#guillotine goth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

newnoirstories · 8 months ago

Text

Urban Gothic Memoir Fiction

[The inclusion of religious or mystical practices in my fictional stories does not constitute an endorsement of them. All illustrations contained herein are the work of perchance.org, not of me, but this is not an official endorsement of that website, with which I have no official affiliation. Finally, the reader is warned that the following short story contains violence, death and themes of trauma.]

"The Autobiography of Adam L" (Interquel to "Arjuna's Bow")

Chapter I

My name is Lillian Jennifer Morgan. You may call me Adam L if you like, but that experiment, one of learning and grief both, is over now.

An author wrote a story in which he mentioned that one Tom Carew, a Cornish man, even as I am a Cornish woman, or at least my mother was, blamed me for the deaths of those unfortunate people caught up in the schemes of Dr. Karl Steele, a loathsome man whose story has been retold more than enough by the press.

Whether or not my experiments in magick caused an imbalance, or harmed someone by mistake, I do not know, but it was never my intention to harm innocents. I feel the need to tell my entire story, as Lillian Morgan. I believe, now in my later years, in a just Providence, and He will judge me for whatever I have done, but I want a voice to my people in East Village, to let them know who Adam L really is.

Before I knew of magick, or knew anything, I was born in the year 1940, in Cornwall, or so I am told. Before my first birthday, I was in Manhattan. Some connection exists, in ways difficult to explain, between me and any other Cornish person, and somehow, Mr. Carew knew things about me, and I about him, that we could not have known within the so-called settled order of nature.

My mother, sadly, did not survive for long after my birth, and my father, Ives Morgan, moved to New York and threw himself into work, I believe, to distract himself from grief. He would speak of nothing but work and money, money and work.

I rebelled against my father, though in hindsight, I regret this, but as youth, we are so energetic yet so foolish. If the material world obsessed my dad, I was determined to know only of unseen realms. I became an avid reader, and developed what I now recognize as perhaps an unhealthy obsession with death, such that I was, by my teenage years, a goth before anyone knew us as such. My hero was Maila "Vampira" Nurmi, whom I took quite seriously at the time, failing to see the humor in her performance.

Before the end of the 1950's, I was a member of a coven, which I took an oath never to name. I no longer practice their ways, yet these women were the sisters I never had, and I will not break my word to them. All I will say is that they hid in plain sight in New York City.

Chapter II

Before I continue, I want to make it clear that I am not a gossip. While this memoir will touch on sensitive topics, to some, I suppose, I have obtained permission from both my husband and my best friend to write as frankly about them as about myself.

Before my friends, however, I must recount an enemy, a boy I knew in high school, an ambitious, outwardly clean-cut young man named Jeremy Thomas. My memory now serves me better: I remember now that he looked at me with ridicule until I mentioned that spells could bring money, and when someone expressed skepticism of this, I said a spell that resulted in $1 appearing in the skeptical girl's shoe. Then and only then, I realize, did Jeremy take an interest in me, or rather, in the money (principal with interest) he hoped I could make for him.

I married Jeremy Thomas, much to my regret, in 1964. He was a scavenging investor, I will say, finding struggling companies, removing the old ownership and turning a profit with marketing gimmicks, and he believed, and I believed also, that my spells, some of which I kept secret, by vows of the sisterhood, even from him, were making him a wealthy man.

Life with Jeremy was much like life with my father, except for the two crucial traits I still admire in my dad, which Jeremy lacked utterly: Honesty and loyalty.

The author of a tale of crime in East Village makes mention of Jeremy's unfaithfulness with his secretary. As, in truth, I had no passion of that sort for Jeremy anyhow, I scarcely cared about this, especially after meeting the secretary, Esther North. Even as I idolized Vampira, so she was fascinated by the memory of the recently departed Jayne Mansfield, and looked the part, yet like Mansfield herself, was a far more intelligent and complex person than the image might have suggested.

I invited Esther home one evening, while my husband was on one of his investment scouting trips, three thousand or so miles away. The reader might ask why Esther would accept such an invitation, given that I could have resented her, but you do not know Esther "Jayne Mansfield" North (to this day, she calls me "Vampira" and "Vampy"): She has no fear of any situation, but only curiosity. The fact that everyone whispered about my macabre lair did, I believe, make "Jayne" all the more eager to see it for herself.

That first night, she went straight for the library, and when she began reading the Sanskrit fluently, I knew I had found a soulmate. What though she loved attention (I could never cure her habit of golfing in, shall we say, a naturist way), what though the hair I loved to brush and comb for her was bleached, she was light to my darkness, and was always there for me. I love Esther, no matter how that sounds.

Chapter III

It was Esther who warned me of Jeremy's intentions in the longer term.

"Neither of us fits the bland, blend into the furniture sort that men in the public eye marry. In a way, I hope Jeremy is never too successful, for if he is, I fear he might leave you," she said.

