Voyeur in the Bascàl

Deacon Dillabaud nurtured the vacant expression of a daydreamer. He sat solitary in his apartment while fidgeting with his necktie; a bowl of oatmeal chilled into a loaf beneath his restless fingers. Stacks of neatly filed newspapers lay unread before him on the stained oak table.

A rap sounded at the door. Deke slowly turned until he faced the entryway and waited for the visitor to announce themselves. No such declaration came.

There was a second knock before the stranger shuffled off through the halls and down the stairs.

Deke pushed his breakfast away and stepped to the door. He placed a steady hand on the knob and tried to listen through the wall – silence. Curiosity tipped the scale and Deke cracked the door open. He found a small parcel nestled into the emerald carpet of the manor.

This was a most curious conundrum, as the Bascàl operated as a private apartment. Deke also had no recollection of making any orders or post requests. The final complication was the day of delivery – Sunday morning. Nothing could be delivered at such an hour.

This meant the package was left privately, and with purpose! Deke set it on the dining room table and inspected the tidy edges of the wrapping paper. Lengths of butcher’s twine sealed the contents with delicate security. The face carried no mark of the sender’s origin.

Deke wrung his hands with anxious perturbation. His mind throbbed with expectations of gifts and relics from a faraway land. He walked in a sharp, ceremonious circle around the table as he itemized his most vital desires.

Deke stopped in his tracks and looked to the clock – his shift at the printing press started in fifteen minutes. There wasn’t time to let this mystery fester. He pinched the loose ends of twine and gently unlaced the knot.

Beneath the plain wrapping was a box, which Deke rattled open with ink stained fingertips. Inside the package lay a loose pile of photographs.

He glossed over the first image with delight. Whoever took these photos snapped a suave shot of Deacon exiting the Bascàl, complete in his best suit. It seemed the visitor was a secret admirer of sorts.

Deke shuffled the photos so he could see the next one.

“Dear, God.” Deke whispered. He fanned the pictures out with a trembling hand and found each one more grotesque than the last – and he was the focal point of each still. They began with a mild descent; private scenes of self satisfaction. He squirmed under his own sweat.

The images were so heinous that Deke marched from his apartment down to the printing office and filed his own termination, effective immediately. His hands quaked like locomotive tracks as he signed his name across the form. The skin around his eyes became white and spongy, etched with spindly black veins. No one bid the phantom of Deacon a good morning on his return trip to the Bascàl.

He resumed his viewing of the parcel’s contents. Deke looked down at events he had no memory of – prints of private debauchery hosted in his very apartment. Illicit strangers posed and smiled for the camera, and Deke paraded between them in various shapes of ecstasy.

The nature of the photographs transitioned from carnal to nefarious, and climaxed in a sequence of horrific violence. The acts were so unspeakable that Deke resealed the box and stuffed it beneath his mattress. He collapsed in a breathless fit against the bed frame.

These photos should not exist! Deke smashed a fist into the curling floorboards of his apartment. The package was evidence of a life that he had no recollection of living.

Deke scrambled to his feet and flung himself against the front door. It reasoned that whoever delivered the package must also be the photographer. Deke popped the apartment door open and surveyed the hall with a single manic eyeball. Upon seeing nothing, he closed and locked the door. He even wedged a chair beneath the knob just to strengthen the barrier between himself and the world beyond.

Time filtered out of the apartment like smoke from a chimney as Deacon crafted a new schedule of habits. Dawn conjured a paranoia that festered in every sound and shadow. Deke crawled from room to room in an effort to remain unseen from the windows. He periodically heard the charge and release of a camera flash bulb coming from behind the walls.

Deke rekindled his focus by nightfall. The worry of being discovered was replaced with an unabated desire to understand the situation. He crept into his bedroom to pour over the wicked images within the box.

He placed the pictures face up and inspected them with a nervous rocking. A finger of candle light illuminated the vile spectacle of each frame. The last image captured Deke’s possessed eyes over an asphyxiated corpse, which he cradled with scabbing arms.

None of it was possible. Deke scrounged for a photo and then ambled around the room. He held the picture up and put it in line with the backdrop – it was unmistakable. This is where the cameraman stood in the moment.

Deke bit his lip and looked around for ink or dye, anything to mark his place on the floor. He spent the rest of the night matching each picture in reference to where the photographer stood. A chill ran up his spine when he realized some of the pictures were actually impossible to take – literally. Some of the stills required the camera to be positioned beyond walls or even outside of the building altogether, as if the Bascàl manipulated itself to accommodate the imagery.

Flashes of light emanated through every crack and window for the last hour until dawn. A drum pulsed to life, followed by an old world symphony of flutes and harps. It reminded Deke of the Great Pyramids and snake charmers in the desert. He hid beneath the kitchen table and convulsed to the ancient rhythm.

