After the tantrum-throwing Phony managed to yank the tattooed doormat from under me, his self-satisfied smirk and bow irked me all the way back to Gnaw Bone the following day. I need to shift my focus to the upcoming dream match at Battleground, but keep finding myself wanting much more to join the Bunny Brigade in torturing the spoiled profound intellectual-wannabe.
I finally decide to take another trip through the Underlook to clear my head and level-set my priorities.
I feel myself drawn once again toward that elevator/escalator/whatever lobby where I keep finding otherworldly paths to some as-yet-unseen destiny. Once I get to the corridor, however, I’m stunned to find no lift cars, no stairs–moving or otherwise–and no doors. It’s simply a dead end. The half-moon table with polyester fern is still there, but it’s more like those construction barriers that indicate a bridge is out ahead than a decoration.
I hear a noise behind me and spin, coat tails billowing behind me and cane lifting in a defensive arc. What stands before me I can almost not believe.
The specter that somewhat resembles the UGWC World Champion raises its chin as if to beckon me, then turns and walks back the way I came. Not having much of a choice, I shrug and follow. Before I turn the corner after it, I notice a design chalked on the floor.
—
When I next become aware of myself, I’m standing on the coast of some great bay at night. The Tony-specter is still there, patiently waiting for me to regain my bearings. Once it realizes I’m fully there, it once again moves away from me and down a gently sloping street.
The downtown area we’re moving through is decidedly Cape Cod, and given the Mayflower and pilgrim motifs in various shop windows and porch flags, I must assume we’re in Plymouth, Massachusetts. I find myself enjoying the unseasonably crisp New England evening and nearly walk into the Tony-specter’s shoulder before I realize it’s stopped.
I’m not sure if it’s capable of gazing out from those sunken, black holes where it should have eyes, but its head is tilted up at a yellow and white shop front situated on the first floor of a simple, three storey, main street duplex home. The two windows flanking the double-door stoop have ancient signs above, one which reads “The Music Box” and the other “Ghost Tours.”
I look over at the Tony-specter incredulously, not understanding why it’s led me to a two-bit tourist trap. It turns to share my gaze, then stretches out its right hand to pass a heavy iron key over.
“Grandfather clock,” is all it says.
I feel my brow furrow, not sure what the point of all this is. When the specter doesn’t venture an explanation, I sigh and step up onto the right stoop to let myself in.
As the ancient door swings inward, I feel like I’ve stepped into the hold of a clipper ship. The room seems to be rocking side to side, and for a moment I experience a sense of motion sickness. When my feet understand that the floor isn’t rolling back and forth across choppy waves, I finally comprehend that the contents of the room are moving, not the room itself. Decorative plates roll back and forth on the mantle, nearly reaching the edge before rolling back. Books tilt out of shelves almost far enough to fall before righting themselves. Portraits of eighteenth century proprietors rock on their hooks.
I’m fascinated, but my temporary astonishment is interrupted when a metallic spring chimes in the adjoining room.
It’s a curiosity shop, and against the interior wall stands an eight foot split pediment grandfather clock with its door open. The face is ornate; gold dial, three black hands, and even a lunar tracker with a half moon arrow to point out which phase is currently active. Inside the door, however, is a mystery. Though I can hear the mechanisms working within, there is no pendulum, no weights, no chains or cables. It is simply a gaping maw, and the room is far too dark to discern the depth. I reach my hand in, further than I should be able, and still don’t feel the wooden backing of the cabinet.
Remembering what the Tony-specter had directed, I finally tuck my shoulder and step inside…
—
When next I become cognizant of what’s happening, I’m walking behind the Tony-specter again, this time down a curving residential road. The smell of the ocean is still apparent, but the aroma has changed slightly. The temperature and weather remain the same.
Each side of the street rises to a row of old cedars, red pines and shrubs, with driveways looping around behind the trees to well-maintained Dutch Colonial Revival homes.
It stops in front of a row of mailboxes and directs my gaze toward a massive tan house with dark brown trim.
“One gate down,” it says simply before handing me a card with the name ‘Adelaide’ on it.
Rolling my eyes a bit, I begin to climb the terraced walk up toward the house. As I pass by a firepit on the left, I can see a sign outside that reads “Captain Grant’s” and I realize it’s a bed and breakfast.
