31 Laman Street

By Carl Delprat

I am about to inform you of a side of Newcastle, New South Wales, Australia, that many of its inhabitants were completely unaware of. A side I once knew of ever so well and perchance this may be the right time to inform booklovers of these, such-strange-goings-on.
And who knows; by this book’s completion, you (like Miss Jane Jenkins) may have transformed yourself into a completely changed person? And perhaps, — with a fresh new insight into ... practically, — well almost everything considered thought provoking!
Now dear reader, now its time to wind back the Newcastle Town Hall clock to strike again on a different stage; back to the year of 1971, a vibrant time of conscription and moratoriums, strikes and stand-offs, prayers and promiscuity. So, prepare yourself for a pleasant walk along a leafy Laman Street before earthquakes, rising property values, and fig-tree-removing council members shake its uniqueness into something ... now completely different.
And while partaking this interesting journey, please participate with another side of this town, yes, — take a taste of the paranormal where precarious forces lie and wait to trap the naïve and innocent.
Where, what! Do you ask? — Well, you best get yourself ready to meet Professor Howard Mycroft Calvert, because — words . . . can’t properly explain ‘what’ he actually is.
And by the way, a map is provided, and better still, have a good look on the available Internet-maps and see old Laman Street before it’s majestic old fig-trees are hacked away and replaced with this current (scaled-up) model railway alternative.
Now, ...there’s a book chock-full of interesting people all just waiting to meet you ... so take your time, don’t skip pages and I promise, this story will certainly draw you in.
And remember folks; this is all ‘just-fiction,’ right! And reading great-fiction is good for your soul, it’s a proven scientific fact, . . . so, I can guarantee, — a really-good-read is now coming up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Delprat
• Release date: Sep 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992488512

Carl Delprat

Carl Delprat is a prolific storyteller. His home is the Australian coastal city of Newcastle, New South Wales.

Book preview

31 Laman Street

An incredible paranormal/adventure novel

Written by Storymaker

Carl Delprat.

Copyright 2014 Carl Delprat

Rewritten 23-07-2015 (Fourth Edition.)

Cover painted in acrylic by Carl Delprat. (04/01/15).

Yes you can judge a book by its cover.

*******©*******

ISBN 978-0-9924885-1-2

For the loving memory of my mother Mercia,

and every magical thing she taught me.

And a special thanks to Herb Parker with the editing.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

As per all fiction I have written, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely accidental and with no intention of insult or offence.

Note: My stories are in Australian English, and … indicates talking while ‘…’ signifies thinking. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

**********(0)**********

Other excellent stories by Carl Delprat are ~

31 LAMAN STREET. Is where an evil ghost wreaks havoc amongst the locals.

THE THREE TREES. An international serial murder mystery set in the 1950’s.

GIRL SOLDIERS. A futuristic global adventure where the girls have taken over.

ALL STRINGS ATTACHED. Find out what happens after a mysterious glowing object is discovered in a coal seam. Based on Steven Hawkins ‘string-theory.’

THE STORY OF ANNIE. The long life of a MG-TC roadster.

THE TWO BROTHERS. A crime and passion novel with a serial killer on the loose.

A FEED OF FISH WITH FREDDY. A chocolate box selection of short stories.

DREAMMAN. Is where a young man uses his dreams to fight for good over evil.

WHAT ABOUT MADELYN? A political catfight between two rivals.

THE HARPSICHORD MAN. A tale about a criminal harpsichord builder.

**********(o)**********

Contents

About Carl Delprat, Storymaker

Other titles by Carl Delprat

A word from the author

Map of Laman Street

List of characters

Part One

Chapter 1: Now, if my memory serves me correctly

Chapter 2: Maybe this time

Chapter 3: Finding a way

Chapter 4: Breaking and entering

Chapter 5: Give us a look

Chapter 6: Has anyone seen our Alice?

Chapter 7: Hidden worlds

Chapter 8: The pursuit of knowledge

Part Two

Chapter 9: God's soldiers

Chapter 10: Inside Alice and beyond

Chapter 11: The dark forces consolidate

Chapter 12: Another tragedy

Chapter 13: Dangerous waters

Chapter 14: Plans are made

Chapter 15: Being sociable

Chapter 16: Police protection

Part Three

Chapter 17: General meeting no. 2

Chapter 18: Curry and chips

Chapter 19: What's behind that door?

Chapter 20: The aftermath

Chapter 21: Uninvited visitors

Chapter 22: Mr Dotivala returns

Chapter 23: Between events

Chapter 24: Number 31 revisited

Chapter 25: Rest in peace

**********(0)**********

A word from the author~

Whenever you happen to visit any bookstore … or a library, do you ever wonder where all this ‘fiction’ came from?

Yes, wherever you look there are stacks of fabricated stories stuffed into row-after-row filling up all those pages in books.

Perhaps I had best explain what happens when my mind slips into story-mode and perhaps, maybe teach you a trick or two.

For instance . . . it was my granddad, ‘my pop’ that taught me the right way of becoming a ‘storymaker.’

Yes he showed me back in a once-upon-a-time age, and it was well before the Internet and long before television was around.

Back when I was just a kid and like most kids, filled with an over-active imagination … so I searched about for stories, and it wasn’t long before I was flat on my back staring up at the watermarks on the ceiling or gazing into a fireplace’s embers looking about for more stories.

