- DISCLAIMER - The following story, novel, or chapter contains homosexual themes and is not intended for anyone under the legal viewing age - If depictions of homosexual activities disturb you - Do Not Continue To Read This Story - Feedback appreciated Copyright - 2005 - Max Williams (Kollegekid54321@hotmail.com)
Chapter 7
Somewhere in the western part of the city of Buffalo, New York, there was an old house that had originally been part of a dense Victorian suburb. It stood three stories tall and anyone that knew architecture, like the architects from the University at Buffalo that were always coming down to the slums to draw it's beautifully proportioned fa‡ade, knew that this house was a remarkable example of the Second Empire style. It had been built in the late 1890's at 505 Ferry St, during a time when the city of Buffalo, NY, was at its heyday. They say that at that time, more millionaires lived in Buffalo than any other city in the United States, and the architecture that was built there by that money was comparable to that of Chicago, one of the most architecturally diverse cities ever constructed.
505 Ferry St had been a perfectly normal house when it was erected. Although the neighborhood had undergone some scrutiny by suited men in City Hall, the houses that were built there were mostly constructed in ignorance of the situation. Ferry St's claim was that it ran from the heart of the east side of Buffalo right down to the shore of the Niagara on the west side, and from there one could board a ferry to the attractions on the Canadian waterfront. But before Ferry St had been constructed, the entire area there had been a poor working class neighborhood. The waterfront was considered the outskirts of the city, and harbored peasant's cottages, soon noted for the inhabitants. Strange, strange immigrants that came from strange parts of the world would settle there, before moving on through the great lakes and dispersing all over the country. And these strange people wore strange rattling clothing and had strange markings on their foreheads, and in the blackest of nights, performed lilting chants at the water's edge to their strange, strange deities. And when these people, these Mediterranean gypsies, had settled there long enough, they had developed a community that thrived among them. Stores pull of potent charms and herbs, women mixing things and speaking in garbled tongues, a small green space for their children to lay, another brown space for their nocturnal services, and eventually, a cemetery. They were a twisted, deformed people noted for their monotone language, but they managed to exist there, on the outskirts of Buffalo.
But then, in the 1860's, the city expanded again, and constant construction was little by little crowding out the old inhabitants. They didn't go happily, but they moved father out from the city. Too far, it would seem, given that most of them died over the next few winters. The little stores and cemetery were kept for a short time as the wealthy new inhabitants built their large, beautiful homes along newly constructed streets, but by the time they got to Ferry St, the whole of the gypsy community was demolished to make way for modern underground gas and water lines, and brick streets with tracks for horse-drawn streetcar. The store was torn down, the cemetery was closed and headstones paved over, and the bricks were laid for a new generation. The gypsies were dead, the city was growing, and when, in 1897, William Renault Montgomery, a man made wealthy from his shipping firm, built the house at 505 Ferry St, he could see nothing wrong with the attractive lots or pleasant neighbors. Nothing was wrong with the wide street or the pleasant canopy of trees, and certainly nothing was wrong with the view of the mighty Niagara River, flowing ever northward to the falls of the same name. William couldn't understand how anything could possibly go wrong, here, ever.
505 Ferry St still stood in the same spot, and the tower still looked over the Niagara. But almost one hundred years after the house had been built, a massive, gray, six lane limited access high speed arterial had been constructed along the entire western waterfront of the city of Buffalo. Ferry St was still there, but now truncated and short, and terminated in an expanse of parking lot that backed up to the mound of highway that for forty years had separated city from coast. The house at 505 had been written up in the local paper as one of the few surviving mansions from a more gracious era, and one that currently stood alone in the heart of what had become a heavily industrialized part of town. The trees were gone, the houses were gone, and 505 Ferry St stood alone in a sea of gray blacktop and belching smokestacks, bounded on one side by the mountain of highway and the other side by urban blight.
The industries that had taken such advantage of the newly landlocked plats inside the barrier of highway had of course tried to purchase the old house. But eminent domain didn't cover capitalistic ventures, and the owner, one W.R.Montgomery, was missing in action. Some curiosity was aroused by the fact that W.R.Montgomery had owned the deed for over 100 years, and because of a lack of death certificate had apparently never died, but that was always overshadowed by the fact that in 1896, Mr. Montgomery had set up a trust fund, in his name, that used almost his entire fortune, out of which the bills were to be paid . . . and then vanished. Hence, there was no lien against the property, there were no back taxes due, the owner could not be reached, and the industries had simply grown up around the mysterious old house that couldn't be bought or razed. Granted, the stocks in the trust fund had taken a beating over the last few years and the money was running low, and because of that the industrial captains were watching the old place like hawks, waiting for the moment to strike and enlarge their parking lots.
