Urgent Tales of Mystery and Horror

By Ernesto Marcos

Urgent Talesa book of surreal stories that lay bare the terrors hidden under our collective beds and confront us with our own fears. Comprised of eleven supernatural and cautionary accounts of sideshow freaks, vampires, aliens, and other mythical creatures, these tales blend horror with dread-induced humor, granting us entry into the world of the inexplicable, the irrational, and the delectably bizarre.

In Astor Roth, a young entrepreneurs inner demon emerges from her subconscious past to draw her into a monstrous and debasing reality. Set in Vienna, a successful yet vulnerable woman struggles to keep her sanity before she is consumed and possessed by her demonic lover.

A serial killer watches the affairs of his next victimher nightly ablutions, her ritual of the bath. He waits in the darkness until it is time to transform his prey into an objet dart and add the woman immersed in water to his oeuvre of mutilated masterpieces.

A vampire stalks the streets of Rome, Barcelona, and Miami Beach in search of sustenance, only to find he is not the one on the top of the food chain but merely a part of it. In the stories Deal, The Magus, and SoBe It, the ruthless yet cerebral vampire Alejandro encounters nemeses as cold-blooded and resolute as he in their quest for power and blood.

Two ex-lovers expectations run interference for their living counterparts in the story Reunion. Unbeknownst to their human hosts, they revisit a past filled with possibilities, consequences, and circumstances not anticipated.

The dreamer dreams, or is it the dream that dreams the dreamer? In the tale Tatianas Dream, a brilliant antiquities professor is sought out by a fantastical vision and sent forth to discover her destiny in a multidimensional universe she not only inhabits, but must somehow control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503543010

Ernesto Marcos

Writer/composer Ernesto Marcos arrived from Cuba at the age of four in New York City, where he spent what he calls the best childhood any kid could ever have. His youthful imagination was enriched by the culture of museums, libraries, and theater that only a city as diverse as New York City could offer. Early on, he fell in love with the literature of many distinct writers—writers such as Poe, Dumas, Kafka, Borges, and Hesse. After sojourning, over the years, among a number of cities throughout the United States, Ernesto is now once again back in South Florida, absorbing the sun, the mojitos, Key lime pies, and way too many cortaditos: 50 percent milk, 50 percent café Cubano, 100 percent octane.

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Copyright © 2015 by Ernesto Marcos.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015902224

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-4299-0

                Softcover        978-1-5035-4300-3

                eBook             978-1-5035-4301-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Front cover image - La mort du fossoyeur by Carlos Schwabe

Rev. date: 02/21/2015

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Contents

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Urgent Tales

of Mystery and Horror

Acknowledgements

Astor Roth

Ritual of the Bath

Tatiana’s Dream

Floor Twelve

Blessed Disease

Babette’s Baby

Reunion

Muriel’s Ghost

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The Vampire Triptych

Deal

The Magus

SoBe It

For Lissette

Who always believed

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank everyone, friends and family alike, who have lent support, inspiration, and encouragement throughout the entire process of writing this book. There are many—gracias amigos y familia.

To the love of my life, Lissette, who has put up with me for several lifetimes’ worth of vicissitudes and has always been there when needed most. To my daughters, Miliette and Mavie whom I’ve bamboozled into thinking highly of me all these years and despite my numerous flaws, they still do—amazing. To my son, Milo, who was steadfast in his confidence of the old man’s abilities when the old man was filled with self-doubt. Thanks, Meister!

I’d also like to express my indebtedness to Terry Cummings, whose edits, enthusiasm and marvelous insights made this undertaking not only a journey of discovery but also of much appreciated learning.

God bless!

Astor Roth

It was a barefaced lie. There was no phone call from the office; no deadline loomed requiring her presence. Tereza threw off the well-pressed pinafore, slipped into her raincoat, and absconded for the fourth time in two weeks—the fourth time she swore would be the last.

Her husband hardly did more than raise an eyebrow. He turned away from the nugatory explanation, from the china and cutlery abandoned on the dining table, from the squandered meal left untouched. With footsteps each heavier than the preceding one, he mounted the stairs up to the second floor landing toward their bedroom then froze as if snared by the dim light of the hallway window. His eyes, drawn first to the terraced roof slick from the incessant drizzle, moved across to a cab waiting in the street. He watched as Tereza slipped furtively into the backseat. Unaccounted for still were the mysterious welts and bruises on her body, which he found under drawn covers while she slept.