Ogling into Persian carpet patterns was another proven method for going into a story making state of mind and cerebrally climbing around the church’s high ceiling often helped me through another boring Sunday service

It’s somewhere in these sorts of places that creative stories reside, where abstract shapes free dormant dreams … and once you start it all becomes so easy.

‘Creativity is putting your imagination to work’ so carry a pen and notebook everywhere you go because — it doesn’t take long for something to hatch.

For the story of 31 LAMAN STREET, I returned to those dangerous days of youth, a time well before frontal lobes developed and impulsive actions were always the go.

For instance … leaping from a balcony into a swimming pool just because you can, in an immediate whim.

Yes, that was the seed for this story a mad leap from out of a window . . . then what shall I feed it? Well perhaps something external had contributed to this life threatening impulse?

I prefer to write my stories around Newcastle, that’s where I can walk the streets and look about for inspiration.

Perhaps you may have visited my city?

This picturesque site beside the sea has been ravaged first by coal mining then almost a century of heavy industry and … now dusted-down with the residue from coal export.

In turn these regular upheavals have shaped its inhabitants into a select tribe of Novocastrians, kinfolk who I think are slightly different from other Australians.

How is that you might ask?

That is for the reader to discover when he or she reads their way through my story and perhaps pays a visit to this unique place on Australia’s Eastern Coastline.

The time chosen for 31 LAMAN STREET is February 1971 . . . a changing time of polarization political prejudices and ridged religious differences.

A time back when I was aged in my late 20’s and somewhat akin to this story’s characters.

For those later arrivals we go back to when TV came in black and white, telephones were fixed and the general public was financially worse off then today’s credit card carrying generation.

But then you really didn’t need all that much to live on, a single wage could raise a whole family and even purchase a home.

My story will need a house and better still an empty block where I can imagine the right type of dwelling and thankfully … I had one waiting in my back pocket.

Yes, I found it while walking around Cooks Hill.

This site once had a house, a much larger green painted timber two-story duplex residence that burnt down, and now a small park marks that spot.

Margaret Parsons must be mentioned; a very special thanks for her excellent thesis on Laman Street. (I discovered it in the reference section of the Newcastle Regional Library.)

Further thanks to all those forgotten people who worked, lived, and died along this funny old ridge of land that oozes local history from every brick, tile, leaf, window and angle.

So it’s time to wind back the Newcastle Town Hall clock to strike ♪ again on a different stage; back to the year of 1971 a vibrant time of conscription and moratoriums, strikes and stand-offs, prayers and promiscuity.

Prepare yourself for a pleasant walk along a leafy Laman Street before earthquakes, rising property values and … fig-tree-removers shook its uniqueness into something completely different.

And while partaking in this interesting journey take a taste of the paranormal where risky forces lie and wait to trap the naïve and innocent.

Yes, you’d best get yourself ready to meet Professor Howard Mycroft Calvert because … words can’t properly explain ‘what’ he actually is.

A map is provided, have a good look on the available Internet-maps to see the old Laman Street before it’s majestic old fig-trees were hacked away then replaced with this current (scaled-up) model railway alternative.

Ladies and Gentlemen 31 LAMAN STREET is full of interesting people just waiting to meet you so take your time, don’t skip pages and I promise this story will certainly draw you in.

Remember folks; this is all ‘just-fiction’ — right … and reading fiction is good for your soul, — it’s a proven scientific fact

**********(0)**********

Please note: Any connection with persons living or dead is purely coincidental. It would be impossible to write fiction without coincidences occurring somewhere within a book filled with 160,000 words.

In all my novels I use . . . to indicate speaking and ‘ . . . ’ to signify thinking.

Names were chosen specifically for their sound and structure, Anglo Saxon/Celtic types preferable as per that era.

Apart from number-31, and a few random numbers in Laman Street, street house numbers have been deliberately omitted. Apologies to any religions that may choose to take offence towards my portrayal of their fictitious members.

Map of Laman Street

List of characters

And first, you better check out this parade of contributing characters listed in alphabetical order.

So lets start with: —

Mr Harry Andrews. Final year chemistry student engaged to Ann Mitchell and best mates with Alan Norris. Harry just loves his dad’s new Holden Kingswood.

Mr Weird-Winston Biggs. ~ A State Dockyards design draftsman. Winston hates trade unions and prefers to be called ‘Biggsey.’ He has a crush on Miss Jane Jenkins and is a member of the AMORC. (Ancient Mystical Order of Rosicrucians.)

Miss Kristi Brown. ~ An unemployed young woman of loose morals who often visits number 31.

Mr Alberto Borelli. ~ Visiting work/holiday American ex-serviceman employed at the Commonwealth Steel. Al has the hots for Jane Jenkins and he is another member of AMORC.

Mr Robert Butler. ~ Rigger and splicer at the Maritime Services Board and the second husband of Thelma Butler. Robert despises Anthony Farrow, his stepson.

Mrs Thelma Butler. ~ Married to Robert Butler and mother of Anthony Farrow, she works part time at a dry-cleaners in Adamstown.

Mrs Jessie Carmody. ~ Housewife and sister in law of Elsie Jenkins and proud mother of Susan Carmody.

Miss Susan Carmody. ~ Hairdresser/pharmacy assistant who once represented Lowlands Bowling Club as their Mattara Princess contestant. Susan’s engaged to Barry White and is ever so jealous of her cousin Jane Jenkins.