This is how the weeks went by for Deacon Dillabaud. Sometimes the particulars varied, but each day generally passed the same. Madness soured into bouts of untethered rage, and shame trickled into unshakeable psychoses. Some hallucinations brought every acquaintance in town to whisper his secrets through the gap in his keyhole.

Desperation forced Deke to venture out from his apartment building and skulk the township. He crept between shadows to evade the rising sun and every face beneath it. The man looked like a corpse that wandered in from a premature burial. No one asked him his business on the rare occasion they caught sight of him.

He didn’t seek the grocer or a doctor, but the library. Deke touched every shelf, mumbling alien phrases to an invisible companion. The book titles slithered up and down each binding as he searched the halls.

The historical archives were easy to find, but Deke struggled to pin down anything about cursed cameras or photographs. There were texts on witchcraft and ancient lore of the ungods, all of which he added to the ‘borrow’ pile. The clerk was nowhere to be found when Deke was satisfied, so he left a note with his selection and dashed for home. His gangly legs were the only giveaway behind the mountain of literature.

Locked away in the cavity of his apartment, Deke found the yellow pages refreshing over the sinister images. He returned the photos to their package, which he tucked away in a hole in the back of his closet.

He poured over the texts with a haunted glare. The bustling New England town of Gravsmith was founded in 1661. It turned out the Bascàl was originally erected as a church, but was then converted into a sanatorium. Deke whimpered as he turned the pages. He could hear someone clanging a pair of bedpans together in the hall.

The last major overhaul occurred seventy years prior. The Confederates sacked Gravsmith during the infancy of the Civil War, during which the Bascàl was a home for girls. The occupying officers refitted the building to be a command post, but the girls inside were never released – nor seen again.

Deke shuddered as he closed the book. He imagined the building was renovated and renamed after the Union victory, serving as the apartment Bascàl until the present. He wondered how many residents had seen apparitions in their chambers, or Confederate ghosts chasing women up and down the stairs.

Perhaps this is just what happens to tenants of this apartment. Deke ran his grimy hands up and down his pant legs. A smile quivered to life across his bleached complexion. Yes, that box of pictures is just a parlor trick! The gag of a lost spirit. He nodded along with manic intensity.

The new information satisfied him. The building had a bewitching history wherein bad things just happened. Deke waltzed from room to room in a spinning dance routine as he reinforced this new reality. His feet were matted with the black paint he’d used to mark the carpet.

There was a moment of clarity that let Deke remember his old life – the days before he locked himself away. He ran to his desk to check his notes and schedule. The calendar beside him was three months behind, still pinned to the day he received the ominous parcel.

Today happened to be the quarterly meeting of the Manners and Discussion Club. The club acted as a private circle for middle class citizens to practice their speech and decorum, without the sting of peripheral embarrassment. Deke served as one of their longest standing members before his incident.

Deke decided he would attend.

He spun into the kitchen and plopped down at the table. There was a cold bowl of oatmeal waiting for him, bloated with gas and rot. Deke stirred it gently with a spoon before he helped himself. Cockroaches raced around the rim as he dined.

Next, Deke undressed in the threshold of his closet. He kept an eye on the crumbling hole in the wall as he disrobed. He snaked a ghastly arm through the plaster and reached down for the hidden box.

Instead of the box, Deke found musty old fabric. He pulled it through the opening and discovered a Confederate uniform, complete with the cap and saber. The buttons were rusted, and the inner lining was stained with gore. Still, Deke donned the outfit like it had always belonged to him.

He slowly inserted his head into the hole as to peek behind the wall. Alas, the parcel and its contents were nowhere to be seen. Pleased, Deke placed the hat on his head and started for the club meeting.

The pedestrians of Gravsmith heard Deke coming long before they saw him. The buttons chimed, the boots shuffled, and the seams were starched with blood. He looked like he might break a bone just from lifting a limb in the oversized regalia.

Deke found the meeting hall and made a grand entrance. He threw the door open and took a series of ceremonial strides into the foyer. The Manners and Discussion Club stayed silent as they watched the display.

He took an empty seat amongst the ring of chairs in the chamber. Attendees lingered in groups along the walls while they whispered. Deke made no effort to greet any of them.

Leopold Foster conducted each meeting as the club president. He took the floor and gestured for everyone to sit – the seats around Deacon remained empty. Those sitting nearest him cupped a hand over their noses.

“Welcome friends, new and old!” Leopold announced with a raised hand. “Thank you all for attending.”

There was a small round of applause.

“It seems we have an attendee very far from home. Your name, sir?” Leo asked the Confederate ghoul.

Deke pushed the hat back from his brow. It was far too big for his shriveled skull. “It’s me, Leo! Don’t you remember me?”

Mr. Foster squinted through his spectacles. “Is that Deacon Dillabaud?”

“Yes, yes!” Deke squealed as he drummed his fingers together.

The room drew into a series of silent whispers.

