City at the Edge of the Earth Read online

  City at the Edge of the Earth

  City at the Edge of the Earth

  Sandy DeLuca

  Midnight Town Media ©

  Published by Midnight Town Media

  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art and design: Sandy DeLuca

  Book design: Sandy DeLuca

  Copyright © Sandy DeLuca 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher.

  Visit: http://www.sandydeluca.com/

  Introduction

  CITY AT THE EDGE OF THE EARTH is one of many stories about Talbot’s Bay, a fictional city in Southern Rhode Island. Through the years, several pieces have been published in this setting, and others have been collecting dust in my files for a while. There have been villains in these tales, including a dark mystic, named Bernard Danser and a Goddess named Eldore.

  This is a surreal work of fiction, one that not might be for everyone. It was derived from pieces of half-written stories, and an unfinished novel. It is fragments of things imagined. I liken it to an abstract painting, or a dreamlike poem.

  I wanted to bring this piece to the public, as I plan to do with similar works—records of my imaginings that need to see the light. My years on this earth are filled with such creations.

  I’ve recently given myself the freedom to release my more bizarre writings through Midnight Town Media.

  Some of it was determined to be too offbeat and not marketable by publishers—and I’ve chosen to format this book in a nontraditional way.

  Ironically, Prince passed away today—an innovator who fiercely believed in the rights of artists to retain ownership of their work—to be free. He was a multifaceted musician, a writer, a poet…and much more. He is an inspiration for artists of all types--to be bold, undaunted by criticism and to move forward without restriction. My character, Tyler Bane, is a rock star and a true artist as well.

  So, Let’s Go Crazy.

  Sandy DeLuca April 21, 2016

  For Prince…

  and the liberation of artists

  “We are all wanderers on this earth. Our hearts are full of wonder, and our souls are deep with dreams.”

  Gypsy Proverb

  1.

  December 2004

  Diana strode through silent halls, past rooms where others slumbered, their veins filled with medicine manufactured to numb anxiety and trauma—attempts to send away demons, but help was not guaranteed—not for those who screamed in the dark—not for her.

  Relentless rain had fallen throughout the night. Dawn gave way to arctic cold, gale force winds and snow. Diana shivered when she stepped outside, and for an instant she wanted to turn around and go back into Renewed Hope Medical Center, a remote and exclusive clinic situated on a small landmass along the East River—the place where her fever dreams had slowly given way to reality, and then heartache.

  Startling visions and nightmares began when she entered the health center, and after her father arranged for an exclusive team of specialists to diagnose her unbearable headaches. Then when a series of scans uncovered lesions on her brain, those nocturnal reveries became more mysterious.

  And on that morning, Diana dreamed of soft whispers from a faceless woman, who hovered beneath a snow-laden tree, as dawn cast purple streaks across the horizon. The Hotel LaNeau loomed large on the highest hill of Talbot’s Bay, ominous, with deep gray figures moving past its shaded windows. And strange statues lined garden paths, where overgrown brush and tangled tree limbs stood amid ice and snow—creatures sculpted in ashen stone—people with feline features, and with webbed hands and feet.

  Darker shapes rose from the sea, within thick mist, and fish-like humanoids leapt and soared within the foamy brine, glimmering scales dappled arms and legs; their faces hidden beneath streams of dark, wispy hair. And there were other presences—silent effigies--kneeling on the beach, yellow eyes looking upward to the LaNeau, as if they honored a sacred deity.

  A full luminary hung above in the stygian sky, and Diana’s enigmatic dream woman now lay beside a gravestone, head bowed and blood trickling from her hands, onto the white powder; and the sound of a choir singing in the distance—ethereal and sweet—remained a penumbra as birds swooped over bare-branched trees, their black wings beating winter wind, and their songs a midnight serenade.

  The spell prevailed until Diana slipped back to wakefulness—to radiators groaning, and steam hissing in her austere hospital room. But the chill of that hallucinatory landscape remained.

  She choked back tears, feeling guilty and wishing she’d stayed by her husband’s side, because the unspeakable had happened when her husband, Tyler, got shot outside their New York City apartment, and her father broke the shocking news with an early morning phone call.

  He’d told her, “Doctors are sending you home with pain meds, but there are no answers yet. You’ll need to go back there once--”

  She interrupted him. “Daddy, did he suffer?”

  “It was instant, kid.” Nicky’s voice cracked, softer than usual--but he was a tough businessman, and it didn’t take long for pragmatism to surface. “I hate to be insensitive...and I’m taking this as hard as anybody, but you got anything black you can wear? Most of the press is banned from the funeral, but there’ll be friends…and associates...”

  She sighed, dreading the burial, the crowd it would attract and the pain that would become rawer as shock dissipated. “Yeah, I do,” she told him, remembering a black lace dress and a coat she’d worn when Tyler did an appearance at a local music store.

  Nicky asked her, “Are you holding up, kid?”

  She sobbed, “No, damn it. I’m a mess, but I’ll see you later on.”

  “Yeah, later. Bruno will be there around noon.” He disconnected the call without another word.

