The Handyman

By Gary Karibyan

Eighteen-year-old Jack spent his life in Chester, New York until the day an armed man broke into his place and murdered his parents. Tormented by his guilt, he moves to New York City to find a job and escape his past. Under pressure, Jack signs a questionable lease with a married pair of landlords.

Just days later, the handyman of the building dies unexpectedly, and Jack is offered the job. It’s not long after accepting the position that his nightmare begins. Caught between the slumlord owners and mysterious beings that haunt the building, Jack struggles to maintain his sanity as the tenants die around him. Will he be next?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Karibyan
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005549503

Gary Karibyan

Gary loves reading and writing fantasy and horror thriller stories. His frequent trips to the mystical mountains, the dramatic sea cliffs, spooky urban settings, and visits to eerie archeological sites are ingrained in his stories.An adventurer and a curious creature, Gary has traveled frequently in New England and Nova Scotia, exploring the landscapes, the architecture, learning about the history and the people, which make up most of the characters and settings in his stories. He’s currently revising The Curse at the Lighthouse Cottage.Gary lives and writes in Nova Scotia. He enjoys hiking and traveling with his wife and mutt.

Book preview

One

Jack Fields sat in the rear of the ambulance.

His heart pounded, on the brink of giving up while he felt a tingling in his loose arms and legs. He gasped, and his mind struggled with disbelief as he gazed at the second stretcher gliding into the vehicle. He brainstormed plans to move while observing the crime scene unfolding. It was a gusty August Friday night when his suburban modest home in Chester hosted a cluster of slack-jawed and bulgy-eyed residents.

The rear doors of the coroner’s van slammed shut. Jack’s ears resonated, and he felt a jolt of high electrical current zap his body.

The medical examiner’s van bolted toward the hill.

Jack rose and inched away from the ambulance. His eyes rained as he watched the vehicle vanish into the darkness.

Mr. Fields? a voice traveled from behind. Jack didn’t have the strength to turn his head around. The sound of clicking heels grew louder. Mr. Fields? A woman holding a loaded briefcase stopped before Jack. Do you have a place to stay? He wiped his tears, then stared toward the hill, wondering if his parents were really gone.

I could drop you at the Young Christian Shelter. They have beds and—

I’ll be fine. He stepped away to leave, but she held his hand.

I’m a social worker. I’m here to help.

I know where to go. Jack fought her hand off, and then left. He padded down the street, leaving his childhood home behind. The streetlamp stretched his shadow behind him, toward the house he had lived. The sea of wary people turned into specks, and their sound faded as he entered a gloomy street he had named the Road to Nowhere.

Two minutes to midnight. The rubber wheels of a Greyhound screeched at the bus stop. Jack boarded the coach.

***

The dawn skies hung above the pine trees and overgrown weeds on the distant horizon. Jack felt the scorching heat whipping at his head upon Bedford Street in Woodbury. The town was twenty miles from the sea of Manhattan’s towering structures, where oversized billboards displayed jewelry ads, half an hour away from the Metropolitan Transit Authority train terminus in Brooklyn.

The smell of morning brew spread throughout Starbucks. Jack fired his laptop up and searched for apartments. Most patrons were alone and busy texting, streaming, or browsing on their electronic gadgets. Jack pulled out his phone and dialed.

***

At the intersection, Jack jogged with a solid posture. His feet slapped the sidewalk of the isolated Black Oak Road. When he set foot in a deserted lot in the industrial zone, he saw a cracked billboard standing atop an abandoned mill advertising a cheap motel not too far from the Big Apple. The faded Wanted for Murder posters pasted to the road posts ornamented the town.

Earphones plugged in, he tapped the screen on his phone to listen to the next song. The eighteen-year-old, wearing drab jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt, slumped his shoulders, and sweat streamed from his forehead. He passed a rusted, flipped Chevy lying in a nearby field, which spread a harsh smell of corroded iron.

Jack’s pace decreased as he drew close to a dead-end where a secluded and crumbled three-story brownstone apartment rested: the 1761 Williamsburg Housing Building. His shabby clothes matched the state of the dwelling. He checked the time on the phone and swore. The pile-up on Interstate 87 this morning had backed traffic up, stranding him and the Greyhound till noon.