“Pray tell, where have you been? All of Gravsmouth wondered.” Leo explained. He took slow steps towards his chair.

Deke scanned the room and saw the crowd looking back at him. His face became rosy, and his eyes rolled like marbles in every direction. “A curious matter was brought to my attention. I’ve been conducting private research.”

Leo nodded. “It must have been important! Your absence was quite the affair – we still haven’t received a proper newspaper.”

Deke offered a horrific smile. “I apologize for the inconvenience, my friend.”

The room buzzed with rumors and theories. Deke snapped his head in any direction he heard his name or the Bascàl.

“It’s no matter,” Leopold assured him as he sank into his chair. He reached beneath the seat and produced a neatly wrapped parcel. “There is other business to attend to.”

Deke swallowed what felt like a musket ball. His stomach dissolved to scum and leaked from between his other organs. “What is that?”

“A package delivered to me this morning.” Leo said.

“Where did you get it?” Deke cried. His rancid breath filled the room.

“It was left on my doorstep by an anonymous messenger,” Leo raised a finger in the air. “Except that I was faster than the delivery boy, and I saw him depart with my own eyes!”

“Who? Who left it?” Deke was desperate.

Leo yanked on the butcher’s twine and let the wrapping paper fall open. “It was the simpleton, Frank Elwood.”

“Don’t open it!” Deke jumped to his feet and backed away from the circle. He sent the empty chairs around him scuttling across the floor.

“Mr. Elwood told me to open the parcel at this afternoon’s meeting.” Leo shrugged and lifted the lid. “He even said that you would be here.”

It was the same striking photo of Deke leaving the Bascàl. Curious attendees leaned to see what lay in Leo’s lap. Deke shook and groaned in his distress.

“What does the note say?” Douglas DeChaine asked. He was the club recorder.

Leo shrugged and passed the card off. His focus was on the pictures, which almost brought a smile to his lips.

"I didn't bother reading it. I've always known the man to be a drone." Leo confessed. It was true; Frank Elwood was institutionalized a year prior and never truly recovered.

“Please,” Deke offered his most sincere smile. The contrast of his mottled skin and decaying teeth was dreadful. “You shouldn’t open that.”

“Come now! This is a fine photo of-” Leo rearranged the images and went stiff. “My God.”

Deke offered his empty palms in defeat. “I’m an innocent man.”

The room came to life with murmurs. Douglas fingered the card open and began to read the contents alongside the conversation.

“Interiora tua vidi opera…” He chanted.

“Deke, what have you done-” Leo flushed red.

“I didn’t do anything! The package just came to me, like it did to you!”

“Ego sum oculo diis exterioribus vigilans…”

“You’ll have to explain yourself elsewhere.” Leo kept rifling through the stills. “I know what I’m seeing.”

Deke inched towards the door under the eye of the entire room. A brace of club goers positioned themselves around the exit.

“There’s nothing to explain.” He whimpered.

"Locus notas exitus tui speciei..." Douglas continued.

“Someone apprehend that man!” Leo bellowed over the crowd.

Deke pulled the saber from his scabbard and hacked at his captors, who quickly stepped to either side.

“I am the victim! You will see in the end.” He stuttered.

He fled from the hall with pumping strides. There were shortcuts Deke had discovered during his early morning stalks, the likes of which delivered him to the Bascàl like a phantom. He spilled out of an alley, stripped of his cap and sword, and charged into the building.

A commotion started through Gravsmith as Deke climbed the stairs. He could hear the launching of a search party. Fool! You’ve run to the one place they’ll find you.

Deke slithered into his apartment and locked the bolt.

He turned to find a scene from one of the pictures; disrobed strangers chattering about the room. They smoked cigarettes, drank champagne, and took no notice of Deke. He skirted between the cold, lifeless bodies as they danced around him.

“Is that Deacon Dillabaud?” Someone asked from his bedroom.

Every head in the room snapped in his direction. Deke closed his eyes and shook with denial.

“No, no more. I can’t. This was all an accident-”

“Come in here.” The voice commanded. It was distorted like a record.

Deke obeyed. He shuffled into the room and found it empty, except for the damage done to the wall. The boards were snapped and warped into a dark, splintered portal.

A man stepped into view near the back of the closet. He set up a camera stand with practiced precision.

“May I take your picture?” He asked.

Deke nodded.

A knocking erupted at the front door. It threatened to break the hinges.

The cameraman peeked through the lens. “Come closer.” He waved a hand in.

Deke approached the twisted hole in the wall.

“Closer.”

Deke stepped inside. He couldn’t face the constable he knew was banging on the door. Any fate was better than the shame waiting for him in the courts. Part of him hoped the building itself would swallow him whole before he was found.

“Oh, yes.” The photographer said from beneath his focusing cloth. “Hold that pose.”

The flash bulb washed Deke in a bath of light. He didn’t feel as sick under the discharge.

He took a deep breath and smiled.