Horror America

Foreword

What you hold in your hands is a book unlike anything that I have read. Let me warn you that it is a horrifying account from the past, but it may hold clues to defeat what I and a colleague have mistakenly unearthed. My name is David Trenton. I am an associate professor of archaeology at Columbia University in New York City, and it is a position that I have held for the past thirty years. I am proud to say that I am an expert in the history of this magnificent city, and have been part of many well-known digs in its environs. You may remember my name; I was the lead archaeologist who coordinated the excavation of Burial Ridge on Staten Island and then completed the landmark book on the burial practices and cultural rituals of prehistoric Native Americans. I tell you this to reiterate that I am a careful researcher and not known in archaeological circles for quickly jumping to conclusions based on speculation and wild conjecture. Yet I find myself now doing what I have been trained not to do: that is, accept as the truth what I have always believed to be silly superstitions.

I am talking about the strange discovery which was made only last week by one of my brightest interns, Michael Kent. Michael was spending his summer evenings as usual – carefully studying the architecture of St. Patrick’s cathedral church on the busy corner of 5th avenue and 51st street. As New Yorkers well know, this famous church was erected in 1858, but is currently now undergoing a 175 million dollar renovation to restore it as much as possible to its original state. So Michael was completing his cataloguing of the damage to the mortar in the interior of the church when he spied an opening behind one of the loose bricks. Training a flashlight into the hole, he discovered what looked like a very large chamber that had never been seen before.

He called me in the middle of the night, and I would have waited until the morning to view the chamber, but Michael told me in a excited voice that there was something quite unusual that he had glimpsed in the area that needed my immediate inspection. When I arrived with flashlight in hand, I peered through the opening and saw something that made the bile rise in my throat. I choked it back, and then we hurriedly and removed more of the loose mortar and powdery bricks so that we could enter this walled-in crypt.

I looked at Michael and then bravely stepped in first. Shuffling forward, I bent down to examine the strange creature that Michael had spotted on the cold floor. It looked exactly like a carved gargoyle, but the leering face was definitely once alive. Huge sharp teeth jutted from its maw, and although the body was now mummified, I could imagine its webbed wings swiftly beating as it bore down on hapless victims.

Michael nudged me with his flashlight, and I jumped up, almost knocking my head on the low ceiling. I turned, and spotted an old leather knapsack emblazoned with a US insignia from the Civil War. Resting nearby was a Colt Navy revolver circa 1851. It was then I noticed several spent cartridges scattered throughout the chamber. I immediately imagined some person fighting off the winged monster with his gun, but who was he and how did he end up here below the church? I picked up the knapsack. Maybe it held the answers to my questions.

A scratching sound got my attention. Michael and I shone our flashlights back forward into the cavernous room; I shuddered as I saw several more of the dead winged creatures splayed about everywhere. Some looked like they had been blown apart by an explosion, while others were still intact. Curiosity made me want to press ahead, but I hesitated as more scratching sounds emanated from beyond the reach of our light. I was scared; I am an archaeologist, and definitely not an adventurer at heart. So I motioned for Michael to follow me back, but he shook his head and walked forward. I should have grabbed his arm to turn him around, but I was too late.

Before I could even react, several of those hideous creatures flew forward and they landed on Michael, burying their sharp claws and teeth into his soft skin. He flailed backwards as he screamed, and the flashlight was knocked from my hand. As I said before, I am no brave hero. I scrambled for the opening, barely making it through before those monsters could take me down next. I rammed myself through the entrance, hoping that Michael might be right behind me, but somehow knew he was already dead. I hastily put back the bricks, sweat pouring down my skin as my hands shook. I wasn’t sure they would hold, but I needed to find help and fast.

When the police arrived, I told them what had happened. They at first thought I was a nutter, clutching the old knapsack and gibbering on about winged gargoyles, but when they entered the chamber and saw poor Michael, the smiles dropped off their faces.

