses, where you’re isolated from your neighbors and no one can hear you scream, studio apartments lack any sort of privacy. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. You can be screaming your head off or clipping your toenails. You will be heard.

And unlike big old creepy houses, you rarely hear about a studio apartment that’s haunted.

At least that’s what Oscar thought until he turned out the light in his new sublet, and started to hear whispers coming from beneath a large pile of clothes at the foot of his futon.

“It’s someone next door,” he said clenching his eyes shut willing himself to fall asleep.

But he knew that wasn’t true. The facts were inescapable. The whispering was real and it was coming from the pile of clothes on his floor.

It was the first night of Oscar’s sublet in this studio. He’d seen the ad for it on Craigslist and done extensive research about the history of the building to make sure it wasn’t marred by some shocking tragedy or crime that could result in a lingering paranormal presence.

He’d had bad luck before. A townhouse he’d occupied in Philadelphia once belonged to a suicidal beauty queen and time and time again, Oscar’s mirror would shatter out of nowhere. A colonial home he rented in Salem had paintings whose eyes would follow him around. And most recently in Boston, he’d resided in a cavernous loft that used to be host to occult rituals, and he subsequently vacated when he noticed that shadows not belonging to him would creep across the walls every night.

But this building off the 7 line in Queens was brand new and Oscar’s room on the 6th floor was bright and cheery during the day. At night, however, despite the large window and the city lights, the room was somehow pitch black.

And the whispering voice beneath the clothes had just begun repeating words like “murder” and “escape” again and again before returning to indistinguishable mumbling, which didn’t help the situation.

Oscar would’ve turned on the light, but the switch was by the door and he’d have to pass the pile of clothes to get there. Frankly, he also considered climbing out the window to make a getaway, but he had no fire escape, a troubling fact he hadn’t realized until this very moment.

“The complex was built on an ancient burial ground,” he determined, “Or…or a construction worker died building it. First thing tomorrow, I’m getting this place smudged.”

But when the whispering stopped and was replaced by a familiar jingle, Oscar’s curiosity was piqued.

He padded silently on bare tiptoe across the newly tiled floor and lifted a shirt at the top of the clothes pile with a curtain rod he had yet to hang.

Beneath the shirt, a light blue glow emanated through the folds of his underwear and gym shorts.

It was his phone. And it was playing NPR’s “Fresh Air” at the lowest possible volume.

“I’m Terry Gross and welcome back to Fresh Air. If you’re just joining us, I’m talking to pop psychologist and paranormal researcher, Dr. Cynthia Wythe…” the speakers buzzed, sounding remarkably like whispering.

Oscar breathed a sigh of release that lasted a full twelve seconds and chuckled as he walked back to his futon.

“The western belief that only places can be haunted isn’t shared universally…” Dr. Wythe droned on as Oscar pulled the covers under his chin, “In fact, many cultures believe that it’s people who are haunted and that supernatural events follow them for the rest of their lives…”

Then his phone died.

Evil is alive and well in Manhattan. If you’re looking for it, it will be located on Astor Place, between Cooper Square and Lafayette Street tomorrow from ten in the morning to three. It was there today as well.

This afternoon, at 12:45PM, Steven left work to grab a smoothie. The place he liked had a thirty percent off deal for any smoothie before 1PM. He’d been craving it all day. The sidewalk was bustling with people, weaving in and out, some wielding unnecessary umbrellas from the earlier rains. Steven hated this block, mostly because it made him feel like a bad person. Every day, he avoided eye contact with each person who had a clipboard and a neon vest.

“Sir, do you have a moment to stop Animal Cruelty?”

“Sir, do you have a moment to end Domestic Abuse?”

“Sir, do you have a moment to champion the environment?”

“Maybe if the spokespeople weren’t so abrasive,” he’d justify in his head. “You know what? I’ll donate to their website instead.” But it always seemed slipped his mind. Today, Steven faced the same routine.

“Sir, do you have a moment to support Gay Rights?”

“Sir, do you have a moment to support our troops?”

“Sir-”

“Sir-”

“Sir-”

“Steven.”

Steven stopped. Had someone said his name? He turned around. A tall pale man with a mane of curly hair looked at him. He wore a bright red vest. They locked eyes.

“Me?” Steven asked.

“Yes. Steven, do you have a moment to save a child’s life?”

Steven walked up to the man. He did not recognize him.

“How do you know my name?”

“Do you have a moment to save a child’s life, Steven?”

Somehow, Steven felt compelled to say

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Perfect.” the man said, “His name is Charlie and he’s locked in a trunk behind Saint Mark’s Church. You’ve got ten minutes or so before he runs out of air.”

The man grinned with a mouth so black and rotten that it caused Steven to jump. Then the man was gone.

Steven stood, stunned as people flooded past. He looked at his watch. 12:50PM.

Lydia woke up one morning behind the wheel of a luxury car, stopped at a red light on Fifth Avenue, in front of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

There was a moment of panic; “What am I doing?!” Before her memory kicked in.

Last she remembered, she’d spent the night dancing with some friends from out of town. At some point she recalled doing a very wobbly version of the moonwalk on top of the bar, while a bartender and two waitresses begged her not to do that because it was very dangerous.

“I must have passed out,” Lydia reasoned. It wasn’t such a big deal. She did it almost every weekend. “But did I steal an Uber?” She wondered. “That would be new.”

She also had a very vague memory of breaking out of a box and climbing over a car seat as a man in a black suit and hat screamed and ran away from her out of the car. Or maybe that was a dream?

Looking in the driver’s side window, Lydia saw that same man in a black suit and hat running away, wildly flailing his arms and screaming.

