The Mystery of the Backward Riding Cyclist: A New Underwood and Prim Adventure

ll.

From the Notebook of Mason Underwood:


For those who have not had the intense pleasure of experiencing the North side of Chicago, one would likely marvel at mile after mile of tall, wooden doorways with shiny, brass doorknobs and ornate, iron knockers, exquisitely detailed sculptures aside and enigmatic carvings along ledges of frosted windows of leaden stained-glass, wide stairways leading upwards into deep porches with massive urns, the entirety of the structures not merely façades but castle-like and constructed entirely of stone. One could only wonder at a time in our history at the wealth that allowed for the unique and personalized accomplishment of each original owner and architects dream. Touring past them with collar of coat upturned against gusts of wind with gently falling snow swirling around the gaslights often leaves the impression of having traveled back in time.

Among these strong, impenetrable and secretive fortresses of stone are also the dwellings of Nightmares. The city is too busy a place for most to take much notice as the denizens hurry daily from destination to destination with clockwork precision. No one ever seemed to come and go from that location during regular business hours, and certainly never in the daylight. There were no landline phones or cable television wires or any other intrusions into privacy. Candles in the highest windows of the upper rooms, which appeared well after midnight, lit the statuary of a balcony which danced in the wavering flames and cast living shadows over the sidewalk that were quite unsettling for those who dared venture near at night.

Messengers came and went there with letters secured by wax seals, procured items disguised in packages and bags of provisions. Once entering through the tall, wooden doors none were allowed past the peculiar vestibule whose walls were lined with red glass through which a soft, dim diffusion of light gave the impression of perpetual dusk. An intercom would sound with the scratch of a needle and then the static of an unrecognizable or perhaps unheard recording of a twenties Jazz song. After leaving their delivery on one of the shelves or modules of the inner wall, an electronically generated voice would prompt them to seek out and stand on a chess move on the floor of square black and white tiles and wait for the ending of the music before being allowed to leave. Performed correctly, they would be called on again but required to dress in accordance with their employer's instructions. The terms of their employment were usually brief, and those whose business had ended with their employer for some reason either relocated to another city or had completely disappeared.

Whom or what was behind the inner doors of the mysterious parlor remained a mystery.





©2019 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.


[genre: eerie fiction]