Two crows alighted on the gate along the alley beside the building chirped, and then flew opposite direction.

A sidewalk stretched only in front of the home. Near the dense field where the pavement ended, a slanted yellow cul-de-sac sign posted on a slab of concrete was erected. Jack halted in front of the residence at the end of the route. He caught a whiff of sunflowers, and the pain drifted away and released the toxic mental images looming in his thoughts.

The rundown and eerie brownstone building sat next to neglected ragweed, contorted shrubs, and dying grass. A strange sensation of alienation and unease prickled his body when he gazed at the eyesore, a lonely dead tree in the remote greenery. A scarecrow guarded the entrance to the cemetery. Crows perched on the steel grate cawed at the gloomy sky and fled. A tiny brook that flowed through the scattered tombstones snaked toward the hills.

Jack was captivated by this familiar scene. His skin tingled as he imagined living here. The side of the detached building was stained with roof tar and bird poop. The missing bricks and dirty, cracked windows of the hunched architecture were reminiscent of the spooky towns he’d seen in spaghetti Western movies. The attic boasted an oval-shaped window made of color tiles. Atop the colored pieces of inlaid glass sat a tall Gothic spire with a belfry without a bell. The building, a hidden gem, a legacy from the early century, held no sway over Jack’s decisions.

A voice uttered, Mac Reeds?

Jack started. That’s Jack Fields.

Holding a faux-leather briefcase with a plastic handle, and wearing a dull sweater, grungy sneakers, and bargain-basement shades, the landlord leaned forward. Is it for the one-bedroom unit at seven hundred?

Jack stood before the narrow gravel path that led to the backyard. He observed the guy, and then the aged façade standing out in the vista. He plucked out a section from The New York Post and showed the ad to the property owner. It says six hundred in here?

It must be a typo.

Forget it. I’ll shop around, said Jack. He turned to leave.

Mr. Samuel Greene closed in, blocking Jack’s way, and waved his hand at Jack to enter the building. No. It is a nice place.

Jack paused and struggled to filter his opinions as doubts lingered. His facial muscles tightened, and he sighed as he threw a glance at the odd steeple. What is that thing?

A visit won’t hurt, said the landlord.

Jack gazed again, avoiding the colors of the mosaic to concentrate on the dark belfry. I have other places to check.

The walk here must have tired you.

Jack nodded.

Why won’t you check it out?

Two

The door creaked and slammed shut as Jack entered a new world. He became uneasy, felt somewhat trapped and obliged to check out the unit. A wave of sudden heat came over him. Jack noticed something peculiar on the door and worst-case scenarios reeled in his mind in parallel with a recent trauma. The hinges are loose. You’ll have to tighten the screws.

An indifferent Mr. Greene headed straight. The janitor will look after it.

The heavy smell of mold penetrated Jack’s nostrils, and he choked in the oppressive stuffy air. There was a thick layer of dust spread on the cavetto moldings. His throat grew itchy, and then the mustiness teased his nostrils. His deafening sneeze caused the landlord to jerk.

Four studio apartments sat on the ground floor: units 1 and 3 on the left, and units 2 and 4 on the right. The dim lighting exposed the uneven sanded patches of putty, dents, and fingerprint smears spread throughout on the chipped mustard walls. The dusty brass images of pale and worn-out ghastly faces from an earlier generation tingled his nerves. There was something peculiar about those mad faces. He wondered if they lived in the building.

Doubts lingered on moving into such quarters. He hustled past the lengthy cobwebs with a cluster of spiders wandering atop. The relaxed landlord strolled without attention while Jack startled when he saw the swaying cheap chandelier hung above them. His heart pounded, and he propelled forward. It was a large lighting fixture with multiple bulbs designed to fit dining rooms and living rooms only. Lights flickered. Eyes wide and mouth open, he faced the swinging pendant.

He shook his head. I’m sorry.

The landlord’s voice pierced the corridor, What’s the matter?

That thing—

The light?

Yeah.

Don’t worry, it’s still holding. Henry will repair it.

He should tuck the wires in and—

The janitor will fix it.

He must be very busy.

An awkward moment of silence lingered. Jack and Mr. Greene approached the staircase, which faced a door. In between, there was an obstructed fire exit door. Droplets plunged to the ground from the fissures above them. Jack coughed up phlegm while climbing the creaking steps of the bleak and stuffy stairwell while their shadows chased them along the wall.