  An hour later her doctor released her, and told her, “I’m so sorry about Tyler. I’ve followed his career for years. I…” He pursed his lips, and then spoke sternly. “I can’t deny that I’m worried about you.” He patted her hand, and shook his head. “Call me if the headaches get too bad, and remember that you’ll need to come back.”

  “I don’t think that I have a choice,” she said, knowing that the stark, cold atmosphere would intensify sorrow and loneliness, but she told him, “One of Tyler’s last wishes was that I get better. I have to do it for him…no matter what.”

  Once back in her room, she dressed in street clothes, with her hair pinned back and her face devoid of makeup; an ordinary girl, someone she’d been in another lifetime. She made her way out a heavy wooden door, and then onto a cobblestone path, turning for a moment, taking in soft lights shining through windows, and the black and white banner hanging above the hospital’s entrance—Renewed Hope. Then she slipped her only bag over her shoulder, feeling the wind on her skin, and snow falling from a gloomy sky.

  A gray Mercedes waited in the driveway, and she smiled because Bruno Vantasi sat behind the wheel.

  She gave up a quick wave, and the driver nodded slightly. She moved toward the vehicle, taking in the skyline beyond the roiling East River, and blackbirds gathering on powerlines.

  Bruno threw open his door, stepped outside and rushed to meet her.

  “I want to sit up front with you,” she told him.

  “Whatever you want,” he said. He quickly opened her door, wait
ed until she climbed inside, and then he made his way back to the driver’s seat.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  She reached over, touched his hand, and told him. “I know.”

  “All set?” he asked, as he slipped the Mercedes into drive.

  “As set as I’ll ever be,” she told him, and then sorrow cut through her like a sharp-edged knife. She sobbed as a tear streamed down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, telling him, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Bruno nodded, and then pulled the car onto the street, weaving through avenues lined with old Victorian houses, onto a thruway, and then over the Hell Gate Bridge, traveling northbound over the waterway. He merged right for the Harlem River Lift Bridge to East 125th Street, then onto FDR Drive.

  She settled back in her seat, and then drowsiness overtook her, and she drifted to sleep, once again dreaming of hills overlooking Talbot’s Bay. The Hotel LaNeau cast an ominous shadow over snowy knolls, over the churning ocean and the city. She stood atop its highest spire, and the stone effigies below raised their arms in reverence. Then she moved through the bowels of the hotel, knife clutched in her hand, blood splatters on her clothes. And in darkness women screamed, and felines perched on wooden rafters—teeth stained with crimson. Then the loud buzz of passing traffic awakened her, and she knew that she neared her destination when she spotted a familiar sight moving down the highway.

  “I slept for hours…the caravan,” she said, noting tailpipe smoke curling from behind ancient vans, cars and trucks.

  Bruno clutched the steering wheel as he gazed at an old bus; its windows were shaded, and someone had painted flowers and peace symbols on its exterior. “The wanderers--they still come every year.”

  She nodded, remembering wisdom burning in dark eyes; and some of the faces were young, with flawless flesh, and others possessed leathery skin and baleful smiles. They carried sacks, filled with things scavenged and stolen on the road—and their sinewy hands pressed against steamy windows, with eyes fixed on the hotel on the hill—a dark sentinel overlooking Talbot’s Bay—a place of veneration for the weary travelers.

  “Do you believe the legends about the hotel being built on unhallowed ground?”

  Bruno shook his head. “You know that I do,” he whispered.

  I don’t know what I believe anymore, she thought as pain seared through her head, and gloomy shadows stretched across the highway. She closed her eyes, welcoming momentary peace.

  ****

  Diana’s pillow is splattered with blood, and she asks, What’s happening to me—to us?”

  Tyler paces the room, mumbling something undecipherable. Then he says with a somber voice, “Please forgive me?”

  She doesn’t understand why he’s upset, and she tries to remember why she’d been angry at him. Was it because he’s been with someone else—or has he said something hurtful?”

  His eyes—there’s so much pain there.

  Once more she tries to comprehend what’s happening, but drugs and fatigue overtake her as she peers into the hallway beyond her room. It’s brighter there, and a lovely woman with dark hair and an enigmatic smile, moves slowly by in a wheelchair. And for a moment their eyes meet—and Diana whispers, “I know her…from somewhere…”

  And then Tyler turns, shuts the door, bathing them both in darkness…and she returns to her never ending fever dream.

  2.

  December 1984

  Diana was fifteen when her mother, Felicia, passed away. Nicky moved in and out of their lives for years—never staying too long—and always going back to his residence at the Hotel LaNeau. But after the funeral, he told her, “I’ve been a bad parent, and I’m determined to make it up to you. I’ve got a beautiful room set up for you, and there are books…and gardens…and so many people to meet.”

  She reluctantly moved in with him, feeling out of place amid the lavish décor, servants and strange visitors. But he went out of his way to accommodate her every need and wish—making sure her favorite meals were served, supplying the music that she loved; and he treated her to weekend shopping trips at high end boutiques on Talbot’s Bay boardwalk. And they mourned together, visiting Felicia’s grave every Sunday, and reminiscing over old photographs.

