Scary Stories (2)

Blackout at Third and Main

I've always had a fascination for the paranormal, investigating ghost stories and urban legends since I was a kid.

If I ever heard a story that included the words, “they say, if you go there at midnight,” then I was there at midnight, waiting for a genuine encounter.

In hindsight, I wish that I hadn't. If you chase a shadow long enough, you're bound to find the caster. Trust me when I say this: you don't want to know.

Yeah, I know that's how these stories usually begin. “Please don't read this,” or “I don't care if you believe me;”

It piques your curiosity, keeps you reading.

Well, I'm warning you now, and I want you to listen carefully. You don't want to know. Keep your thrills vicarious. Stay behind your computer monitor where it's safe. You're better off wondering and guessing, because curiosity without discretion is a dangerous thing. I'm going to tell you how I learned it the hard way, and I hope it will keep most of you from meddling too much for your own good. You don't want to find yourself living like me. I'm not even sure I can call it living anymore. I only hope I can finish this in time, because most of the time I have these days doesn't belong to me.

There have been so many myths, tales of gods, demons, spirits and creatures of worlds beyond our own. The old stories changed over time, and beliefs changed with them. Yet, somehow, mankind has always feared and worshiped the same things. Psychologists see it as a need for closure. They say we fear the unknown, and we would accept anything to make sense of the world, even if it means believing in a total fabrication.

Everything has a rational explanation, right? We live in a secular age, so that's the assumption. Then again, they also say that where there is smoke, there is fire. When I heard and read all of these stories, I came to question what society told me. Could they all really be the superstitions of ignorant primitives inspired by firelight, paranoia and mind-altering substances? Or were these truly things to be feared even before the songs and legends?

That's what I wanted to find out. So, I buried my nose in mythology books and ghost stories, and I kept my ear to the ground for urban legends. I explored them all; well, all the local ones, anyway. I tested everything from the Ghost Ship of the Hudson River to the infamous Bloody Mary. Every search was a disappointment, but it never discouraged me. It was a great hobby, and I still went through the motions just for the thrill. As I had come to expect, I never exactly struck gold. That is, not until the night of the blackout at Third and Main.

It was the night of Spring break after a long and grueling semester. Most of the other students migrated to Manhattan for loud, obnoxious parties. My small group of friends and I, on the other hand, preferred peace and quiet. Apparently, peace and quiet on that particular night meant a trip to a lively Irish pub called Piper's Kilt. Don't ask me what the hell we were thinking, I couldn't tell you. That is where I met a drunken, old immigrant by the name of Tom.

Tom was a strange man, which made the conversation all the more entertaining, even if we did have to shout over some surprisingly upbeat song about a sinking ship. Over the customary pint of Guinness, I told him about my little hobby, and he told me a story that I now wish I'd never heard.

He said that Irish tradition runs far deeper than its Catholic years, and he told me about the long held Celtic legends of the Fae. He told me of the Banshee, of the Formorian Giants, and of the Leprechauns; to that last one, he added, “I'll have you know, they are not the little people you've been told of, Sonny Jim.”

Aside from the conversation, the audience-participation folk songs tend to grow on you once you're good and buzzed, and we stayed longer than I had expected. After a few more rounds, the night ended just as one would expect: a sobering visit to a terrible diner with terrible coffee. A dear friend also made it a point to get hammered beyond the point of no return, and I had to drive him home so he wouldn't end up parking his car in someone's living room. I slept on the couch with the intent on taking him to pick up his car in the morning, provided that he didn't wind up in a coma. I'd have been a hypocrite to look down on him, though. He had done the same for me in the past. Twice.

So, after helping him up to his bedroom, nearly breaking my back in the process, I retired to the couch. I passed out after four episodes of an “I Love Lucy” marathon and a couple of annoying infomercials. Ordinarily, after a hearty helping of alcohol, it wouldn't take me so long to find sleep. That, however, was when in my own bed; I never slept well in strange places. Plus, I still had the spirited racket of “The Old Dun Cow” running through my head, along with old Tom's fascinating stories. I wish those waking hours would have lasted. They are the last normal memories I have, the last memories that I can confidently call my own.

A few hours later, well into the hangover I had earned, I woke up to a dark house. Every standby light for every electronic device turned black, including the clocks. I peered through the window behind me, lifted one of the blinds and stared out across the street. Every porch light had died at some point in the night, and I couldn't see much of anything.

I figured a storm must have rolled overhead and killed the power on the block; I'd slept through louder things on nights like this, after all. I was ready to write it off and go back to sleep, but then I looked at my watch. The second hand ticked just past midnight, then slowed to a stop. Old Tom's final story came to mind.

“The old believers called him the Black Gambler,” he told me, “tempter and trickster of the Fae folk. The greedy for wealth and power bartered with him their souls, called him on the darkest midnight hour, and he came as a dark man at the crossroads.”