The twenty-five-minute taxi ride was enough time for Tereza to relive the events set in motion over the previous fortnight. It had begun harmlessly enough, she recalled. A chance encounter? Her mind flipped through successive episodes like earmarked Rolodex cards: the show, the breath of air, the hotel, the—

The opening of a photography exhibit at the Albertina Museum in Vienna titled Giants of the 20th Century.

Tereza, or Teza, as the trade publications intimated, was feeling her oats that evening. Her ambitious little start-up was now fully in gear: Inner-Spaces, the hottest consulting firm in expo marketing, coordinating, managing, and thus turning down more business than it could handle. Although … there have been a few recent cancelations. Am I doing enough? The thought gave her a pause. Disquieting factors indeed, but … she shrugged it off, of no real concern.

Moments before her anticipated arrival at the event, Tereza evaluated herself in front of a full-length mirror inside the ladies’ room. She smiled with approval. A black strapless Chanel frock dotted down the middle by three large mother-of-pearl buttons vacillating from lilac to rose with the ebb of her movements. Her hair was pinned back and swathed by a sheer wide-brimmed hat accented by a geometrically snipped band; a platinum diamond choker shimmered like an asteroid belt around her expensively perfumed neck. She inhaled deeply. Ah yes, her self-assessment conclusive—voluptuous yet elegant, a body carefully calculated to suit the eye. Extending her periphery, she seemed to have caught the envy and approbation of those glancing at her a bit too long as she exited wafting inside a bubble of rarefied air.

It was early still, she acknowledged, but the secret language of success was ubiquitous: the well heeled and the well connected, the cerebral and the academic, the habitué and the aloof—all casually filled the rooms.

Teza circulated from guest to guest then convened briefly with her team: no hitches or alarms—brilliant. Still, she reminded herself, the thin line between savoir-faire and fiasco was only a miscue away.

Tereza followed up with a few more hellos to a number of acquaintances, brushed cheeks, pressed flesh (that sort of thing), laughed perfunctorily at a few stale jokes, but primarily endeavored to remain on the sidelines. Her first-rate staff would manage everything. They were the facilitators; she was the Brand. Nevertheless, even clients as confident and assertive as the Image Consortium liked their hands held on occasion, so the Brand was not averse to stroking sweaty palms when required.

Strolling from room to room, Tereza took advantage of a brief lull in the festivities to indulge a bit and peruse the exhibit on her own before the next round of niceties. The young entrepreneur appreciated the creative nature of the works on display. But in her mind, photography lacked the depth and dexterity of an actual art form. All it takes is a chiseled slab of marble or a canvas doused in oil, and I am in heaven.

She sipped a glass of the season’s first vintage of Beaujolais and sojourned briefly toward a brash black-and-white photograph of a fledgling Winston Churchill. Tilting her head from side to side, she advanced unhurriedly, marveling at several other photographs as the circular walls escorted her toward a large portrait of Gandhi adjacent to a sepia-tinted picture of Picasso.

Two birds on the same branch, she commented softly. Tereza edged in intimately and studied the faces—sentience lost amid the lines and creases of their monochromic skin. What she discovered, or saw, as significant was that these two men in mottled gray, along with many of the other personages in the exhibit, colored the compositions without, well … color. Their substance or essence was more than a—

A distraction interrupted her internal discourse. It was a picture of a building, of an old dilapidated house. She angled around the curling wall. A still shot of a building, she said under her breath. This is a portrait exhibit. There should be no photographs of buildings, or of anything else for that matter, other than people—celebrated people. Tereza came face-to-face with the image. The print was old, tarnished, and streaked with yellow. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? Her jaws ground together. I will have somebody’s head for this.

The sullied and decayed state of the house mirrored the ruined condition of the frameless print. Tereza glared at the eyesore. Then something disturbing occurred. Her eyes, drawn to the upper corner of the second-story window, spotted something strange—darkness moving. She closed the space between the image and her. An eerie form in the window began to take shape. It was a person, a … woman, her face disfigured, screaming with no voice, palms pounding on the glass. She was trying to break out! The form was incomplete, obscured by shadows and outlines reflected in the windowpane from the street below. Tereza staggered two, three steps, looking around to see if one of her staff was in the area. She blinked several times and refocused. The desperate woman was no longer there. Tereza shook her head and squinted. The building, cold and splotchy, stared back at her then inexplicably began to decompose. She shuddered. Her stomach shivered and unraveled as another unsettling sensation from behind suddenly crawled up her spine.

