The Funeral Coach

The name was foreign. This town did not reside in the boundaries of France, nor was it under any such influence. Still, as Braxton pressed on, he found that each street and shop sign boasted some cryptic writing not only foreign to him but, perhaps to all of mankind as well. He even considered the fact that it may not even be of this world. And if it was so foreign to man, why was it in use in a town of relatively moderate activity? It was in his search for linguistic clarity that he considered the possibility that he might be the only occupant in an otherwise derelict town.

And that’s when he heard it.

Music.

It was ever faint but still it came to Braxton, seemingly floating from a building not two blocks away. He shrugged the urge to check his watch and instead ran as quickly as his belongings would permit to the melody growing within his ears. Finally, Braxton arrived at the building where the sound emanated from. Before him, a large wooden door, red with, like all the others, a stained white color accompanied by the odor of the sea, slowly opened as if expecting Braxton’s arrival.

The somber tones of a piano sonata broke free through the great horn of the phonograph and the needle that wove its intoxicating melody and released it into the air.

Braxton entered to find himself in what he perceived to be a library or a bookstore of some sort. There inside resided an assortment of various chairs and desks, all cracked and discolored from, as it would seem, years of exposure to neglect and severe weathering. There also stood a great mass of shelves that pressed against torn and curling wallpaper, discolored and nourishing vegetation that remarkably resembled seaweed more so than mold or fungus. Amongst them were a few mounted paintings. One depicted a ship held captive between the raging sea and violent black sky vomiting forth piercing light and rain. There also seemed to be large black curvatures emerging from the ocean as if threatening to take the ship. They resembled what could be identified as tentacles.

The other painting, hung opposite of the first, depicted a young woman chained to the cliff side, naked and pale as the moon and the town itself. It resembled a mythic sacrifice as the same, strange tentacles were depicted in this painting also.

“Hello. Is anyone in here?” Braxton raised his voice to drown out the music.

“Hello?”

Braxton walked toward the phonograph and lifted the needle from the record. As he did he knocked something off the desk where the player was mounted and kneeled to pick it up. The rug he stood upon bubbled and water broke its surface in protest of Braxton’s weight.

He looked around at every discolored nook and cranny, every saturated floorboard from where he stood.

Everything was wet.

Braxton picked up what he had dropped. A book. Its cover boasted a picture of the same tentacles as the paintings before it had. It was also accompanied by similar cryptic characters. But what was most odd was the book’s contents beyond its enigmatic cover.

Nothing.

All the pages were blank. It was the same with other books within the vicinity of the first. All their pages were blank, as well. This town seemed abandoned even to the very contents of its literature. As Braxton entertained this mystery, the reflection of a figure caught his attention and prompted him to spin around and seek its source. By the time he had he saw but the fleeting garment and the shadow of a young girl. He abandoned his belongs and gave chase. As he started up the stairs, he saw that she had just conquered them and had, yet again, disappeared from sight. Braxton soon app-roached the top and saw that she had led him up into the building’s office. He scanned the room as best he could, darting his eyes amongst the desks and scattered papers of a dense, yet confined, space. He stayed where he stood, keeping ever close to the entry as to forfeit the girl’s chance to escape. He needed answers, but he didn’t want to break his neck in the process. Finally he located her. She was hiding under a desk not far from where Braxton stood.

He bent down and she inched away.

“Don’t worry I’m not going to hurt you,” Braxton informed with a gentle tone.

“Do you understand English?”

She nodded slowly. Braxton smiled in response.

“I’m looking for a friend. I need to go to le Porte. Do you know le Porte?”

She nodded slowly.

“Could you take me there?”

She shook her head.

“Well, is it close to here?”

She nodded slowly.

“Can you point to where it is?”

To his surprise she lifted her arm up and pointed behind her. Braxton walked over to a nearby window and saw in the distance a place that could have harbored a restaurant. Maybe it was le Porte. Out of the corner of his eye, Braxton saw the girl make her escape down the stairs and out of sight. He proceeded down the stairway to retrieve his belongings and examine the place the little girl had pointed out.

However, as he arrived downstairs, he discovered that his belongs were missing. Someone had stolen his briefcase, hat and brochures.

Could it have been the little girl? Was she so quick and so strong as to carry off an array of a young man’s belongings that would normally slow one of her size and strength down? Nevertheless, he raced out into the street and frantically looked around to see if he could spot the thief. But it was to no avail and in anger and defeat he carried onward towards what he perceived to be le Porte.

