Chords of Time

By Gregory T. Glading

The Summer of 1961. Camelot. The Twist. Elvis and Marilyn. Mantle and Maris. An alluring but deadly female entity who has sworn vengeance on mankind since creation has brought death and horror to a Philadelphia suburb. A mysterious woman of unsurpassed beauty and a mesmerizing singing voice named Isolde Maria arrives to choose and then guide a youth to defeat her and send her to the pit. After a glitch releases her, she torments the city of Philadelphia. Only the son of her chosen can beat her. Isolde Maria must now go to the 21st Century and bring him back to 1961 and finish the fight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798890612618

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Part 1

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Part II

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

13

14

14

15

Gotterdammerung

Epilogue

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Chords of Time

Gregory T. Glading

Copyright © 2024 Gregory T. Glading

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89061-260-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89061-261-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Part 1

July 15, 1961

Faster, Scott Douglas rode his bike down Sycamore Drive. For luck, he had clothespinned a Mickey Mantle baseball card to his rear spokes and a Willie Mays card to the front. Another box of greeting cards sold! The clicks turned into a whir. Just one more sale for the big prize! Although unathletic, the fourteen-year-old was poised to make Eagle Scout. Today he wore his Boy Scout uniform with merit badges to sway prospects. He sped across a stone bridge spanning Ethan Creek, leaving newer homes behind and entering an older Stanforth, Pennsylvania, neighborhood. A right turn on Runnymede Avenue and bigger homes to canvas.

Scott's peers called him Dogface. He tempered it by telling himself and others that the toughest US Marine in World War II had the same nickname. Gunny Dogface, Scott explained, stormed the beaches of Iwo Jima and single handedly killed over a hundred Japs. Curiosity mixed with fear stopped him in front of the Bryant House, named after a Civil War veteran former owner. Neither Scott or anyone else knew of its current resident. Talk went from a lonely spinster to an evil witch. Tales of kids daring to enter and dying were rife. The white paint of the two-storied house's wood siding was chipped and faded. The house had dual roof copulas flanking an off-center Victorian turret. Two second-story dormer windows were bare and dark, lacking any shutters or drapes. A front porch spread the length of the house.

An older woman beckoned him with a smile and a wave. He gasped as a rusty black gate opened by itself. Through his squinting eyes, she looked like a kind grandmother. Clad in a pastel dress, she wore her gray hair in a neat bun. She again smiled and waved. Maybe she'll buy a box of cards, he thought. Bucking intuition, he walked his prize Schwinn Mark IV Jaguar bike along a weedy pathway to the house. Bare patches of lawn clashed with overgrown grass. Prickly vines strangled a misshapen oak tree and birch tree.

Come in, Scott. I've been waiting for you. She motioned him into the house.

Yes, ma'am. Um…how did you know my name? Scott leaned his bike on the porch and climbed the four steps.

You're about to make Eagle Scout. Everyone in town is talking about it. You're a legend. She smiled. Come on in.

Scott blushed then confidently entered the house. The aroma of freshly baked cherry pie overcame the pungence of musty, worn furniture. Well, ma'am, I am here—

She held up her hand. Call me Lily.

Umm… Yes, Miss Lily. I am here because I am selling these swell greeting cards. Scott took a box from his backpack. Have a look. He took a card from the box. They are good for any occasion, any holiday. He showed her a card with a picture of a white hatted cowboy twirling a lasso while riding a chestnut horse. The salutation read, Greetings, Partner. If I sell just one more box, I win a genuine US Army land navigation compass. With it, I can lead our next Boy Scout hike—Scott beamed and shook his hands—and win the big merit badge that I need for Eagle Scout.

I think we can do something for you. Lily perused the greeting card. In the meanwhile, I know you would like a piece of hot cherry pie and some vanilla ice cream. I got Basset's.

I don't know, Miss Lily. My father's a dentist. He doesn't let me eat sweets.

Nonsense. Lily stood up. You're a big boy now. You're fourteen, not seven. After all, you're going to be an Eagle Scout. The pie smells good, doesn't it?

Scott nervously nodded.

Isn't it time you grow into a man? Would Gunny Dogface be too afraid to eat a piece of pie and ice cream just because someone won't let him?

How do you know about Gunny Dogface? Scott's jaw dropped.

I know that you made him up. Lily softened her voice. But Gunny Dogface lives in you, so he's real. He's brave. And patriotic. Just like an Eagle Scout? Right? Lily looked Scott in the eyes and smiled.

But it's my father's rule. No sweets. He's a dentist, you know. And Boy Scout law says be obedient.

You just said that an Eagle Scout is patriotic. Right?