Never were truer words spoken. Indeed, Jeremy Thomas had the audacity, one day in 1971, to approach me and say that he wanted a divorce, because his fortune was growing and he needed a more "presentable" wife, "not Morticia Addams", as he put it. In those days, ironic as it may seem, the only shoulder on which I had to cry was Esther's. In the proceedings the next year, however, she actually asked me to put her down as the co-respondent in the divorce, to strengthen my case, and also because she thought it would give her publicity for an acting career.

I rushed over to her place trying to hold back the tears, then broke down, just holding her and sobbing.

By the middle of that decade, I was very bitter and I began to call myself "Adam L", after the legend of Adam and Lilith, for those who know it. My income would have consisted only of what I could make by reading palms, were it not for my dear Miss North.

She pursued her acting dreams, with my encouragement, in southern California, but found that her ability at golf was greater than her skill at acting. Although she won only a few minor tournaments, her beauty resulted in numerous endorsements, and her head for mathematics multiplied that money as efficiently as Jeremy ever had. Math was my weak subject, but I do know that she got a return on investment more than tripling annually, and while the world knows "The Blonde Whiz", as an investment magazine called her, what they did not know is that, more than once, she sent the money home to me, saving me from public housing or homelessness.

Chapter IV

The author of "Arjuna's Bow" does accurately describe my actions regarding the old treasure chest (the provenance of which I do not know, except that my father gave it to me) and a portrait, specifically a photograph of my ex-husband, in 1986. I knew- and it was from Esther and her knowledge of the world of investment that I knew it- that Jeremy Thomas started a charity, called United Governments, as a front for money sent to coca growing in Colombia, and my spell was intended to result in his arrest, which, indirectly, it may have.

Although they do love each other, Lieutenant David Brown and Esther North, who married that same year, were also allies in an investigation into Jeremy Thomas's money laundering schemes, both to and from Colombia, and Esther, by this time herself into runes, even devising new theories as to their origins, believed back then, as I did, that her Marriage to Brown was part of fate, a fate sealing Thomas in a prison cell, after his 1989 arrest for money laundering and tax evasion.

By that time, however, I had abandoned the esoteric arts, and I had a new husband. A new chapter or more will be needed for an explanation of each.

Chapter V

I will name one and only one fellow member of the sisterhood, and that is because I later discovered that she was also a member of the Reformed Order of Red Mendes, which, from what I heard, and what was later revealed in a court of law, was what remained of a group of British occultists alleged to be involved in terror, having fled the United Kingdom to avoid prosecution. Her name is, or was, as she is no longer with us, Jessica Bell, though she preferred to be called "Jezebel".

Jessica always wanted the rest of us to practice the Goetia. I refused. Back then, what did I worship? So many have asked, and the answer is puerile and disappointing: Thor, from Norse mythology, but only because I was caught in a lightning storm in my teens, and at the time, I thought that he rescued me from it. A sorry way to pick a religion, I now admit, though I also used to see Esther as an embodiment of Venus (Roman mythology).

The mere presence of this reckless, provocative woman (even by my standards), Jezebel, in the coven was something I gave little thought, until the Summer of 1987, when Manhattan officials wanted to cut down an old oak tree, in Riverside Park, which, admittedly, in retrospect, may have been an aesthetic problem, and possibly even a danger as far as falling limbs, but at the time, I associated oaks with Donar (Thor), as did the rest of the sisterhood.

Strangely, however, on the day the oak was to be felled, while we all prayed at the Park in our heathen ways, wishing harm on no living being, but only the preservation of the old oak, Jessica was absent from our circle.

Amidst the protest, one John Marsden was determined to do his job regardless, until in a flash, he caught fire. I still see him, and hear his screams too, in my nightmares. It took what seemed like ages before I realized that Jezebel had thrown a carefully prepared weapon, incendiary, at the poor man. Two policemen were on the scene to keep order amidst public opposition to cutting down the oak, and they gave chase, but out of some bushes emerged a man with a pistol, and while Marsden survived, badly disfigured, the policemen did not.

In the soil near the bushes was found a marker with the number "99", in red letters, so although the male attacker wore a ski mask, I knew who was responsible, at least by reputation: "99" was the title given to the leader, rumored to be one and the same as Chomolungma Iscariot (born Robert Pike), metaphorically "Highest Traitor", of the Reformed Order of Red Mendes, known as the Red Goat in Britain. Before the British began arresting the Red Goat, such deeds were entrusted to underlings, but after fleeing, now smaller in number and weaker in power, to the USA, every source I heard said that Chomolungma would trust no one but himself to have been the gunman in the park, and signed the deed accordingly.

Broken by what I had seen, several of us left the sisterhood. We knew, of course, that no one but Jezebel, still on the run from authorities, condoned such a deed, but the mere association was enough. That was the day I became, once again, Lillian Morgan.