Is it here? asked Jack, nerves tingling and seeking reassurance.

They got to the top of the first flight, which resembled the main level, with its awful and cardboard-quality walls and ceiling.

Glenn lives in unit 5, and Ray in unit 6.

Jack’s curious eyes fixated on the stained and bumpy brick wall. He wondered if that wall used to be an emergency outlet? No exit doors on each floor? The landlord was a few feet ahead of him. Jack wasn’t sure if he heard him. The oil on canvas paintings of distorted faces mocking the silence in the hallway irked him. Who are these people?

Mr. Greene glimpsed at the portrait of a guy dressed in a somber suit with rough facial features and blushed. Ray is in unit 6, and Glenn—

I know. I meant the portraits.

The portraits came with the building.

They arrived at the second flight.

Jack’s turbulent mind whirled with doubts about the stability of the dwelling. The continuous squeaking of the steps and the scurrying of the mice in the ceiling’s century-old beams made his skull throb.

Most tenants are early birds, said the landlord out of nowhere.

They reached the gloomy and airless third floor. The landlord led Jack to apartment 7, just across from unit 8. The temperature in Jack’s body increased even more, and he released a loud gasp. He drew close to the scratched, filthy, and condemned window at the end of the hall.

The owner drew out a clashing set of keys. Despite the overpowering depressing halls, a hint of a smile radiated from Jack. He imagined moving in and living his dream, having his own place. Mr. Greene inserted a key into the lock and swiveled it for half a minute. Jack offered to help the nervous landlord as he fought with the keys.

I got it, roared the man.

Jack commented, It costs two bucks for twenty-five ID tags.

The landlord inserted another key and twisted the knob. The deadbolt clicked.

Three

Jack entered unit 7 with eyes widened. A grin touched his lips. He stood in the vast kitchen surrounded by tobacco-yellow walls. The torn vinyl tiles showed signs of years of neglect. It was a disturbed sequence of black-and-white tiles, some missing, and some were placed wrongly, messing with the pattern symmetry. Mr. Greene paused before the rear-door window, blocking the view, but Jack noticed the neighboring rundown building through the kitchen window.

Maggots crawled in the sink decorated with beer bottles, dried marmalade, and filth. Jack’s nostrils shrunk as the foul smell hit them. He swung wide the doors of the unleveled cupboard, revealing a poster of a nude brunette and a Harley Davidson logo sticker. The drawers held burnt spoons, a box of baking soda, bits of crumpled aluminum foil, and stained spreading knives.

The landlord approached. Henry will clean up. That repetitive soundtrack rattled Jack’s ears. The kitchen is spacious. Lots of room to cook. Mr. Greene’s insincere laugh, an undesirable noise, resonated.

Jack headed to the corridor to inspect the rest of the unit.

The building owner lunged ahead of him, blocking the potential tenant’s path. I picture you in this apartment. You’re going to love it. So, what do you think?

Deep in his thoughts, questions bombarded. Should I rent this place or not? Jack stared at the missing tiles and the tilted cupboards one last time to make a decision.

Where you from? the landlord asked.

Chester.

Occupation?

A jittery Jack brought forth the shame within, he looked away. I don’t have a job now. He bent his head. I can assure you I have enough savings to cover the first three months.

A smile surfaced on the old man’s face. Jack imagined the landlord was a sympathetic man. This is Woodbury. You ain’t going to find any cheaper. The building has a great rating, said Mr. Greene.

Jack felt hesitant as the depressing walls lowered his spirits and a cloud of self-doubts lingered. He sighed. Place needs a serious paint job. Finger pointing at the canted cupboard, That thing’s crooked and—

I have paint in the car. I will call Henry for the shelves.

Six hundred, and I’ll take it.

Do you want the furniture?

Yes.

There’s a one-hundred-dollar deposit.

What? You got to be kidding me.

It is common practice to ask for a deposit for furniture and appliances.

Jack gazed at the ads on the newspaper, scattered with circles and addresses he had jotted. There were a couple priced at six-fifty. Got a few more places to see.

I thought you liked the place.

I need to make an educated decision. I will decide tonight and get back to you tomorrow.

Don’t wait till your hair turns gray. No guarantee it will still be available, let alone at this rate.