Scott nodded.

The Germans obeyed Hitler. Right?

Scott again nodded.

You don't want to be like an enemy of America, do you?

No. No. Never, Scott answered. I love my country, Miss Lily.

Okay then. Lily raised her hand and smiled. I will go and get you a piece of my delicious cherry pie. I worked on it all day—Lily smiled—just for you. She winked. And vanilla ice cream.

While she was gone, Scott felt uneasy. Something's not right. He looked around. I can't disobey my dad and violate Boy Scout law. Again scanning the room, he noticed a macabre doll collection. A disturbing portrait of a dour looking nineteenth-century farmer with a goat hung on the wall.

Here you are, Scott. Lily placed the cherry Pie à la mode in front of him. Eat up.

Scott gingerly took a bite. It's delicious! I never tasted anything so good!

You're independent now. Isn't that what George Washington fought for? And isn't cherry pie a tradition on Washington's birthday? Lily winked. You can enjoy whatever you want now. Hey. Let me make it even better, I am going to the kitchen to get you some chocolate syrup.

After Lily left, Scott felt jittery. I made a big mistake, he thought. The doll collection stirred a wave of fear. Scott hated dolls. His parents often bought his sister, Kate, dolls, usually for no reason. Anytime he wanted something, his parents told him to go out and earn it or wait until Christmas. Scott stood. He wanted to bolt. Suddenly the screen door closed and locked by itself. He gasped.

He looked at the dolls. Their eyes now shone like polished black alabaster, boring through him. He wanted to cry but could only stutter in cackles. He then shrieked as a vivified Betsy Wetsy doll walked in from the kitchen.

Remember me. The doll walked closer to Scott. You hated me. Your parents bought me for your sister, Kate. Only because they loved her more than you. But Kate loved me. I was her favorite. What did you do? The doll pointed at him.

No! No! No! Scott covered his eyes. Tears oozed through his fingers.

Look at me, damn you! The doll snarled at him. You picked me up and smashed my head on a table! You thought destroying me would kill Kate and you would have your mother all to yourself! But what did you get?

Scott gasped. Tears blurred his vision.

Your father made you pull down your pants and bend over. She paused for effect. Then he whipped your ass with a belt! Then he made you buy Kate a new one. But I am not the new one. I am the old one. The one whose head you smashed over the table. Betsy Wetsy's head burst, and blood erupted from her neck like a geyser.

Scott's sphincter spasmed. Twice. He next felt warm urine flowing down his pant leg.

He covered his eyes and screamed. When he opened his eyes, he saw a life-size anthropomorphization of Kate's Barbie doll.

Remember me? Barbie approached. You kissed me, you sick bastard. She pointed at him. The filth of your vile act shocked you. Didn't it! But you kissed me again. This time longer and with your filthy tongue.

Scott blubbered.

You then threw me into the weeds. You thought throwing me away throws away your filthy deed. You thought that made it never happen. Well, it happened! You did it! She pointed at him. Pervert!

Scott cried in gasps.

You violated me! You stole my innocence! Well, I am back now. You know what happened to me in the weeds? Worms and cockroaches burst through her cheeks. Her feminine voice changed into a deep, masculine gnash. Now you're going to pay.

Scott howled. He saw that the portrait of the farmer turned into a demonic entity with a man's body but with female breasts and a goat's head. He looked at the pie à la mode. Maggots were feasting on the pie. The ice cream had melted and curdled. Two cockroaches sipped it. Scott hurled.

Lily entered. "Dogface. You don't look like a Marine. You don't act like one either. Stop crying, you candy-assed sissy. You know that you got that nickname because you're ugly. Some boys your age have already lost their virginity. The most you've done is kiss a Barbie doll. Ha! Ha!

Ha! No girl wants a dog faced boy. You're no bad boy with a motorcycle either. You're a square Boy Scout with a bicycle. And you think a girl is impressed with a Boy Scout uniform? Maybe a queer, but not a girl. I bet a scout master is already grooming you. Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh, and did you think that I was always old? A haze covered Lily. Several seconds later it cleared.

Scott had stopped crying. He was now gasping.

Lily transformed into a woman in her early twenties. Long red hair flared like strands of fire. Her lips, nails, and irises looked as if sprinkled with coal dust, contrasting with her porcelain-white complexion. A feminine hawk nose and a sharp jawline angled to a honed chin. Her red robe was gossamer flimsy and translucent. "Remember when girls had chests flat like yours?

Those days are over." Lily's breasts started to grow and develop. Her bust and nipples burst through her gown.

