The Feast of Numbered Days

Halloween's pumpkins had become Thanksgiving's pie with the linear procession of lichen years swelling between the masonry of time and resolving itself in the Feast of Numbered days; for despite the warmth of sunrise, the guleing tombstone remained ice cold to the touch. A singular chut of smiley-spade in the ground grave evidenced nothing other than brief thieves had begun to dig and wisely changed their minds. Perhaps an occasional someone or something had frightened them away?

"That's it! Pack up! We're leaving!"

Wobble-clown-wheels go, squeak-squeak-squeak. 

* * *

At the Art Institute in August, Anna had stood with Chance before a two hundred year old mirror in the Colonial furniture gallery. Being a younger woman, she was impressed with antiquity. Bending forward to read the description, she gathered her long, aurburn hair to one side and tucked it over her shoulder. Much to his delight, she made a clever observation.

"Apart from the craftsman and generations of owners, think about all of the visitors that have passed through this hall and gazed into this very looking glass, including now ourselves."

Imagine further he did. "Mirrors are portals to the past."

Though the sign said, 'do not,' she reached forward and tickled the frame. "What if we went inside?"

"How would we survive in such a strange place so long ago?" he wondered.

Confident as always, she comforted him. "The fortune teller would give us the proper clothing and instruct us how to live."

Latter that dry and sticky evening, in a failed effort of creative progeny, their bodies polished away at clarity in order to arrive at the conciseness of Dream.

* * *

At this late November moment, it stormed in the cemetery, so Chance filled himself with raindrops and, as if he were something cuddly, endured being hugged, scored one hundred percent on the spelling and possessives quiz, pummeled bloody a formidable foe at recess to impress the herd, stealthily piloted a stratospheric prototype, fiddled over a bonefire of twenty years of matrimony, bound newspapers into stacks to mark the passage of years, mouthed agape at platitudes of preachers and politicians, apologized for peers hardened by their educations, remained astonished by the selfless joviality of prostitutes, winced skeptically at entourages and strove for consciousness.

"Sweet meat, moist meat, cranberry tart."

Have you heard as I, the moving ever closer across the dreamscape in the smallest hours of the night, the deadly, tiny harlequin in the lime truck with swirling peppermint wheels, nodding its head forth and back, grating and grinding its teeth? Erased from downwards upwards, the dreamer could not feel its feet. There were to be no recent photographs. The celebration having claimed both legs, the Feast propelled its torso thusly on the soiled psalms of hands.




©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.


[ genre: weird fiction, the original text,
hand written notebooks of L.P. Van Ness ]

Last November First

The first of November was the Day of the Dead. In the waning hours, ceremonial candles of remembrance were all aglow. When the darkness arrived completely, the saints all went soft, for indulgence lights were extinguished, one by one, by the icy, piss-breath of invisible imps of the perverse. There were simply no 'pure of heart' remaining to be forgiven. Relocation camps had bloomed in the harshest terrains of the American desserts. Black trucks lumbered from station to station with their cargos of empty body bags. An avatar of blood, Father Poe had once called it the masque of Death. In modernity, there was no longer any need for concealment. Like every other instance of the Information Age, whether great or small, it had been well publicized, a toll of passage ever paid for horrors yet to come. In accordance with the ebony clock, the media drone began broadcasting its gentle trill of swine flutes.

After a momentary flip of memory, Prospero had decided that the time had come to gather together the party posse at Chicago's Aragon Ballroom. Considering the seriousness of the times, whether it was reason good enough was a matter of personal perspective. Discernment had died in the sixties about the same time that sins simply became mistakes. Apologies were no longer necessary.

The first room was golden like childhood. Pay no mind to the pile of burnished bones in the corner. Although they are restless, they will not follow you. The little, brown wobble-desk held up ink pads, stamps and their resulting compositions, lost forever in the purge, and scattered metal gears of a pocket watch disassembled out of curiosity. The mesmer-swirl of a forty-five revolved on a record player and recited Aesop's ' Ant and the Grasshopper' and the 'Fox and the Grapes.'

The next room was blue in mimic of the intellect. It is only the wind that rattles them. Do not be afraid, for they cannot stand on their own power. After Shakespeare, there were no longer original plots, so we took solitute in Aristotle, for only the names and places change. Patiently enduring endless schooling resulted in nothing more than a mere change of perspective from the middle to the front of the classroom. Irony was lost on the young. Whiling away the hours with "The Four Quartets," the understudy in the green room waited for the blocking of the scene and their inevitable cue to the stage.

The final room was locked. As in all things mysterious, there lingered an aroma of incense to be sure. Putting your ear up against the door, you heard a ridiculous jitterbug, dancing bones and then the lifting of the latch. Now, I would imagine, was an excellent time to run.