Professor Howard Mycroft Calvert. ~ A once famous archaeologist who has been long dead now for approximately 32 years. He resides at number-31 as an invisible bubble of malice polluting everything within his reach whenever the chance presents itself; temporarily resides inside the bodies of unsuspecting visitors.

Mr Humi Dotivala. ~ A Dastar of the Zoroastrian faith and father of only son Jahru Dolivata.

Mr Jahru Dotivala. ~ A Mobab of the Zoroastrian faith, a betrothed bachelor and son of the Dastar Humi Dotivala.

Mr Adam Evans. ~ Ex-boyfriend of Lois Walters, a carpet salesman who once dumped Lois Walters for some bitch named Marie. (And later suffered the consequences).

Mr Anthony Oily-Farrow. ~ Son of Thelma Butler, resident of number 31, ex Woolworths counter assistant/State Rail employee/BHP labourer/Stewarts & Lloyds ironworker and who to everyone’s shock, reinvented himself as Laman Streets’ chief devil worshiper and super-stud.

Mr John Hoppy-Harris. ~ Payroll Supervisor at the Hunter District Water Board. Hoppy is a member of a Masonic lodge and a mentor to the very inquisitive Jane Jenkins.

Mrs K. Hilgate. ~ Elderly member of the AMORC with a 9th degree … Possibly a widow.

Mr Bill Hunter. ~ Another AMORC member and historical custodian, Bill is unattached and occupation unknown.

Mr Charles Ingalls. ~ Employed at Newcastle Workers Club, boyfriend of Lois Walter’s mother and totally despised by Lois.

Mr Brian Jenkins. ~ Teacher trainee/abattoir employee/BHP labourer/seasonal fisherman/tyre-fitter/Australian Army private/fruit market employee. Only brother of Jane Jenkins and adopted son of Gary and Elsie Jenkins. A young man deeply troubled about a possible communist invasion.

Mrs Elsie Jenkins. ~ House wife and homemaker, faithful wife to Garry and devoted mother to Jane and adopted son Brian.

Mr Garry Jenkins.~ BHP Skelp-Mill operator and husband to Elsie father to Jane and adopted son Brian. Proud member of Cooks Hills’ Lowlands Bowling Club.

Miss Smart-Jane Hillary Jenkins. ~ A somewhat nosey Hunter District Water Board tracer/draftsperson. Daughter to Garry and Elsie, brother to Brian and forever curious about the strange goings on at and around number-31.

Doctor Joshi. ~ G.P. and proprietor of the Madras Curry House in High Street Maitland. A man with many interesting contacts.

Mr William Kennedy. ~ Proprietor of Kennedys Smash Repairs in Darby Street and a devoted Christian.

Mr James Kennedy. ~ Panel beater/preacher and intended missionary. Son of William Kennedy and cousin of Alice Thomas. A young man fully focused on the evil-doings around and in number-31 and deeply attracted to Miss Jane Jenkins.

Mrs Kershaw. ~ Clinging old landlady of a small bedsit in Alfred Street East Newcastle.

Old Miss Lewis. ~ Pensioner and resident of number-26 Laman Street.

Much older Mrs Lewis. ~ Pensioner and very long time resident of number-26, with an extensive knowledge of Laman Street’s history. Mother of old Miss Lewis.

Mr Kevin McGuire. ~ Supervisor at the Hunter District Water Board’s Records and Files, also Miss Jane Jenkins nicest ever boss.

Miss Ann Mitchell. ~ Pharmacy assistant. A tall red/blond girl engaged to Harry Andrews and was once an old time friend of Jane Jenkins.

Mr Allen Norris. ~ A chemistry student with rather a bad reputation. Arranged University Ball partner for a somewhat reluctant and suspicious Jane Jenkins.

Mr Michael Mikie-Peters. ~ Fitter and turner employed at the BHP Steelworks Machine Shop. Old friend of Anthony Farrow and Brian Jenkins. Mikie loves fishing, football, cricket, greyhounds, darts, drinking, and Jane Jenkins. Also a good Catholic boy.

Miss Irene Osmand. ~ Hunter District Water Board employee working in the Accounts Typing Pool. Close associate of the Two Rodgers boys and always a helpful friend to Jane Jenkins.

The Phantom-Fox Terrier. ~ A feeble little canine force forever attached to number-31 and eternally detested by the spirit of Professor H.M. Calvert.

Mr Shanka Ratnarajah. ~ Runs the ‘Rajputana Restaurant’ in Hunter Street with his watchful mother’s assistance. Another member of AMORC.

The Two Rodgers boys. ~ Two handsome Hunter District Water Board employees and close friends of Miss Irene Osmand from Accounts.

Mrs W. Smyth. ~ Stuffy Hunter District Water Board receptionist who believes Miss Jane Jenkins has very loose morals.

The Stewarts. ~ A pair of noisy earth-bound spirits residing forever in number-31’s laundry.

Mr Joseph Samuel. ~ Manager of Samuels Accounts, a married man who lusts over his employee Lois Walters.

Mad-Tom O’Leary. ~ Local village idiot and a quick solution to any unusual behavior.

Mr James Turner. ~ 2nd term Frater at the Newcastle Rosicrucian Lodge.

Miss Alice Thomas. ~ Shop assistant, sister of Janice and old girlfriend of Anthony Farrow who soon finds herself up to her neck in deep trouble.

Miss Janice Thomas. ~ 18 year old final year student at Newcastle Girls High School and younger sister of Alice.