Inside 505 Ferry St, the man was digging harder and faster than ever. With the help of some rusty tools that he'd been able to find, he had finally pried the marble up and out of the hole, but that didn't help the fact that below the wooden trap door, for that's what it was, was clearly a secret room, large enough for one person, and entirely full of filth from the collapsed dirt walls under the flagstone. He was feverishly lifting clump after clump of rotted, stale mud from the depression and throwing it over his shoulder with only the help of errant rays from the bright streetlights outside.
He breathed and gasped as his hand full of dirt flew over his shoulder with a strict cadence, until his right hand hit something. He stopped in surprise, then furiously felt his hands along what was apparently a rough stone wall to his right. He realized that the stone wall went all the way up, behind the dirt, and apparently farther down as well. With a start, he also realized that there were depressions in the wall that felt curiously like the carved voids between letters. He furiously redoubled his efforts, and scooped pile after pile of dirt from the face of the . . . thing . . . and within a few minutes he had cleared down another six inches. The light was too bad, and the dirt was still obscuring the carvings, so he worked at it harder and harder. The man thought to himself, it's amazing that this is happening - this is too incredible a coincidence not to have something to do with who I am and why I'm here in this . . . place . . . that I vaguely remember. His hands brushed roughly against the stone and he felt the back of his hand break open in a long gash. He momentarily stopped, panicked, and then realized that like every other cut on his body, it neither bleeding nor hurting, and continued. The dirt was down about a foot from where it had been, and now there was something else revealing itself. The stone words, for they were words, were cut in an arch, and beneath the arch the man felt dirt slipping through a crevice. A tunnel? A passage? The doorway to a sub cellar room? He stood up, panting hard, and in that motion happened to get himself out of the path of the scant light, and some of the errant beams lit up the eerie words. In a segmental arch of granite, like the top of an elaborate doorway, was the word RICHIAZZI. The man shivered hard at reading this, but more than ever needed to find out what was beyond the entablature.
Greg's party was spinning out of control. Jason had long since joined Trevor's poker game and was thus exempt from the debauchery, but not by much. Girls were running around topless, giggling, clutching their cups and wheezing as they tried, but not too hard, to cover their breasts. The pool was full of couples making out, and the living room was full of people that had passed out. Greg had long since disappeared upstairs with the girl on his lap, both of them swaying happily and laughing as they staggered up the sweeping steps. Jason had been pleasantly buzzed but gradually more and more bored since Sean, too, had disappeared upstairs with the blonde in the chair, and Dave had been seen dashing up there as well, not long after. So now, an hour later, Jason sat looking at his reasonably good hand of cards but with his mind not even remotely on the game.
"Jase?" Jason looked up at the table. Jay and Mike were watching him through eyes glazed his alcohol, twin dumb smiles on their faces and twin dumb girls on their laps, and Jason realized this game was going nowhere fast. Even Trevor, who didn't get rowdy, was still full of beer and more prone to laugh and pretend to fall over than finish the game.
"Umm", Jason started, "I fold. I don't have anything." Trevor nodded.
"All right - Jason folds everyone! Jason folds! Jaaasssooonnn fooollldddsss Jay. Hey Mike - you're spilling your fuckin' guacamole. Hahahahahahahahaha." Jason left Trevor laughing to himself as Mike trailed his elbow through the bowl of dip again, and left the table. He wobbled over to the kitchen and put his empty bottle in the cardboard carton, then slowly wobbled across the patio, into the French doors of the living room, through the exercise room where a shirtless couple was making out on the floor, through the den where four or five more people were watching a boxing match on the television, and into a little bathroom that smelled unpleasantly like vomit. Jason shut the door and leaned against it for a minute, feeling his head throb. This wasn't a pleasant feeling, and even though he wasn't sick, the smell wasn't helping him. He sauntered over to the toilet, and lazily pulled his zipper down, then grasped his firm nine inches and pulled it out to pee. He had just started when someone started pounding on the door.
"Occupied", he called, frowning. Jason was glad he'd remembered to lock the do - the door popped open and someone came into the bathroom - fuck - he hadn't remembered. He was having a problem with locks lately. His dulled mind took a moment to tell his hands to cover himself and see who it was, and when the guy turned around after shutting the door again, Sean looked just as embarrassed as Jason.
"Dude - I'm so sorry - look, finish pissing, Ill turn around", Sean said, and obliged by turning toward the tiled corner while Jason, after hedging his bets, uncovered himself and finished, although he eyed Sean the whole time, which made it hard to urinate. Not so much because of embarrassment, as the fact that as Jason looked at the strong V outline of Sean's lean back, even through his T shirt, Jason kept inexplicably getting a little hard. Finally, the last drops fell and Sean turned around when he heard the zipper of Jason's pants again.
