City of Ashes (Part 3)

She cast a couple of furtive glances around to make sure nobody was following her. Suddenly, she turned on her heels and dashed forward. For the next five minutes, Isaac followed her in the labyrinthine streets of the decaying city, ignoring the puzzled looks of the passersby, until they took a sharp turn in an alley and Irene came to a stop. Heavy, copper-coloured clouds obscured the faint sunlight. Only then Isaac realized Irene had her right hand on top of her abdomen the whole time: she was pregnant, although it was too early to be visible.

The narrow street that opened before them was even dirtier and smelled of onions and urine. Irene scanned the buildings. They missed the regular numbering of ordinary streets, so she approached a beggar who was having his lunch — a hard piece of stale bread — on the pavement. Irene asked him if he knew where number 33 was.

The beggar’s eyes widened with horror. ‘That house is cursed. Thick, black smoke always rises from its chimney.’ the beggar whispered.

‘Where is it?’ asked Irene handing him a banknote which made his eyes widen even more.

The beggar pointed a few meters ahead at an opening. Irene hurried towards it, with Isaac following close by. It was a dead-end, and where the street ended stood a miserable pile of brick and mortar, blackened with soot. Above the door, number 33 was drawn with frayed paint.

Irene stopped before the door and raised her fist to knock. At that moment, darkness erupted from the house, from the street, fell from the sky, and blotted out every corner of the world.

Isaac awoke with a start the next morning, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t remember having written anything last night and the deadline would end soon. He walked to the desk and found to his surprise, a neat stack of pages waiting for him. He counted them quickly. Apparently last night he had written fifty pages, a number that usually took him five days to achieve. Next to the manuscript lay Thead’s pen, as if it was sleeping after all the hard work. Isaac read the first few lines of the story, then the next paragraphs, and soon lost himself among the pages

Irene, Maiden Blood’s heroine, was the daughter of a mayor in the 19th century. She lived with her family in a three storey mansion and eventually fell in love with the caretaker’s son, Alfred, whom she had grown up with and had the same age. It didn’t take long for her father to discover the affair — after all, you cannot conceal such passion at such age no matter how hard you try. As soon as he uncovered the truth, the mayor dismissed Alfred’s parents as well as Miss Beckoty — Irene’s maid — from his service. Both Alfred’s parents and Miss Beckoty found themselves with no compensation and no references, so they sought shelter in the city’s poorest districts. However, that wasn’t enough to extinguish the flame between Irene and Alfred who continued to meet at an old hut on the city’s outskirts, which once belonged to her grandfather, where they shared their love. One day Irene found out she was pregnant, but the fear of her father’s fury, should he learn about it made her pack a few clothes and went straight to the hut to wait for Alfred. Upon reaching the tumbledown building in which she had only known love, she stopped, her breathing becoming labored while cold sweat trickled down her spine. As if to strengthen the feelings of dread inside her, a raven cried mournfully three times. She opened the door with numb hands, to find Alfred’s body, pale in Death’s embrace on the bed where they had conceived their child.

Desperate with grief and with a sense that all life had been taken away from her, she returned to the city, far from home, seeking Miss Beckoty. The maid had given Irene a piece of paper cut from newspaper on which she had written an address. After the beggar’s unwilling indication, Irene found Miss Beckoty and they reunited amid tears. Miss Beckoty looked after her little girl as she always had, but when her time to give birth arrived, destiny had other plans. Irene, after long hours of pain and anguish, gave birth to a stillborn boy, thus breaking the last link with Alfred. Then miss Beckoty showed her an old, dusty book she had inherited from her great-grandmother which gave instructions about some kind of sorcery. Irene buried her unfortunate son, whom she named David. She took a handful of soil from the grave and together with a portion of her blood she threw them into the blazing fireplace, one midnight while Miss Beckoty read a passage from the old book. Day by day, Irene’s appetite for normal food evaporated until her teeth grew sharp and an insatiable thirst took over her. The first victim of Irene’s bloodlust was the unfortunate Miss Beckoty. She went peacefully though, in her sleep. It was sad but necessary. One moonless night, she set the house on fire and went off to take revenge on all those who had chosen that fate for her.

Isaac finished reading and let the pages fall softly on the desk. His eyes wandered in the waking window outside the window. He had never been an arrogant person, but couldn’t help admitting it was the best piece he had written in his unsuccessful course. The story was concrete and offered fertile ground for further development. His gaze shifted on the pen; such a small object, only a medium to writing, and yet had given him so much more power than the typewriter ever had. Nonsense, he thought, it’s not the pen that makes the writer.

He dressed up quickly and went to the post office on Bridge Avenue, where he placed the manuscript in a large brown envelope. He wrote Barnabas Burton, Poet’s Herald — 18, Arch Street as the recipient and noted “urgent”. He gave it to the clerk with extra care and fumbled his pockets for money. During the transaction, something fell from his pockets. He picked up the card Thead had given him. On the front side, written with elegant calligraphy letters were:

Ignatius Thead

34, Cavern Row

Ten minutes later, in a bus that groaned every time the road went uphill and probably would be its last itinerary, Isaac crossed the city’s richest districts. Here it seemed that space was plentiful, as houses, stores, and streets were bigger. When the bus stopped with a heavy rattle, Isaac hopped off and headed for Cavern Row. It was a wide, cobbled street lined with mansions and restaurants so expensive Isaac thought he couldn’t afford even a glass of water; a suitable neighborhood for the likes of Thead. The numbers ascended until the street ended on number 33.

Isaac was standing in front of a wrought-iron gate whose bars were bleeding rust. The bars went high up to the point where they became sharp spikes piercing the sky. The gate was unlocked and with a firm push, it gave way, squealing. He walked up a path covered with dry leaves, cypress trees on either side, that led to the ghost of a mansion. It was a huge rectangular building fallen to disgrace. The bricks had faded to grey, and weeds were growing all around it. Most of the windows were broken, while some were shuttered with wooden boards.

‘Who goes there?’ someone barked and Isaac felt his heart leaping to his mouth.

The voice belonged to an old, half-blind man, who came up to Isaac from among the trees, limping slightly. He carried a smoke pipe which he put in a mouth hidden in his long, white beard.

‘Are you lost, m’boy?’ he stood so close Isaac could smell his breath of tobacco and wine.

‘I don’t know. Can you tell me if this is number 34, Cavern Row?’

‘Sure it is.’

‘Could you tell me who the owner is?’

‘I’ve no idea. I am just the caretaker. You’re from the police?’

Isaac shook his head. ‘No. I must have been given the wrong address.’

‘Most likely.’ said the old man, trying to light his pipe. ‘As far as I know, the last time this house was inhabited was before the turn of the century. The owner, if there is anyone has never cared to show up.’

‘Then who is your employer?’

‘The municipality. They decided to take care of the place; otherwise, it would’ve ended up a dump.’

Isaac considered his next words. ‘The name Ignatius Thead. Does it ring a bell?’

The caretaker finally managed to light his pipe and took a long puff that made him squint. ‘The only bells I hear ringing, m’boy, are those of St. Mary’s church. As for your man, no, I’ve never heard of him.’