Fan Club

The Fan Club

Anthony stood at the top of the circular stairs, his hands on the gleaming wood of the banister, leaning forward. The immense gothic window, immediately behind him, split vertically in the middle, its iron frame dripping with rain, was wide open. The massive oak door, directly below, swung against the wall. A gust of wind howled in. It swirled indecisively at the foot of the stairs, then beckoned to the window, swept under Anthony’s coal black cape, flapping it like an evil wing. As the last guest entered and blew a kiss in welcome, he nodded and mouthed her name, for he knew the wind would have snatched and thrown any spoken word into the storm. Anthony watched her curvaceous hips sway into the banquet hall. In his mind, he watched his hands slowly caressing her hips as she gyrated them to guide his hands lower and deeper. He smiled as he heard her panting and smelt her odor. Reluctantly he switched his attention to the present. Turning, he grasped the cold iron handles of the windows, and swung them shut.

In the banquet hall, the boom from the windows disturbed the dark wine filling the elegant wine glasses arrayed on the ancient table under a chandelier of a hundred candles. Their light, reflecting off crystals in a myriad of angles, bathed the huge room in an unending glitter. This boom also had an effect on the audience, momentarily ending conversation, and thus, causing an anticipatory silence which was answered by the rhythmic beat of leather boots slowly descending a stone staircase. Twelve faces turned to the open doorway.

Anthony strode in, a hand at his throat, untying the bow of the cape. The job done, he flung the dark cape over the pallid arm of the statue of David. Twelve pairs of eyes followed him as he took his place at the head of the table, for it was the tradition of the club for the newest member to take the leading role.

Anthony raised his goblet, and dipped his head to those seated. His deep voice filled the hall. “Welcome friends. I thank you for your participation at this event to honor the art and imagination of our dearest writer and poet. What better way to revere his memory than to enact, in high drama, one of his stories? Each of us is an actor of the stage, to us reading in solitude is a thimble of water to a man dying of thirst, to truly understand a great story we must move our limbs, we must engage the vocal mechanisms, we must interact with the characters, only then can we attain the emotion to live the moment. To Poe.”

Twelve voices rocked the hall. “To Poe.” As one, thirteen goblets were tilted. Red wine flowed, and laughter proved their satisfaction. An hour past, and much food and drink were consumed.

Perhaps it was the sight of animated faces fractured by the glitter from the candelier, or, maybe, it was just the wine, in any case, something pulled down a dreary drawbridge in Anthony’s mind. Heavy chains clattered, and a dark slimy thing struggled out. Covered in sores, it lifted itself slowly as if in great pain, and lunged forward. Pus spurted in gobs. The stench of rotting flesh choked him. Instantly, the monster vanished. His black leather hands were constricting a pale slim throat with an unreasonable hatred that shook the long blond hair, pulled the eyes up, and ended life.

Anthony gripped his head as if he could squeeze the memory out.

The great clock in the hall announced the hour of midnight. When the hammer within the clock struck the gong the twelfth time, twelve chairs were pushed back against the stone floor, groaning and screeching as their legs scraped against the stone floor. Standing, the twelve spoke as one, “Anthony, let the drama begin.”

Anthony, elbows on the table and hands on his brow, slowly raised his head. With heavy eyes slow to focus he seemed to stare at something inches away. Finally, he said, “Ah, yes, indeed, it’s time to begin our drama. Follow me.”

Anthony stood and, for a moment, swayed. Then, recovering, went to the far end of the banquet hall. Stretching from wall to wall and floor to ceiling was a heavy red curtain. He pulled a thick cord. The curtain parted, revealing a vast mural that occupied the entire wall. The scene was of a street festival in southern Europe at the end of the 19th century.

Cardboard boxes were next to the mural. Hands quickly pried open the tops, dug in, and pulled out costumes. Each was in the fashion of the time and place depicted in the mural. One was special. A red and green outfit, with plumed shorts, tights, and best of all, a conical cap with golden bells hanging over the rim. Anthony put it on. He did a dance prancing in front of the mural, mimicking a puppet with strings. The bells jingled crazily. The crowd laughed and applauded. Anthony stopped and bowed with a sweep of his arms. He addressed the crowd, “I am now Fortunato and you, all of you, are now Montreso.”

Roles determined, they quickly arranged themselves in front of the mural and improvised with skill the actions of a background cast. Anthony tottered among them. One of them stepped in front of him and peered into his face. Recognition dawned. His voice rang out as if he were the happiest man alive, “Fortunato! It is wonderful to see you here.”

The cast of extras froze in the middle of their actions.

Fortunato lurched to a stop and focused his eyes. “Montreso! Are you enjoying yourself? What a silly question. You must be, for this is a marvelous festival. The wine this year is superb!”

Montreso smiled. “Is it, Fortunato?”

Fortunato shook his head. The bells jingled. “Yes, without doubt one of the best.”

“I do not doubt it, for your palate and nose are an excellent judge. I think Fate smiles on me. It has conspired to get my hands on a cask of Amontillado, and just when I am on my way for the opinion of a better judge than I, I run into you.”

Fortunato’s brow rose. His eyes widened. “Amontillado! At this time of year?”

“Yes, that is why I am worried. The merchant was in such a hurry that he would not allow me to get a second opinion. Of course, I took a taste. I’m almost sure it’s Amontillado. It was such a reasonable price, too. I couldn’t resist, but these days, as you know, there are so many merchants who dispense with honesty. Could you, Fortunato, put my mind at ease? Could you, the Master, put the wine to the test?”

“Certainly, I’d be more than happy.”

