Lair of Dreams

Page 167

Clack-clack-clack-clack. The terrible sound echoed in the watery chamber as the glowing green things streamed out of the tunnel and down the walls, burning against the dark. Pointed teeth glinted from the mouths that opened to emit those terrible sounds.
Behind him, Vernon heard Tony’s screams.
“Tony!” he called, whipping his light around. “Tony!”
But Tony was gone. Only Vernon remained—Vernon and those things in the dark, getting closer. With a shout, Vern was up the ladder and onto the platform, and then he was running. Running like the settlers on the prairie racing to pound their stake into the hard, fertile ground of the heartland, securing their place and their children’s places, the generations springing up under the blue sky. Vernon ran toward the faulty light of his headlamp as it bounced across the darkness.
The corridor curved up and to the left. Vernon followed the bend, the terrible guttural screeching filling his ears. Vernon remembered what it was in the dream that had unsettled him. In the dream, Clyde had stood under a lightning storm.
“It’s coming,” he’d said, and looked off in the direction of a skinny gray man in a tall hat, who laughed and laughed.
Vern’s headlamp shook as it illuminated the corridor and what waited for him there. He’d staked his claim in the wrong spot.
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered as the corridor was filled with an angry green light from which there was no escape.
Henry sat in the Proctor sisters’ overstuffed living room drinking bitter, smoky tea with Miss Addie and Miss Lillian while a herd of cats mewled and purred and rubbed up against his trouser cuffs. He made small talk for as long as was socially acceptable, listening to the Proctor sisters’ tales of various ailments, discord within the Bennington, and one story about an animal trainer mauled by a circus bear that was particularly gruesome and put Henry off the circus for the foreseeable future. At last, there was a blessed lull in the conversation, and Henry seized his opportunity.
“I was curious about something you mentioned the other day, Miss Adelaide,” Henry said. “As I was getting on the elevator, you said, ‘Beware, beware, Paradise Square’ and ‘Anthony Orange Cross.…’”
Miss Lillian’s cup stopped on the way to her lips. “Oh, Addie, honestly. Why would you bring up such unpleasantness?”
After the carnivorous bear story, Henry couldn’t imagine what Lillian Proctor would consider unpleasant, but his heart beat a bit quicker at her words. “Was this Anthony Orange Cross fellow known to you, Miss Lillian? Was he wicked?”
“Anthony Orange Cross isn’t a person,” Miss Lillian said. She sipped her tea. “They’re streets. Or they were, once upon a time. Those names are gone now to the dustbin of history.”
“Streets? You’re certain?” Henry said, deflating.
“Anthony is now Worth Street. Orange became Baxter. Cross had been renamed Park Street well before we arrived, though most people in the Points still called it Cross.”
“We have lived here a very long time. We’ve seen many things come and go,” Miss Adelaide said.
“Near Chinatown, then?” Henry asked.
“Indeed. The intersection of Anthony, Orange, and Cross Streets once formed a little triangle called Paradise Square, down near Chinatown. And it was wicked. It was the foul heart of Five Points.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with Five Points,” Henry said.
“It was the most wretched slum on earth at one time! A place of thieves and cutthroats, bandits, and women of ill repute. Opium dens and people crowded into stinking, rat-infested rooms to sleep on top of one another. Oh, it was filth and degradation the likes of which civilized people cannot imagine. The mission could only do so much.” Miss Lillian tutted, shaking her head.
“The Methodist Mission and the House of Industry,” Miss Addie said and put her milky teacup on the floor for the cats. “It provided care and work for the less fortunate. Lil and I volunteered there for a brief spell, helping to rescue fallen women.”
Anthony Orange Cross was a forgotten intersection, not a killer. Paradise Square had been a slum. What did any of it have to do with the veiled woman? Henry wasn’t entirely sure that she was a ghost. Perhaps she was just a feature of their nightly walks, no more substantial than the fireworks or the children playing with stick and hoop? A message in a bottle delivered long after the writer is gone.
“Do you recall a murder that might’ve happened while you were with the mission?” Henry asked, a last-gasp attempt. “In Paradise Square, perhaps?”