Calvin followed without apprehension.
It would seem irresponsible for him to follow a dark figure behind a dark building at three O’ clock in the morning, especially after what happened to his father several years ago. Mel worked the night shift for a company that produced turbines for military aircraft. One night he decided to go for stroll while eating his ham sandwich during a two AM lunch break. He worked in the industrial part of town and neglected to realize, by the sheer amount of tagging visible in the daylight, that gangs hung out there at night. The industrial side of town was great for thugs being that it was dark and forgiving and the cops rarely patrolled there.
Mel was beaten rather severely, robbed of everything right down to his wedding ring, and left for dead. It wasn’t until a half an hour after lunch that a search party was sent for him. He survived with three broken ribs, a broken finger (his ring finger), and a fractured skull.
The situation Calvin found himself in should have brought that memory to mind, but his conscience wasn’t working properly or was being blocked, because he rounded the rear corner of the building with all the confidence of a lion.
There stood the figure he had seen at the Museum of Death, only this time he could make out the features better, even though the man was bathed in yellow lamplight. He was massive, not only tall, but with features that seemed larger than the average person. His lips and nose and the huge bags beneath the dark cavities where his eyes were hiding dwarfed those same features on Calvin’s face.
“I’ll give you a lift, Cal,” said the voice, causing the hairs on Calvin’s neck to stand on end. Ghastly’s mouth didn’t move when he spoke.
Behind Mr. Ghastly was a rusted-out old hearse. The engine came to life and Calvin started. It sounded like a beefed up V8, and was well in tune compared to the disarray of the exterior. The paint was faded and dinged in places where the metal rusted. The miniature cotton drapes in the rear windows were moth eaten and coming apart as if a cat had gotten to them.
Mr. Ghastly entered the hearse on the driver’s side. The passenger’s side door opened by itself.
“Coming?” said the baritone in Calvin’s ear.
Mr. Ghastly, sitting behind the steering wheel of a vehicle constructed purely for the transportation of the dead, looked like a nightmarish version of the reaper. He looked like a grave robber, a mad scientist, and a murderer all in one.
For a moment there, Calvin wondered if Ghastly was dead, and this was his ride into the next realm, and what realm would that be? This guy could only be driving the dead to Hell, but that was preposterous. Right?
Calvin entered the hearse. It smelled musty and earthy like an ancient coffin, or at least what he assumed and ancient coffin smelled like. Perhaps there was a body in the back, but Calvin didn’t think so. The smell of a dead body would be very different and completely intolerable. The interior was in equal distress as the exterior, the dashboard cracked from time sat in the sun, the seats torn and spewing shreds of foam cushion.
“I know where you want to go, Cal,” said Mr. Ghastly, this time from his mouth.
“I live on Madison Avenue.”
“But that’s not where you want to go, is it?”
There must have been something left within that could sense trouble, because Calvin suddenly felt uncomfortable next to the man who narrated the most disturbing videos in the annals of American history, the man whose voice had been narrating his dreams and nightmares as of late.
“We’re heading to the Museum of Death,” said Mr. Ghastly out loud. “I have something there I want to give to you,” he said in Calvin’s ear.
Whatever it was Ghastly had to offer, it calmed those pesky lingering fears that were warning Calvin away from the best thing that had ever happened in his life. As he thought of that, a nagging voice spoke up in his mind: Isn’t Ronnie the best thing in your life?
Mr. Ghastly looked a bit piqued as he glanced at Calvin while navigating the empty road. “Forget about her,” he said. “She doesn’t understand you, Cal, not the way Hazel does.”
Confusion attempted to infiltrate the barrier around Calvin’s mind. He loved Ronnie, but Hazel was into things Ronnie could never understand. Hazel seemed kind of wild. Interesting.
“She’s no good for you, that Ronnie. She’ll only bring you down, and there are so many things for you to experience in this world. The edges of experience are limitless.”
Calvin nodded slowly, his eyes taking on the dazed look of a somnambulant. Death wasn’t all that important, not enough to dump the woman he loved. The woman carrying his baby inside of her. At least it shouldn’t be that important. Life was important, not death. Life.
“You’ve seen some of the possibilities, in the videos,” said Mr. Ghastly. “In some parts of the world death isn’t such a taboo, Cal. Some people practice cannibalism and death worship. Some people hold onto the remains of their relatives rather than burial or cremation. Some cultures accept and prepare for death as sacred ritual.”
Calvin wanted to ask Mr. Ghastly questions, wanted to ask if he had seen any of these things he spoke of first hand, but he was unable to—physically unable to as if his mouth was wired shut. He couldn’t open it. This should have worried him, but just as soon as the wariness entered his mind, it was gone with the wind whipping through an open window.
The hearse was once again silent. This time Calvin’s mind was so filled with possibilities that he had completely forgotten about Ronnie. He didn’t have to face her until tomorrow, so why think about her? Better to enjoy the gift Ghastly had offered. This was a truly unique opportunity.
There were virtually no cars on the freeway as they merged onto southbound interstate 5. People leaving after parties, tweakers roaming about aimlessly, late night thugs, cops. The old rusted hearse must have been a sight.
They pulled off at 6th Avenue, made their way to 4th, and then parked in front of the pub beneath which was the Museum of Death.
Calvin finally found his voice. “Do you own this place?”
“No. I lease the space beneath the pub.”
“Why don’t you open up for business anymore?”
“Too much attention.”
They stepped out of the hearse and down the dark stairwell. There was a passed out homeless man at the bottom, sitting on the piss stained concrete landing with an empty forty ounce bottle of Steel Reserve between his legs.
“Hey you!” said Mr. Ghastly.
The bum stirred groggily, his eyes opening just a crack, but when he focused on the tall, cloaked figure before him, they opened wide.
“Reapers,” said the filthy street person. “Reapers!”
He stood and scrambled out of the stairwell ranting into the silent, cool night. Mr. Ghastly grabbed the bottle and threw it at the vagrant. It shattered on the sidewalk attracting the attention of a few tattooed thugs who had been hitting a meth pipe in a nearby alley.
Mr. Ghastly opened his eyes wide, staring at the late night gangsters with empty sockets. They went white with fear, and fled muttering prayers in Spanish.
The museum looked much the same as it had the last time Calvin was there. A chill traveled up his spine. Did Mr. Ghastly know he had been there? That was trespassing, wasn’t it? Was that why he had taken Calvin here? To kill him?
The thoughts were pure paranoia, but this whole night had been so out of place and abstract that Calvin had absolutely no expectations of what might happen next, and that included him being lured to the very place he had entered without permission. It seemed plausible. And that was terrifying. Calvin didn’t want to become a part of some black market death scenes video.