  He hired private tutors, and expensive clothes were always in order for special occasions. Her first winter solstice at the Laneau was no exception. She’d worn a red velvet dress purchased from Saks, and Nicky insisted that she have her hair done at an exclusive salon on the boardwalk.

  Before welcoming the guests, he’d taken her hand, softly telling her, “I want you to do well in life. I love you, even though I don’t always show it.”

  “I know, Dad,” she whispered. “Why do those people come every year? Most are strange…some even scary.”

  He smiled affectionately. “Friends, dear. I’ve been in the music business for a long time, and I know a lot of people. These guys…they’re traveling show people. This is their winter break, and it’s routine that they come here every year—to honor what they refer to as the olden ways.”

  “What are the olden ways?”

  “They believe in the power of nature—of the sea, and a long time ago there was a shrine here, dedicated to the ocean; and a God or Goddess, or two. The statues you see around the hotel, no one knows who sculpted them—always reminded me of a blend between Egyptian deities and creatures from the Necronomnicon.”

  “Lovecraft and Bast? Way too strange?”

  He nodded, “There’s no records, just legends…and what’s left of the memorials. Everybody just makes assumptions.” He folded his arms, and smiled wide. “So, are you excited about tonight…about Christmas, too?”

  “Will Tyler Bane be here this year?”

  His eyes darkened and his smile vanished. “Best you think about kids your own age. Come on,” he told her.

  She felt Nicky’s hand tremble a bit as they moved down the stairs. And she gasped when she spotted the massive Christmas tree in the main hall, glittering with lights and hand-crafted ornaments they’d purchased trendy shops. The smell of pine and the aroma of spicy food permeated; and once at the door, she heard people singing in the yard, voices rising and falling as the wind howled.

  "They're all here,” Nicky said softly.

  “Do you believe in Gods and Goddesses, Dad?”

  “I believe in anything that makes me a buck. These people will be out and about over the next few weeks, spending money at my clubs and restaurants, going to the shops.”

  Nicky threw open the door, and people of all ages rose from knelling positions.

  Diana asked herself, what are they worshipping—God—the season—or something more sinister?

  Nicky signaled for the travelers to go inside, and they entered as the sky grew darker.

  “Welcome back.” Nicky’s voice was flat.

  Diana shivered as cold wind blew into the hall, and she felt out-of-place in the crowd of people as they shuffled by. She knew most of them, seeing them on the bay each year, interacting with them when they’d visited her mother’s shop, yet they remained peculiar and secretive.

  A middle-aged woman limped by, decks of Tarot strapped to her belt. People dressed in black, hands tucked in their pockets, gathered in a corner, and Diana swore that smells of fish and seaweed wafted from their clothing. Another woman, wearing a coat made of colorful patches, moved Diana’s way. She carried an old burlap sack, and coins jingled inside it. She smiled sadly, and then pinched Diana’s cheek, telling her in a haunting voice, “You’re a woman now. Nicky has got to beware.” Then she leaned close and said, “So sorry about your Mama.”

  A man they called Magician gave her a quick wink, and patted her on the head. He was a tall well-built man, with dark shoulder-length hair and dark eyes. There was a tiny scar on his left cheek. He'd tattooed a skull on his left wrist, another of a leopard on his right hand. “You’ve grown girl,” he told her. Then he stopped and shook Nicky’s hand.

&nbs
p; Nicky clutched Magician’s shoulder “You did what I asked?"

  Magician slowly nodded. "Yes, do you need anything else?"

  "Do what you have to, and then meet us in my office,” Nicky ordered.

  Magician gave a thumbs up, and then left Nicky’s side, retreating into a shadowy corner.

  Other men touched Nicky’s shoulder, or offered their hands in greeting; and women kissed his cheek. They smelled of animal musk and death—and overpowering smells of the sea.

  Diana heard an engine rev, and the sound of tires on gravel sounded from outside.

  And then Tyler was there, dressed in jeans and a heavy leather jacket—nineteen-years-old, and she believed he was the best-looking guy she knew. He smiled quickly at her, moved to Nicky’s side, and they began to speak in hushed tones.

  They left the others, huddled close together; and Diana followed them down a murky hall, and to Nicky’s office.

  “Daddy?” she called. “The party. Why did you leave?”

  Her father turned to her, “Diana, we have business. We’ll need some privacy, kid. Why don’t you grab something to eat? The cook will be setting up the buffet in the hall.”

  She flinched when he closed the door behind him, leaving her alone. She shuffled back through the crowd of guests, and out the door, coatless and standing on the icy walk, feeling freezing rain against her flesh. She moved past massive windows flanking the main hall, by several shaded windows, and then she stopped when she came to double windows outside Nicky’s office. The curtains were partially drawn and Tyler, Magician and Nicky stood there, chatting casually, but something was off about their postures, and their hands seemed malformed in night shadows. She crouched down, and then stood on her tiptoes to peer inside.