In a daze, he recalled his mother. Scott had traded a Hank Aaron, a Ted Williams, and a Richie Ashburn baseball card for a Playboy magazine. Scott hid it under his mattress. He took it out when certain his parents slept. One night his secret act ended in staining the centerfold. Disgusted and shocked, he tossed it in the waste bin.

The next morning, he got a rude awakening.

What's this? His mother scowled and shoved the magazine edge in his face.

Before he could answer, Pow! His mother slapped him brisk and hard. The sting made him cry. You must be twenty-one to have this. You can get sent to reform school. The Scouts would kick you out. What would Reverend Gallaway say? What about God? He might damn you to hell for this. She prodded at him. I won't tolerate this in my house. She tossed the magazine back in the waste bin. Take this. She shoved the waste bin in his chest. "Take it to the dumpster behind Hobson's Store and get rid of it. Do it now and it will stay our dirty secret.

Maybe I won't tell anyone. Even your father.

Unbeknownst to them both, Dr. Douglas hid a dirty secret involving his receptionist.

Scott continued to sob. He turned and started to leave with the waste bin.

Another thing. His mother grabbed his arm. Stop playing with yourself. What if the other Scouts knew? They would laugh at you and tease you. An Eagle Scout leads. You need them to respect you. Besides, it can make you go blind.

Scott's attention snapped back to Lily.

Did you ever imagine losing your virginity—she flicked her red tress and swiveled her hips. She nudged her ever more transparent gown over her left shoulder—to a woman like me? She sauntered closer to Scott.

He panted in gasps.

Eww. She pinched her nose shut. You don't need a woman. You're a pathetic little baby. You need a mother to change your diapers.

Although copiously soiled, Scott smelled her perfumed breasts. Her cleavage, everything about her, excited him more than any magazine photo. Old tears and new sweat covered his face.

She sauntered yet closer.

Scott stained himself. Shame compounded his fear.

Oh, look at you. Lily pulled her face. You're worse than a baby. No control. Just like a gurgling, perverted little 'tard. When they put you in a 'tard home, maybe they'll let you kiss dolls. Ha! Ha! Ha! You wouldn't know what to do with a real girl even if you could get one. She paused for effect. And you never will! Ha! Ha! Ha! Now get out!

Fear paralyzed Scott. Too overwhelmed to bawl, he sobbed.

Lily transmogrified into the fairytale witch of Scott's childhood fears. She had aged sixty years. Now she wore a thick black robe with a hood. Her double hooked nose was uglier than a rotten carrot. Two large warts, one bigger than the other, sat atop her protruding chin. She pointed a gnarly finger at him. Her sandpaper voice screeched with fury. I said, get out!

With pent up nervous energy and adrenaline, Scott stormed for the door like a greyhound out of the starter chute. He smashed into the screen door, knocking it off its hinges. Scott fell onto the porch floor. His facial abrasions and his nose bled. He remembered once crashing his bike. He recalled his mother comforting him and putting Mercurochrome on his wounds. Part of his foggy mind hoped the beautiful version of Lily would do likewise.

The young Lily stood over him. You must think you're a battle wounded Marine. Ha! Ha! Ha! And some athlete you are, she said derisively. Look at you! A pathetic spaz. Dogface. Ha! Ha! Ha! Maybe a dog will lick it off. Lily transformed into a hound from hell. Its elongated snout exposed snaggled, daggerish teeth. It snarled. Its mouth foamed with white slime. Suddenly, its reptilian tongue slurped the blood from Scott's face.

Scott screamed. He leapt to his feet, jumped from the porch, and hopped on his bike. Got to get away! Got to get away! Pedal faster. Harder. He soared through the gate and onto Runnymede Avenue. Faster! ‘Faster! Everything was a haze. The wind was at his back. Faster! He never slowed for Croton Hill. He pedaled fast enough down the steep slope to pass a car. The driver leaned on the horn. Scott only heard its echo. Faster! Faster! Faster! All was a blur. He didn't stop at the bottom of the hill. He rode directly across Washington Pike.

He felt a hard thud and saw a flash. The B series Mack Truck pulverized him. Launched like a Mantle slammed baseball, his broken corpse flew to the oncoming lane, landing on the hood of a speeding '55 Ford F-100 pickup truck. It dragged him underneath for a hundred yards. The police later had to use a rake to gather what was left of him and dump him in buckets.