 * * *

The insensate hand clamped firmly the plastic cup of bitter beer, the other fiddled along pert breasts readjusting the black borders of the too tight fitting camisole that strained beneath the fuzz of pink angora skulls and crossbones. She was on the boyfriend rebound and needed someone's mind to bend, for her heart was blue and barely beating. "I just need time to sort it all out. I'm gonna get it done. Sooner or latter, things have got to get better."

Prospero nodded along in pretentious affirmation as her ego unleashed an endless monologue of temporary triumphs and inevitable anxieties. He watched in awe as the abundant alcohol and insistent beat cast their magic spell and slowly transmogrified the object of his desire into a mere bobble head with dead and distant eyes. As the music of the band heated up, he artfully slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her slowly closer until they stood side by side.

Under the starlit ceiling at the crescendo of the tune, they exchanged a quick and sloppy kiss.

She sneezed soon thereafter and wiped the string of phlegm along her sleeve.

* * *

The sirens and horns of the Lawrence Avenue parade went unnoticed behind the purple windows of one of Prospero's private rooms. Pentagram fingers clutched tightly then relaxed, spreading themselves wide over the black satin sheet. "I'm feeling really positive about the future now, you know."

Feeling nothing other than finished, Prospero wiped his waist with her camisole, tossed the relic into the corner and stumbled to the shower.

She was left alone with soliloquy. "Next summer, I' m going to Europe to study." The syllables hurt her throat like barbed wire. "It may be difficult to raise the cash, but I know I'll find a way." Her cheeks began to crack, peeling up and away from their meat-muscle.  "Mumble flemp, flall-flall-flall." The jaw dripped slowly from its skull, and its teeth tumbled into the deep concaves of bloody pits.

He could not hear beyond the steamy hiss of the shower. He scrubbed and rubbed diligently, until his prideful piece cloggle-clunked the drain.

* * *

Outside the Aragon Ballroom, grey flakes of skin-confetti fell from the somber sky. There were no strings or puppeteers. The rattling crowds of autumn leaves trailed along with the shadow-steps of the marchers.

Fidgeting through her backpack, little Anna retrieved her juice and crackers. Standing up on tiptoe, she began to complain, "Momma, Momma, I wanna see!"

"Hush now, be quiet!" Momma slapped her tiny hand.

Tears turned her eyes to silver mirrors. "I just wanna see who's up front. That's all."

"I told you before, but you never listen." Momma dried her cheeks with a tissue. "Nobody's leading the parade."




©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.


[ genre: weird fiction, the original text,
hand written notebooks of L.P. Van Ness ]

It Wasn't Quite Halloween

While visiting the haunted house, one of the ghouls stumbled forward from the shadows and inadvertantly knocked off Mother's wig. It was easily reappointed. Unfortunately, seven year old Chance thought it was her head that had been severed, so he screamed and ran blindly back outside into the parking lot. Believing he had become suddenly orphaned, it was the first time that terror took up residence in an aveolus of his brain. The shocking incident became, over time, a vintage memory of Halloween.

Mother had bought it for him to calm him down. The balloon was black with orange outlined caricatures of cats and bats and ghosts. From the edges of astronaut covers, Chance watched as it circulated from corner to corner of his bedroom on the invisible draft of the forced-air heat. Its doppelganger shadow tagged along, wobbling up and down along everyday walls now wickedly orange from the dying candle in the pumpkin on his desk. The balloon had become a guardian of sorts, marching steadily and surely, back and forth, along its post. Much to his relief, the troublesome holiday was winding down to a rather satisfying conclusion.

Darkness was inevitable, and darker it became.

That's when the face first grew out of the woodwork.

It started like a swarm of smallish colorful dots much like starbursts forecasting a faint. Never manifesting a mouth, its wordless purpose made it all the more malevolent.  Having sufficiently gathered enough of whatever it was that gave it form, all bumpy and pointy, the evil oval shot straight toward mister balloon.

Chance slammed his soul-windows shut so tightly that he could hear the blood rushing through his ears. He continued to shiver-shake, for the squiggle-face found a way to live beneath closed eyelids as well. Worse even, it now knew that it had his undivided attention. All swirling ceased, frozen momentarily, as if catching its own reflection in a dream-mirror, it began to seep closer, puffing up, bigger and bigger, filling the pits of his sockets. He couldn't bear it up close, for he somehow knew that if it reached him, he would die. He bolted up from the bed and chased it back into the woodwork by switching on the lights.

Somewhere in his early teens, perhaps after he went to summer camp, Chance began to sleep with lights out again. He could never quite explain sufficiently that he wasn't afraid of the dark but of that which lived in the dark. In the years ahead, he slept soundly, exhausted by time consuming responsibilities, lockstep with the pernicious parade: college, career, marriage and children.

It was now late October again, by no fault of his own, Chance found himself alone. Having lost himself that evening in the fictional romance of a one-sided love story, he foolishly allowed the darkness to cover him with its heavy, black endlessness.