The entrance is unlocked, but there’s no one behind the sign-in desk. I reach for the bell and tap it, but it gives out a deep thunk rather than the expected ding. When no one appears, I lean over the counter and look around for a break room or office. What I notice is a stack of cards identical to the one the Tony-specter gave me, only with different women’s names.
Looking back down at the one I’m holding, I decide to find what I assume is my lodging for the night on my own.
The Adelaide room is on the second floor, and the electronic key unlocks the door without trouble. Inside, the room is filled with antique furnishings and decor. A massive, open-beamed ceiling hangs low, and might be oppressive if not for the equally colossal bed that easily takes up half the gigantic room.
I push on the mattress experimentally, wondering if I’m supposed to lie down. When the shower curtain in the bathroom behind me suddenly clatters into the tub, I whirl around so startled that I lose my balance and fall into the bed.
To be more accurate, I fall through the bed…
—
Once more I have to allow comprehension to be restored. It’s a little milder out now, and the scent of the ocean is gone completely, replaced by the smell of a lake. If you don’t know the difference, you need to get out more.
I find myself following the Tony-specter through an empty parking lot toward a small rise at the edge of the lake. A familiar-looking log building appears before us, and I rack my memory trying to recall where I’d seen it. A voice from the haze of recollection echoes in the back of my mind; “Tell them to be patient and ask death for speed.”
“So what were you saying about a gate, earlier?” I call out to my guide.
“Seven gates, two down,” it responds.
“Oh, I see,” I shake my head. “Yes, it’s all so clear to me now.”
If this were one of those insipid mockumentary series, this would be the part where I’d turn to look blankly into the camera as it zooms obnoxiously close to my face so the audience knows when to laugh.
As we step off the asphalt, I can just make out the even larger structure behind the log building. It’s a British fort replica. The Tony-specter stops and lifts its chin again like it did at the beginning of the night.
“Just beyond the farthest bastion is the third gate,” it says.
“Copy that,” I chuckle, and attempt to clap it on the shoulder. The suit jacket it wears collapses under my hand, and I draw it back in shock. Tony-specter doesn’t react as I drop my hand to rub it against my pant leg.
Without further interaction, I step out in front of it and walk toward the wooden building.
Inside, the safety lighting casts life-sized figures of Native Americans, French, and British warriors in shadows, giving the impression of golems waiting to be enchanted to life. As I make my way cautiously through them, I catch snatches off the placards placed every few feet. The garrisoned soldiers had surrendered the fort after a lengthy siege and bombardment. The French had agreed to let the British evacuate the fort to their control, but during the exit, the Huron assisting in the siege defied their allies and proceeded to slaughter the British to a man.
The exhibits give the impression that visitors should feel sorry for the British soldiers, but I don’t. These Europeans on both sides were reminded whose land was whose, at least for a day. Also, I keep getting distracted by more voices calling out from the deep recesses of my brain; “You are a man with a few admirable qualities, but taken as a whole, I was wrong to have thought so highly of you.”
Eventually, I make my way over a bridge and up onto the thirty foot thick walls of the fort proper. Locating a map of the fort affixed to one of the stone walls, I look for the furthest bastion. The northeast is the powder magazine, the southeast the hospital. The one I’m looking for looks like it just out into the water.
I follow the wall past the hospital bastion, wondering how much longer I have before sunrise as I pass replicas of muskets, sabers, and cannonballs. Eventually, I reach the furthest bastion from the entrance and step up to stand on the point and look out into the water. This corner doesn’t seem to have anything but a model of a cannon, and I’m not sure what the Tony-specter meant by beyond the furthest bastion. Surely he didn’t expect me to dive into the lake?
When I hear the next voice, it doesn’t come from inside my head, but from directly behind me. It’s the flat tone of the Tony-specter.
“A warrior goes to you swift and straight as an arrow shot into the sun.”
That’s when I feel it push me. I pinwheel my arms, trying to keep my balance, but my right foot slips and the next thing I know, I’m plummeting down the side of the bastion toward the water. Instinctively, I thrust my hands and legs backward, trying to slow my fall, but the masonry tears at my skin and pants, digging furrows into my palms and ripping my slacks.
Before more than a few seconds go by, the water of Lake George rushes up at me…
—
Awareness washes over me, and I naturally wait for the Tony-specter to materialize again. This time, however, a different figure appears.
“Oh, now I understand,” I chuckle. “This is some sort of preparation, a test to make sure I’m up to the challenge at Battleground.”
