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| Photo credit: Roanish |
In the summer time, we liked to go up on the roof of the
apartment building; the structure at the top of the elevator lift shaft was
surrounded by a concrete platform and we would sit up there for hours, backs
against the white brickwork, listening to a transistor radio and staring out
across the town.
To the north, we could look down one the parking lot of the big
shopping Plaza kitty-corner to the apartment building; when we really had
nothing to do, we could waste a lot of time trying to count the number of
Volkswagen Beetles parked there (another, and more complicated variation, was to count them by colors). The train
tracks ran directly north of the Plaza and when a train went past, particularly
a long, long, freight (looking no bigger than Lionel trains from our lofty
vantage point), it was always a welcome diversion. The Queen E, and the highway
bridge over the creek, formed the northern boundary of our field of vision.
To the south, we could see the town spread out below, the
houses and buildings camouflaged by a canopy of maple trees and beyond the
town, the Lake, its blue-dark waters stretching forth to merge with the sky at
the horizon.
The Lake, naturally enough, dominated our thoughts and we
found our eyes turning to it instinctively. We knew all its moods and all its
colors: indigo, russet, silver and grey; we were especially fascinated when,
after a heavy rain, we could see the current of muddy brown water from the
creek drifting in an almost straight line far out into the grey-blue waters.
The Lake was always there and we were always aware of it.
East was the “Big Smoke” and to the West, miles of dull
suburbia; nothing to see there, but as our resting place on the apron faced
West, we were often gazing in that direction – which is how we found it.
It was eagle-eyed Stash who spotted it: “What the heck’s
that?”
“What.”
“Out there, by the tracks – that tower!”
“I don’t see anything.”
Eventually, by squinting and by following the line pointed
by Stash’s finger, I was able to see it: a beige turret, rising up in a wooded
area by the train tracks over near the Fourth Line:
“Looks like Dracula’s
castle,” I said.
We debated for a while about the identity of the mysterious
“castle,” but, in the end, we decided the only thing to do was investigate –
and an hour later we were frantically pedaling our bikes through the roadside
gravel, praying we didn’t get wiped out by a truck. We were relieved to finally get to the Fourth
Line where, after crossing the tracks and following a rutted track through the
tall grass, we came upon the monolith: an abandoned silo.
It was built of concrete, the round sides weathered to a
beige finish; the top, where the conical roof had been, was now open to the
sky. It was surrounded by the remains of the foundation, which included a partial
cement floor over a space large enough for me to stand up inside. After parking
our bikes against the foundation, Stash and I entered the lower section through
a gap in the wall, which may have once held a pair of double doors.
“What is this place,” I asked Stash; it felt cold and clammy
after being out in the hot sun, which made me add: “It feels like a crypt.”
“This must have been where they stored the grain,” Stash
said.
“Stinks in here, anyway,” I added, for, in addition to the
chill, I had become aware of a fetid, noisome stench.
Who knows what else I might have said, but at that moment,
our attention was distracted by the sound of an approaching car: “Someone’s
coming,” Stash said, as if I hadn’t noticed.
We stepped out into the sunlight, which momentarily blinded
us; when we had finished squinting, it was to see an enormous, black, 1950s
“tank” crawling down the dirt trail towards us. The front grill, which
resembled a huge grimace, was a dead giveaway as to the model.
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| Photo credit: Louis Quattrini |
“Buick,” I said, a statement, not a question.
“Yeah, 1951,” Stash agreed; it was an auto town, so we knew
all the cars.
The Buick pulled up close to the foundation, where the
shorter grass made a sort of clearing. The guy who climbed out was tall and
incredibly thin and dressed entirely in black, including a turtleneck, even
though it was hot as Hell outside. His dark clothes and mop of black hair set
off the pallor of his thin face; he had large, bloodshot eye and needed a
shave.
In short, he didn’t look like anyone I’d want to mess with.
“This is private property, boys,” he said without preamble.
“You’ll have to leave – now.”
“You own this place, sir?” Stash asked, kind of smart
–alecky; he always dis have a big mouth.
“This is private property. You have to leave. Now.”
We had no choice but to grab our bikes and go. The dark man
made no effort to get back into the Buick, but watched us as we pedaled down
the dirt trail until we were finally out of sight. We had both noticed that
while he had said it was private property, he hadn’t said it was his property.
But we kept our thoughts to ourselves until we got back to the apartment
building, first checking over our shoulders to see if the old, black “tank” was
following us.
“What the hell was that all about,” I said, annoyed at being
run off.
“He don’t want kids running around there; maybe they have
orgies at night there.”
“You think,” I said, suddenly very interested.
“Maybe – the guy looked like a pervert. But there is another
explanation.”
“What?”
“You know…"
And then I did.
The guy was a Nightfloater.