Just a few minutes in the small hours was all the face needed to vanguish a lifetime of solitude and worm its way back from out of the woodwork. It hovered about, reminiscing over the familiar surroundings; jiggling closer and closer, it hesitated for a moment, confused and expecting its usual banishment, then it settled, seethed and spread over itself, draining dry its own elasticity and emulating a mere mask of an unconscious countenance.

It wasn't quite Halloween, so it didn't really matter.





© 2018  by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.


[ genre: weird fiction, the original text,
hand written notebooks of L.P Van Ness ]

X. Saga Hwaet ic Hatte?- iii.

Sensing the presence of a formidable opponent, one experienced and attuned to the ways of the wise, the demon of the charming New England village continued to sound in a language familiar to those who had first discovered another haunt long ago. "Gumena to gyme, Ic ful gearwe wearp, Hwa min fromcynn, Eall  of earde!" The snow began to sink in degrees; the waters not being absorbed nor rising as in a sudden flood but instantaneously heated into a rising vapor by an intense heat then dissipating as a sour, stench of decomposing mist near the ground, revealing the surrounding trees of the hilltop as well as the fate of those who had proceeded before them. Standing dead on their feet, it was as if their corpses were still alive. Their brittle bones shattered, most of them soon collapsed to the ground but several whose eyes were of ice had kept themselves alive by feasting on the flesh of those who had died beneath the drifts. These were no mere Zombies! These agile ghouls leapt swiftly on the two adventures. Two of them threw the guide from the open horse drawn carriage. Prim evaded the grasp of another. In accordance with an ancient medieval rhyme, an infinite multitude of cannibalistic sparrows descended from the sky pecking and shredding and tearing away bloody chunks with their ravenous beaks, devouring the ghouls to their bones. Savoring the mortal's challenge, the demon intervened. "Ac ic mipan sceal, Degolfulne dom, Siofaet minne, Saga hwaet ic Hatte?"  The guide remained on the ground, his mind insensate to everything happening around him. Familiar with the language of an arcane book, Prim answered the riddle. Heretofore invisible; therefore, wingless, having flown once through the heavens, now earthbound and unable to rise or descend again, the powerful and immortal demonic ghost momentarily took form in a translucent, hexagonal swarm of icy air. This was the only instance that the elucidator of the eerie could recall having recorded in his eldritch notebooks of an otherworldly demonic ghost being banished altogether entirely from the material realm of existence.


©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.


Note The introduction of  "Ghosts of de le Sang" and parts I-X  [ genre: eerie fiction ] were published on this blogspot in October of 2018 and will be revised for print and include parts XI, Xll and the dénouement at a latter date.

X. Saga Hwaet ic Hatte?- ii.

Prim spent the evenings and most of the early mornings in the train's sleeper car. At late breakfast, he usually watched the early October snow continue to fall and landscape of changing leaves from the window of the dining car then spent the remainder of his days reading and watching the vast prairies fill with snow from the observation car. The special train was filled with interesting people on their way to many mysterious places. The trip was fun. Descending from the train, he was the only passenger arriving at the colonial village in New England. Wherever he traveled people were glad to see him. "It's a daemon!" the man shouted. "I am satis terris nivis!" Prim inquired if this had wings. The man was uncertain having never actually seen it with his own eyes; however those who had tried to vanquish it had never returned. He had knowledge of the exact location where it could be found. Prim was surprised at the antiquated mode of transportation as he boarded the open horse drawn carriage. The road was snow covered, however the amount was nothing exceptional and Prim wondered at the inappropriate panic in his guide's voice as he continued to explain that the appearance of the demon had reawakened fears among the villagers that their women would soon seek out its favors in exchange for bewitching powers of their own and that such a benefactor was unwanted there. It was a chimney corner tale out of step with most modern urban views, a nostalgia and longing for a simpler yet harsher and less equitable period of history. Their trip was unimpeded and uneventful, but they seemed to be rising upwards at every turn until Prim noticed they had traversed to a height that left the village below them several miles in the distance. At the last winding curve, they finally arrived at the mouth of the serpentine trail. They stepped down from the carriage at the edge of the drifts where the ground was still manageable and both wondered at a field of snow that had accumulated to such an otherworldly height that only the skeletal branches of the top of a singular tree could be seen. This was hardly a battlefield for those adventurous men who had allegedly proceeded here before them. The elucidator of the eerie began to suspect that it was merely a winter's tale nearing the apex of yet another lunar cycle of October. A thunderous, booming disembodied voice announced its presence from the surrounding forest and shook the windswept field. "Frod waes min from cym, fyren gefaelsad!" The frightened man scurried back up into the carriage and searched blindly for the reigns. Prim stood his ground and gave a wry smile, knowing full well all the Latin exclamations in the world would do neither one of them any good.


Copyright 2018 by L. P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.

