On the corner of what has become known as W 59th Street and 8th Ave is a cluster of six massive catacombs all connected by a short nondescript dark passageway. The rooms are lit by countless black six-foot candle holders supporting tall fat white candles. The candles as unique as the surroundings have burned for centuries, their flames never extinguished, and their soft jittery glow widely dancing ominously off the heavy stone blocks, and dark shadowed walls of the rooms and corridors.
The air in the space is dank and onerous from the lack of sunlight, fresh air, and life. The fetid smell of death and the dying hangs heavy. The walls are lined with various objects from the main occupant’s past from distant lands their size and unique qualities speak to one of high status and prominence. Two small carved wooden tables their bases reflecting gargoyles spreading the wings as if in flight, sitting in opposing corners. On each table sit on a crisp white lace doily topped with an ancient apothecary square glass jar canister of cut glass filled with a thick sanguine substance. The bottles are corked to protect the unholy contents.
The front of the catacombs is a large spaced room; with a heavy wooden floor coated with a layer of dust that lifts itself in little swirls around the legs of those passing through, then quietly settles. The corners and ceiling of the room dripped with light airy spider webs in constant motion as if touched by an unseen force. The room is silent except for the infrequent crying or screeching of a frightened sometimes female sometimes male voice calling out to someone anyone to come and save them. There was always begging lots and lots of begging. There is never an answer or a savior only the echos of high-pitched laughter and silence. Always silence.
At the far end of the chamber, two wooden steps lead to the base of a large brick and wood wall. The steps lead no nowhere yet, it is the only way in and out. To the left of the steps a massive and magnificent antique brass pendulum grandfather clock. The room is silent except for the soft ever constant ticking like that of a heartbeat marking the time that brings relief.
In the center of the main chamber against opposite walls on low wooden platforms sit two coffins. The larger Coffin was covered in deep wine-colored velvet, trimmed with exquisite gleaming gold. On top of the lid a forged ornate gold, blood red, and black ornament, the crest of a Warlock. Opposite the Warlock’s coffin, a simple black coffin bereft of ornamentation but for gold handles. Smaller in size covered in striking black velvet. On the lid, a large hand embodied a five-point star in a circle, a pentagram.
Suddenly, the catacomb is filled with the deep round voice of the great clock signaling, the arrival of midnight. The loud heavy bong fills the chamber echoing off the stone walls a call to rise. The hinges on the coffin begin to move and the lid slowly lifts revealing the outline of a male form. With the final bong of the great clock sounds fade forlorn into the emptiness that surrounds it. The full form of a Warlock dressed in a black suit, his black cape binding his body like a cocoon rises prone from his coffin levitating, then moves away from his resting place. His body hovers in the air and then begins to turn vertically until his feet are above the floor; slowly his form lowers soundlessly to the floor leaving no imprint. Stretching his neck and shoulders he releases the tenseness and throws back his cape releasing himself fully of his previous confinement.
He is tall, and slim with black hair, and piercing blue eyes, still a striking man despite his pale sickly face. Dropping his head back he thrusts his sharp thick tongue from full lips, his tongue circles his lips and he smiles in anticipation. Turning to the black velvet coffin in front of him raising his hand in seconds the lid of the black velvet coffin begins to lift revealing its black underside. Slowly the form of a Woman rises prone from her place of slumber.
He watches as a woman seemingly asleep with long black flowing hair dressed in a long white cotton gown, her feet shod in gleaming blood red slippers floats effortlessly above her coffin. She moves towards him, stops, and begins to turn until her feet are above the floor. Her body lowers until her feet touch the floor in silence. Her wide dark eyes pop open and seeing him causes the corners of her full lips to lift in a smile. Despite no wind or breeze the hem of her gown flutters. Her breathing deepens as her gaze intensifies upon his form.
Giving her a slight nod, she responds by cocking her head giving him a beguiling smile. It is a language only they truly understand. Turning towards the two steps near the grandfather clock he waves his right hand in “S” motion. Where the solid wooden wall once stood a gaping portal opening appears. Walking quickly he reaches the portal with the woman behind him and they exit the chamber. Once through he turns back, waves his hand and the opening disappears.
The August night is warm, the sky is clear and there is a full moon in the sky shedding light on the trees and brush that surround them. The night is quiet but for the sound of small rodents scurrying beneath the brush. Extending a claw-like hand to the woman, she takes it without hesitation, she places her hand in his and sighs deeply,
They stand together quietly enjoying the beauty of the night in New York's Central Park. Silvery moonbeams light the sworn path through the brush and trees before them. Turning his face to the moon throws his head back and lets for the howl of the wolf. Relieved of his energy and sensing her presence, he turns to the woman beside him, his voice husky. “Come let's go for a walk.”