"What the fuck", Jason said, swaying slightly, "is so important Sean?!" Sean looked nervous, and dropped his eyes to the floor as he searched for the thing to say. "Well . . . I, uh . . . look dude, I really don't know how to say this." Sean's eyes met Jason's briefly and were clearly very uncomfortable. "Look, what if I said - I know you're with Meghan - but what if I said there was someone here . . . that, like, wanted ya?" Jason, incredulous, nodded. He and Sean had always talked about the hook ups Sean made before, and the girls that had wanted Jason, too, though Jason always stayed faithful to his girlfriend.
"Yeah, so? Why the fuck do ya have to tell me in the bathroom?" Sean looked even more uncomfortable.
"Cause I didn't want to say this in front of people. Look man, what if someone liked you . . . someone that you totally don't want to like you . . . like, what if they did? What if there was this person . . . no - okay. Jase, what would you say if one of your friends, like, someone you know kinda well, like, what if they wanted you? And I mean, bad?"
"Yeah. Okay, fine. So what? They can tell me and then get over it because I'm with Meghan." Jason, now fairly annoyed, stood up straight and tried to brush past Sean to the door. He misjudged the space, however and tripped on the thick bathmat that covered the tiled floor, falling almost directly into Sean's arms. Sean caught him, and held him, feeling the biceps inside Jason's sweatshirt bulge with the effort of standing upright.
"Jase", Sean started again, looking into Jason's dilated eyes, "you need to hear this. Look, someone came to see me a while ago, and I've been upstairs talking with Dave for about the last half hour about this, and he thinks that there's something that you really need to know. Dave's a good guy, and he helped me with the wording and everything so you don't misunderstand, but you've got to listen, dude. Look, one of your friends likes you. One of . . . the guys. One of the guys who's here, and its one of them that's . . . closer . . . than you think." Jason's eyes widened as the words dropped innocently into his mind and exploded like a bomb. Sean was talking about . . . being . . . gay?! Jason's mind was suddenly filled with vague images of himself and Fredo in that small, hot apartment, playing their games . . . Sean went on, ". . . and I want to know what you think about that. Dude, does it freak you out, are you okay with it? I need to know what to . . . uh, tell him." Jason's mind raced. He felt the liquor bubbling inside of him, clouding his mind, but Jason knew what he wanted to do.
"Him?", Jason queried.
"Yeah . . . him."
"Yeah, sure, him. Oh fuck, Sean!" Jason looked incredulous for another second, and then grabbed the smaller man by the arms and planted his lips firmly on Sean's. A rush of relief filled Jason as he finally was able to trace the outline of Sean's mouth with his. Jason could feel his pants tenting ever so slightly as felt Sean's lean arms tense under Jason's grasp, and couldn't help but picture the beautifully symmetrical face in another fit of passion, this time, maybe, over him. Jason's wide strong jaw opened and closed as he ran his tongue over the fine features of Sean's handsome face. Jason's lips were rubbing Sean's profitably, and he stopped to bite and suck on Sean's firm lips too. Sean's firm, unmoving lips. Sean's firm, unmoving lips, on a face that, when Jason opened his eyes, was frozen in shock and surprise. Jason recoiled immediately.
"What?!" Sean stood there, rooted to the spot, his hands having let go of Jason's arms as soon as he was kissed. Sean blinked and was clearly at a loss for words. But not for long.
"What the fuck was that?! You fag, don't ever fucking kiss me again, asshole, oh, God", Sean yelled, coming out of his trance and immediately stomping around, exaggeratedly wiping his mouth and spitting into the sink. "Asshole!! What the fuck - if a guy liked you you'd be okay with it?!" Jason, suddenly one degree more sober, started.
"What - well, no, dude - fuck no. I just . . . I dunno. What the hell, man? Why are you asking me all these fucking questions for about some guy liking me if you don't like me?!" Sean looked suddenly uncomfortable again, but this time mixed with disgust and resentment.
"JASE", he said through clenched teeth, "IM - NOT - THE - ONE - THAT - LIKES - YOU. I'm NOT the fag, you fuck! He's standing right out there, and it's -"
Fredo burst into the room. Jason's hurt eyes went from Sean to Fredo, back to Sean, and back to Fredo. Sean still looked livid, but suddenly resigned, and just folded his arms. Fredo just smiled. Jason's jaw dropped in surprise.
"Jason, I've been looking everywhere for you!"
