Ghosts of Glory

Prologue

The night wind is colder than an arctic breeze. Piercing. Shadows dance off the sidewalks under the streetlights. The same dark dandelion glow. I leave Summerview Cemetery. It’s fortunate I’m able to. The dead wish they could I’m sure. I’ve put many of them in this hallowed ground in my tenure walking the streets of Glory. I’ve even buried a friend. The only real friend I ever had. He’s gone, but I’m still here. I laugh. No one, most of all me, would have thought time would kill Jersey The Brawler Romero. The Ghost of Glory will soon be just that. 

My timeworn bones feel like icicles ready for a cold snap. I flip up the collar of my long coat and pull it tighter around my neck. My hide’s not as thick it used to be. The weather’s gained a foothold on me. A shiver climbs up my spine. A cold messenger scaling the rungs of a crooked vertebrae ladder. The night brings out Glory’s moon, her stars, and the black veil she wears so well. Her moon floats in a sea of clouds. The Twilight Goddess has awakened again. I’ve lived in her kingdom for quite some time. I flourish in it.

The hoarfrost has collected along the edges of the sidewalks, lampposts, mailboxes, derelict buildings and store windows. The millions of lights glowing in the darkness are beacons of iniquity, beckoning people off the streets into dive bars, strip joints, junkie houses, fetish clubs, and other colorful X-rated utopias. It’s all part of Glory’s charm.

Two hookers approach me—a blonde, and a shorter girl with green streaks running through her red hair. Their stilettos click like castanets along the pavement. Their perfume is overwhelming. It’s impossible to miss them in their long overcoats casting seductive looks at passers-by. They conceal their assets until some rich banker flashes some green; then they show some leg and soon they’re stepping into a hotel suite like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—without the happy ending. They think they’ve hooked Edward Lewis; instead they’re getting Patrick Bateman. I’ve seen it all before. 

The blonde tries to speak to me. I stop her, raising an outstretched hand. She halts instantly and scoffs, whispering dirty words from her pretty lips. Both girls are young, too young, and attractive, just attractive enough to get themselves killed. I shake my head. They’re dead girls walking. Sad fact. They would be gang bait before they hit twenty-five. First, their soul would die, then their hope, and finally their looks would wilt like a dying flower when some temperamental pimp decides to ugly them up. The white horse would run them down, angel dust would whisper in their ears, or black birds would fly circles in their veins. I’m no stranger to the promises of drugs. They fly you high and then dive you straight into Hell.

Some might argue that Glory is Hell. That we live in Hell every day. Most days I agree. If it’s true, I guess it’s good I’m still top dog. I’ve witnessed enough horrors and been the cause of many in my youth. My life experience is enough to convince me of Glory’s infernal nature.

I turn down a familiar alley. Still, I wonder if humanity’s worth saving. Me least of all. For many years, I’ve asked myself that question. Yes, it’s a grim fact that the streets of Glory have killed more people than cancer. Sacrifices to the Goddess of Glory—the Twilight Goddess. She’s truly a harsh mistress who favors the strong. That’s why she loves me so much. We have that in common. And we’re both very talented killers. Well—I was, a long time ago. Not anymore. My life and with it, her favor, has faded. One day, she’ll flash her razor blade smile, cutting me a spot at her right hand, and I’ll smile back. 

I exhale as I continue down 175th Street toward another well-known alley. I take a left onto it on my way out of the old west side of Glory. All alleys are familiar when the sun and moon are your roof. After sixty-nine years, it’s only logical. But the familiar alley suddenly grows decidedly unfamiliar. Darker. Blacker. More sinister. The small ambient glow from the streetlights that stretches into the narrow expanse of the alley vanishes almost instantly. The alley is soon bathed in darkness. The walls seem to close in around me. The wind ceases to blow. I come to a halt and scan the deepening gloom.

I cast my weary green eyes to the sky. The moon has disappeared behind a cloudbank. The stars are hiding. They know something I don’t. I tip my nose to the air and listen. 

I ball my scarred, leathery fists. Suddenly, the smell of moisture hits my nose, the kind of scent that warns rain is near, but this is much more potent. The sound of running water trickles into my ears. Following the sound to the end of the alley, I hit a dead end. A graffiti adorned brick wall. Then, a voice whispers my name. It’s smooth like a shot of thousand-dollar scotch. It’s also haunting. Ethereal.

I whirl around and rear back with one fist, preparing to strike the dumb shit that’s got the balls to mess with the Brawler, but there’s no one there. The other end of the alley that opens into the streets has disappeared into a dark abysmal void. It’s like staring into a can of black paint.