Mrs K. Thomas. ~ Perpetually anxious mother of Alice and Janice and a staunch Christian woman.

Miss Lois Waterwings-Walters. ~ Lois is a qualified accountant/barmaid/clerk, with a very voluptuous figure and a bad habit of tripping then falling. And note: She is one never ever to mess with if she is angry. Yes that could be a fatal mistake.

Mr Barry White. ~ A car salesman at Newcastle Automobile Exchange in King Street and soon to be the fiancé of Susan Carmody

Representing the Newcastle Police Force (in order of rank).

Chief Inspector Patrick McMillan. ~ Always doing his very best to control crime in the region.

Detective Charlie Donaldson. ~ Perhaps not just quite up to the position, a rather overweight and poor example of the N.S.W. Police Force.

Detective Russell Russie-Howe. ~ Flash young troublemaker transferred up from Sydney and under the impression Newcastle is just one big hick town full of religious freaks.

Sergeant Bernard Fitzpatrick. ~ Well, well, well. Newcastle’s unrecognized Sherlock Homes and an excellent ballroom dancer.

Constable Will Tyson. ~ Destined to go off the rails whenever temptation presents itself.

Probationary Constable Janice Holmes. ~ A packet of problems shuffled around the State’s police stations. Now that should be enough to keep your interests bubbling.

**********(0)**********

Part (1) Chapter 1: Now, if my memory serves me correctly

"Yes, I am of that impious race, —Those slaves of Fire, that mourn and even —Hail their creator’s dwelling place —Among their living lights of heaven: —"Yes! I am of that outcast crew —To Iran and to Vengeance true, —Who curse the hour you Arabs came —To desecrate our shrines of flame —And swear before God’s burning eye —To break our countries’ chains or die.

Thomas Moore. The Fire-Worshipers.

*************o(1)o************

For those Novocastrians occupying Cooks Hill at the eastern end of Laman Street, the arrival of Thelma Butler’s new husband brought an unexpected reprieve to their agitated lives.

Now let’s get this matter straight it wasn’t everyone who ventured near number-31 that actually had ‘mishaps’ and those that did …

Usually kept their humiliation private.

The elder inhabitants certainly knew where these ‘mishaps’ originated from, but then …

Whoever wants to listen when old people have something bothering them.

So to help explain this situation; it was not any noticeable presence that caused all the apprehension.

It was more like a cold chill felt down the back of your neck.

And sometimes followed by the need to pass water,

or perhaps the onset of a nauseating stomach upset.

And on some occasions (when Howard was at his very worst) unwanted visitors were known to suddenly soil themselves and … unexpectedly vomit.

Mind you … many blamed it on leaky gas pipes or perhaps a broken sewer . . .

It was much easier to be cynical about such matters.

Yes ever since Robert Butler moved in with Thelma and her son Anthony that invisible presence once named Professor Howard Calvert ceased terrorizing all who came within his reach.

Howard’s preferred location was now high up above the sitting room doorway just bobbing about over their troubled heads or hovering in the hallway alongside the crusty old cobwebs, peeling paint, and the dried up remains of a Daddy Long Legs spider.

Now … describing this unseen ‘awareness’ named Howard to those ignorant of matters paranormal would be somewhat like …

a transparent balloon of trouble,

… an invisible envelope of evil.

Then perhaps, this is a rough portrayal because what Howard actually is or was defies description.

Anyway this undetectable hub of maliciousness floated about ceaselessly shadowing number-31’s inhabitants and to elevate his amusement Howard would appoint a candidate (preferably Robert) for a temper tantrum and then watch them … go at it all evening.

For this iniquitous phantom from the Dark-Side the manipulation of any available mortal was all so easy.

Somewhat like slipping a hand into an empty glove and then … wiggling all five fingers about.

There were many buttons just waiting to be pushed and glands that secreted chemical cocktails of pheromones and adrenalins.

It was always so simple for Professor Howard Calvert to make Thelma Butler feel constantly teased and tormented her son and Robert, who overreacted to the least amount of stimulus, did likewise.

So … who was that third member of this household that bore the brunt of their tensions?

Well that one’s name is Anthony (Tony) Farrow a smarmy bastion of body odour always in need of a wash, this weak-minded streak of pathetic purpose only a mother should love, and Howard made sure Thelma didn’t bother.

Yes, young Tony was one occupant at number-31 Howard always enjoyed meddling with.

**********(1)**********

By the time they read this . . . they can all get bloody well stuffed.

Tony’s shaking hand placed his farewell message across the house insurance reminder and Robert’s overdue car registration then locked it with the fridge magnet.

Standing directly behind his trembling T-shirt a well-scrubbed young thing named Alice Thomas nodded her head of straight blond hair in approval then whispered,

Get your bags now Tony so we can both get ourselves right out of here.

All too easy Alice, all too easy.

Tony wiped both sweaty palms on the sides of his flared jeans.

Yes it was now actually about to happen, finally happening at last.

Then the startling sound of two car doors slamming made . . . first his mouth fall wide open then his hairy white arms started to shake.

"Struth!

I just heard their car park out the front Alice . . .

so Mum and that mongrel are both back already.

Now they’re bound to catch me with these two heavy bags.

Oh shit, please Alice, just leave,

yes leave, leave, leave!"

Howard Calvert just hovering above slipped back inside his puppet and to Alice’s astonishment … Tony grabbed the message from the fridge door then shoved it into his salivating mouth.

"Go, go, go!" barked Anthony Farrow as a key entered the front door lock.