Tereza pivoted tersely on her heels, and to her surprise, she found a remarkably attractive young man waiting for her as she came to a halt. His disquieting presence caused an abrupt about-face and, for whatever reason, began to soothe her in an off-balanced way. She thought she recognized him and was mildly upset she could not remember his name. It is my job to remember names.

Astor, he said as if reading her thoughts, Astor Roth.

Astor Roth?

Yes, and you are Tereza Friedrich, if I’m not mistaken.

But, that’s impossible. An impulse engulfed her. She looked back over her shoulder. The photograph of the house was no longer there.

Not Tereza? he replied playfully. Then I certainly beg your pardon. My mistake, he added, bowing with mock courtesy and backing away.

No, no … I meant … She hesitated and looked back over her shoulder a second time. Could I have imagined that?

Yes?

I’m sorry. He made her feel timid, hesitant. I’m not acting like myself today. Tereza took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Oh dear, this is so awkward, she whispered, staring at the floor. Tereza looked up and scrutinized his face. It was Astor Roth. She remembered. Yet, it could not be him. How many years? I’m so sorry. I don’t quite know how to put this but … but I thought you were, she cleared her throat, deceased.

Dead? Astor laughed immoderately, loud enough to generate what Tereza noticed were more than a few reproachful glances from the guests meandering in proximity. Tereza half laughed, half coughed, averting her eyes from the onlookers’ incriminating stares. Why am I singled out?

Does it make you feel uncomfortable?

What do you mean?

To see someone you thought dead apparently reincarnated after all this time?

Aside from feeling embarrassed and befuddled, Tereza was now utterly self-conscious. She tried to fill the discomfort by rooting around in her purse, pretending to search for something … anything.

I assure you. The rumors of my demise are vastly exaggerated. He chuckled.

But? Tereza gave up on the purse and moved briskly to a long marble bench centered in the main salon. Still baffled, she descended to the hard surface as if she had lost her ability to walk. The young woman placed her hands lightly on her lap and closed her eyes. Questions and disbelief bounced off the inner walls of her head like lottery balls.

Astor tagged along and took the open space beside her. I presume you want to know why I didn’t contact you after I left without a word.

Her eyes opened slowly. There’s a lot more to it than just that, Astor.

Is there?

Yes, of course there is. And what in the world are you doing here anyway? She fiddled with her purse once again, her eyes catching odd, inquisitive gazes from people in the gallery glaring at her like warped reflections in funhouse mirrors.

Astor appeared to sense Tereza’s distress. Why don’t we step outside for a breath of air and chat? There are several cafés across the street from the Albertina, she heard him say. We can both use a cup of coffee.

Tereza sat shackled to her seat, an intense gravity contributing to her anxiety.

Come on, he exhorted, the fresh air will do you good.

Astor eventually won her arm and helped her to her feet. All at once, as if jolted by an electrical current, she stumbled forward. Tereza gasped as her eyes honed in on the hand that kept her from falling. This sensation had happened before sometime in the past. It was his touch, she realized, the second she felt … his touch … Her mind raced. Tereza shuddered. She could not grasp the reality of her thoughts. Yet it was clear. This night would end with her compromised in Astor’s bed. Worse was the fact he was fully conscious of this inescapable outcome. She understood. Tereza turned sharply and stared at Astor, who continued on toward the museum exit, oblivious to her shocked features. "If he was aware, she said to herself, he is not letting on."

Tereza and Astor lingered for a short while outside one of the many kaffee bars lounging between a string of charming old-fashioned shops and cafés. Her composure had returned, more or less.

My treat, she said.

Please, allow me.

No, please. Make me happy. It is not often I get to invite a revenant.

A revenant, Tereza? I’m not Lazarus.

No? She shook her head. "No, of course, you’re not. I am acting ridiculous. Please, let me. I prefer chocolate, what about you?"

Astor stood passively for a breath or two then moved in close, brushing his lips on her cheek. As you wish, he purred. Her flesh quivered with horripilation.

Tereza ordered at the counter and brought them their drinks. They selected a table nestled quietly in a secluded corner, sat, and idly watched their hot chocolates cool. Neither touched the beverages or said a single word for a lengthy period. It was Schubert primarily—gratefully—that resonated from the overhead speakers, mingled with the fragrance of spring, and filled the void.