It could have been a coincidence, sure. Most people probably would have ignored it. I, however, had a tendency to dismiss reason in favor of whimsy; it came with the territory. If ever there was a time to test the myth, I wouldn't have found one better. Of course, I had no expectations, as usual. I would take five minutes of my time to humor the old man, another two or three to take a much needed leak, and head back to bed. With that plan in mind, I stepped through the front door and into the night.

My first thought was that my previous assumption was wrong. I could smell no rainfall, could feel no moisture on the air, and there were no puddles or wet spots. There had been no storm. It didn't stir me, though. Blackouts can have other causes. More concerning was the darkness and silence. It felt foreboding and wrong, but I dismissed it like everything else. I was just allowing my mind to play tricks on me, that was all. Just letting myself feel the fear I was supposed to feel, and the feeling subsided a bit when I saw the starlight overhead.

“That is the meeting place,” he told me. “Crossroads represent choice and consequence, and that's where you'll find him if he hears your call.”

So, minding my step in the dark, I approached the nearest intersection to my wasted friend's front porch, and I glanced at the street sign as I stood at the curb. Third and Main. I stared at it for a moment before fishing in my jacket pocket for the next step.

“If you wish an audience with the Black Gambler, you must dig a shallow hole at your nearest corner. In that hole, bury a single key; that is the ticket to the space between our world and theirs, the space where he can see you, and he may allow you to see him.”

Somehow, when I followed Tom's story, I'd imagined an old, dirt road in an open field. I'd imagined an old, antique key, a heavy thing you might suspect would open a dungeon or an old cellar. It felt ridiculous to make do with what I had on hand, and I hoped this Fae person wouldn't be too particular. Fortunately, I had a selection of useless keys that could have impressed a janitor. I pulled out my key ring and selected a forgotten, old thing that probably opened a padlock I'd lost, part of its silver coating peeled away from the copper base. I removed a hefty clump of my dear friend's front lawn and placed it beneath, then returned the soil and patted it in. The job wasn't neat, but I doubt he would have cared; he wasn't exactly a proud gardener.

“Once that key is in the earth, you've opened the door between our world and theirs. Only mortals with dire purpose venture to the land between, so be careful and be sure. Be sure you're ready, lad, and don't step into the road until you are.”

With a deep, sarcastic breath, I assured myself that I was sure and took my first step into the road, heading for the center of the intersection. I stood there waiting, with my acquired cynical streak, for five minutes. Five minutes became ten minutes. Ten minutes became twenty. Twenty minutes became a week, which became thirty seconds. Two days. Five months. An hour. Twenty years. An instant and an eternity. Before I knew what was happening, my sense of time slipped away as I spiraled into a sudden, seemingly endless nightmare.

At some moment in that timeless hell, the trance over me subsided, and I became aware of my surroundings again. This was the land between. I had expected it to be a state of mind, some exaggeration of an old druid's meditation, but it was real. That is, if 'real' is an accurate word to describe it. It was unlike any place on earth, unlike anything I had ever felt.

It's hard to explain to someone who has never set foot there, but I'll try. At first glance, it looks much the same as it does in our world. It has the same structures, the same colors, but you know something isn't right. That world is too still, like a rigor mortis snapshot of something that should be alive. There's no wind, no breath of life. It's a world not meant for us, and you come into it deaf and numb. You feel no heat or cold against your skin. You don't feel the ground beneath your feet; not even the movements of your own body. It's like an unending tomb, a world of stone where you feel nothing, and float aimlessly in complete silence.

“Listen for a voice, lad. That's him talkin'. You'll know it when you hear it. He sees you. That's when your test begins.”

Of course I'd know it when I heard it; it would be the only thing I could possibly hear. Sure enough, I did. It was faint, almost not there at all, but I heard it. Under any other circumstances, I doubt I would have called it a voice. No human lips were forming those syllables, and that deep groan was not a sound from human vocal chords. Nevertheless, it was speaking to me. I can't tell you what it said, if anything at all. It was just an acknowledgment of some sort, maybe even a greeting. It terrified me.

“You will first meet with a great beast, a thing of nightmares, and it'll know you better than you know yourself. You will face it, and you will face all of your fears, all of the things that ever struck your heart cold, all of the things that ever haunted your dreams. But don't run,” he warned me. “You must not run. To do so will break the rite, and to break the rite is to insult the Gambler. You won't want to insult him, Sonny Jim. I can promise you that.”

The thing approached, and I felt its rumbling steps beneath my feet. Whatever robbed me of my senses began to return them ever so slowly. Or, perhaps they returned on their own out of some overpowering, instinctive necessity. Whatever the case, I would receive the beast with every primal sense fully alert. It emerged from the darkness down the road, a colossal mountain of fur and muscle towering over the dead street lamps, its grotesque form veiled in silhouette. It seemed all at once as a giant wildcat, a hulking bull and a monstrous bear, and t lowered its face to less than two feet from mine. It growled and huffed, its breath like a hot sand storm stinging my face, and I saw myself in its eyes. I saw myself as it saw me.