X. Saga Hwaet ic Hatte?- i.

So you think you know alot about demons? The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear. Listening to "Get Out And Get Under the Moon" on his gramophone, Prim remained mesmerized in thought watching blue memory-ghosts of smoke from his cigar swirl through the air against the dim light of the window pane until a natural proclivity of unremarkable frost began to form. The malaise wouldn't last long. There was something magical about Jazz Age music. The familiar aroma of perfume filled the room. I am wingless, but airborne, and when I meet your gaze tears fall from your eyes. Slowly materializing, the Goth witch presented him with an enigma and blessed him with a magic incantation for a profitable journey. The stars were right and the waxing crescent of the new moon sailed in the sky; it was the beginning of another October adventure. Emerging from the narrow doorway of his garroted apartment, an egress non-descript and disguised between the Mad Haberdasher and Gargoyle and Gin, a crowd of compatriots smoked cigarettes and talked on the sidewalk outside the club; as he walked through the reluctantly parting crowd it was as if Prim had just appeared out of nowhere unnoticed by the Sunday evening pedestrians. Each hat had been carefully and ritualistically returned by the haberdasher to their boxes, the red track lighting illuminated empty black velvet displays. Feathers of late October snow fell along with orange wheel sparks as Prim ascended the wide steps and waited mere minutes at the Belmont Avenue platform before the next el arrived boarding for the Loop. He disembarked at the old fashioned Quincy platform, quickly descended the stairway and walked across the bridge of the Chicago River, looking upstream at the cheerfully lighted water taxis. He entered through the long, golden handled doors of Union Station, descended the wide marble steps into the concourse where excited and weary travelers waited and rested on wide, wooden benches. The oldest and strongest fear is fear of unknown and unexplored destinations. For those attuned to ways of the wise, their Sundays were always special. Prim happily boarded the train. They were sad to see him leave his beloved city by the lake.

IX. Vampyre Ghost- vi.

The prized leather tome at Prim's left hand slid slightly away from him across the chess-table. Relaying the next move, the vampire intended to use the opportunity to delve deeper into his mind. However, unwilling to be completely enchanted into servitude and the loss of mortal identity, Prim did not advance the chess piece. The vampire urged him onward by projecting the image of an invisible legion surrounding him in ever-widening concentric circles with thousands of desirous, devouring watchful eyes. There shall be no further hesitation in our brilliant game of chess! Suddenly, a series of counter images eclipsed the immortals intricate mind: absolute darkness, unimaginable cold, pale distant starlight and a landscape of cavernous towers of rock rising from unfathomable pits concealed by clouds to a impenetrable leaden sky. The terror of the cosmic void and unfamiliar fifth dimension was overwhelming. The vampire reluctantly reached out with long, artistic fingers and pinched the chess piece with distain advancing king's bishop's pawn to king's bishop's three between the tips of sharp, red nails. The prized leather tome returned to within reach near Prim's left hand. In the darkness above them, the furtive mass of breathing coarse hair and membranous skin patiently feasted on the fear energy of their thoughts, spread further across the ceiling and unfolded the tri-lids of an unflinching primordial eye. Where do vampires go when they die? Since there's nowhere else for them, they become immortal ghosts absorbed into the eternal dream-realm of interspatial time.

lX. Vampyre Ghost- v.

Snow danced in the golden auras of the north shore gaslights and frost continued to transmogrify into unnamable angles of geometry shaping themselves to the hypnotic rhythms of eldritch melodies beyond the pallid visage and sable shoulder length tresses. Reading the surface of Prim's thoughts, the vampire placed a mind-projection of pleasing abstract canvasses into his consciousness momentarily drawing his attention away from the game. Memory-ghosts encompass you, yet you remain aloof and neither avoid or allow them to impede your movement in the physical dimension. You accept such things and find them not troubling? Sensing the urgency of the immortsl's own Thirst, he calmly took a sip of heartsease tea. Focusing on the otherworldly classical music allowed him to think several moves ahead, for there was still so very much to be learned about this mysterious new Chicago thrall. In anticipation of the progress of the queen's bishop, he advanced queen's rook's pawn to queen's rook's three allowing for the queen's knight's safe return to protect the king. Shifting his gaze towards the ceiling of the now dimly lit tea parlor, he discovered an outspread mass of breathing coarse hair and membranous skin.

lX. Vampyre Ghost- iv.