I have since retreated to my office at the university and have discovered what the knapsack contained: a set of yellowed diaries. I will let you read what I have read three times now. It is an account of a cavalry officer from the Civil War. I believe what he has written about the supernatural world to be true, for I now look over my shoulder wherever I go. I would advise you to do the same. Because when the police further investigated that awful crypt with guns ready, they found none of those foul creatures. They had escaped. . . .

.

Diary Entry I – New York City

Part I

When telling your story, it is always difficult knowing where to start. I shall start with my name: Stephen Parker, once a Federal Cavalry officer of the Potomac Army. I, like so many others, was embroiled in the recent great Civil War that almost tore our mighty nation into two. Most readers would suggest telling a tale at the very beginning, and for the adventurous life I have led that would seem to make the most sense. I have robbed trains, fought pirates, killed men in battle, and have done many other significant acts that would take a long time to fully account. But for all my years of wandering as a gun for hire, I cannot fathom why anyone would be interested in my past exploits. Sure, I’ve seen men die by the score, but the horrors of battle and death are a pittance compared to what I have recently experienced. So I shall spare the reader those tumultuous years of my less than honorable past and instead concentrate on the day I met Dr. Edwin Townsend. It was this ill-fated meeting that forever changed me; letting the thin veneer of reality slip from my eyes and exposing the terror that truly exists underneath.

It all started in the summer of 1875, where I found myself in New York City nearly penniless and with little prospects of finding any real gainful employment. The unexpected crash of the gold market in 1873 had caused several bank failures and a general social unrest that threatened to change the very fabric of society. Any job was hard to come by, so on the promise of an old army comrade, Henry Elliot, I had come to New York to take a position in his newly founded hardware store. You may consider it strange that a gentleman of my profession would take on such a job, but by this time I was tired of my old adventuring life as a private soldier. Too many years with too little reward had been spent fraught with danger, so I decided to enjoy the rest of my life in a more peaceable fashion.

Like many plans, it went awry from the start because by the time I arrived from Cuba, the business had already failed, and my so-called friend was bankrupt. Poor old Henry never had a mind for sums and he was certainly was in no financial position to help me, so as expected, I was left to my own devices. The situation was nothing new to me. I held no ill will towards him for leaving me in the lurch. However, the cost of the boat fare to New York had left me terminally short of cash. Adding to my financial worries was the place I was staying at. The Hotel Wolcott was a rather expensive one, as befitting a gentleman of my distinction, but I had no money left to pay for my stay. I do not want to color the reader's impression, but one should not suppose that I’m some type of weak-kneed dandy who has lived a pampered life – quite the contrary - I’ve slept in forests, deserts and even on a crowded lifeboat filled with thirst-crazed survivors. It is for these very reasons that I think I deserve the best in life. When you have seen the face of death as many times as I have, it’s quite understandable that one begins to have an appreciation for the finer things in life.

I had been staying at the hotel for just over a week when the management began to suspect that I was not quite the well-heeled gentleman that I made myself out to be. I had managed to avoid the management's increasing demands for payment by staying out of sight. I really couldn't leave as I had nowhere to go. I also wasn't about to sell off my guns since they are necessary for my rather specialized line of work. And a soldier without guns is like an empty-handed butcher.

With that in mind, you may understand my actions as I left my hotel room. I cautiously made my way down the stairs until I reached the lobby. The opening of the grand stairs widened out to a great room with the front desk to the left and a well-lit lobby to my right. A few late breakfasters were dawdling over their coffee, so I felt no need to make a scene. So I treaded carefully as I could past the front desk where the manager was bowing and scraping to a more well-appointed customer. I was hoping to make it by sight unseen, but as usual, my luck did not hold out.

A sudden voice bellowed out, Mr. Parker, I wish to discuss the payment of your bill.

That was the voice of Mr. Evans, the day manager.

I’m sorry, I don't have the time as I must attend an important meeting, I lied as I turned to face him.