And poor Alice was pushed down the stairs, —

Then through the laundry —

And straight out the back door.

Where’s the pork? demanded Thelma at the top of her voice.

What bloody pork are you on about now? grunted Robert with his hands full of shopping bags.

And why wait till we get inside to ask anyway?

"That roasting pork you wanted from Coles New World, the pork that cost me 65 cents a pound, the pork you said to get … after you didn’t like it last time.

So where’s the pork?"

Thelma wore her best-worried look and no stone would remain unturned until…

"Probably still out in the boot of the bloody car you stupid bitch. I can’t be expected to carry everything can I?

And if you don’t shut up I will dump this lot straight down the stairs just like I did last time won’t I."

Yes Howard always enjoyed having his way with these very ordinary little people.

The laundry door had slammed shut behind the dejected Alice Thomas.

As she departed through the back gate both arms hung loose against her tartan skirt and her plain pale features were awash with tears.

Alice always hated this narrow back lane, Glovers Lane where the dogs always barked at her and what’s more this was not the first time this sort of thing had happened.

‘Well! …

What is it that always gets into Tony?’

***********(1)***********

While the raised voices in the kitchen grew ever louder the last of the evening’s shadows faded away into the moonless night.

Anthony Farrow pulled the kapok pillow around his ears and created an image of Alice’s sorry face. ‘Why do I stay here?

Cripes. I just have to escape: yes the bags are packed and it’s only a 13, well perhaps 15-foot drop from this window.

Now . . . I could leap from here straight over Mum’s geranium pots and land right on that mattress of soft spongy grass so springy it would be like landing on my bed.’

For some unexplained reason this foolish idea of leaping from this window to freedom — was so plausible.

Robert Butler was shouting obscenities at Thelma again … then c-rash something was broken.

What a great idea . . . and why am I hanging around this stupid place anyway?

First the airlines bag flew out the window — into the hot humid night.

It landed somewhere with a soft thud.

Then the suitcase was lowered using doubled up fishing line until it finally disturbed Thelma’s pot plants.

Now it was Tony’s turn.

He planned his plunge to arrive on both feet just like a parachutist; it was all so dead simple.

Yes, somewhere down into a pitch-black void was the perfect landing spot.

Tony turned around for one last look at Sophia Loren pinned beside a provocatively posed Bridget Bardot then blew each a farewell kiss.

Now there was just enough light coming back from Glovers Lane to direct his trajectory.

Why he preferred to leap into a black unknown rather than exit past that endlessly arguing couple in the kitchen had just, never ever entered into his head.

Yes — it was one big — bold — exciting — jump — out — into — the — unknown.

A daring leap — for independence! — Perhaps, . . . or so he thought.

For an instant . . . Howard Calvert shared Tony’s free from gravity flight . . . and . . . then promptly evacuated the falling carcass just prior to contact with the earth.

Pain was something Howard Calvert preferred to watch rather than experience.

That short exhilarating flight abruptly ended . . .

With the unmistakable sound of breaking bone and all Tony could do now … was roll about in agony on that wet grass.

Up beside the twinkling stars the bedroom light shone down onto the old mulberry tree.

‘Yes ultimately I will have to crawl my way to the back door and perhaps continue up the stairs, and that suitcase sitting on the geraniums …

Well won’t Mum go right off about that.’

"Oh Jesus and Mary what a total mess I have made of everything.

‘Anyway, at least Alice will know . . .

I really tried."

*********(1)**********

Tony’s wait outside the Casualty Ward was a long one and that same message looped through his head ‘Just wait till they latch onto this fresh plastered leg’.

That prospect was repeated every time the sound of an approaching car entered his ears.

Watching from the back of Robert’s Holden Tony detected uneasiness in their manner; it was all-so out of character and his mother had actually asked him if he was all right . . . and that normally niggling stepfather had remained speechless throughout the drive back home?

No it just couldn’t last; Tony knew it would change the moment they were behind closed doors at number-31,

and it did.

**********(1)**********

According to this latest 1971 kitchen calendar, Professor Howard Mycroft Calvert had been completely stone-cold-dead now for a total of - 32 years, - five months and - three days.

Not that he ever disliked this state of affairs; now he was completely free from all physical urges and needs … yet able to taste the lustful behavior of the living whenever the opportunity presented itself.

In fact living out his final years had been a hell for Howard.

What with the later stages of bowel cancer and not forgetting that unmentionable assortment of advanced social diseases.

If all that wasn’t bad enough, those constant rumours regarding his disgrace that followed him all the way from Britain . . . and never any recognition or appreciation of his accomplishments, not even one word of praise.

Well — this made him hate, — hate with a professional zeal, — and hate at a level beyond most imaginations.

Perhaps it was pure hate that had kept him thriving for so long … well it’s possible?

Professor Howard Calvert sensed it was now the right time to recall his past.

This was a necessary procedure to hold his personality together and stop it from fragmenting into a total loss of all identity.

Perchance you could call these post-mortems the dreams of the dead, so for this juncture Howard chose to recall a few frustrated memories from his paranormal period.

The first people to become aware of Howard’s peculiar carnal intents were the elders of the North London Rosicrucian Lodge and they immediately expelled him, just after he had been elected Frater.

Perhaps he had been a touch opportunistic?

A hall full of meditating members certainly tempted his ambitious nature and it was such a mass of wasted psychic energy.