The tea parlor's psychic transmissions, oral discussions and themes of otherworldly classical music was overwhelming to the sensitivities of one whose ability to discern each distinctly, thought by thought, word by word and note by note was often problematic. Shielding themselves allowed them to concentrate their acute senses on a singular activity like an artisan bringing abstract pictures from the creative mind to a canvass knowing the outcome of the endgame from their very first move beyond the genius of any accomplished mortal player. Having not fully explored Prim's thoughts, his repute only as an antiquarian and presently unaware he was a mercenary of sorts with deference to their existence unless there was leather in the game the vampire had accepted his terms of the prized rare tome in his possession anticipating victory from a mortal assumed to have limited linear thought patterns that lacked a full perspective as though standing in a gallery too near a great work of art to appreciate the composition of the whole. Nevertheless, Prim offered the opportunity of this brilliant game of chess calculating that his ability to absorb knowledge in detail and photographic recall would be enough to allow him to compete long enough to study this unknown vampire. Having both urban and rural experience, he could only describe his situation of finding himself among the harbinger of a new Chicago thrall like patiently observing a skeletal winter tree awaiting a rookery of ravens; therefore he hesitated before even contemplating his next chess move.

IX. Vampyre Ghost- iii.

The supernatural moment in time, locality, immediate surroundings and philosophies of those in the tea parlor recorded in a single glance, Prim opened his eyes. The serpentine curtains were still now and the scattering of rose petal runes set in place. High heels click-clacked. A saucer and cup of mid-afternoon heartsease was placed near his right hand. His antiquarian tastes were evident by the the leather binding of the book at his left hand. Lean and hard, for he neither smoked nor drank liquors, estimated age was impossible to guess. Enjoying that others present were whispering that his manner of casual discussion gave them the impression he had lived wherever and at whenever time and was possibly thousands of years old, Prim gave a wry smile knowing also that the server found it quite odd that no one appeared to be sitting opposite him. Reaching into his watch pocket, he provided enough gratuities for two patrons. High heels click-clacked away. He returned his attention to the brilliant game of chess. Such crude, inornate pieces are beneath the touch of an immortal. Reading the eyes and further discerning the intention of their thought, Prim reached across the chess-table and countered his first move with queen's pawn to queen's four.

IX. Vampyre Ghost- ii.

The woven themes of guitar, violin and cello and the rhythmic bass of the rondo were warm and soothing. Prim gently closed his eyes and referenced his legendary photographic memory while awaiting the next chess move. Whether dance clubs, vintage and Goth clothiers, tarot, hookah or the well-known author destinations of booksellers, each doorway of the avenue lead to haunts of adventure and those expressing their uniqueness by remarkable speech that stimulated and expanded the intellect. The remaining walls of the tea parlor were lined from top to bottom with shelves of classic books that were not for sale, for this was also a popular haven where the un-intelligentsia, who sought the truth of their individual paths and held no faith in unproven utopias or the disruption of established paradigms, would gather at round tables encircling aisles of competitive chess squares. Discussions of literature reached beyond the often errant reconstructionism of the moderns elucidating the deeper meanings of authors through a thorough knowledge of period history, biographies and understandings of set symbolism juxtaposed to personal creations through the understanding of their intended usage and precise selection of the proper shades of colour of diction. Prim's beloved Belmont Avenue in Chicago was a magical and inclusive place that welcomed those wise. The doorway's curtains slithered without motion of entry and the rose petal runes rearranged themselves without circulation stirred by any visible personage.

IX. Vampyre Ghost- i.

So you think you know alot about vampyres? Ever watchful, shadows darted outside along Belmont Avenue while a natural proclivity of frost began forming around the windows transmogrifying into otherworldly angles of unnamable geometry that shaped themselves to the hypnotic rhythms of eldritch melodies beyond the pallid visage and sable shoulder length tresses. Beneath the sill adorned with lace of hearts and doves and a scattering of rose petal runes, tall bookshelves archived arcane sheet music performed in continuum by a classical quartet. Daguerreotypes of rival players that had also gathered there were arranged atop the lintel and along the uprights of the doorway protected by serpentine curtains. The familiar sanguine lips slowly revealed their quite clever fangs. Knowing well that neither of them was an opponent, for they savored each other's victories, Gordon Prim replied with queen's knight to queen's bishop three.