“Oh Shoot,” she said out loud, “I definitely stole an Uber.”

Suddenly, the light turned green and Lydia instinctively stepped on the gas. She began to worry.

“I’ve got a couple minutes before the cops show up,” she thought, “I need to get my story straight.”

Lydia checked herself out in the rearview mirror. She looked surprisingly okay. Her makeup was perfectly intact, her hair still retaining its shape. Her dress on the other hand was a bit prudish.

“What was I thinking when I bought this thing?”

As she circled the block trying to figure out what to do, she noticed a long line of cars behind her.

“Just pass me for chrissakes,” Lydia groaned.

Then came an idea! She could just ditch the car and call a cab. While at another stoplight, she reached for her purse on the passenger seat. It matched her dress and once again, Lydia didn’t remember buying it. When she opened the gold clasp she found that the only thing in the purse was crumpled up newspaper.

“What the hell is-?”

The first in the line of cars behind her beeped. The light was green again. Frustrated, she leaned out the window and screamed at the driver “JUST GO AROUND ME, A-HOLE”

It was at this moment that Lydia realized three things.

One: The driver she was screaming at was her father, dressed in church-clothes.

Two: The car she was driving was long, black and not a limo.

Three: She was dead.

Her father put his hands to his mouth in shock. People poured out of the line of cars to look and gasp and scream. People like Lydia’s Aunt Renee, her cousin Ashleigh, her ex-boyfriend Vince.

“Ugh, Vince got so fat.” Lydia thought before she resumed coming to grips with this terrible realization.

Just then, a bony hand tapped Lydia’s right shoulder. She turned in horror to see that suddenly in the passenger seat was a hooded figure with empty eye-sockets and a skeletal grin.

“Why don’t you get in the back, miss. I know the way from here,“ it said in a thick Brooklyn accent.

Before she could make a break for it, she found herself lying in a satin upholstered box.

From the front seat, the driver snickered “By the way, nice dress, prude.”

“We are being held momentarily by train dispatch. Thank you for your patience,” the same old pre-recorded voice blared into the 4 train. Ravi didn’t hear it though, as his ear buds were jammed in tighter than he was jammed into his seat amidst dozens of groggy commuters, one of whom was somehow, SOMEHOW, eating greek yogurt.

“Why would you ever do that?” muttered Ravi under his breath.

His train had been sitting in the tunnel under the East River for 15 minutes now. But then again, that was expected since this was one of the first trains to head back into Manhattan after the MTA shutdown due to the storm.

For Ravi, the hurricane that hit New York City in the last days of October had resulted in a pretty unremarkable week. He never lost power, he was far outside the tri-colored flood zones of Brooklyn and he spent much of his time cooped up in his Park Slope apartment, wolfing down plastic cartons of shrimp pad thai on his couch, while breezing through the “Halloween Favorites” section of his ex-girlfriend’s brother-in-law’s Netflix account.

His less fortunate friends had been stranded in powerless Manhattan, shivering through cold showers in their pitch-black apartments, eating Power Bars by candlelight. Ravi had considered calling and seeing if anyone wanted to come over, but then he’d have to put pants on and oh! “It Came From Beneath The Sea” was up next in his queue right after “Deep Rising!”

But now, the impromptu staycation was over, as electricity had been restored to the Financial District. And that meant back to work for Ravi and the rest of city. Another five minutes passed as the R train stalled in the tunnel. Ravi avoided eye contact with a standing pregnant lady who was probably aiming to guilt him into giving up his seat. “She doesn’t look that pregnant,” he determined.

“We are being held momentarily by train dispatch. Thank you for your patience.” the automated voice droned again.

The packed in passengers groaned.

Again, Ravi couldn’t hear them. He snorted a bit, thinking how similar this was to the opening scenes of all those monster movies he had watched.

“It would make sense,” he thought. “Big storm. Rising sea levels. Some massive ocean predator displaced into the subterranean tunnels of the New York City transit system. Man. I could write a movie. It’d be so kickass.”

A different announcement came over the speakers, a human voice, urgent, incoherent, ending in a scream that suddenly cut short. Passengers looked around at each other, concerned. Whoever was eating greek yogurt also paused. But not Ravi, as he continued to write this masterpiece creature feature in his head, while house music blared into his ears.

“It’d star like, Vin Diesel as a cop, and his brother who works for the MTA goes missing in the tunnels. And he’s a renegade so he goes to investigate OFF DUTY, and he finds all these mangled hobo bodies….”

A smell like the Chinatown fish market on a July afternoon began pouring into the R train.

“And then he meets this sexy marine biologist, played by January Jones, or NO, that chick from Scandal! And she’s like “There’s something out there, Officer. Something big.”

The fluorescent lights flickered and the train lurched forward unnaturally fast then stopped causing people to scream.

“But the crooked mayor, Kevin Spacey, would be like "We can’t let the public know about this! I’m up for re-election next month!”

Something wet and barbed wrapped around the yogurt eater’s ankle and dragged her out through a shattered window. Some good samaritans tried to help but got pulled out as well. Everyone was screaming.

“Then it bursts out onto the Brooklyn Bridge and all hell breaks loose.”

People began racing out of the train car. Ravi spread his legs wider than necessary and put his bag on the seat next to him.

“But what is it? A crocodile? A mutated half-shark half-crab? A super-smart jellyfish?”

Black ink began dripping from the overhead advertisements as the train-car began to buckle under the strength of some monstrous appendage.

“Nah. That’s lame. Oh, what about an octopus?”

A massive tentacle slithered under the light blue seats towards Ravi’s Sperry Topsiders as an unblinking eye the size of the Trump Globe stared in the window behind him hungrily.

“NO WAIT. A giant squi-”