1

Ray Darchaes rode his bicycle to Hoffman's Field. More an adjunct of the Hoffman's yard than a field, Ray and his buddies nicknamed it Fenway Park owing to its similarities to the Boston Red Sox home field. The back side of the Hoffman's long, former horse stable, now a four-car garage, was the left field boundary. Akin to Fenway Park's thirty-one-foot-high left-field wall, better known as the Green Monster, a ball hitting the garage's two-story high white wall was in play. Hitting the roof, or clearing the roof, was a home run. A tool shed was the Center Field boundary. A low fence separated their ball yard's right field from a neighboring yard. Its owners never objected to them climbing the fence and fetching home runs. A tree sat closer to home plate on the right field corner, serving as their Pesky's pole. Ray bought three plastic balls for their game. Chuck Webster would bring the bat. Ray hoped that Chuck's younger brother Myles would not tag along. At the very least, Gordon Maxwell and Donald Leatherman were coming. More and more he hoped that PollyAnn Gardener would join them. That became less likely with each game as she grew out of her tomboy phase. Ray knew that their afternoon game would prove somber. That morning they attended Scott Douglas's memorial service. He wanted to honor his classmate. Yet he hated having to wear gray flannel pants and a tie on a scorching Summer morning and sit in an un-air-conditioned church. He had to sit in a rear section. What looked like at least a hundred uniformed Boy Scouts sat front and center. Reverend Gallaway led the prayers and hymns. Scout Master Jennings read the endless eulogy, waxing forever on how Scott fulfilled all twelve tenets of Boy Scout law. The Scout Master explained all twelve in vivid detail.

Gordon arrived next. I don't want to believe what happened to Dogface. Gordon was smallish with smooth facial features. Gordon was a decent athlete, albeit not the distinguished athlete associated with the few Black kids attending Stanforth's public schools. Gordon's father was a medical doctor. They lived in a large house on Worthington Avenue. Even before changing times, the community admired and respected them. It's horrible. Really horrible. He dropped his head.

Yeah, Gordie. Ray stood up. I don't know what kind of game we'll have after all that happened. You're spot on. It is hard to believe. I mean, Dogface was not allowed to ride his bike anywhere near Washington Pike. Ray spread his arms. As far as I know, he never broke a rule. Not his parent's rules, not the school's rules, nobody's rules.

As far as I know, yeah, you're right. I sure can't remember him doing anything he wasn't allowed to. Gordon placed his bicycle on the ground. I know that I shouldn't say this, but—Gordon shook his head—was he ever a pain in the neck after Stanforth Elementary gave him that safety belt and badge? He got worse in middle school when they made him a hallway monitor.

I know what you mean. How about that darn safety lecture that he gave at the school auditorium? Ray removed his Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap and scratched his short sandy blond hair. Ray stood taller than average and had an oval face with blue eyes. He blushed whenever a girl told him he was cute. If I had rotten tomatoes, I would have pelted him.

You, me, and half the school. Gordon managed to smile. He sure was impressed with himself. He impressed me as not just Squaresville but Square City.

Dogface sure could be cool though. Ray dropped his head. Like, he never hogged his things. Remember when he brought his telescope to Eric Miller's?

Yeah. He invited us all. That was real swell of him, Gordon added.

It was coolsvile how he focused it on Jupiter. He let us all have a look. He pointed out its four major moons. He told us that even though Europa was the brightest, it was also the smallest. Now he's dead. Ray shook his head. I still can't believe it. I don't even want to believe it.

Me neither. And I remember how polite he was to Eric's girlfriend, Heather. I'm trying not to think about it. But Dogface was the last kid in town that you think to ride in front of a truck. How could he do something so dumb? Gordon shrugged his shoulders. He got straight As, and he was about to make Eagle Scout.

Chuck Webster arrived with a plastic bat.

Ray and Gordie saw that Myles had tagged along. They sighed.

You know that I had to bring him. Chuck parked his bicycle with a kickstand. Chuck was taller than Ray or Gordie. His once slender frame was starting to fill out.

Myles was six years old, seven years younger than Ray, Gordon, and Don. Miles pushed aside his bike, letting it fall on the ground. I get to play. Mommy said so.

Ray and Gordon rolled their eyes.

I'm telling you guys—Chuck shook his hands—I think something is up around here.

What do you mean by that? Ray asked.

First Gus Hellman runs after a bus and tries to jump through the door while it's moving. And then he falls under the wheel and—Chuck clapped his hands—"splat! Now it's Dogface riding his bike in front of a Mack truck. And just like a bug. Splat! Chuck crossed his arms. Come on, guys. You know Dogface was ‘Mister Safety First.' Chuck pointed upward. I think something or someone lured them into it."

Oh come on, Gordon replied. "You watch too much Twilight Zone. Let's have some respect. They were our classmates and now they're dead. Besides—Gordon raised his hands—the police found no evidence. None whatsoever. That they were anything other than accidents."

Okay, but think about it. And Gus never rode the bus. Chuck put his hands on his hips. I'm tellin' ya. Somethin's rotten around here.