VIII. Numerical Ghost

On another of his earlier travels, Prim stood with two other men overlooking an expansive prairie in Rome watching the morning fog lifting to reveal a recently undiscovered stone village whose dwellings were interlaced by ley lines. Seen best from a star field above; they walked these interconnecting pathways together as the elucidator of the eerie listened attentively to the unscrupulous archelogist's descriptive conquest. There were what the man termed nine, singularly unremarkable sites; each had a square of three rows of the same number carved into their northern foundations.The ancient scholar theorized quite correctly that they were intended for protection of each structure. Prim redrew the engraved amulet of the first cataloged site combining the same number of each vertical, horizontal and diagonal row in the cool, damp dirt to arrive at the same sum of three. "You are in error, Mr. Stern. There is yet one infinite doorway missing that fits the pattern of one through nine." The historical expert responded dryly that every single one of the nine sites had been uncovered and logically enumerated, and that any magic regarding the intention of those known was fallacy. The men proceeded together to the second visable site; Prim continued to solve the sums by writing them in the cool, damp soil directing them as they moved along, "Six, nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-four, twenty-seven, they are all stationary spells." Unimpressed, the developer proclaimed that nothing remains permanent and when it comes to progress everything at one time or another winds up for sale through the usual method of the way things were done around there. Divining its energy, Prim explored along an undiscovered ley line that lead him to a shallow, empty section where no evidence of ruin could be seen. Satisfied by their own plans and opinions, the two followed out of curiosity of perhaps discovering something new. "I'll allow you to draw the designation of this singular stone in the earth yourself, Mr. Stern." On completion of the final number of the bottom row, having carried no charm of protection, the archeologist forced his hands to his ears, clothes dissolving, flesh and fat peeling away in ribbons, clinging sinewy muscles unwinding in succession revealing shiny, dry bones heated into brittle blackness before imploding into a odious vapor, leaving only a haze . . . the archeologist had vanished! "A magic square amulet inscription of three numbers in three rows containing all of nine cardinal numbers when tallied vertically, horizontally and diagonally to form the same sum opens an otherworldly portal to interspatial travel." Prim retrieved his walking stick from the ground. "I am not easily moved by plots composed through contrived or coincidental occurrences; however, some people more than others have difficulty crossing a field." The covetous developer was stunned into silence but acquired a permanent loss of avarice and would remain forever haunted by his experience of a numerical ghost.

VII. Ghost of Recitation

As Prim rested for a moment in contemplation after reading his observations from his eldritch Chi-town notebook, the malevolence of Tallow's estate reminded him of a similar startling experience decades earlier. He took one of his travel notebooks from the shelf and continued his studies . . . on completion of the song and arcane, lyrical recitation, an unexpected peal of thunder marked the exact October hour and then a brief tumultuous rain that afterwards left a viscid, odorous pool of new moon darkness in which candlelight reflected then the reaching out of webbed hands and scaly arms. It had been recorded in Bradford's "History at Plymouth Plantation," that at this very site at Mount-Wollaston, in 1628, the captain's contemporary Morton became known as the Lord of Misrule renaming the place Merriemounte after setting up a May pole, where the earliest of our sundry bacchanalian rimes and verses were composed. Later, this infamous locale was renamed, yet again, on Indecott's restoration of rule of order, Mounte-Dagon; where here too now had appeared, the ghost of the ritualistic Canaan fish-god.

VI. Manevolence

The sizzling heat of summer had passed on. The vibrant, colourful people hurried along in their city gait to various appointed destinations or some were perhaps merely glad to be outdoors on such a lovely, crisp late afternoon in October. Along the Gold Coast of Chicago, the thick, black carefully attended to revered trunks were encompassed by low, ornamental wrought iron fences that protect them from pedestrians who raced and weaved between them in snake-like formations in their hurry to get ahead. In their self-absorbed travels, they rarely bothered to gaze upwards in observance of the windswept movements of the skeletal boughs. During the long commute to his estate, the pillar of stone kept thinking about what the trees meant, troubled as he was by each and every gesture. The man beside him at the window seat looked stoically at the passing dull, gray scenery of building and building, station after station, with each depot stop bookmarking a dwindling denseness of population until the distant places where the wild, empty mid-western prairies had been tamed into expansive, manicured lawns of exquisite and formidable mansions. The elucidator of the eerie rarely ventured anywhere on this particular eve. His client remained silent as the singular meditation on the meanings of trees remained caught in a revolving doorway of fear. Prim marveled at the wealthy antiquarian's extensive library of first edition books. "What a warm and cheerful study. Although you are alone here with mere servants and without any intellectual peer, you should still feel quite at ease." Drafting his advance payment as requested at the writing desk, the antiquarian continued to mumble on about the night of all nights until the precision of the appointed hour. In the lamp lit pathway to the large, rectangular pool, the dry, yellow leaves rattled their bones caught up in preternatural shear of wind giving the ghost its form. The shape had an otherworldly geometry of a lurching then pouncing physiognomy; for a moment seemingly still but with perceivable oscillation. An entity or demon would be a misnomer. Before the materialization, Prim knew from past experience that there was little he could do to ease the man's trepedation, yet his presence began to calm him. "This is the most malevolent and frightening elemental-ghost of all my encounters; though hinting of manifestation through other organics, I assure you that it's fixed in place and time. Fear not the future, Mr. Tallow, for I have now seen this also, and I assure you that you are quite sane." The elucidator of the eerie's homeward journey was profitable, a rare tome of Maupassant given along with his payment. There are luminous and darkening phases through the year; however, this was the darkest moon of them all with an absolute absence of meaning and light.