I turn back around to face the brick wall. Suddenly, the spray-painted letters of various neon profanities realign to form new words. The letters slide and slither along the brick, like multi-colored serpents. My jaw about hits the ground. Jersey the Brawler. At first, I think I’m seeing things. I don’t see as well as I used to, so it’s plausible. Yet, the words don’t disappear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a faint flicker. All of a sudden, an extremely narrow set of steps appears, nestled between two buildings. The flicker is like a dying fluorescent bulb. The sound of running water starts to grow louder now. The brick wall decides to go Speak-&-Spell again. The water waits. 

I start down the steps warily. Each set is comprised of seven steps and then a flat path runs for a few feet before another set of seven steps drops farther down. The steps get steeper the farther down I go. I’ve never been this deep in the bowels of Glory. And I’ve ventured deep. 

The strange flickering continues, providing enough light for me to see so I don’t fall on my ass. The descent seems to take hours. I begin to wonder if I’ve died in my sleep and this is my own long walk down into Hell. Except that I don’t get Virgil as my tour guide. It’s for the best though. Me and Virgil probably wouldn’t get along anyway. 

The steps finally end and level out into another long narrow corridor. I step down off the last step and feel a splash. The corridor is flooded with water about a foot deep. It soaks through my boots, making me shiver. The water isn’t even that cold—the origin of the chill is something else. There’s no more flickering, just an eerie glow emanating from a cracked ash wood door at the end of the hallway. The voice calls my name again. The cat and mouse game is getting seriously old at this point.

I tear my way through cobwebs as thick as construction paper. I still don’t know what invisible force is pulling me, but I have the urge to keep going. It’s kind of annoying. I duck to keep from scraping my head on the rough, moldy limestone ceiling. I’m beginning to feel like Indiana Jones at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark, minus the fedora, the whip, and the doctorate. He also knew what he was searching for, whereas I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m going to find. But we both hate Nazis. Everyone hates Nazis.

I give the door a shove. The hinges groan like lions disturbed from hibernation. By the looks of them, the large iron hinges and the door they’re supporting have been sleeping with the rust and rot for many years. Inside, two-dozen torches bracketed in the walls illuminate the room. They burn with spectral blue flames casting more light than any fire I’ve ever seen.

I enter the room through a high arch. It’s small and circular with rounded brick walls that are cracked, and the mortar is crumbling. Cobwebs cling to the corners and the ceiling like the spiders within them. In the center sits a simple round stone fountain. Water spouts from the open mouths of four stonefish at the apex of a central marble obelisk, while the pool of water below glimmers like liquid jade. None of these things wow me. The white-robed figure standing near the fountain does that. 

I eye the figure curiously. The hood of its robes covers its entire head. What is inside the cocaine white robes is a mystery. The lengths of cloth stretch to the floor like the train of a wedding dress making the figure seem to float as it moves.  

When the white-clad figure finally turns, two tiny white-hot orbs are pulsating in darkness darker than any earthly darkness I’ve ever seen. Two phosphorus moons named Willy and Pete. Then, the figure stands up. Standing erect, it’s thin and taller than me by several inches. The robe seems to flutter and ripple as though it’s sentient.

You came, a voice echoes from inside the hood. It’s the same one that called me earlier in the alley. It’s sensual, soft, and lovely like an angel’s, but filled with vast knowledge and certainty. It has an otherworldly tinge to it as well, like it’s speaking from some distant nowhere. It’s the voice of my city. My goddess. 

Yeah . . . I pause. You behind the graffiti word games?

The hood surrounding the white beacons tilts downward in a slow, methodical nod. Inside the hood, the darkness churns as though it’s trying to emote.

Who are you?

You heard my calls? the figure asks.

I nod, looking intensely for lips moving inside the hood, but to no avail. The words emanate from inside the blackness. Then, I notice there are no hands extending from the long white sleeves, just more stygian black stemming from within.  

The ivory shrouded figure turns toward the fountain and stretches out its sleeve. All of a sudden, wisps of black begin surging from the sleeves like smoke. Five long black spirals extend into the water and send ripples in all directions. When the figure retracts its hand, the smoke lingers for a moment and vanishes like morning mist.

Why’d you call me here?

To give you your life back, the figure says. To replace what was lost. Glory needs her champion . . . and there is no other.

I give it a look of bewilderment. Honestly, I don’t know whether to laugh or tell the figure to get to the point. The whole situation reeks of uncertainty and unanswerable questions. I hate mysteries. I’m an action guy.   

Enough games. I step closer. Who are you?

The figure stares at me. The echo of the trickling green waters is all that disturbs the utter silence between us. 

Just a vessel.

A vessel?

The figure gives a single slow nod again. I’m tempted to give it a single hard right cross, but stop myself. Plenty of time for that later if I don’t like what I hear in the next few minutes.

A conduit for— The figure levels its hood out, the pulsating discs gleaming brighter than ever. My voice. The voice of your city, its spirit . . . your goddess.

Sounds pretty stupid when someone finally comes out and says it, I reply. Sounded better in my head.