Without a mouth, it can’t answer. Instead, the Lucy-wraith shakes its head slowly.
“No? How intriguing,” I admit as I look around.
We’re standing on a sidewalk in an urban sprawl, the bustle of the city still evident even this late at night. Across the street, however, stands a Neo-Gothic structure that might be confused for an actual castle. Crenellations top the wall, and turrets flank each side of the barbican. Above the gargoyles perched on either side of the gate rises a massive, octagonal tower.
The Lucy-wraith crosses the street, and I follow. The moment we step off the roadway and onto the property, the noise of the city dies in the air. An oppressiveness settles over me when it leads me through the gate.
Grabbing my hand, the Lucy-wraith traces the number seven on my palm, then points across the courtyard. Considering the way the wings of the complex stretch out to either side of us, it becomes clear that we’re standing outside the hub and spokes of a prison. I walk forward into the center structure.
For the next gods-know how long, I wander through the vaulted-arch cellblocks, peering into the cells as I go. They’re a sad affair, the walls crumbling to form piles of debris that surround the intact iron bed frames, giving them the appearance of an unearthed grave rather than a room designed for incarceration and rehabilitation. From time to time, the haunting warble of mournful cry echoes through the concrete tunnels, and I learn quickly to watch my feet lest I trip over yet another decayed statue of a cat.
Reaching the end of each cellblock, I’m forced to return to the central room to enter the next. There’s no discernable pattern to the halls, the numbering system seemingly random. Eventually, after moving counterclockwise around the entire complex, I come to Cellblock 7.
Walking with more determination this time, I presently come to the only cell I’ve seen with it’s barn-style door closed. With a mighty shove, the door slides to the left. Just inside the door is a massive, hand-carved hole in the wall. Squatting down, I climb inside…
—
On top of a Victorian style tower, I blink into existence behind the Lucy-wraith. It’s staring out over a riverside main street some hundred feet below. The massive hexagonal building straddles the corner of an intersection of the two largest downtown avenues.
The Lucy-wraith rotates and reaches for my hand again. I lift it without thinking, and it draws an arrow with its finger. This is followed by pointing downward toward the roof on which we’re standing. The wraith repeats this process, moving from tapping the palm to pointing at the roof multiple times, as if it doesn’t think I’m understanding.
“Yes, yes, you want me to go down, I’ve got it.” assuring the wraith, I nod my head vigorously. Drawing my hand back, however, I find the grip becoming more viselike.
The Lucy-wraith holds a finger up in front of my face, fixing me with its dark eyes for a full thirty seconds. It begins tapping and pointing again, multiple times, as I resign myself to simply nodding and waiting for this redundant direction to finish. Eventually, it drops my wrist and peers at me pointedly.
“I understand,” the lie falls easily from my lips. At least, it might be a lie. One can’t be sure.
The Lucy-wraith points at the roof access door behind me. Tipping my hat at the wraith, I take my leave of it and enter the top of the tower.
Filled with dress forms holding moth-eaten costumes, yellowed scripts, wrinkled playbills, and broken backdrops, this attic is simply a storage space for forgotten productions more than a century out of fashion. Most of it looks as though it would fall apart at a touch. There’s no gate here, only a lot of explosive heat, the kind you might expect to find trapped under these ancient rafters after the solstice. I hurry to find a way down to the next level and escape the dusty room.
There are far too many administrative offices for a theater, but a cursory investigation reveals that this was once the town hall for McConnelsville, Ohio. There are a few conference rooms with a scattering of cracked-vinyl chairs, some desks from which the polish has long faded, and several empty file cabinets. One room has a half-torn map of the city. Once again, no beckoning voids or curious open holes. After what seems like hours–honestly, where is the sun? How long will this night go on?--I push onward to the next level down.
This corridor contains several arched entries into the balcony, and I can’t resist the pull of the stage. I walk down the gradual grade to the lowest row of seats and peer down at the curtain, which is pulled open halfway. Lifting my cane, I rap lightly on the safety wall before me, and marvel at the acoustic perfection as the sound reverberates through the auditorium. Smiling with admiration, I return to the hall and find my way down again.
