The Haunted Autumn of 1958

It started in Paris on a warm autumn morning. Victoria sat at a corner café drinking coffee. Her ride, 15-minutes late, until suddenly the stranger she’d been expecting rumbled down the avenue in a convertible car.

He got out of the car wearing all white like a sailor, his smile illuminated teeth that matched, and the cool air still swirled around him.

“What do you think?” He said in English looking directly at Victoria.

“I’m sorry? Are you the ride? You’re a little late and it’s a little cold,” She said, ready to apologize if this man were in fact a perfect stranger.

“Yes Victoria. I’m your ride to the lake house. It should warm up soon. Good weather I’m afraid.” He smiled and lit a cigarette.

“James Davenport! We meet at last. Nicholas has spoken well of you and would stop at nothing to have me join your writing group. So is this your new car?”

“It is indeed. A 1958 MGA, it went directly from the English assembly line to the shipyard. Just picked it up at the docks earlier this week. I’ve been driving ever since. It’s not too cold. We can put up the top? It has a heater.”

“Please do. I’ve got a chill. If you don’t mind, I’ve got to settle up inside first.”

“OK Victoria. Didn’t think about the chill in the air. It is autumn. I’ve been so excited to get a new car. It looks nice right.”

Victoria smiled, and let the car’s curves sink in for a moment. “Yes, it’s a lovely car, and I should be happy to go to Lake Geneva with you.”

“Thanks,” James said. “Go ahead and get settled with the café. I’ll put the top up. If it warms up later we can put it back down. We should be at the lake house around nightfall.”

###

Victoria listened to the payphone ring as she watched James put the top up on the new 1958 MGA. Finally a voice answered.

“Hello,” said her sometimes boyfriend Mendoza with an obvious hangover. Only she felt good that he’d picked up because his band Tortillas de Pelo happened to be touring Europe, hopping from hotel to hotel. He could have been anywhere.

“Mendoza, it’s me, I’m leaving Paris for Lake Geneva. For the writing retreat.”

“Victoria that’s great. Glad you called. We’re going to be a little south of you in Saint Judas playing a gig. It’s near Turin.”

“That’s great, I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”

“If you get bored you should join us there. It’s not too far away. We’ll be there all weekend.”

###

Nicholas stood in the drawing room with complete command over his audience. In the windows behind him slanted sunlight radiated the clear waters of Lake Geneva. He called them all here for this moment, so that they could marvel in the impact of his storytelling after signing a lucrative book deal with a major publishing house for his horror stories. The American holiday of Halloween neared and they all knew it. In the spirit of the Haunted Summer of 1816, he’d invited this crew of Oxford writing alumni, to rejoice in success.

“It’s been more than 142-years since Mary Shelly penned her first draft of Frankenstein here along these shores. Now we have the chance to do the same here today. While I’ve just discovered literary stardom, I’d like to share what I can with my friends, and so now we have our moment to become a generation. Let this weekend become the start of a new movement. What shall we be remembered for?”

“Yeah genius, your book’s mostly nonfiction. Tragedy in World War Two turned ghost story. What are we supposed to write about?” James said bluntly after a goodnight’s sleep and some Scotch to bring in the new day. They were all good friends and so most of the audience laughed.

“Glad you asked James my old boy. My thoughts exactly, we could be the writers that blend nonfiction into fiction. Even Frankenstein used science. Now, I’ll let you all in on the secret of this house.”

Nicholas added a dramatic pause before he continued.

“It’s said that a Nazi general still technically owns it. He’s wanted for war crimes in connection to the death camps. A team of Israeli investigators have been tracking him and told me personally through my research, that he’s been spotted in this area. It’s said he might even live here now. Only as a ghost.”

Victoria got goose bumps. At that moment she wanted to leave for Italy. Only it would take a little time to free herself from this place.

“You’re putting us on, right!” Said James, again to the delight of all in attendance. The chateau’s grounds could conceal a person who wanted to hide. Only this story couldn’t be true? The alternative unsettling.

“I’m afraid it is true James. Only think of what I’m offering you all. I’ve just hit literary stardom. My book is selling enough to afford a place like this. I’ve invited you all here to my new home in the hopes of giving you a writing prompt to promote your careers. Our careers James!”

“You bought this chateau?” Victoria asked in the dumb silence.

“Yes, I got a good deal on this lake house because of the story. The story Victoria. We’re all here to write stories just like they did in 1816.”

###

The band’s van cruised through Saint Judas during the twilight hour. The streets were empty. Not a soul stirred for the Meat Festival. In the center of the village sat a gothic beer hall. Tortillas de Pelo would be playing their final gig there.