Though he normally looked poised, his shoulders were coiled in anger, and his eyes had all the life of a gravedigger. He certainly had the look of a thug when his dander was up.

I tipped my hat politely and continued, I really must go. I then turned my back to him and walked on, as if I didn’t have a care in the world.

The front counter snapped open. Even with the luxurious rugs littering the wooden parquet floor, I could hear the tread of a heavy foot coming my way.

But, sir, he said harshly.

That word sir was stated with considerable venom, so I quickened my pace until I was at the front door. I looked briefly over my shoulder and gave him a friendly wave with my cane. With a quick jerk, I opened the door and hastily stepped out into the boardwalk. A few steps later, I was around the corner, and from there I took off in a sprint. This understandably brought a few gasps from my fellow pedestrians, but I really didn't have time to consider their tender sensibilities as my own hide was in jeopardy. As soon as I made it a block, I took a turn down another street and began walking in a decidedly calmer manner. I’m certainly no coward, but a fight would have seen me thrown out on my ear with nowhere else to go. I’ve lived on the street before and would go to great lengths to avoid doing it again.

I needed to do some further thinking on my financial situation, so I ducked into the nearest saloon. Of course the nearest saloon is one that I have visited several times before. It was a wreck of a place improbably named the Farmer’s Rest, located in a side street that few upright citizens would dare tread. It was the type of establishment frequented by whores, sailors, and the terminally unemployable. This place was hardly suitable for a gentleman, but at least the drinks were cheap since I only had a few coins left in my pocket. One had to make do with what one had when pursuing a lifelong interest in alcohol.

As the doors swung shut behind me, the conversation paused briefly as the few patrons looked curiously in my direction. These types were always on the lookout for an overzealous creditor or policeman. Someone in the back laughed in relief, and the level of conversation was quickly raised back to normal levels. Out of long habit, a nearby hooker gave me a predatory grin that revealed a row of missing front teeth. You could say that this was a friendly place, provided you didn’t drink enough to pass out. At that point your wallet, hat, and watch were bound to be stolen.

Sauntering up to the bar, I hooked my cane into the crook of my elbow and leaned my weight against the tobacco-burned and knife-scarred surface. The bartender, Old Tom, gave me a glance and smiled faintly my way before pulling down a bottle of unlabeled whiskey from the shelf. He was a big man with unkempt hair and a dirty waistcoat that looked if it had never been washed. His lips were so thin they hardly existed, and the face was formed from thick slabs of flesh. Yet I had been surprised to find out that he had been a decorated veteran of the celebrated Black Hats of the Iron Brigade. Looking at the fellow now, you would never have guessed that he had fought with the best regiment in the Union Army. However, upon closer inspection, one could see he walked quite comfortably with that big Army Colt pistol hanging on his hip. You knew by his eyes that he feared no man. That’s why there was very little real trouble in this establishment unless you came looking for it.

Tom plopped the bottle down and slid a grimy glass my way. Still looking for work? he asked with a friendly enough drawl.

I’m afraid I haven’t had much luck, I replied uneasily. Before, in one of my more drunken moments, I had laid out all my problems to him. But still, I really hadn’t been looking all that hard for work, at least not the type of work that your average man would take. For one, I wanted something that paid well, as I wasn’t about to go and drive a wagon or unload fish down at the docks. I was still hoping that blind luck would lead me to something more profitable than calluses.

Plenty of workers, but not enough work to go around, Tom said, with the air of a wise man imparting a deep secret to the religious novice. He then poured me a stiff drink and left to tend to some of his other customers. He also had the good sense to leave me the bottle.

I found myself studying the glass in front of me, wondering whether I should start drinking. As you can tell, I have nothing against the imbibing of spirits, but it was still mid-morning. When did I ever find a solution at the end of a bottle? One never does, but it certainly dulls the unpleasant edges of life. So with that in mind, I took the drink anyways and enjoyed the familiar burning sensation in the back of my throat.