The night had drawn on and on inside the old house and the light had gotten weaker and weaker as the hole that the man dug in the corner of that forgotten cellar gradually sank deeper. The words RICHIAZZI had haunted him for another couple of hours since he'd uncovered them, and now the arched opening underneath them was revealed as well. And so was the beautifully wrought metal gate that filled the arch. The man worked on, affected by neither hunger nor thirst, nor wounds nor tiredness. He was, and had been for some time, using his digging implement to pound away at the rusted hinge of the gate, and had been seeing little success so far. The hinge was worn away, and almost half of it had been chipped away with the blunt piece of metal that the man was throwing at it, and as he swung it again, a crack formed down the remaining metal. He felt a slight pang of satisfaction as he swung the tool again and the hinge cracked farther, and then swung it again with all his strength. The hinge completely fell apart, and as the force of the dirt shoved the gate askew, a crescent shaped opening was formed between the curved metal grill and the curved stone lintel. Some of the dirt poured through, and the man tumbled inside as well.
Hall or tunnel, room or basement, he wasn't sure. He did know that he had landed on a stone floor with a thump that had probably bruised him from hip to knee . . . that is, if he bruised. He got up, the cuts in his hands resentfully stinging, and looked around. Only a couple shafts of light filtered down here, dimly outlining the rectangular masses around him. The scent of stale dirt was all around him, a choking, disgusting smell of ammonia and decay that was only vaguely cleared by the breeze that came through the opening the man had just made. But with that smell there was something almost like incense . . . something churchy and flowery, mingled with the perfumes of a religious rite. The man's eyes were barely able to distinguish anything down there, and it was only because he took a nervous step across the stone floor and walked into it, that he found a short table. Things rattled as the table shifted, and the man instinctively put his hands on it to quiet the objects - the short, round objects. The . . .candles? Yes, and something small and rectangular next to it with a carving on the top that felt suspiciously like the walnut match box he'd always kept on the table in the parlor . . . the man stopped and was stunned at the brilliantly clear flash he'd just had of the room upstairs, clean, new, and full of his possessions. He feverishly opened the box and found the little sticks of dry wood, struck one on what he hoped was the surface of the table, saw that yes, indeed, the squat round objects on the table were little votives of every size and shape, and quickly began lighting every one of them. This was too easy, he thought. Someone had set this up for him . . . he wondered briefly if it might have been him. After a moment, the room was lit in a dull flickering light that finally revealed the man and his surroundings.
It was square and tall; attractive but echoing. The walls were a smooth white marble covered with little figures that caught in the shadowy light. The walls were divided into horizontal sections, each about three feet high and as long as the room, stacked four on top of another on each wall. It was then that the man realized with horror that he was standing in a horrible subterranean mausoleum. The Richiazzi's mausoleum, assumedly, that had been built under this house for God only knew was purpose. The man shuddered, and felt suddenly less than ever that his identity was in this hideous room dedicated to a surname that made him shiver so much he couldn't believe it was his to bear.
Slowly, he approached one of the carvings in the middle of one of the horizontal sections. It was a language he didn't understand, given with two dates. The section below that one also had worn and ancient looking words, though he didn't understand them either. Picking up a candle, he walked around the room, trying to read the foreign writing, but didn't see anything that sparked any memory until he reached the back wall. There, in the middle section, right at eye level, was an inscription that chilled him more than any other had. The surname was different than the others, there was no death date, and the epitaph had been replaced with a blunt command:
William Renault Montgomery
1870 - ..
Enter Me
The man's eyes opened wide, and he immediately went back to the gate and found his rusted little tool. Screaming in triumph, he ran toward the marble cover and began hitting it fiercely. The marble held strong for a moment, but soon one of the corners cracked off and the man wildly shoved the implement in, forcing it around fruitlessly through the air inside, and then went back to attacking the surface. After a moment there was a larger hole in the same corner, and soon there was a crack running across the surface of the marble. The man attacked that, and then screamed in wild relief as an entire section of the wall cracked and gave way, falling to the floor. Behind it, was exactly what the man had been searching for since he awoke that morning, almost a day ago. A letter, badly yellowed but intact, lay there with the words "To William" on the front in scrolling, serpentine cursive. And behind it lay a book. The man tenderly picked up the letter and clutched it to the sodden torn shirt over his heart, and then reached in for the book. He picked it up and looked at the strange symbols on the cover for a moment, before a massive clap of thunder rolled through the house and pitched the book out of his hand. Droplets of water began falling on the man's dry, peeling forehead, and he realized that it must be raining. Water must have been leaking through the house like a sieve to get this far down in the earth. He looked back into the sarcophagus, picked up the book again, and in just the nick of time, for the now incredible amount of water had extinguished the candles, crawled back through the gate, crawled out of the hole onto the soaking wet floor of the basement, and ran through the door of the fruit cellar, and up the intervening flights of back stairs. Once the man was safely back in his bedroom, he shut the door although he didn't know why, and set the book on the dresser. Rain was pelting against the bay window and even obscuring the light of the streetlights across the street, although there was still enough to read by. He sat, cross legged, on the moldy floor and ripped open the letter for William. The man read.