Besides using a false name of Howard Collins to gain membership hadn’t helped matters.

Yes they threw me out … Professor Howard Calvert the most famous archaeologist of the time. Evicted by such lesser mortals and … just for promoting a little self-interest of a sensual nature.

No, he could never forgive them for that.

The fact that it all coincided with Howard’s disgraceful exit from the London Museum did not help his self-defence.

Howard Mycroft Calvert never did things by halves.

**********(1)**********

After two stressful visits to see Anthony Farrow, Alice Thomas decided this one would be the last for a while, maybe . . . perhaps forever.

She never liked … in fact she simply hated this place.

Yes, really hated that weird old house that always gave her the creeps.

‘Like, … those strange sensations of something rummaging around under my dress then followed by a cold clammy reaction up and down my neck.’

Alice clamped her knees together, picked up the paper, and then opened the employment section. Twice now she had tried to get him to talk but Tony just stared into the black & white TV screen and remained silent.

Watching down from his favourite corner, Howard Calvert waited for Alice’s closeted mind to drop her guard.

She was always a hard one to crack, full of angelic niceties and such a complete contrast to that slimy Anthony Farrow.

Perhaps Farrow could be the key?

Maybe it was time to release a few of Farrow’s pheromones into the air and see if Alice’s pupils enlarged

Howard slipped into Tony’s living-breathing package of impulses to discover the young man’s frame felt somewhat heaver today … yes this smarmy little runt was putting on fat.

Tony’s outer casing was so revolting in fact all of his body felt clammy, certainly in need of a good wash and not only were his bowels discharging gas, and that forever dribbling nose always required blowing.

It was all — so disgusting.

Howard was about to make a quick exit when that common-little-sparrow looked up … and started speaking,

"Tony, why don’t we see that Paint your Wagon picture? Oops! …

Sorry you can’t, well I know, we could go to the drive-in with my cousin James Kennedy, that smashing Steve McQueen is in a car movie called Bullet. …

I’m sure you will like it."

Alice would you come over here and sit on my lap, I would really like you to.

Shocked at this immoral suggestion Alice placed the newspaper beside her handbag then … stood up, he had never asked her to behave like that before.

‘Yes perhaps this would be the right time to leave; yes this certainly will be my last visit to this horrible place.’

Hope you get better soon Anthony . . . and don’t ever think I like the way you are behaving so goodbye.

Alice’s hands grasped her shoulders as a shiver went down her spine.

Reaching down for her handbag she glanced at the smug faced Tony with both his eyes glazed towards the TV screen.

There was no farewell wave just a vulgar sound spluttered from between his rude lips.

This was all too easy for Howard; he much preferred to manipulate Tony’s stupid stepfather, who being such a large man easily terrified the other two.

Yes, tonight during dinner he would lower Robert’s serotonin levels and turn the whole evening meal into another screaming match.

**********(1)*********

Perhaps some more details on Howard Calvert’s condition are now warranted.

After being disconnected from a living body for over 32 years, Howard’s spiritual essence should have undergone judgment and perhaps been reincarnated.

Well certainly not remain earth-bound akin to the echo of any ordinary ghost.

Then, Professor Howard M. Calvert was in no way just a common ghost doomed to repeat some endless routine until a final flicker left it with nothing to cling to.

Now any other soul left loose like this without Celestial connections would eventually begin a slow and steady fall into awaiting darkness.

Drifting down, — down forever, — down, down into that place he feared so much —

That enviable ‘Abyss-of-Nothingness’ — the final destination for all the lost and dammed.

Well . . . it certainly won’t happen not while he had a source of human weaknesses to sustain his vigour with regular re-charges from their spent dark energy.

That residue of the seven-deadly-sins that filtrates from the black deeds of unhinged minds.

Besides the very possibility of an evil invisible entity ever entering someone’s body and causing uncharacteristic behavior was . . . totally way out of fashion with today’s materialistic society.

And as for those old Grey Ghosts who were sent to round up any detached souls and spirit them away. They gave up on ever collecting his evasive consciousness ages ago.

In fact on one earlier occasion they brought along a pleading apparition of Howard’s mother hoping to prise him out . . . and as if that would have made any difference.

Outwitting such ‘simple spectres’ was for someone like Howard … no trouble at all.

It was all by accident the ancient Zoroastrians had indirectly supplied Howard Calvert with the clues to this current state of spiritual delinquency.

(Reader: It must be emphasized that in no way was this exclusive knowledge connected with the established Zoroastrian religion, as it would have no part in such immoral activities.)

Professor Howard Mycroft Calvert had accidentally deciphered this knowledge from ancient clay cylinders while on an expedition to Persia.

And these inscriptions originated from a certain secret sect that followed that evil twin named Ahriman.

Yes for those ignorant in such matters, this Ahriman was the god of lies and evil and the twin brother and rival to Ohrmazad the god of truth and light.

Both these gods were the twin children of the One Supreme Being . . . Ahura Mazdah.

Howard transcended back to his discovery of certain ancient Persian artefacts.

Written on two of the clay tablets was a formula for bypassing the compulsory trip to the Celestial Sanctum following death and … hopefully, excluding any karmic debt.

However this form of independence was only temporary.

Cosmic forces would eventually drag any loose souls from their revelries into that eternal Abyss-of-Nothingness.

No, nothing can eliminate that scientific fact.

Then Howard Calvert had an option, a re-birthing opportunity; and all he required was a fertilized female host.