V. The Ghost of Benevolent Bliss

Emerging from the narrow doorway of his garroted apartment, an egress non-descript and disguised between the Mad Haberdasher and Gargoyle and Gin; it was as if Prim had just appeared out of nowhere unnoticed by the Sunday mourning pedestrians. At precisely eleven o'clock, the elucidator of the eerie entered the coffee house and seated himself at the chessboard inlaid table blissfully untroubled by anything that was not his business. High-heels click-click-clacked and set down his special blend of coffee then jitterbug shuffled away. There were no vampyres from the Chicago thrall to be found at this hour of the morning, so one of the nearby un-intelligencia gladly took the opposite seat, and he immediately began to drone on and on about a literary conundrum that because of dubious hearsay the dramatist Faust may have actually written many of his plays as Shakespeare. After listening patiently for hours, Prim gave his usual reply, "One must never confuse the reality of an author's lifestyle with the otherworldly fictions of their pen." Much to the astonishment of his opponent, on the last game of the series, the elucidator of the eerie's chess piece floated across the board without movement of his own hand. "Checkmate!" He gave a wry smile. The coffee house bell sounded and a compatriot entered exactly at two having denied herself a Saturday night out, rising early and dressing to the nines of high Goth because of their shared love of live piano music.They left together and proudly claimed the sidewalk. The nearby hooka lounge was closed; yet shadowy denizens from the night before still ambled inside behind the obscure, smoky windows. He stopped in for a fine cigar at the nearby tobacconist while Fantastication smoked a cigarette outside. Ascending the wide steps, they waited mere minutes at the Belmont Avenue el platform before boarding for the Loop. They arrived right on time for the three o' clock performance at the Chicago Symphony. It had been a memorable and fine performance. During Moonlight Sonata, the final piece of the afternoon, a counterpoint waltz of Three o' clock in the Morning began sounding simultaneously on the piano strings. The pianist continued to play along with the Jazz Age million seller through the conclusion of the scores. October was a highly active portal of paranormal activity. For all everyone else knew, symphony hall had been entirely ghost less. For those attuned to the ways of the wise, their Sunday's were always special.

IV. The Mind-Stench

The closed casket wind of October's portal between the living and the dead scattered a few scurrying sensitive heads along the sidewalks of Belmont Avenue, Chicago's darkest artery; therefore the straights, the bashfully bald, egocentric and sensate would soon be seeking out their precious headwear. The elucidator of the eerie's wise compatriots walked nearby at a regular pace with hair tied back, dreadlocks or reddened frostbite on the domes. Prim sought out arcane information regarding a troubling revenant, and he was sure to find out everything that he needed to know, with all due discretion of course, at the Mad Habadasher. The Victorian style gold calligraphy script on the shop window wryly advertised, Mad Habadasher: undead toppers for the living, you have to earn the undertaker's hat. He took a draw on his cigar and shifted his dark eyes toward the empty white velvet fob. It was clear that a recent browser didn't belong in Chi-town. A wandering, babbling Frenchman with pockets too deep, arms exceeding their reach, cemetery gray skin, moldering spots of decay and a penchant for subversive advertisements in the weeklies had procured it for the usual price of sale. The mad haberdasher tightened a silver bind on her shiny, black latex corset and pointed out direction and time with s long, sharp, red nail. He wasn't hard to find, a foul, repressive mind-stench gave him a trail. Back up in top of the world North Country, this red-winged seraphim was known for selfishly trolling for fame through food found in a lame coffee house dumpster and a penchant for killing off Creatives. "I knew it was you, right away. If one has to wear a hat, it should match your coat." Removing the poser's leper-skin pillbox hat from his head, the revenant's host gave up the ghost high into the halo of a vapor light leaving only stylish shoes, exuberant pants and pirates' long coat behind. Satisfied with his success and hardened Chicago Goth sensibility, Prim proclaimed, "I am a fallen star. I never wear a hat."

III. The Number After Infinity

The day at Chicagoland's Hawthorne Park was dark and cloudy until just after the eighth race when sunlight spread like a white wave across the track. Prim was always a fierce competitor; therefore he never mentioned the name of an opponent. He waited for the parade along with the other railbirds until the trumpet sounded the arrival from the paddocks. Though clothed in caps and goggles and silks of every colour with diamonds, stripes and checkered patterns, these masters of the reigns were no harlequins. All the barn entries had the inside post positions, but Prim liked horse and rider of number nine just fine. Ears perked, no leg wrappings, no blinders, no bucking and head unwavering, nine gazed straight forward in anticipation of victory. Lashes rising out above the goggles, nine' s rider appeared quite taller in the saddle than the rest and was outfitted in black silks with red diamonds. The competitors held their mounts at bay until both riders and horses sprang from the gates. All the anticipation passed in mere minutess and now rose to a crescendo. Prim cheered with the railbirds as they rounded the curve urged onward by whips into the stretch. Approaching the final length, manes flailing wildly in the wind, clouds of dust kicked up beneath their hooves. "The autumn leaves are slowly beginning to change." Only someone with keen powers of observation like Prim noticed that nine's hooves never touched the track. He narrowed his eyes as they approached the finish line, three of thirteen, neck and neck, nose by nose until . . . at exactly the last moment nine and rider blinked out and back into real time. They gently placed the lucky laural of roses over nine's strong, proud head and took the victory photograph. With such preternatural enchantment; throughout decades ahead, there were many more victories to come.