"I think we need to talk", Fredo said, nonchalantly leaning against the wall, and grinning like a madman. The kid was all decked out in his nicest dress clothes, which looked ridiculous with Jason in his sweatshirt and Sean in a print t-shirt and jeans. Sean was still glaring at Jason, clearly waiting for this to be over to speak again, and Fredo was comfortably waiting for a response. Jason was just pissed. Memories of Fredo rushed back into his head and he tried to block them out.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU", Jason screamed at Fredo, weakly shoving the kid in his drunken state. "You CAN'T come back here and piss of my friends, you FUCKER!! I DON'T want to fuck around with you anymore!" Fredo immediately looked hurt, because that was the exact opposite of anything he had expected. Sean, for the second time in half an hour, looked disgusted and surprised. "Anymore", Sean asked, incredulous. His eyes widened in understanding. "You really are into guys! Dude . . . Jase . . . oh man!" Jason looked confused.
"What?! Didn't asshole tell you this shit when you guys talked?!" Sean look confused.
"What?! I didn't talk to Fredo", Sean said forgetfully as he ran to the other room, "hey guys, guys, look what's going on in the bathroom!" Jason turned to Fredo.
"You didn't talk to Sean?!"
"No", Fredo said, "I just got here. I just wanted to hang out with you, and Greg invited me - but I guess you're back with men, huh?" Fredo smiled what he thought was a sexy smile, although it sickened Jason.
"No", Jason said, his drunken head spinning, "no, I'm . . . not . . . not without Sean . . . oh God, what's going on? Fredo, why the fuck are you here?!"
"Well", Fredo said, "I was coming here because I wanted to make up with you, but now I'm thinking this might be more appropriate." Fredo, who never had a problem making a scene out of himself (and anyone else around), and who never had a problem flaunting his sexuality, took the one step to Jason and wrapped his arms around Jason's head, then planted his lips firmly on the other man's.
"Guys look at what's going on in the bathroom; guys look it, guys - GUYS!!! LOOK AT WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE BATHROOM!!!!" Sean was now running around full speed, waking people, drawing people, and exciting everyone. He threw back the bathroom door, and was surprised himself to see the two men wrapped up in a deep kiss.
Gasps and murmurs went through the throng of naked, drunk, flushed and nervous people that had gathered in the little den, staring at the two men kissing.
"Oh my God!"
"Go tell Meghan, call her - quick -"
"Is he drunk?"
"You fag!"
"Is that Fredo Richiazzi?"
"God - Id heard rumors -"
"Homo!"
"Is this serious?"
"Oh my God, it is - look at them -"
"Fuckers!"
"Look at them - the assholes! Jase - you're not ever coming in the locker room again!"
"How could you do this at a party?!"
Fredo finally let Jason go, and pulled away from his face until they were looking into each other's eyes. Jason felt something welling up inside of him, something huge, something sad, something manly, and something devious. What was going on?! Jason regained his mind and shoved Fredo from him.
"Im NOT GAY", Jason shouted to the smaller Hispanic boy. "Get off me!" Jason turned to the crowd and saw all his friends looking at him. Sean was by the doorway, grimacing at Jason's accusatory expression.
"Asshole", Jason screamed at him as he brushed past and forced his way through the den. Jason felt the balloon of emotion inside of him puncture, and he did something that he'd rarely ever done - Jason cried. Hot tears welled in his tortured eyes and ran down his cheeks as he ran through the living room, and into the front hallway. Some people were following him, and he felt hot and embarrassed as he bothered with the deadbolt on the front door for a moment, and then it opened and he was free. Jason ran down the front of the deep lawn, crying and stumbling. He tripped but caught himself, but still took it out in one swift kick to the trunk of a decorative tree in the Bellgraph's front yard.
"Jase! Jase!!" Jason heard Sean's voice coming from the front door, and rapid footsteps that meant Sean was running after him. Jason broke into a run, fell again, and before he could stand Sean was already helping him up.
"Fuck! Off!" Jason shoved Sean down by his face and started running again. The crowd of people was standing in the doorway watching, and Sean, nursing his eye, sat on the grass watching the lone figure disappear down the street.