A woman with child to arrive within striking distance of number-31, thus allowing a transfer of his uniqueness into this fresh unborn package . . . then to be nurtured by the parents of his choosing.

With that stage completed, this recipe for immortality would be revealed thus allowing the now reborn Howard to re-join with the followers of Ahriman.

Yes — and resurface — as their new Prince of Darkness.

**********(1)**********

The old cane chair groaned under the weight of Robert Butler as he reached for the spool of white rope, there were three spools of rope kept on top of the laundry cupboard.

Each spool was carefully taped to check if Tony had taken a portion.

Robert unwound the correct measure to create a hangman’s noose; he knew the exact size and shape of the knot required to snap a man’s spinal cord.

A drop too far from the scaffold could rip a head right off, too short and the victim would slowly strangle.

By the size and weight of his slimly little stepson, …

Robert calculated a drop of eight feet should be sufficient for a good clean snap.

When this noose was completed he would leave it on the dim-witted boy’s bed and hope the message got through.

‘Yep Tony’s next jump should end about 3 feet short of the geranium pots.

That is if this brainless boy remembered to tie one end firmly to the bed frame.

Perhaps I should attach it for him?’

**********(1)**********

Number-31’s central feature, the 21-inch Astor TV was again all Tony’s.

That is until his tormentors returned from their day’s shopping.

This time of solitude was a reassuring blanket of warmth to snuggle into, and sometimes he could almost feel that strange sensation arrive, a relaxing glow flowing down from his head and then — sort of fill up everything?

Today’s midday movie was 42nd Street staring Dick Powell, Ruby Keeler, and George Brent. It was a hot day again, his sweet-soaked cotton shorts had stuck his bottom to the vinyl lounge, and that annoying itch inside the leg plaster went on and on.

Oh Shit!

A breeze from outside delivered a smell of rotting fig tree fruit mixed with road tar.

Double shit!

Now his bladder wanted empting and … just when the peroxided chorus line ladies appeared in a row of flimsy costumes.

‘Well should I hobble off to the toilet? … Wait a bit …’

Cripes, you can almost see her…

‘Even plain old Alice would look good in that.

But bugger her … always nagging me to leave and besides, like — where could I go to?’

And now that warm cuddly feeling flowed once more throughout his body, well . . . what a daft, stupid, silly bitch she was.

Another trickle of sweat ran down inside the plaster, it would be six or seven weeks more of this before this plaster would be removed.

‘That’s two months now without a job and those horrible ‘old-people,’ always at me day and night.’

The chorus line had kicked their legs high enough to distract Tony from his troubles;

high enough for him to visualize their knickers had dissolved.

He rubbed his eyes . . . ‘and there they go again . . . look! No-bloody-knickers.’

Now how do they allow that? He was just about to reach into the bottom of his shorts when.

"Tony! Tony are you home?"

The recognizable voice of his best and only friend Michael Peters arrived up the staircase, he readjusted his shorts to relocate what they should be covering then replied.

"In the lounge room Mikie … come on up."

Okeydokey mate … I’m coming right up.

Howard Calvert so despised Michael Peters and everything about him, so this was the signal to vacate the room and reside in his sanctum.

The wire screen door slammed shut and each approaching gritty footstep declared Tony had forgotten to wipe his feet again.

"What are you watching?

Oh! Just an old musical, cripes you-know, Tony … check out the tits on that old bag, you-know, I’d say she must be someone’s grandmother by now, you-know … and how did they ever find so many white haired women that same size and height?"

"It’s a Busby Berkley movie called 42nd Street and that dancer’s name is Ruby Keeler.

I preferred Gold Diggers of 33… that was on last week."

Michael had no interest at all in this rubbish and started into a subject Tony really hated … politics.

"You-know, our new Minister of Defence that arrogant prick Malcolm Frazer is in deep shit again Tony.

You-know, he’s now upset Andrew Peacock and upset the bloody army, well I reckon old Billy McMahon will have a go at him this time, you-know."

This drew blanks with Tony so Michael used his big artillery,

"I saw your Alice Thomas this morning and she was with that religious loony James Kennedy.

So you want to get yourself better soon, better before he anoints her with his holy-rod."

Michael was now shaking his leg, his incessant habit of quivering one leg and it was rattling against the seat.

Tony tried his best to hide the anger

Sensing Tony was soon about to crack, Michael Peters continued,

"You-know, well at least she is selective like sticking with her Methodist crowd because you-know … that lot all know what sin is all about.

Not like us Catholics, … we can sin our fat arses off, you-know, sin whenever we like … then you-know get ourselves forgiven again in Confession."

That leg shaking speed went up a notch.

So Jimmy Kennedy should be able to teach young Alice a few good sins you-know … don’t you think so old mate?

Michel Peters often imagined he was a somewhat witty person.

"Now, listen dickhead that’s enough … anymore talk like that and … and I will ram my plaster leg right down your stupid throat …

Like I have told you before and before, — now, James Kennedy is Alice Thomas’ first cousin, get it?

F--k me, you are so thick! ‘

"Settle down old mate you-know, now… just settle down a bit."

A moment’s silence passed then Michael tried again,

"You-know, Tony what’s with all this white rope?

You-know, there are pieces of rope here on the couch … and rope knots all over your house, you-know.

Like your back-door mat is made out of white rope and there are platted pieces of white rope hanging from the mulberry tree and clothes line outside?"