Chapter VI

I felt that I had to apologize to Marsden personally, though I did not expect the hospital to let me see him, but to my surprise, the good Mr. Marsden said he had been expecting me, and insisted on seeing me. I begged his forgiveness, which he gave without even hesitating, adding that he forgave even Jessica Bell.

"I lead a Bible study group," John said, looking at me through the only eye that still saw light, "and I believe that if I did not forgive everyone, including this Jessica, or Jezebel, Jesus would not forgive me of my sins."

Further words would cheapen what this meant, but I will say that this was the first time in my life I considered monotheism of any kind.

As for Jessica Morris Bell, she was found, in March, 1988, deceased, lightning the cause. I could scarcely believe it, and thought it must be what we would now call an urban legend, but one reputable source after another confirmed it. By this time, I prayed to one I called Sky Father, and reckoned this must be His justice.

That year, however, saw another curse, as it seemed, but brought me the husband I love with all my heart.

Chapter VII

Having left the occult, I no longer read palms, losing my only independent source of income. Likewise, while Esther insisted that she, now quite wealthy from golf, modeling and acting, but mainly her wise investments, was happy to support me, joking that I was her "wife", I felt that she deserved the money a lot more than I did, but my reputation preceded me.

As a macabre woman of mystery and darkness, as the world considered me, what employment could I find? I could think of only one thing: Go from actual magick to the illusions of stage magic, and I sought employment as a magician's assistant. Esther was such a doll: She was unofficially my costume designer, even sewing my old outfits into stage costumes. I had no money to pay her, of course, but she did it because she loves me.

My employer was Gerald Harper, stage name Mesmer Blanc, a meticulously crafted persona, and he sought me because of, not in spite of my reputation, saying that my mysterious past would bring audiences by itself. Gaunt and charismatic, I found Harper more than a little appealing, but while he kept it a secret, he preferred other men.

A fresh start, I thought, and a fine gentleman who said that one day, he would teach me to be a stage magician myself. I became then, not only his assistant on stage, but his professional protégé.

One evening, he attempted to teach me both his most popular and his most dangerous trick. He insisted that he would, in the privacy of his home, a grand, gothic mansion, demonstrate it first on himself, that I was not to assume the risk until he had taught me with the utmost care.

Harper had in his possession an actual guillotine used by notorious French revolutionaries, and he was eager to allow anyone, including experts, to examine it, to prove that it was not a trick device. He had many times placed his own head in this device, and somehow lived to tell of it, and he would now demonstrate this to me, though he locked us in a room, not trusting even his servants with the secret of how it was done.

Some strange sense of foreboding came over me. I saw an old portrait on the wall. It was as if the eyes stared at me. The glint of light from a suit of armor startled me.

"Now, now, Lillian, don't be nervous. This fine home you see: This trick bought it for me. I know what I'm doing."

Yet in demonstrating the device, he met with a very real end. I was too shocked to speak or cry out, but just stood there. I barely remember what happened next, but I vaguely recall a policewoman helping me to a chair.

The initial assumption was that it was a horrible accident, but close examination of the deadly device revealed that it had been subtly altered by someone- and I became the prime suspect- in an act of cold-blooded murder. As the guillotine was stored in the room of Harper's death, and no one but Harper himself was known to have a key to the room, I would have been arrested for a crime of which I was innocent but for the doubts of one man: Detective Sammy Drayson.

Chapter VIII

"I doubt you're the killer, but you know who the killer is," said Drayson, looking keenly at me.

I did, actually, have a suspicion. I did not want to tell the world Harper's secret life as a gay man, especially not in those days, the way things were, but here I was, facing a potential charge of murder, murder of a man I deeply respected.

"A man named Bob has a key to that room," I reluctantly told Sammy.

"Who is Bob?"

"I don't know, but I know that he is, or was, well, Mr. Harper's lover, and Harper mentioned him more than once, even mentioning entrusting him with a duplicate key."

Sammy, Detective Drayson, knows better than I do what investigative measures took place next, but he discovered that "Bob" was actually Robert Pike, Chomolungma Iscariot, revealed in court proceedings to be the leader of Red Mendes. His crime, so far as the District Attorney knew, was intended primarily to frame me, though why Pike would do such a thing remains a mystery.

Sammy would visit me from time to time. He knew of the trauma at Riverside Park, and little by little, he opened up about his childhood as an orphan. The men at the station thought him to have no feelings, but the lovely man cried in my arms, the sweetest, gentlest lamb, yet a bold tiger confronting the likes of Bob Pike. We married in April of 1989, and grow more in love each day.

Esther North moved back to New York, saying she missed me. I hugged her so hard she nearly passed out, as I forgot the strength of my grip. Born for show business, she became a Broadway and Off-Broadway producer, though under the contrived name "Helen Troy".

0 notes