Tereza wove her fingers around her cup and looked up at the man who had been lost to her for more than ten years. He was dressed elegantly in a black silk suit and collarless white shirt. A gold pinky ring shaped like a six-pointed star on his right hand was conspicuous in the afterglow. His face, she noted, had somehow preserved its youthful veneer—no wrinkles and no gray hairs. He looked as fit as ever, and graceful, imparting a particular feline fluidity and poise to his movements.

Time has stood still for you, Astor, she said. Your appearance … you’re exactly as I remember.

Astor nodded, amused. And you, my fair Teza, are even lovelier, if such is possible.

She was not accustomed to blushing, but a precious hint of pink worked its way into her cheeks.

We barely knew each other ten years ago.

To be honest, she said, I don’t remember much of our short-lived liaison other than it being a passing fling cut short by your abrupt disappearance. The tenor of her voice sounded harsh. It was unintended, so she smiled and whispered, "Although, I was quite taken with you. Her head bobbed from side to side. Yet something troubles me about our time together. For some reason, details escape me. I cannot fathom why you’ve come back. This was no coincidence, was it?"

Astor listened without comment and pressed his lips.

Our previous relationship was satisfying, yes. Maybe more than satisfying, but that is ancient history now. I am married. I have another life … a business.

Astor grinned. Her former lover left his chair and extended a hand, endeavoring to grasp hers.

She impeded him with a gesture. I mustn’t leave. Not right now, she objected, the show … I’m responsible.

Not any longer, he said in a firm voice. Astor took her by the waist, guided her beyond the tables, and headed up Kärntner Strasse toward the Danube.

They strolled arm in arm like sweethearts, winding through the architecture beyond the verdigris statues unhurriedly, without a care. Their eyes turned aloft toward a sky of infinite promise while the moon waxed and waned behind a tapestry of listless clouds migrating diagonally over the horizon. Tereza leaned into him with such fervor she scarcely breathed, feeling lightheaded, almost giddy. He has led me away, she reflected, and to her amazement, without resistance. I have abandoned my responsibilities willingly in less than the twinkling of an eye to someone who is, in truth, unknown to me—someone who has upstaged serendipity.

The promenade brought them to an old familiar place, the forgotten inn frequented many years before when they first met. She eyed it curiously. I remember this. Where have I seen this before?

Shall we? he hinted with an inviting undulation of his arm.

As if suddenly waking from a somnambulistic intermission, Tereza demurred, I told you, Astor, I’m a married woman. She would resist, she said to herself. She had to resist.

I understand. Astor paused for a persevering moment. Would you prefer to go in first, alone? More discreet that way. I will follow in a few minutes. No one needs know we are together.

She shook her head in disbelief. Astor, your presumptions are, in fact, quite audacious. You know that, right? she said, slightly miffed but charmed as well. You seduce me away from my obligations and bring me to this rather sketchy hotel. She rocked on her heels, glancing sidelong at the building. A foreboding led her eyes to the corner second-floor window. The out-of-place photograph at the museum … could it … Her hand reached for her earlobe and rubbed it absentmindedly. I’m inventing things again. I must be.

The Marienbad, he exclaimed.

Oh yes, I recognize it quite well now. The hotel did not look as bad about a hundred years ago when you and I first spent some time here. You are not terribly subtle, are you, Herr Roth? You assume I will go and jump into the sack with you, she snapped her fingers, just like that.

Do you not wish to? he asked ingenuously. An almost childlike expression accompanied his entreaty.

Tereza gazed into his ageless eyes. She searched for some sort of rationale, something to pin her doubts on. But she could not find one inside those fathomless pools. There, she would drown.

Yes … I do, she confirmed, amazed by the straightforwardness of her reply—no qualms, no misgivings. Tereza smiled and stroked his chin tenderly with the side of her hand. Yes, I do.

He grasped her hand and pressed it against his cheek for a second or two, kissed it, and curled his fingers around hers.

No wedding band, he commented offhandedly.

Tereza gently slid her hand out of his grasp. Caspar and I do not believe in metaphors … in marking our territory, so to speak.

"I see. Then, may I ask, what do you believe in?"

Tereza decided to dismiss that turn in the conversation and briskly marched up the stairs toward the hotel entrance without answering, pausing only to glance at the second-floor window.

Ask for room 237, he called out softly as the door closed behind her.

The hotel lobby was deserted and dingy. The sad smell of mustiness ripened with each step she took to the front desk. Tereza scrutinized the premises. I’d say this museum definitely lacks a few Michelin stars. Mood lighting, if what the inadequate illumination pretended to aspire to, did little to disguise the neglect and decline of the premises. She called, and a swarthy Turk moved lethargically toward the counter.