Now, standing upon the stage itself, where I feel most at home, I notice something only those who performed would have seen; a trap door. This must be it. Tapping it with my foot, I watch as it falls away into darkness. With a smirk of misplaced confidence, a hop into the opening…
… and nearly break my leg on the remains of a coal furnace below. That wasn’t the “gate.” With a grunt, I push myself back to my feet and dust myself off, throwing a haughty glance up at the square of stage light above me. An incoherent grumble under my breath is the last complaint I give the operation as I move on.
I check every dressing room, closet, restroom, even press on the mirrors just in case the strange night could possibly become more bizarre. Nothing.
Something dawns on me as I stand at the top of yet another staircase.
Down, down, down. The Lucy-wraith was trying to tell me how many floors I would have to descend before I could find the gate!
I slap a palm to my forehead, wishing I hadn’t dismissed her insistence so callously. Can I recall how many times she repeated the tap-and-point instruction? I’ve already descended… five levels? How deep does the opera house go?
Unable to recollect, the only thing left to do is continue finding my way down, presumably until I can go down no further. With the stomps of determination leading me, I make my way down again.
Basement with even more production materials, sub-basement containing connections to the city works, a sub-sub-basement in which I can hear the flowing of the nearby river through the walls.
Eventually I come to a door with a counterweight and pulley system which forces the door closed once the rope is released. Uncoiling it from its anchor, I give it an experimental pull, and watch the metal door slowly rise upward along a track frame. Satisfied, I pull the door all the way up, then tie it off once again.
After I slip inside, of course, the door slams shut behind me…
—
When my soul is plugged back into my physical self, I’m standing in a flat valley inside a ring of low rise mountains that blot out the lower half of the (still!) night sky. A river twists and bends along the edge of the valley, snaking around the rusted hulks of buses, trucks, and RVs. To our right, a small, quiet lake glistens in the moonlight. Reflecting in the illuminated water are a few unnaturally-shaped trees with strange, straight, almost symmetrical branches jutting out beyond the foliage.
This time, I recognize the landscape almost immediately.
“You brought me to an actual ‘Indian Burial Ground?’” The question is directed at the Lucy-wraith, which clutches some small object in its hands.
Lake Shawnee is quite possibly the origin of the trope; it’s certainly the only actual one I know of that fits the story.
Mitchell Clay, the first European settler in Mercer County, West Virginia, was the victim of an attack by the Shawnee Tribe. They killed two of his children on the property he’d taken, where we now stand, and kidnapped a third to be burned at the stake in Chillicothe. The family eventually abandoned the property, and its history remains lost for almost a hundred fifty years.
In the 1920s it was purchased to build an amusement park, which had forty years of business during which at least six children were killed. Perhaps the most chilling was when a delivery truck backed into the operating swings, causing a little girl rider to slam into it at the ride’s top speed. Needless to say, the park eventually failed to pass muster on safety and health inspections and was closed down.
In the 1980s, another developer bought the land and started excavating for housing developments. That’s when they discovered Native American artifacts and over 3000 corpses–most of whom were Native American children that had been wiped out by a flu before colonization drove the Shawnee to Ohio.
This place is a ready-made horror movie.
I raise an eyebrow as my gaze travels over the lake. Each of these destinations have been at or near a body of water.
“The gate is in the lake, isn’t it?” I ask the Lucy-wraith. Where at least three children have drowned.
It nods.
I heave a sigh, lifting my top hat to wipe my sweat away, and begin to make my way toward the defunct paddle boat dock. Before I can take a step, I feel the vise-like fingers of the wraith on my shoulder.
It tucks what it was clutching into my palm, and I squint to see it in the dark. It’s a Montague Cervantes action figure, but someone has expertly fused moth wings onto its back.
Something flashes through my memory of this land’s history… Clay had been a soldier… and he’d served in Point Pleasant…
I can’t explain why, but somehow it all seems connected. The water… the gates… the iconography I’ve seen every time I’ve traveled through the Underlook…
All the pieces are there, but someone took the box so I can’t see the full picture yet.
The Lucy-wraith is pointing toward the swings, and I can’t believe I’d forgotten the ritual. Visitors to Lake Shawnee always bring an offering for the thousands of children the land has claimed. I walk slowly toward the unnatural trees on the other side of the lake, which are actually abandoned amusement rides that nature has reclaimed.
When I reach the swings, I can see the remnants of past offerings; teddy bears, a baseball mitt, matchbox cars, a Nintendo DS. I find an empty swing and place the moth-Monty there. A sense of calm comes over me and I nod before heading toward the paddle boats once more.