The point is you believe it, the sweet voice replies. And belief is a powerful force. You believed you were more than a man all your life. It’s what kept you alive. Imagine if you knew your true origins. Accepted them. You’ve been stronger than nearly everyone your whole life without knowing where you came from, imagine the strength you’ll unlock when I tell you you’re a demi-god.

Demi-god?

The figure motions me forward. You are your mother’s son, Jersey Romero. Your belief does not go unrewarded.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Everything’s eventual, Jersey. Life, death, the circle always comes ‘round again. That doesn’t mean the circle can’t be turned back—in special cases, like yours.

Sounds like the lines to a bad country song.

You strengthen Glory. You’ve hit a few bumps along the road, but you’ve cleaned unsavory elements off the streets, painted the walls with the blood of the dirty, survived where others would have perished. The city knows her knight when she sees him and you’re that knight.

I laugh. Yeah . . . because I scream knight in shining armor.

Looking into the black void of the hood, I think I almost see the wispy blackness curl into a smile, but I know it’s just my eyes playing tricks.  

Not all knights are meant to shine. Glory prefers her champions dark, bloody, and scarred.

I shrug. Got plenty of those.

The conduit motions with its sleeve, the wisps of smoke appearing again to form five fingers, beckoning me closer to the fountain.

What do you see?

I look into the jade waters. There’s an old scarred and weathered face there, an age-beaten mug with a rigid iron jaw. Gray whisker stubble grows sporadically; crow’s feet branch out at the corners of my green eyes; my yellowed teeth had scarcely seen a toothbrush. 

An old man.

Soon to be reborn. Drink and seize the chance to unlock your true potential.

The figure sways and taps the water with a smoky finger, disturbing the reflection. The ripples stop after a few seconds, the water becomes calm again, and to my astonishment, the image in the glassy surface of the water has shifted. My eyes widen in disbelief. The reflection is not me anymore, but a Jersey Romero I have not seen in forty years. It was me . . . but young. Late twenties.

I snap my head around, glaring at the conduit. How? What kinda game you playin’?

Watching the conduit stare at me is unnerving. I’m afraid my fist will just be swallowed up by the pitch-blackness or I would have socked the figure by now. Also, the voice is still a sweet feminine tone, which makes my never hurt girls code kick in. The two ember eyes hover in their black vortex. It’s impossible to glean any sort of hint of an expression.

Just the kind where you have another chance at redemption. Your mother, she’s where you get your exceptional origins.

What about my mother?

The voice echoes through the chamber with an inordinate amount of calm, as smooth as polished silver. I gaze into the pool again, but the glamour is gone.

Drink . . . and you might just find the answer.

What little I had to live for is gone, I reply. What makes you think I want what you’re selling? 

"We all get things we don’t want, Mr. Romero. But the goddess always gets what she wants. And she wants her right hand young and strong again. She needs you to face what is coming."

The figure produces a small wooden cup, seemingly out of thin air. It could have pulled it out of its ass for all I know. One minute there’s nothing, the next, black smoky-plumed fingers curl around the base of the small wooden chalice.

You may not want it, but your city wants it, your Twilight Goddess demands it. She needs you. Won’t you answer her call?

The conduit offers the cup to me. I look at the plain wooden goblet and the animate smoke surrounding it.

Do you really think you owe your survival to no one? The large pizza falling off the back of the delivery boy’s scooter, the Quikshop’s owner mysteriously taking a bathroom break giving you time to steal to your heart’s content, or how about the kind-hearted Ms. Cowles, taking you in? Your goddess has been watching over you from the day you were orphaned.

The conduit’s words shock me. That’s not an easy thing to do anymore.

You said she needs me? I inquire. Why?

Embrace your future, Mr. Romero. Drink and maybe you’ll find out . . . maybe save your city’s dying spirit.

I run my fingers over the smooth surface of the wooden cup. It’s crudely carved, hewn out of a single piece of white oak. It looks small in my large hands. Dipping the wooden chalice into the rippling pool, I fill it to the brim and look up at the conduit. It stares right back at me, waiting for my decision. I wonder how many people in history have ever got the same offer. Probably none. I pause. In reality, it’s only seconds, but it feels like hours. Finally, I put the cup to my lips and drink. It’s the coldest water I’ve ever had, but it tastes like someone flushed it down a toilet.

I only take my eyes off the conduit for a second, but it’s gone when I look again. Minutes pass and I feel something in my stomach. It’s a sickening tightness. It feels like my internal organs are dishrags and a couple of nasty hands are wringing them. Then I start to feel a burning sensation along my skin, like a high fever. My head feels like it’s swimming in invisible clouds. I crumple to my knees. I’m a tough guy, but I can’t fight whatever has just hit me. I can’t stop it from knocking me out. Is this the end then? I’m gonna die here in this nowhere