Jack’s shoulders slumped.

Mr. Greene added, There are over one hundred and fifty apartments posted for rent. How many did you find under six hundred dollars?

A moment of silence followed.

Think about it.

They may be in better condition, Jack said.

In the outskirts of the Big Apple? The landlord’s bitter laughter cracked the air.

Jack nodded.

The landlord checked his watch. I have nine visits this evening.

I need to go to the ATM.

No worries. Mr. Greene pulled out a fancy device from the briefcase: a wireless payment processing terminal. He showed Jack his palm, asking for his card.

His face fell, and he felt checkmated, but an idea occurred to him. I could wire you the money tonight.

I accept plastic only. He pulled out a charger from his portable suitcase and hooked one end to the wireless terminal and the other to the outlet on the wall. It consisted of a one-by-four-inch rectangular box with two wires: one end to the output of the terminal, and the other to the electrical outlet. There was also a tiny slot to insert a memory card.

Jack sensed an overwhelming supernatural force pulling his strings. Exhausted, he realized he needed shelter without delay. He closed his eyes with passion and imagined seeing himself living in a large one-bedroom suite. He drew out his thin wallet.

Mr. Greene did not waste a minute snatching Jack’s card, punching in seven hundred dollars, and inserting the card into the chip reader of the terminal. Jack keyed in his PIN.

Mr. Greene stepped aside to try and avoid the dangling power cord but, instead, stepped on it with clumsiness. The cord unplugged. A short beep sounded instantaneously. Jack leaned forward to check the error message displayed on the screen of the terminal, but the landlord retreated and plugged the charger back to the power outlet.

Is there a problem? asked Jack. He knew the issue was not with the power. Just like a mobile phone. When it’s dead, it’s dead. You can’t place calls or send texts or browse the internet.

Transaction got declined.

Jack’s legs trembled. I don’t understand. I have two thousand and four hundred dollars in my checking account. Sweat streamed on his forehead.

No signal. It happens.

No signal around New York City?

Mr. Greene keyed in seven hundred dollars again and inserted the card.

Jack entered his PIN once more. He saw something peculiar on the black box of the power adaptor as he waited. It lasted only a few seconds, though, a narrow display with 0s and 1s rolling. Mr. Greene was quick to cover the black rectangular part of the charger with his palm. It’s probably to show the battery level? No clue. Never seen a wireless processing terminal charger. Four seconds later, paper came out of the printer.

Approved. The landlord handed him the key.

Please, fix the issues.

The landlord turned around. With his back facing Jack, he said, I’ll check with Henry. He fled.

Jack dropped his bags.

***

Outside, before the building, a kid with keen wide eyes parked his bike against the wall near the door. He pulled out his phone and texted his friend. Mr. Greene stepped out. The door closed. The boy leaned forward, pulled out a chocolate-coated almond bar, and reached for Mr. Greene’s hand. Sir, encourage us with the Flushing Shelter Program. Five dollars.

Mr. Greene’s eyes scanned the candy with disgust. Five bucks?

Nine if you buy two.

Don’s Jaymart sells two for three dollars.

Sir, we need support to build a shack at Saranac Lake Camp.

The landlord shook his head. He walked away.

Crouched before the entrance, the child placed the chocolate back into his pack. The door squeaked as it opened slowly on its own. He rose, strapped the backpack on, and climbed up the steps to enter the building. The kid crossed the dim passageway and knocked on door 4, the first unit to his right. No answer.

He turned around, and his phone buzzed as he received a text message. The kid replied, the keystrokes emitting loud clicks. He put the phone away, continued his path toward unit 2, and stalled. His mouth opened. A pale entity with shadowy facial features stood near the staircase at the top of the gloomy hall. The kid sprang out of the dwelling, hopped on his bicycle, and dashed toward civilization.

***

Inside unit 7, Jack unloaded his bags. He rubbed his stomach as he craved for carbs.

The planks clattered when Jack descended the stairs in the hallway.

He strolled on the ground floor and passed the open door of unit 1. He leaped, and his mind raced as a purple varicose-veined clammy hand squeezed his arm. The old man showed his sole, yellow tooth, and then he whispered, Greed…

Limbs quivering, Jack attempted to break off the man’s grip.

"It’s the