“Is it nearly sunrise yet?” I think to ask the Lucy-wraith before I get too far away.
Imagine someone with no mouth, incapable of uttering a sound, doubling over in laughter. It’s… unsettling.
“Alright then…” pausing to shake off my reaction, “See you at Battleground then?”
When its laughter(?) subsides, the wraith stands back up to its full height and shakes its head. Motioning at its midsection, it shows off a tarnished and pitted, gold-plated strap. Utterly bewildered, I can only nod and resume my march toward the lake.
I don’t have to paddle for long before the dinghy begins to turn around in the water of its own accord. I pinch my nose and take a deep breath as I feel it drop…
—
I’m in a desert. There seems to be some noise and light coming from the distance, like an oasis of a city.
The Tony-specter had been with me through three gates, and the Lucy-wraith also led me to three. I wonder who might take up the role of my guide now that I have one left.
I also wonder if the sun has forgotten this planet.
When a small hand slips into mine, I’m nearly startled out of my skin. There’s a child alone in this desert, looking up at me with trusting eyes. Not a misshapen specter or deformed wraith, just a well-dressed boy with nicely groomed hair and a precocious sparkle in his eyes.
“I’ve wandered off from my mother and father,” he says with a posh Londoner’s accent. “Could you help me get back?”
He looks toward the oasis and gives my hand a tug. I nod without answering and begin to walk forward. In less than half an hour, my mind is blown at what I’m seeing.
It’s Wrestlstockopolis, the city raised up in the Sonoran Desert each July for the annual UGWC wrestling festival.
“Did we set up early this year?” I ask aloud.
“Whatever do you mean?” the boy responds.
I shiver as understanding washes over me like cold, black water. I haven’t been traveling through an endless night… I’ve been traveling over several nights. I missed the dream match of my career, and Lucy Wylde is the World Champion. She’s probably defending it this week!
“Sir?” he prompts. “Can we go in?”
“Um… yes, of course,” I mutter. “Do you remember where you last saw your family?”
He purses his lips and looks toward the makeshift city for a moment.
“It was cold,” he remembers. “Ice cold, even during the day.”
Raab’s district. Has to be.
Resolute, I lead the boy through the bustling activity, still reeling internally from how much time I’d lost. Somewhere along the way, I overhear fans lamenting Tony Savage’s absence due to neck injury. Eventually, I’m able to find our way to the Black Ice Climate Racing district.
“Black Ice Climate Racing?” my voice is dripping with incredulity. “What does that even mean?”
“It’s the seventh gate,” the boy says knowingly.
“What… I don’t understand.”
“Hell frozen over,” he explains. “Once you enter, you’ll have made it through.”
“Through to what, exactly,” I demand.
“Your destiny,” the boy announces. “To return to the beginning, where it all began, and start again.”
I drop his hand and inspect the district through the entrance. There’s a small racetrack around which young festival goers are piloting go karts. Vegan food stands are dotted here and there, and in the center of the district is the iconic Skittles stock car that Konrad drives for NASCAR.
“Your flirtations with the rest of the gold in this company have been impressive, to be sure,” the boy continues behind me, his voice deepening. “But that’s all they were. Flirtations. You flirt with glory but never quite cement your legacy. Your Conquest reign, your World Championship reign, were brief and forgettable. You were trusted with holding the AstroCreeps together while Tempest was away, but it crumbled under your direction despite Pierrot’s best efforts to shore up your missteps. He expected to return see his army occupying the UGWC, but instead his championship was absconded with, his greatest rival’s influence has continued to spread around the globe, and Numinous Fate, Konrad Raab, and Zane Scott are more immediate threats than Daedalus’ spooky training camp.”
How much trouble would I get into if I punted this kid onto the go-kart track?
“Face facts, Doctor-Professor,” he continues, his voice no longer the sing-song tone of a child’s. It sounds like smirking is the speaker’s natural state. It also sounds familiar. “You’re a much better follower than a leader. Tempest will take your place this week against Lucy Wylde, and attempt to bring the World Championship back into your camp. You? You’ll return to what you do best.”
I turn to face the epitome of spoiled rich kids.
The Sebastian-ghoul still manages to affect a smug visage, despite his face practically melting off like the bits of ice that occasionally drop from the ice-block air conditioners lining the walls around this district. He taps the Chaos Championship on his shoulder and nods.
“See you soon, Showman.”