Enter Through the Bulkhead

By Lavinia M. Hughes

Enter Through the Bulkhead cautiously invites you to leave your every day cares and woes behind and enter this paranormal world of 16 short stories about Massachusetts monsters, time travel, vampires, horror in a Cape Cod village, werewolves, Bigfoot, aliens, ghosts, naughty cars, a lake monster, and even a Nevada ghost town, among other oddities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Waquoit Wordsmith Press
• Release date: Sep 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215413159

Lavinia M. Hughes

Lavinia M. Hughes is the author of Enter Through the Alleyway, her 3rd book of paranormal short stories, which follows Enter Through the Bulkhead, and her first book entitled Enter Through the Crawlspace. The Twilight Zone and the Alfred Hitchcock Hour are her inspirations for these mystical stories that feature drama and a human nature twist. Her other books include An iGen Cookbook for the Unskilled, an instructional cookbook. A native New Englander, she has also co-authored three novels—Newtucket Island, Training Ship, and Cape Car Blues. She lives and writes with her husband and co-author Richard Hughes at their Cape Cod home in the seaside village of Waquoit, Massachusetts.

Book preview

ENTRY

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THE BULKHEAD DOORS open . . .

Betty Nickerson, an 80-year old retired realtor, put the leash on her beloved Beagle, Puck, and walked next door to her neighbor’s house. Julia Banks, 76 years old, met her at the front door and they set off on their daily walk. It was an old, established neighborhood on the west side of Falmouth, Massachusetts, an old money, refined place where Route 28A wound through its shady streets. The route was described as one of the most scenic routes on Cape Cod.

The road passed several cranberry bogs, still in use, and Bourne’s Farm, which was built in 1776 and was now open to the public for weddings or just to walk through on one’s way to the bike path, which used to be railroad tracks for trains to Boston, ending about 1964. They grew pumpkins in the fall. The old barn was still there overlooking a pond, and it was a place of peace and beauty.

In the heart of the village was the West Falmouth Market, a delightful throwback to the old variety stores that used to be prevalent before the chains opened their homogenized one-size-fits-all stores. The market was in an old wood-framed building, had a screen door perfect for slamming, uneven wooden floors, and served a mouth-watering variety of deli food, hot food, donuts, coffee (make it yourself), groceries, and best of all, a pastry case with a photo-worthy selection of cakes from Montilio’s in Quincy, Massachusetts, just an hour away. Montilio’s was famous for making giant cakes for special occasions and even several U.S. presidential inaugurations. It always fascinated people that one could make a cake five feet in diameter.

Betty and Julia walked their usual route past the historical well-kept homes, many of which were weekend places owned by wealthy Bostonians. There was one house that was not well kept.

Betty, you know we walk this way every day and there is never a sign of life at that old thing, said Julia pointing to the decrepit Cape-style house with filthy white paint and, inexplicably, a still brightly painted front door.

I know. I looked it up on the Registry of Deeds website a while ago and someone still owns it, obviously. Don’t know if they keep up with the property taxes, said Betty

I’ve lived here for 40 years and I’ve never seen it lived in, said Julia.

You’d think they’d sell it. I mean, this is a nice part of town, desirable, easy commute to the highway. The house is most likely a teardown at this point, said Betty.

It’s so forbidding looking. I swear it’s growling at us. Between the weeds, the broken windows, the cheesy No Trespassing sign on the front door, the rusty bulkhead that’s always open, I don’t know who’d want to even look at it. Too bad someone doesn’t buy it and show it some love, said Julia.

I wonder what they’re waiting for. I’ve lived here longer than you have and it’s always looked like that. Oh well, said Betty and they resumed their walk and talked of pleasant things, like the upcoming Pumpkin Festival.

Lu was a handsome man, the object of desire. Men wanted to be him and women wanted to be with him. He was 6’2, a fit 180 pounds, with dark hair, dark eyes that some described as almost black, and sometimes a neat goatee. He always dressed well because he felt that clothes made the man. On Cape Cod, a truly well dressed man was a rarity when most inhabitants—men and women—preferred a scruffy always on vacation" look of shorts all year round, the ubiquitous black leggings, or jeans and tee shirt. Since there were no poisonous snakes to worry about, flip flops were almost the uniform of the day in the summer.

So Lu stood out in his well pressed khaki pants, neat polo shirts, or even a blazer over dress slacks. When it was cooler, he often sported a suit, always with trendy, well-shined shoes. His neighbors just assumed he was a bigwig with business in Boston or even internationally, as he traveled a lot. No one was quite sure where he lived.

This fine early fall day, he dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and red tie, and stopped by his usual haunt, the West Falmouth Market. He walked in, taking care to gently close the screen door, not slam it like the other customers. He made himself a large cup of dark roast coffee, preferring to take it black, bought a Devil’s food donut, his one indulgence, and purchased a Wall Street Journal. He took everything outside and set himself up at one of the outdoor tables, enjoying his morning snack and perusing the paper.