Are you here for a room? he inquired.

Why else would I be here? she said, bothered by the question.

He looked her up and down. Are you sure?

Yes, of course, I’m sure. Is there one available?

We have many, he answered.

Good, I’d like a room for one night, please.

How will you pay?

By credit card.

We take only Visa or MasterCard.

That’ll be fine. Tereza opened her purse, withdrew a card from her wallet, then, on second thought, quickly reinserted the card back in its slot and replaced it with a credit card used for business purposes. Caspar pays our personal expenses, she reminded herself. It will not do for my husband to find unaccounted hotel receipts when he reconciles our monthly bills. I pull enough all-nighters as it is without …

The Turk eyed her with skepticism. Would you mind signing in, please? He offered Tereza a fountain pen. She scribbled her name on the blank hotel register, handing the pen back as the clerk studied her signature. "Thank you. Mrs. Friedrich, Mrs. Tereza Friedrich, correct?"

Yes.

Would you like one key or two?

One—I’m alone.

Mr. Friedrich will not be joining you? He glanced at her unoccupied ring finger.

No. My business dictates when and where I travel at a moment’s notice. Why am I justifying myself to this moron? she asked herself. Tereza swallowed a mouthful of saliva. You wouldn’t happen to have room 237 available, would you?

I’ll check. Let me see. The hotel clerk turned and browsed through a panel crammed with keys hooked alongside handwritten room numbers. Yes, number 237 is available, as is 234, 235, 236 … He snickered and furnished Tereza with the key to 237. Tereza forced a smile. There you are, Mrs. Friedrich, must be your lucky day.

Tereza took the stairs to the second floor and slipped into the room unnoticed, leaving the door slightly ajar with the key dangling from the lock. Unpinning her hair, she scanned the large chamber. Your basic no-frills, she noted. Threadbare carpet, scabs of wallpaper drooping here and there like yellowed palm fronds, a splash of tile beneath the bathroom sink stained a dirty brown—the perfect place for a tawdry affair, she chided herself. All the same, the shame and self-reproach she anticipated, and even now demanded of herself, remained elusive.

Two opaque windows framed the exterior walls. One looked out onto the main road, the other into an alley. She stood in front of the window overlooking the street and remained there briefly until a sick feeling overcame her so unexpectedly she jumped, bumping into the dresser.

Ouch, she grumbled, stepping away annoyed while glaring at the ugly dresser. The tasteless piece of furniture sagged like a half-melted candle. Tereza made an effort to open several of the warped dresser drawers, but the misshapen wood was jammed so tight she gave up and decided instead to set her bag and hat down on the chair next to it. The earrings and necklace landed inside the purse. Stepping out of her shoes on the way to what may have passed as a brass bed a cataclysm or two ago, Tereza watched Astor glide into the room with a quiet aplomb and lock the door behind him. In one swift motion, he strode up to her and seized her by the shoulders. She smiled with pleasure, her frame wilting like a parched willow.

Then, as sudden and startling as an earthquake, Astor struck her hard across the face with an open hand. She gasped incredulously and braced herself as he raised his arm a second time, hitting her more severely on the other side of her face. Astor beat her repeatedly before she could even utter a sound—before another gagging breath. Struggling madly to free herself, she was about to let loose a cry when he flattened a switchblade on the middle of her forehead. Tereza felt the cold threat of whetted steel against her brow.

Please, don’t hurt me, please, she said, whimpering. Astor, please …

Astor withdrew the knife and pressed the blade to his lips, prompting her silence. Her temples pulsed with anger and shock, but she understood the peril if she did not comply.

Astor gripped her with one hand tight around the collar then inserted the blade between fastenings. With three vehement thrusts, he slashed the buttons off her dress and saw the chic garment crumple to the carpet like discarded litter. She trembled, as much from fear as from the naked chill penetrating her flesh. He slithered the dagger under her brassiere between her breasts and sliced it in half with one effortless tug. Instinctively, her hands reached up to shield her chest, but when he smacked her hard on the head, her arms dropped feebly to her sides. Cowering tears and mucus streaked her face as she sniveled soundlessly. He wrenched her hair back, staring with ferocity into her eyes. Once more, he touched his pale lips with the flat of the blade, instantly suppressing her sniffling cries. Why is he behaving like this? A muffled sob mingled