Casting my eye about the saloon, I noticed a crumpled newspaper on the dusty floor. Out of boredom, I bent over to retrieve it and discovered a copy of yesterday's New York Times. It was surprising to see the Times in this establishment, so perhaps some wealthy seeker of illicit pleasures must have left it behind. I rested the paper on the bar and began a methodical scanning of the headlines. It was the usual sort of thing with articles on the bank trouble in San Francisco, Yellow Fever, Indian affairs, and a far-too lengthy piece on the current state of foreign markets.

After spending a few minutes on those mundane stories, I took a large sip of whiskey. With my nerves considerably steadied, I moved on to the work advertisements in the back of the paper. These terrible days there was a shortage of available work, so I certainly didn’t expect to find much of anything. My suspicions were proven true as I quickly read through the scant job postings. There was an opening for an engineer, newspaper delivery, and even a golden opportunity for raising rabbits at home, but my attention was quickly drawn to a more innocuous advertisement.

Doctor of Philosophy seeks research assistant. Some travel involved.

Interviews to be held between noon and four o’clock on Tuesday, July 23RD.

189 Cricket Court, Queens c/o Dr. Townsend.

Such an advertisement may not have sounded all that exciting to most, but to me it was a chance to free myself from money troubles. If I managed to land a job like this, then I could take a more secure path in life. I saw myself taking a daily trip to the library, setting up traveling arrangements on the doctor’s money and living a life of ease, visiting the various fine hotels dotted across the Americas. Perhaps there would even be a yearly trip away from the cold winter of New York.

My daydream was broken by the approach of Old Tom who asked, How's the whiskey? You’ve hardly touched a drop of that bottle. That isn’t like you at all.

I was just looking at this job advertisement here, I said as I pointed to the words on the paper.

He turned the paper about and began to read. His thin lips moved slowly with every word. After he had finished, he turned the paper back in my direction and rested his chin on the palm of his right hand.

Townsend, eh? he finally said with familiarity.

You know of him?

A nervous smile twitched across his broad mouth before he said, Oh sure, not that I’ve ever met him personal like, but he has made a name for himself ‘round here. Not the kind of work I would do, but still there is always a need for men like the good Dr. Townsend.

At this point I was feeling a little confused. What could this man of learning do for the poor people of this neighborhood?

And exactly what kind of work does he do? I finally asked, fearing the doctor was involved in some dreadful charity.

Old Tom looked nervously about the room as if making sure our conversation was not being overheard. With a near whisper, he replied, From what I’ve heard, he takes care of bad spirits and the like.

I’m afraid I didn’t understand what Tom was talking about, so I asked, Bad spirits? Like flat beer and watered-down whiskey? I took another sip of my wretched drink and thought that perhaps the good doctor would do well to visit this establishment.

Now you're making fun of me, Tom fumed and looked as if he was about to walk away.

I’m doing nothing of the sort, I said soothingly since I wasn’t about to make an enemy of the only comrade I had left in this town. I just don’t understand what this Dr. Townsend really does for a living.

He paused thoughtfully before asking, Have you ever been back to visit the old battlefields?

I’m afraid I never had the chance, I replied hoping Old Tom was not about to get sentimental on me. Some of these old veterans think about nothing but the war as if it were the best days of their lives. I can tell you otherwise.

His eyes were misting with old memories now. If you ever do, it is a truly moving experience. You swear you can hear the screams of the wounded, the crash of the musket and the whine of the minie ball going by.

A chill from an old memory went up my spine. I remembered my own desperate fight at Gettysburg when Buford ordered us to stop two of Heth’s rebel brigades. I was up there on a ridge with the rest of my men. Our repeating rifles grew hot with the fire we poured on the enemy. I saw hundreds of dead men that day. Our own skins were only saved by the late arrival of General Reynolds and his men. I shuddered at the thought of that horrific day and took another drink to steady my nerves.

Old Tom went on and said, The spirits of the dead walk those fields and haunt the places where they have fallen. I can feel their anger and sorrow. Some say that the dead wrongfully killed haunt the homes of this very city. That is what this Dr. Townsend does – he lets the spirits free themselves of their shackles here on Earth.