He paid particular attention to the business pages, then turned to politics, making notes on his cell phone app. He smiled to himself as if he had discovered something, threw his empty coffee cup into the trash barrel, folded up the paper, and told the ladies looking for a table that he was leaving and they were welcome to the paper. They smiled at him and his good looks, giggled girlishly, and thanked him as they sat down. He bowed to them just a bit and got into his hired limo that had pulled up in front of the market to take him to Logan Airport.

Lu was dropped off right at the American Airlines gate and got out, carrying only a small expensive looking carry-on bag. He always believed that if one carried an oversized bulky suitcase, it was the mark of an amateur. He stowed his bag under his seat and got settled with a copy of Paradise Lost. It was a long flight to Istanbul, Turkey, before his connecting flight on Turkish Airlines. He tapped the man in front of him on the shoulder and asked him politely if he could raise his seat a bit, as it was leaning so far back, it was practically in his face. The response was less than polite.

I’ll do what I want. Screw you. Get another seat! said the man, now visibly angry, his face red.

The other passengers shifted uncomfortably in their seats, hoping that nothing would escalate this early in the flight. Lu said nothing, but got up to look for the flight attendant. Entering the galley, he tapped one of them on the shoulder and asked, Excuse me, miss, but the passenger in front of me has his seat almost fully reclined and it’s in my face. I asked him nicely to move it up a bit, but he refused. Can you help?

She grew angry and followed him back to his seat to talk to the miscreant. Sir! Put your seat back up this instant! You have inconvenienced this gentleman! She said vehemently, actually screaming, losing the ladylike conciliatory tone that she usually adopted. It was like something evil came over her." The man reluctantly raised his seat, turning around to glare at Lu, who smiled serenely back at him.

His flight finally landed, over 10 hours later, in Istanbul. He had an hour to kill before his flight to Moscow, so he decided to get a drink. He walked over to one of the nicer bars in the airport, which had a distant view of the city. He took a seat at the bar and admired the ceiling’s archways done in intricate Byzantine tiles in a blue, turquoise, and green elaborate pattern. While he waited for his black martini, a couple came in and sat down beside him, the only seats left in the lounge. They were in their mid-20s and seemed to be in love from their longing looks, flirtatious conversation, and touching each other’s arms. The woman’s tiny shoulder purse fell off of her shoulder without her noticing.

Lu picked it up, tapped her on the shoulder and said, Excuse me, miss, you dropped your purse, as he handed it to her.

Oh, thank you, she said as she smiled at the handsome Lu. She then resumed her conversation with her boyfriend, which over the course of just a few minutes, grew increasingly heated. She then took her drink and threw it in the boyfriend’s face, much to his surprise, as he grabbed for a napkin. They were soon screaming at each other, as Lu finished up his drink, smiled to himself, then headed for his gate.

As Lu walked through the international airport, he noticed a Bulgari jewelry store. He always liked to pick up a few things for future gift giving when he had the opportunity, as shopping on Cape Cod was limited. He perused the selection, finding everything beautiful and expensive, which was no surprise to him. As he shopped, he noticed a young woman, dressed in a long Bohemian style dress, with numerous bracelets, long hair, and sandals, looking at the bracelets. Lu, whose polish and executive bearing always caused people to trust him, asked to see the serpentine bracelet, in white 24K gold, with emeralds for eyes. It was $29,000 USD, so the clerk stayed close by as Lu examined it and declared it perfect for his girlfriend. Lu got out his American Express Centurion card, a black one, for those who spend $100,000 a year. The clerk’s eyes grew large. He was impressed.

You know what? I think I’ll take two—one for each arm. She’ll love them, said Lu to the clerk. Leaving one bracelet out as the clerk went to fetch another from the back room, Lu tapped the Bohemian woman on the shoulder. You want this? Take it. I’m paying. Really, take it. It’ll be fine. I’ve had a successful year. My treat.

Her eyes grew big as she grabbed the bracelet, adding the $29,000 bracelet to her armful of cheap $2 bangles. Thank you! She ran out the door to the terminal complex and walked quickly, half expecting to get caught.

When the clerk came back, Lu said, That young woman just took the serpentine bracelet I was looking at. She just grabbed it. She ran in that direction, as he pointed the way.

The clerk called Airport Security, who caught her quickly. Lu could hear her screaming at them as they physically restrained her, But he gave it to me! He said it was his treat!

Who, miss? asked one of the security guards.

That guy there—the good looking guy, as she pointed to the entrance of Bulgari Jewelers. But Lu had told the clerk he changed his mind about the purchase and had already left the shop for his gate to the Turkish Airlines flight to Moscow.

When he got off the plane, he hailed a taxi and, speaking Russian to the taxi driver, asked to be driven to the Kremlin. The driver raised his eyebrows as he studied Lu in his rear view mirror, but said nothing, assuming he was either a spy or some kind of bolʹshaya shishka, or big shot. Saying nothing one didn’t have to was the Russian way and had been for over 100 years. Lu directed him to a rear door of Kremlin offices that the driver never would have found on his own. Lu paid him, tipping him generously, receiving a hearty blagodarnost or thanks.