That is where the true terror began. Old Tom was right; I did face all of my fears. Every one of them. The fear of death, the fear of heights, of drowning. The fear of losing my job, or of dying alone. The fear of accomplishing nothing in my life, and fearing the pressure and responsibility of leadership. The fear of my creepy neighbor across the hall. The fear of lightning storms, and of the dark. Even my childhood fears, once funny in hindsight, came crawling back. The fear of seeing my grandmother for the first time without her dentures. The fear of the monster in my closet. The fear of large dogs, the fear of the school bully, and the fear I once felt when I was separated from my mother at a crowded mall.

“He'll be watching. If you pass the test, because most don't, he'll take an interest in you. He'll come to you as a man in a dark cloak, and he'll ask you a question. A choice, one that only you can make.”

I didn't run, but it wasn't out of bravery. It was because I was frozen in fear, my legs quaking beneath me and in genuine tears that I hadn't spilled since I was a kid. I no longer needed to take that leak that I'd planned for. I stood there for another eternity, failing to catch my breath for much of it. Then, I saw him standing at the corner, staring at me.

He wasn't a man in a dark cloak. He wasn't really a man at all. The tales twist over time through poetic embellishment and mistranslation, so what you hear is never completely truthful. Then again, nothing the storytellers spin could prepare you for the reality of these things; there are simply no words to describe them. Even I am likely misleading you now, though I'm trying to be as literal as possible. Most cultures have their stories about him, and the way most describe him is honestly the most accurate way possible. He is a dark man at the crossroads, at all crossroads, and all crossroads belong to him.

He didn't move at first. Instead, he spoke to me, and his voice was a soft breeze on the stillness, a wordless whisper. He did offer me a choice, though it wasn't a question. It was simply a curiosity for my will and true desire, if I truly wished for what was to come. My answer came in spite of me, and the answer was yes. Yes, I would commit a sacrifice for his gift. Yes, a higher purpose mattered more than my life, and yes, I would do what was required of me for these things.

He approached me, and I felt a biting chill blow past me as he neared. The closer he came, the less distinct he appeared. His shape wasn't that of a man, but that of a man's shadow suspended in the air, nebulous and immaterial. At brief moments, I could see the vague suggestions of a face, but never enough to read his expression. He stood motionless before me for several minutes, and then extended to me one intangible hand.

“Present the Gambler with a possession of yours, an item of personal importance. He will turn it over in his hands for a time, understanding its meaning to you, and he will return it to you along with a gift...”

I had nothing of particular value on me at the time, let alone of personal value. I felt through my pockets until I came upon my old Zippo lighter. An old girlfriend passed it on to me once she decided to quit smoking. Funny thing was, she picked up the habit again after the stress of the breakup, and she wanted it back. Perhaps for an immature laugh, I decided to hang onto it. That was about the extent of its meaning to me. I didn't love it, but I liked it, and I hoped that would be enough.

He did just as old Tom had said, and I swear I saw a smile in those vague moments of his face. In those last minutes, he didn't just examine that lighter. He judged my value, because this was not really a gift. It was an exchange, and after he was certain of his investment, he returned the lighter to me. As he placed the lighter back in my hand, the moment it touched my skin, the world went black. It was in that last instant of consciousness that I wished I had taken Tom's final words seriously.

“...he will return it to you along with a gift in exchange for seven years service. He always collects, so be sure this is what you want, lad. Be sure that it's worth it, because your life belongs to him now.”

Since then, my life has been one of hazy nightmares, amnesia and moments of clarity. I have gone to sleep at night, waking some days later in a sewer tunnel completely naked and holding mysterious, still warm, bloody masses in my hands. I have blacked out in mid conversation, waking to see a television news report about a massive fire, and the arsonist fit my description. I have faint memories of places I don't recognize, people I've never met, and even places that shouldn't exist. I have torrential dreams of the lands between, standing at my master's side like a pet on a leash.

The next time I saw Jack, the friend I drove home that night, it was at the doorstep of his family home with his wife and two children. He looked well, even fit. When I knew him, he was a sloppy, overweight bachelor and had bad luck with women. He'd also worn a ponytail in those days, and he was now balding. He said he hadn't seen me in years, that everyone assumed I was dead. I begged for his help, and the next thing I knew, I awoke in a dark alley somewhere. I was covered in bruises and cuts, and I was holding Jack's bloodied wallet in my right hand.

I don't know how long it has been, but I have had a terrible realization. When it was said that he would demand seven years of service, it didn't mean seven years from that night. It meant seven years in total. I am a slave, and I can be spirited away at any moment. Sometimes, I'll be fine for months at a time. Sometimes, I'll have my life back on track, assuming that the nightmare is over, but he always calls for me again. I haven't even had the time to learn of what gift he has given me. Like many before me, I am ensnared in his web, and until my debt is paid in full, I am his unwitting puppet. I may never be free.

This is the last time I will say it: stay behind your computer monitor where it's safe. You don't want to know. It's just not worth it. Convince yourselves that these things aren't true, and keep your curiosity in check. Force yourself to lose interest and find a new hobby, if you can. If not for your sake, then for mine. I've already found the blood of too many meddlers on my hands as it is.