Time had come up so fast that the fear of his tardiness would seem pointless now. He was late. But being late was better than being lost. And since the sense of lost was still about him, he thought it better to solve one problem at a time. Now that his belongings and the materials on which the success of the appointment relied on were missing, the very meeting itself seemed pointless. But still he had to find the place, at least to know it was there and to apologize to his client with the hopes of arranging a future correspondence.

Time had worn away the day and dusk was steadily approaching when Braxton finally reached the destination of le Porte. It was just as he had hoped and expected in correspondence to the letter Madison had sent him. The name on the building even spelled le Porte and was the only building thus far devoid of any enigmatic characters.

Likewise as before, a white stained door opened in response to Braxton’s approach. However, upon initial inspection, it was cleaner and was vacant of any smells, save for the curious aroma of garlic and sage.

Braxton ventured in and examined each dimly lit booth, visible only in quarters as allowed by its surrounding ambiance. The restaurant had the sentiment of rustic Italian, which was unusual because Alabaster gave the impression of a town hosting only the spoils of the sea. Other than the vacancy, the restaurant was relatively clean and well- maintained. Upon a complete surveying of the dining area, he saw no signs of any inhabitants but one. A pair of wire-framed glasses rested on the floor by one of the booths. It was Madison’s all right. Braxton was as sure of it as he was sure he had missed him. He had seen him wear those signature frames in a photograph.

Braxton picked them up and shook his head. He had missed his opportunity.

Just then a rushing sound of water came from the back of the restaurant. Braxton perked up and walked towards the sound. He opened the door to the restroom and, at that moment, saw something sleek out of sight and take refuge in a stall. It didn’t take long for him to search the stalls and reveal what had retreated into them.

A man of disheveled state trembled and recoiled upon Braxton’s discovery of him. But he did not fight or try to run away. It was not the man he was looking for, but it was a source of information that could prove more beneficial than that of the girl.

“I am looking for a man named Madison. I was told to meet him here,” Braxton spoke in a curt manner.

“I am Yeates, Braxton Yeates. Do you know that name?”

“N-N-No shir. I-I.” The man shook his head.

“N-N-No Mahdeeshon here.”

Braxton took out the glasses he had found not five minutes earlier.

“These. Do you know these? Are these yours?”

“N-No. Dohz ah not mine.”

“What’s going on here then? There seems to be no one around.” Braxton grabbed him and he tensed up tighter than before.

“It’s zha night, shir. Tonight no one ghosh owshide. Evrone shtay een.”

“What? Why? Is there some sort of storm?”

“No. No shtome. Tonight ish mhosht black night. No light shine but one.”

“What are you talking about? You’re not making sense,” Braxton protested.

“Shtay een tonight. Shtay here,” the man warned.

“But I have to find him. I have to find Madison. Where did he go?”

“Yer friend no shtay here. No come to dish town. No one come to dish town.”

“I can’t stay here. I have to return to town by sunrise. I was only supposed to be here a few hours and I’ve been here all day,” Braxton complained.

“You are not making sense and now I’ve got to go.”

When Braxton exited the restroom he could still hear the man’s foreboding warning.

“Don’t go outshide. Shtay inshide. SHTAY INSHIDE!” …

As Braxton stood outside le Porte with his gaze shifted upwards. Above him hung a canopy of empty sky and space, which seemed to be growing ever darker, right before his eyes. His attention then focused on the abrupt clapping of wood and clasping of metal as desperate appendages reached out to isolate themselves from some malevolent force. Of what were they afraid and to what fate would one be tied to if they were caught within this impending storm? Braxton was not about to find out. Though, he was skeptical to the fact that this growing darkness brought anything but limited eyesight. Still, the streetlamps were lit and provided him with light. But even that vanquished quickly in the approaching night. Before his eyes the lanterns extinguished without the slightest touch by human hand and a shade of black, darker than he had ever seen the world in, crawled toward him. To guide his way in absence of light, Braxton threw himself against the perimeter wall. As the night swallowed him, he pressed on blindly, clutching the wall, slowly ambling towards the wooden gate.

Braxton could now hear a faint stirring of whispers, as though they were murmured from behind closed doors and shuttered windows. The whispering also brought upon Braxton the feeling that he was being watched from behind chained doors and windows. Regardless, he no longer felt safe as fear had now reached him and caused his whole body to quake. To quicken his pace he separated from the wall only but a foot so that he could periodically slap his hands upon it, allowing him to follow it to the gate and make his escape.