“Where the hell is everybody?” Asked Tio Billy half to himself.

“I don’t know? If they hadn’t of already paid us a bunch of money, I’d say let’s get the hell out of here,” said Mendoza.

Tres-Culos burped again and laughed. Only, no one else joined in the fun.

“Keep the van running Tio,” said Machete.

The band Tortillas de Pelo sat in the van trying to stay warm with the heater on, and the engine running. It didn’t take long before the sun went down. Then, as if on cue, the streets were crowded with young beautiful people all dressed in black. A white fist knocked on the window.

Tio Billy rolled the window down to a handsome face greeting him.

“You must be the band! Perfect timing. My name’s Constantine, I’m the mayor of Saint Judas, are you Mendoza? We spoke on the phone.”

“No, I’m Tio Billy, he’s Mendoza,” Tio Billy said pointing to the passenger seat.

“Hi Constantine! We’ve had a long drive and enjoyed the adventure. We’re ready to rock this place. Where do we setup?”

“OK. Rock’n’roll. Let’s go. Just follow me,” said Constantine.

###

Tortillas de Pelo killed it. They were playing their music, and got inspiration from the sensation of the crowd. The alcohol flowed. Sexy women adored them. Lights danced in the room, as the smoke machine injected misty vapor along the floor. Mendoza, Tre-Culos, Machete, and Tio Billy all felt euphoric and wished this gig would never end.

They continued the rock’n’roll symphony that energized the gothic beer hall.

As the midnight hour drew near, Tortillas de Pelo got the signal to take a break, and Constantine took to the stage.

“Are these guys great or what! Everyone, give it up for Tortillas de Pelo!” Constantine yelled into the microphone. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. As it died down the mayor continued, “with Halloween right around the corner, we now must celebrate our Meat Festival, in a time honored tradition. So without much ado, the moment we’ve all been waiting for, the reenactment of the crucifixion of Judas!”

The crowd roared again, even the band gave a cheer, only Machete seemed puzzled.

“Don’t you mean Jesus?” he asked Constantine.

Constantine laughed and the audience got quiet.

“Jesus didn’t get crucified. Judas did. I know because I was there.” And Constantine smiled revealing his pearly white fangs.

Tortillas de Pelo cried out in pain, as each member of the band got nailed to a cross. The vampires reveled in the moment and got drunk on their alcohol infused blood.

###

Victoria looked out through the windows of the sitting room at Lake Geneva. Her stomach touching the carpet with her legs bent behind her. A pen in her hand as she jotted down words on paper. All around her, fellow Oxford grads did the same with the thought of literary fame.

Only Victoria wanted to go now. Her thoughts continued to trail off with memories of Mendoza. The fun nights of drinking beer in a dance hall and smoking cigarettes in an alley while kissing under moonlight. She might be just a journalist, only she’d never felt the need to be anything more. Let James win this damn contest. She had a dowry. Tortillas de Pelo just needed a #1 hit.

Just then, they all heard it, a muffled crash. The psychic energy of so many writers collected together had made something terrible happen to satisfy the need to create a horror story.

Nicholas stood up first, and made his way to another part of the house. James followed suit, along with the other men there. The women were slower to respond. Victoria, the last to leave her position to find what they might have all imagined.

Down the hall, in the kitchen, the door to the pantry. Nicholas stood before it listening. Everyone else titling their heads for a better look at the macabre scene.

Nicholas then turned the door knob. A hand flashed through, with a knife stabbing into the comfortable belly of Nicholas. Blood stained his white buttoned shirt, as his eyes rolled back in his head capturing an image from a silent movie with his mustache.

The door burst open, and an old sturdy man with one suspender holding up his military issued pants, slashed a knife through the left shoulder of James. He staggered back as red blood washed out splashing on the black and white tiled floor.

James fought back with a right cross. Then the mob of men tackled him to the ground. The knife wrestled from his hand, landing safely inside the pantry, and out of reach.

“Go Victoria! The keys to the MG are in the car. Go get us some help now!” Yelled James Davenport.

The former college track and field runner sprinted away from this murderous affair. Outside the relief of mountain air, along with the realization that she’d been in the presence of the stench of death. It clung to her clothes. Only who could have been the cause of the odor; of someone dead for so long.

Victoria jumped into the MG unable to find the door handle. Luckily the keys were in the ignition. She could no longer make sense of things now in her rush. The car roared to life. Victoria then sped away along the driveway with the top of the car down.

Soon she took the corners of the road too fast. Now she skidded into the steel barrier of a bridge. Victoria looked up at the blue sky, before blood from the steering wheel wound on her forehead forced her to close her eyes.