“Oh, oh no. Forgive me. I’ve forgotten you are a very busy man. You do not have many opportunities to relieve the stress of public office. You are in the midst of festivities. I do not wish to disturb you. I will get Luchresi to test the wine.”

Fortunato waved his hands and snorted. The bells jingled. “You would be wasting your time. Luchresi couldn’t tell Amontillado from Sherry. It would be no trouble at all for me to taste the wine.”

“Then, I will be so bold as to accept your kindness. Take my arm and I will lead.”

They stopped. The extras moved. They applauded and clapped Anthony on the back. One player came forward and took the role of Montreso for the next act. Torches were lit and handed out. They proceeded to the entrance to the cellar.

Montreso grabbed the door knob and turned it. The door creaked open. Leading the way down into the cellar, he said, “Watch the stairs, Fortunato.”

Fortunato lowered the torch. “Thank you, Montreso. I’d forgotten the history of your illustrious family and the catacombs beneath this house.” He reached the bottom of the stairs and shivered.

Montreso turned at the jingle of the bells. With concern in his voice, he said, “I have been selfish. I should have realized the cool air here, so damp, would be bad for you. Let us go back. I can have Luchresi come to taste the wine.”

Fortunato recovered and wiped his mouth. “Nonsense, I’m fine. It’s nothing at all, besides Luchresi couldn’t tell Sherry from Amontillado. Lead the way.”

“You must take better care of yourself, Fortunato. If you should catch cold from my cellar, many would harshly criticize me.”

“Do not worry, Montreso. I am fine. None shall raise their voice against you for this day.”

“You are being too kind. Let us turn back. I can get Luchresi.”

Fortunato stood to the fullest. He puffed out his chest. “No, I insist.”

Montreso hung down his head to hide a sneer. A sneer shown to his fellow players who were following. With small alarm in his voice, he said, “Certainly, let us proceed.”

They moved deeper into the cellar. Racks of bottles lined the walls. Montreso extracted one and broke off its neck. “Fortunato, drink some of this to warm your blood.”

Fortunato eagerly grabbed it, and poured the wine down his throat. Too fast it flowed, and a red stain spread over his blouse. With unconcern, he tossed the bottle to break on the brick floor. The crash was soon followed by other sounds: bottles taken from the racks, their necks knocked off, the splash of wine flowing, bottles shattering on the floor, and finally, the lingering crunch of boots crushing glass as the audience followed them.

They came to a vault of bricks, and the floor changed to rough stone that sloped downward. The ancient walls of stone were streaked with white. Montreso gripped Fortunato’s arm. “Look there, Fortunato. Do you see these lines? It’s niter. The air is bad and very damp.”

“Niter?” Fortunato went into a long and loud coughing spasm. The jingle of the bells, added to the coughs, were a cacophony. Finally, it ended and Fortunato gasped for air.

Montreso held on to Fortunato’s arm. “This is too much for you. You are in a weak state. Luchresi...”

“Is a charlatan and a dunce.”

“But, your cough...”

“No one dies of coughing.”

“True.”

“How much farther is this Amontillado?”

“Soon we shall be there. Look around, Fortunato. We are in the catacombs. Around us are the bones of my ancestors.”

Fortunato swayed. He lifted the torch above his head. A white mound converged into a heap of bones. Dark forms scurried away.

Montreso laid a hand on Fortunato’s arm. “Have some more wine, Fortunato.”

Fortunato brushed aside the arm. “No, let’s get this over with. I dislike rats as much as...”

Another actor rushed forward. “This way, Fortunato. In that niche.”

Turning, Fortunato stepped heavily forward and into the niche. He came to the inner wall, and stared puzzled at the chains with manacles embedded into the walls. “Amontillado.”

“Yes, Amontillado.” Montreso spun him around. The bells jangled. The manacles loudly clacked shut on his wrists. Flabbergasted, Fortunato stood mute.

The crowd clapped. Two of them went to a pile of bones, uncovered a large number of bricks, and proceeded to bring them to the niche. Another pair made the cement. The rest formed pairs, and each laid down a layer of bricks. With trowels, they spread the cement over the bricks to wall up the entrance.

Though Anthony, as Fortunato, should be alarmed at this turn of events, he couldn’t help forming a grin. This club was far beyond anything he had experienced. He guessed they would stop building the wall soon and unlock the manacles. Heavy and rusty, they were beginning to chafe his skin.

The sixth layer of bricks was done. Anthony lost patience. “Hey, enough already. Get these chains off of me.”

One of the club spoke, “Hey, enough already. Get these chains off of me.”

“Who said that?”

A chorus answered, “Who said that?”

Anthony froze, bewildered.

Trowels scraped against brick, spreading cement. The wall rose.

“Hah, hah, nice joke.” The wall rose.

One voice spoke, “This ain’t no joke, strangler.”

Anthony screamed, “Stop it! You’re scaring me.” The wall rose.

In a loud whisper, he pleaded, “Don’t leave me. Please, let me out.” The wall reached its end. There was space for three bricks in the center of the top layer.

A hand thrust a torch into the crypt. It laid sputtering on the floor. The actors, in turn, peered in with eyes that burned like flames in glass. As the last brick was placed, Anthony wailed, “Oh, my god, there are rats in here!”

The crowd backed off to admire their work. A clash of chains, and a jingle of bells barely penetrated the wall. Satisfied, they turned away. The few torches that flames still accompanied threw shadows on the wall that swayed, dipped, and rose like bottles on a troubled sea till the cast rounded a corner and Darkness ruled again.