Hey—Ray pointed down Meadowbrook Road—here comes Don.

Don was the smallest of the four. He pulled up in his high handlebar Schwinn Krate bike. He remained seated on his bike and leaned on the handlebars. Motormouth, David, Pat, and Dan are playing.

Ray pointed at him. What's with the Alfred E. Neuman T-shirt?

Don pointed to the lettering beneath the portrait. ‘What Me Worry?' I think Alfred's cool. That's good news that we don't have to play two on two. After what happened to Dogface, we need some good news.

I get to play, Myles whined. Mommy said so.

Anyway, Don continued. As I was saying, I rang Motormouth on the horn. He said he's comin' with his brother David, and he said that Pat McLaughlin and Dan Short are also comin'. Mrs. Levine is driving them here.

A '59 Buick Electra four-door hardtop pulled up to the field. Four boys jumped out. Rick Levine was the oldest and their leader. He hated his nickname. He would scold anyone calling Motormouth. Nevertheless, he seldom, if ever, engaged in fisticuffs over it.

Rick grabbed a plastic baseball bat from Chuck. Okay, hands to see who bats first.

Hey, what it is Motormouth? Don quipped.

Rick scowled at the younger and smaller boy. Actually, we shouldn't have to play hands. You already got an advantage. You got five players. We only got four.

He's not playing. Chuck pointed at his younger brother.

Yes, I am! Mommy said so! You best let me play or just wait till Daddy gets home.

Like I said, Rick continued, you got five players. We only got four.

Gordon walked toward Rick. Perhaps you need to learn the difference between an asset and a liability.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Rick laughed derisively. Your father's a doctor. Right? Well, my father is a lawyer. I'll let you Black kids do the doctoring. He pointed at Gordon and then pointed to himself. Us Jewish kids will do the lawyering. I judge what's liability or asset. Rick pointed at Myles. He's your fifth player.

Ray picked up a plastic baseball. Well, it's only fair, Motor—I mean Rick, that if he plays, he doesn't count as an out.

Bullshit! And don't even think of calling me that name! Rick yelled and prodded.

Ray struggled to conceal laughter.

His outs count and his runs count for you as well. He plays? Rick paused. He plays. We bat first. Rick of course knew all along that Myles was a liability.

Okay, Gordie bats first. Ray pointed at him. "I bat second. Chuck, you bat third. Don is fourth. And Myles last.

Myles started crying. I bat first! I bat first! I bat first! You tell them. He pointed at his brother. You tell them I get to bat first.

He made the lineup. Chuck pointed at Ray.

You tell him to let me bat first or I'm runnin' home and tellin' Mommy. Then she won't let you play for a week. Myles started bawling.

Okay, Myles. You bat first. Ray relented.

After Motormouth's team batted, Myles led off the bottom of the first. Rick pitched to Myles. He swung and missed at three straight pitches, each time missing from Stanforth to Tacoma. Myles slammed the bat on the ground. No fair. You pitched too fast. And I get four strikes.

Motormouth yelled back. Shut up, Ankle-biter. You get three strikes. You're out.

"Chuck! You tell him that I get four strikes. Or I'll tell mommy. She won't let you watch Twilight Zone! She'll let me watch cartoons instead."

The Websters only had one TV. What Myles wanted is what they watched. The Twilight Zone was the sole exception.

Come on, Rick. Chuck spread his hands and pleaded. Just give him another pitch.

Okay. Here it comes. Rick threw Myles a soft toss.

Myles missed it, anyway. He threw his bat and cried.

Ray held his shoulder and led him away. Come on, Myles. Gordie's up now.

Despite Myles's tantrums and Rick having the final say on all umpire calls, as well as changing the rules twice to his advantage, Ray's team led by a run in the last inning.

Rick's brother, David, led off with a ground ball. Chuck snagged it and ran to first base, a split second before David. That's one of them! Chuck beamed.

Oh no! Motormouth ran to them. He's safe. I saw it with my own eyes.

Up your hole with a Mellow Roll Motormouth! Ray ran up to Rick. You were too busy running your mouth to see anything.

What did you say? Rick put his nose inches from Ray's. I had a better view. He's safe. You got it? Safe. Stay on first David. You're safe. Pat, Dan, was he safe? Both boys nodded. See, you're outvoted. Unless you want to give the little brat a vote. How do you vote? Motormouth stood over Myles, hunching his shoulders.

Safe, Myles squeaked.

See! Even your own teammate said he's safe. Now I'm up. Rick popped up Gordon's first pitch down the right field line. It trickled into the branches to the right of the Peskys' pole tree