Michael let his jaw drop then adopted a much-rehearsed quizzical expression,

You-know … so what is this place Tony? asked Michael as his right knee began to bounce up and down again.

So what is it . . . The House of R-o-p-e?

Without taking his eyes off the TV screen Tony replied through clenched teeth,

"They’re all Butler’s, my rotten stepfather’s ropes.

Remember … I have told you … before … many times.

Butler is a rigger and it’s his hobby and it keeps him quiet.

So when he is playing with his silly ropes he is not fighting with mum or picking on me.

Now … don’t ever touch his ropes whatever you do.

It was approaching the right moment for Michael Peters to declare the reason for this visit, but Tony had been a bit rough on him.

So there were a few more shots to make first.

"You-know, didn’t you say he only married your Mum because his rotten old house got washed away in the big flood last January?

You-know … you once told me he met her down at the Workers Club."

Michael watched Tony nod his head in agreement.

You-know, your job’s gone at Woolworths. There is a new bloke doing it now.

Another nod followed … so now was the time to dump his special piece of information a tale he was simply bursting to release.

"You-know, remember that Jane Jenkins from high-school Tony? …

You-know, she’s not too bad looking and about five foot three . . . light brown hair and you-know . . . has a you-beaut nicely stacked little body … and a gorgeous pair of tits . . . yes that Jane.

You-know, that one who was always in a grade above us at Cooks Hill Public . . .

you-know and she has a red-headed boofy-big-brother named Brian … you-know . . .

Smart-Jane we used to call her and the bigger girls would always give her a rough time for always coming top of her class."

Tony turned to his visitor with the impatient leg and nodded his head once more.

"Well, you-know, I was talking to her yesterday and …

you-know, and she works at the Water-Board."

The frustrated young man with the plastered leg showed Michael his full-on-most-annoyed-look.

"You-know, it’s the same Jane who has a brother named Brian Jenkins . . .

you-know, he’s that tall red-headed fisherman who lives with his parents in Swann Street … and that’s on the other side of Darby Street . . .

you-know, just up from the Spiritualist Church . . .

You-know Brian Jenkins from school, yes … that bloke I often talk to at the Delaney Hotel."

"Mikie! For f--k’s sake!

Will you just get to the bloody point."

"Well you-know … well that mad fool Brian is off to join the Australian army … he reckons he has to save us from that approaching Communist menace you-know . . . well he sure hates strikes and unions.

Well … about that Jane? . . .

Guess what Tony; I asked her out and maaate, guess what?

She said yes!

Yep, dead-set she did."

An astonished Tony Farrow slapped the sides of the vinyl lounge then glared right at Michael.

"You what?

And she did?"

"Yes … you-know Tony we are now going ice-skating with another pair, Susan Carmody and Barry White are their names and you-know . . . this Carmody chick is her cousin and Barry White sells Peugeots and Renaults you-know … sells ‘em at that flash Newcastle Automotive Exchange in King Street.

You-know, not bad for the likes of me … well … don’t you think so Tony old mate?"

Now, wasn’t that Susan Carmody shelia a Mattara Queen or something? asked Tony.

Something like that Tony, answered Michael.

Tony tried to visualize this Jane Jenkins, or smart-Jane back at school.

‘Now I can’t remember any redheaded girl named Jane? …

But, if her brother Brian had red-hair?

Now which one was she? …

Oh yes, her face and figure came to mind but he just couldn’t decide on … what shape her tits were.

And, was Jane Jenkins that hot-chick at the swimming carnival, that pocket Venus that made most of the girls there look so dreadful? —

No, no, no that was Walters, — Lois Waterwings-Walters.

Wait, Jane was that smashing little number who . . .

Well if it was her, if she’s the one … then this Smart-Jane is way-too good for this stupid drongo.

But … she never had red-hair?’

Then Tony caught Michael reaching over to get a packet of sweets on the side of a small table.

"Don’t touch those cough lollies Mikie, look they’re Robert’s and I will certainly get the blame.

Look … you better piss-off cause they’ll be back from shopping soon and you know what he’s like … so thanks for dropping by anyway …

and next time wipe your dirty shoes cause Mum will … well she can’t really blame me this time."

While Tony stared straight into the flickering TV screen, Michael Peters got up off the vinyl lounge left the room then stomped down the stairs and slammed the fly-screen door shut.

Well he would have to bring up Woolworths, like with no job to go back to and me stuck right here all day with my leg in plaster.

His bloated bladder demanded release; Tony reached around, found for his crutches, and then hobbled down the hall.

‘Well the best I could ever do was plain old Alice the Jesus-freak-virgin and now that bastard Mikie Peters will get his pair of tradesman’s dirty hands right inside this Jane Jenkins hot pants and …’

**********(1)*********

The haunting of number-31 was not entirely Howard’s prerogative: right on time at 3:45pm two earth bound spirits named the Stewarts (now trapped forever in the laundry basement) started into their insufferable whining and interrupted Professor Howard M. Calvert’s wistful contentment.

The essence of Mrs Stewart was completely invisible and her presentation of penitence was always so pathetic.

As for Mr Stewart, he had now dissipated into just a faint echo and Howard so often wished they would just move on and spend their boring deaths elsewhere.

There once was a time when Howard intended to use Mrs Stewart’s pregnancy for his passage back to the living.

Then that silly woman went and slipped over on a wet floor and the following miscarriage left her with a womb so fragile, that she promptly made herself expendable.

So, what else could Howard do other then make the husband murder