I looked at Tom, wondering if he had gone off his rocker, but his face was dead serious. I see, I finally said.

I don’t think you believe me, he said, suspiciously, with eyes narrowed in distrust.

I wasn’t about to anger this man, so I replied, It’s not that, but have you ever considered that this Dr. Townsend could be a fraud? I’ve heard stories about spiritualists taking advantage of poor mothers who have lost a son in the war.

Townsend gets rid of the spirits, he doesn’t bring them back, Old Tom snapped back sourly.

There was no arguing with this man. Instead, I took out my pocket watch and checked the time. It would be noon soon, so I decided that if I wanted to get a job with this so-called doctor, I had better leave now. Slapping my last dollar on the bar, I saluted Tom in a friendly fashion before turning to leave. He frowned, shook his head and returned to tending the bar.

As I began walking towards the Ferry to take me to Queens, I wondered if poor Old Tom had ever been wounded in the head. His talk about spirits and such certainly made no sense to me. The reader may be wondering why, after hearing the description of this Townsend, I would still consider taking the job, but I’ve worked for some less-than-savory characters in the past, and I had no good reason to disparage this doctor’s so-called profession. It did not really matter how he made his money, provided I could get a bit of it for myself. I know it sounds rather mercenary, but that's what I do for a living.

At Ferry Point Park, I hopped on a little boat called the Sylvan Glen, paid my two bits and walked up to the top deck for a cigarette. When the stubby ship was eventually packed with enough passengers, it began the quick journey across to Flushing Bay over on the island. As we chugged along, I leaned against the rails and with interest watched the chaotic shipping traffic weaving through the bay. They sky above was grey from the smoke of a thousand chimneys, and the water below was tinged a disgusting brown color. I wondered again how I had ever been persuaded to come to this rotten, crowded city.

After getting off at the ferry terminal, I asked a few fellows standing around and found that Cricket Court was located off of Hoffman Boulevard in the Forest Hills neighborhood. I thought Forest Hills was a strange name for this area as it had nothing to do with hills or forests. It really was just a collection of little dirty farms that were slowly being eaten up by more and more housing for those wishing to escape the filth of the city. People certainly have some strange notions of how they wish to live.

I tramped along Hoffman Boulevard, past several farms and new blocks of apartment flats. The entire area was a strange mix of old and new. With their rough wooden sides and dirt driveway, the farms looked to have been built over a century ago. The newer apartment buildings were modern brick, and some stood at an amazing eight stories high. Packs of dirty children ran down the streets, making their playful, familiar noises as they dodged past the men and women going about their business.

Eventually I found Cricket Court, which to my ears sounded like an imaginary street in some dreary book. At the end of the dead end, there was a small low-rising hill with a large house planted on top. The home was painted black and looked like a place that Edgar Allen Poe or some other depressing writer would find most cheery. The dreariness of the structure seemed to dominate the area with a brooding menace that was hard to shake. I just knew that the Gothic structure was going to be my final destination.

As I drew closer, I noted the vine-covered brick fence that was strung around the hill. The grounds inside looked unkempt and disused. The next door neighbors obviously did not approve of this residence as both sides of the yard were bordered by a high hedge in a feeble attempt to block the gloomy structure and overgrown garden from view.

I walked up the dusty road leading to the house and rested my hands on the closed rusty gate. The address placard showed that I was at the right place, but there was no one about to receive guests. The gate was held closed with a rusted padlock the size of my fist. Peering past the bars, I saw that the grounds were a motley assortment of gnarled trees and weed-choked flower beds. The air here was dead still, and I could only hear some bees buzzing by and the chirp of a few excited birds. The sun beat hard on my shoulders, making me feel strangely drowsy. A nagging thought went through my head that I had misread the advertisement and had ended up here at the wrong time.

I then noticed to a door to the right of the gate.