II. The Ghost in the Foyer

The Chicagoland dwelling's facade was disguised by large, wide set stones and dry, brown ivy. There was a large marbled mirror in the immense mansion's foyer where stood a reclusive, miserly mummy-skinned old man. Some people have everything . . . even a ghost. He explained that the haunter appeared at intervals on day's such as these, and he hoped that Prim would not find it inconvenient that he must remain outside even though there was an approaching tumult. Flashes of lightning spread from the clouds illuminating the elucidator of the eerie's silhouette and the upturned collar of his long, dark wool coat. An adequate amount of October rain is the best kind for it opens up portals between the living and the dead acting as a kind of magnetic medium, such as tape on a reel to reel; therefore many find themselves eternally troubled by a ghost's vigilance when there's fog or rain or snow. The once thunderous voice of Tremblesmythe became shrill. "It's raining! It's raining! This vexes me so! Look there! It's all around me!" An ominous, distorted face swelled and filled the mirrored foyer cackling and laughing with a duplicitous smile and grimace then reshaped itself into a singular presence before multiplying into a legion of shoulder to shoulder doppelgangers. This manifestation repeated itself over and over at varying hypnotic speeds dazzling the eyes like a video loop. Prim redirected his gaze. Remnants of the last leaves of October cascaded from skeletal trees and a gentle, cool breeze caressed through his disheveled brown hair. Leaden clouds softened into a grey, transparent veil and the expansive lawn and trees took on an otherworldly greenish phosphorescent hue seen only at the exact moment of cessation of a ravenous storm. It was a moment of eureka! The static ghost in the foyer began to slowly dissolve until completely erased by a sudden break of sunlight through the late afternoon clouds. There was always, it appears, nobody there at all. Still, it was a nice Lake Forest estate.8

I. The Ever Vigilant Mascara Lined Eye

After an evening in attendance at the Chicago Symphony, Prim studied the cheerful and inviting Tannenbaum glowing in the upper room window of his regular weekend haven on Belmont Avenue. Once inside, he felt even more inspired by the bar's Art-deco design, royal purple hues, alternative music video screen, black and white photographic artwork and especially that ever vigilant mascara lined eye. Prim danced into the small hours in unison with the perspiring, undulating masses. Yet, there were revenants there. Seated at the bar, plain and waxy entities vibrated violently in and out of real time, a white masked bartender in a tuxedo slowly drew slick, black mucinous strings through swollen, bleeding lips. One of the dancers advised, "You must live in the now and not let anything stop you from any new experiences." They sat together at the petite, round marble table, occasionally conversing with the doorman who was a great lover of all kinds of music. The new acquaintance of the elucidator of the eerie knew just what he needed to ease any further trepidation; she placed a fiver in the VJ's basket, and a jazz tune filled the dance floor. There was something about the sultry freedom of the wild beat that awakened their collective memories. The spirit of joviality enriched this place. A well respected and beloved grim-scribe once advised that "horror is the removal of masks," and here it was somehow . . . always Halloween. "I never danced as hard and long before!" she exclaimed. "Now, we can! My name's not Bernice . . . it's Zelda!"

GHOSTS OF DE LE SANG

We begin, once again, at the portal of the narrow doorway between the Gargoyle and Gin and Mad Haberdasher and the garret window to the world overlooking Chi-town's beloved Belmont Avenue. Gordon Prim awoke to the familiar and soothing strains of classical music whose compositions were as reliable as the constant stars of the night sky. Standing in the midst of his sparce, economical surroundings of settee, ornate rug and a library of bound notebooks that contained a wealth of decades of personal observations, he tossed aside yesterday's daily paper and the latest riddle heretofore knotted by detective Brown. In a shape-shifting Age of Electronic Information, the collective consciousness of idle conversations of various herds are often unknowingly scripted like actors on the big screen; therefore the truly wise best proceed trusting alone in what one's own eye perceives among their own circles of experience. Nightfall of the first of October had returned and the sidewalks below appeared to be peopled with ghoulish clones known only to the mind-stream of those they encounter by what appeared to be coincidence. For a brief moment, there came the sensual aroma of perfume as the classical music faded in and out of jazz. Between draws of his cigar, memory-ghosts cascaded from his lips and swirled upwards on the damp air. What do people fear most? Unlike the machinations of vampyres, whose haunts and habits are strictly limited to the nocturnal, ghosts roam freely at all times and are indestructible. How does one bring an unsettling and troublesome revenant to its startling conclusion? Locating an eldritch volume of his own hand written adventures and removing it from his private bookshelf, Prim's keen intellect arrived at an immediate deduction that could only be reached by an elucidator of the eerie.