Lu entered through the rear door and was met by President Putin’s chief of staff. They greeted each other warmly in Russian on the long walk down red carpeted corridors to see Putin, temporarily using the conference room while his office was being redecorated for the 10th time. Putin sat regally at the head of a 20-foot long conference table. He smiled and got up when Lu entered, walked over to him, shook his hand in a warm, two-handed shake then, uncharacteristically, gave Lu a short hug. Putin gestured to him to sit down while he called for tea from his aide.

While they waited for the tea, Lu said to him, "Itak, ty sdelal khorosho, moy drug, or in English, So, you did good, my friend. Putin retorted, saying I couldn’t have attacked Ukraine without your encouragement."

Lu smiled and said, jokingly in Russian, I’ll send you my bill. They both laughed at that too heartily, Putin’s laugh petering out soon. He looked sad.

They chatted for a while over tea, served customarily boiling hot, then shook hands again and Lu took his leave.

Putin sat there after Lu left, not smiling, and just stared at the wall till his aide came in with more bad news.

Lu took a flight from Moscow on Air China, then transferred from Shanghai to an Air Koryo flight to Pyongyang, North Korea. He spoke in Korean to the taxi driver, who drove him directly to Kim Jong Un’s residence, or presidential palace whose devoted minions—the ones who hadn’t yet starved to death—called the Central Luxury Mansion. The taxi driver was hesitant when Lu gave him the address and asked Lu if he was sure he could gain entrance.

Oh, yes, he’s expecting me. He owes me, so he’ll let me in, he said laughing as if what Dear Leader owed him was just a small gambling debt. As the taxi driver went through the gates attached to an electrified fence, Lu scoonched over on the seat, lowered the window, glared at the security guard and muttered something in Korean. The guard’s eyes got big and he quickly raised the gate, allowing them access to the palace. Lu motioned the driver to let him out at the front entrance and told him to wait. He paid him, tipping him well, which earned him a big, relieved smile from the driver, and went inside. The giant front doors opened, as if automatically, and Lu strode confidently through the foyer and directly up to Kim Jon Un’s office.

Kim was sitting at his desk eating a giant lunch, much too much food for one such as him, who had obviously never missed a meal. Lu looked at the pile of food disparagingly, then at Kim Jon Un. The dear leader looked embarrassed and shoved the plate of food to one side, smiling sycophantically and walking over to Lu to shake his hand warmly. He motioned him to his conference table and bid him sit down. Lu looked him straight in the eyes and said, uliui haegsilheom-eun eotteohge jinhaengdoego issseubnikka? wolgan, segyeui hang-uiedo bulguhago balabnida. Or, in English, "How is our nuclear testing proceeding? Monthly, despite the world's protests, I hope."

Kim Jong Un looked a bit frightened, and answered as if he was in the Headmaster’s office, "ne, jal doego issseubnida. ulineun olbaleun gil-eul gago issseubnida. Or, in English, Yes, Sir, it’s going well. We’re right on track."

Lu, continuing the conversation in Korean, said, gravely, I know you’ve had a setback since our partner lost his re-election in the United States.

Kim Jong Un replied, Yes, but he’s clever. He still hasn’t admitted that he lost his election.

Fair enough, we must be patient, said Lu. They shook hands again, Kim Jong Un practically breaking his face in a nervous grin, which lasted only till Lu’s retreating footsteps could be heard in the hallway, then the sweat on Kim’s face dripped into his eyes, stinging them. He grabbed his set-aside lunch plate and resumed devouring its contents.

Kim Jong Un kindly lent Lu his private jet to fly to South Korea, where he boarded a United Airlines flight for the 15+ hour flight to Palm Beach, Florida. There was a two-hour layover in Atlanta, Georgia, which Lu would find welcome. He liked to stretch his legs after a long flight. He chuckled to himself about the Atlanta stop. It was said that if Jesus made a second coming, he’d have a stopover in Atlanta.  Ha ha, thought Lu, my old friend. Maybe we’d even meet up at the judgmental Chick-fil-a for a bite.

Finally, his plane left Atlanta for Palm Beach International Airport, where he disembarked and called for an Uber, directing him to Mar-a-Lago. They drove through the Moorish gate, and he admired the beautiful grounds and the Mediterranean-revival style of the mansion, previously owned by Marjorie Merriweather Post, who inherited the Post Cereal Company, later to become General Foods. He told the driver to wait, as he wouldn’t be long. The car swung him up to the front door, a study in wrought iron attached to an impressive stone home. The heavy door was flanked by two large stone lions. A butler answered the door, but Lu didn’t wait for the pleasantries, brushing past him and walking directly to the Orange One’s office.

Trump looked up guiltily as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. In a hail-fellow-well-met tone, he yelled (which he did when nervous) Lu! So glad to see you. How are you?

Lu didn’t smile back or shake hands. I thought we had an agreement. You managed to screw that up royally. What happened?

It’s the dishonesty of the American people, Lu, I tell you. They have always treated me unfairly, very unfairly. And they lie! They lie so bad!

Did they? I think it’s just simple math, Donald. You made them so angry instead of schmoozing all of them—yes, even the Democrats—like I told you. We had you perfectly set up. Your opponent actually did get more votes than you. A lot more.

Lu, Lu, old buddy, old pal. I’m gonna run again. Will you help me?

Lu didn’t answer,