Trembling With Fear 12/18/2022

Beast Mode, by James Kowalczyk

“You’re afraid?… Punk.” That was my friend Carmine’s favorite refrain whenever I hesitated to  accompany him on one of his “adventures”. It usually worked. Growing up in my neighborhood in Brooklyn back then (before it was completely gentrified), the last thing you wanted to be was known as punk. Looking back now, I should have just said: “yes, I’m a punk” and walked away. 

As far back as I can remember, the empty lot on my block had always been there. And the corner house next door changed residents regularly. It wasn’t until years later, that realtors discovered the reason for the revolving door of occupants. There was no shortage of speculation among the neighbors. 

“I heard the wife has hairy palms and sleeps in a coffin. The cops came and evicted the whole family,” old lady Bream was fond of repeating to whoever would listen. 

“The whole batch of those kids are deformed in some way. They keep the youngest chained to a radiator in the basement,” Stanley Sr. told my father one time.

In school we’d swap outrageous stories just for fun. If the family had kids, they never went to our Catholic school, so that opened a host of narrative threads. It was always Carmine who took the lead at lunch. 

“I saw three dogs coming out of the back with blood all over their snouts, just the way you see on those animal shows about the jungle predators.”

“Bullshit,” was always my reflexive comeback. Though in the back of my mind I would always wonder if it wasn’t at least half-true. I think part of that was Carmine’s vocabulary and storytelling skill that sold it. Our other friends would just listen, wide-eyed. 

“And then a kid with one eye came out and chased them with a stick across the empty lot, growling and yelling some foreign language- I think it was Latin for some dark pagan ritual stuff.” 

These sessions usually ended with one of us rolling our eyes and going to play in the schoolyard. After graduation we drifted apart but because me and Carmine both went to the same high school we remained close friends. We’d ride our bikes all over the neighborhoods looking for something interesting and new. The house on the corner seemed to lose its appeal after eighth grade. Until Carmine saw something he couldn’t explain. 

We’d been playing wiffle ball in the empty lot toward the end of summer because the corner house was empty and held no threat of weirdness- or so we thought. I fouled the ball back and it rolled down the steps leading to the cellar of the house.

“I’ll get it,” Carmine said quickly when he saw that I didn’t move for it. He tiptoed over the rubble and over to the decrepit steps and went down without hesitation. I think he had been just waiting for an excuse to go down those steps. We knew there was nobody living there as it had been put up for sale and it was rumored that it was going to be razed by the city.

“Hey, the door is open,” he said.  “I’m going in. Are you coming?” I didn’t respond quick enough and that’s when he asked the magic question. And because at the time I did not want to be a punk, I followed my friend into the cellar. 

It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Carmine was already ten steps in front of me. The light splintered in from the disjointed brick of the foundation above us. The unpaved ground was uneven and I could see an old-fashioned grape press mounted on a concrete base to my right. Other than that some lumber planks of various lengths lined the bulging walls. 

As we made our way further toward the back I kept calling out to Carmine. He didn’t seem to hear me. But I did hear him. It sounded like he had turned a corner as his voice was lower “Holy shit, there is a locked off area! I wonder what’s in there?

“Wait for me,” I said. But there was no response. At least not for a few seconds. Then I heard what sounded like piles of wood being moved around. I quickened my pace, using the wall to steady myself. “Carmine?” I yelled. No response. The slime on the wall seemed to crawl over my hand. When I turned the corner, there seemed to be a smell of something like a campfire. I kept moving, calling out for my friend. The smell became sharper and seemed to cut my nostrils. I put my hand  over my nose and suddenly hit a door. It was off its hinges with the lock still attached above the door knob. I made the sign of the cross before I called out Carmine’s name again. No response. 

I entered the room and quickly saw the flames of a fire leaping out of a meal garbage can. Then I heard the scream. I froze. I looked around for a piece of wood. I began walking further into the room, toward the fire. I felt my heart beating. I was holding my breath. To my left, the room widened and I moved that way. Suddenly, I heard a rustling sound behind me. I stopped.  

The light from the fire illuminated only about three feet around me. But that was enough to keep whatever it was at bay.  I called out Carmine’s name again. Nothing. Then I heard another sound, heavy claws scraping on the ground getting closer. It came from behind me. I could see the shadow in front of me and I felt my blood run cold. I felt dizzy as I began to pray. My hands began to shake. I spun around with the piece of wood raised up. And… nothing. 

I knew I had to find Carmine. No way I could tell his mother I didn’t know where he was. That motivated me to keep going even though I wanted to run. I turned around and went down another passageway.

I saw what looked like a poster of a baseball player on the wall up ahead. As I approached I could discern a chair and a ragged couch in an alcove. The scent of toast hit my nose. Then a voice.

“You hungry?” It was old man Aldo. He was the homeless guy that surfaced every once in a while. Back in the day, before the term “homeless” emerged, these types of guys were a mystery and some neighborhoods seem to have at least one. 

“No, I’m looking for my friend Carmine,” I said, kind of freaked out that I was talking to him. When I was about six years old I was always terrified of him. 

“He went that way,” Aldo said, gesturing toward the fire I had passed earlier. “Not good.” 

The curt response with an ominous tone made me want to ask him why he had made himself comfortable down here when he knew there was definitely something else down here too. He seemed to read my mind. 

“It stays on that side of the fire and I stay on mine.” I nodded my head. That made sense. I’d learned in Boy Scouts that most animals feared fire. Then again, there were always exceptions to that. I knew in that moment I would have to turn back and go where I heard the scream. 

“I gotta go,” I said to Aldo. He just looked at me. I left without a word. 

There was less light seeping in from outside. Feeling along the wall I made my way back to the room where the fire was. I grabbed the piece of wood I’d had before and raised it over my head. Beyond the meal garbage can I could see another smaller room. I moved around fire. The entranceway was smaller. I crouched down and squeezed in. I couldn’t see anything. I could hear my own breathing.  I saw a pile of debris covered with a piece of lumber in the corner. I moved toward it, holding my breath as I reached to lift up the wood. I thought I heard breathing. 

The snout emerged first. Between its jagged fangs I could make out Carmine’s face. Then it was gone.