The well-heeled extravagant penthouses with dizzying views may seem like the epitome of luxury, but little do people know that beneath the basements of these grand buildings lie secret catacombs that have flourished unknown for hundreds of years. On the corner of what is known as 30th Street and 8th cross, lies a cluster of six massive catacombs all connected by a short, nondescript dark passageway. The rooms are lit by countless black six-foot candle holders supporting tall, fat white candles that have burned for centuries, their flames never extinguished, and their soft, jittery glow widely dancing ominously off the heavy stone blocks and dark shadowed walls of the rooms and corridors.
The air in the space is dank and onerous from the lack of sunlight, fresh air, and life. The fetid smell of death and the dying hangs heavy. The walls are lined with various objects from the main occupants' past from distant lands, their size and unique qualities speak to one of high status and prominence. Two small carved wooden tables, their bases reflecting gargoyles spreading their wings as if in flight, sit in opposing corners. On each table sits a crisp white lace doily topped with an ancient apothecary square glass jar canister filled with a thick sanguine substance. The bottles are corked to protect the unholy contents.
The front of the catacombs is a large spaced room with a heavy wooden floor coated with a layer of dust that lifts itself in little swirls around the legs of those passing through, then quietly settles. The corners and ceiling of the room dripped with light, airy spider webs in constant motion as if touched by an unseen force. The room is silent except for the infrequent crying or screeching of a frightened, sometimes female, sometimes male voice calling out to someone, anyone, to come and save them. There is always begging, lots and lots of begging. There is never an answer or a savior, only the echoes of high-pitched laughter and silence. Always silence.
At the far end of the chamber, two wooden steps lead to the base of a large brick and wood wall. The steps lead nowhere yet, it is the only way in and out. To the left of the steps, a massive and magnificent antique brass pendulum grandfather clock. The room is silent except for the soft ever constant ticking like that of a heartbeat marking the time that brings relief.
In the center of the main chamber, against opposite walls on low wooden platforms, sit two coffins. The larger coffin is covered in deep wine-colored velvet, trimmed with exquisite gleaming gold. On top of the lid, a forged ornate gold, blood red, and black ornament, the crest of a Warlock. Opposite the Warlock's coffin, a simple black coffin bereft of ornamentation but for gold handles. Smaller in size, covered in striking black velvet. On the lid, a large hand embodied a five-point star in a circle, a pentagram.
Suddenly, the catacomb is filled with the deep round voice of the great clock signaling the arrival of midnight. The loud heavy bong fills the chamber echoing off the stone walls, a call to rise. The hinges on the coffin begin to move and the lid slowly lifts, revealing the outline of a male form. With the final bong of the great clock, sounds fade forlorn into the emptiness that surrounds it. The full form of a Warlock dressed in a black suit, his black cape binding his body like a cocoon, rises prone from his coffin, levitating, then moves away from his resting place.
His figure floats in the air before slowly lowering soundlessly to the ground without leaving any trace as it turns vertically until his feet are above the ground. He relaxes the tension in his neck and shoulders by stretching them, and by throwing back his cape, he completely escapes his prior captivity.
Despite having a pale, sickly face, he is a striking man, standing tall and thin with black hair and piercing blue eyes. He leans back, thrusts his tongue from full, thick, and sharp lips, circles his lips, and smiles eagerly. In a few of seconds after turning to face the black velvet coffin in front of him and raising his hand, the lid of the coffin starts to raise, exposing its dark interior.
Slowly, a woman's body emerges from her sleeping position, lying on her back.
He observes as a woman, who appears to be asleep, floats above her casket while wearing a long white cotton gown and glowing blood red slippers on her feet. As she approaches him, she stops, turns, and lifts her feet off the ground. Her body sinks till her feet silently touch the ground. Her full lips raise in a smile as the corners of her big, dark eyes widen upon seeing him. Her dress' hem flutters even though there is no wind or breeze. As she focuses more on his form, she breathes more deeply.
She answers by cocking her head, giving her a small nod. She answers to his small nod by cocking her head and flashing him a seductive smile. They are the only ones who can properly speak it. He turns and waves his right hand in the shape of an "S" toward the two steps next to the grandfather clock. There is a gaping portal opening where there was formerly a solid timber wall. He exits the chamber by quickly reaching the portal, followed by the woman. After passing through, he turns around, waves his hand, and the gap closes.
The surrounding trees and undergrowth are illuminated by the full moon that is visible in the sky on this warm August night. Except for the sound of little rats running under the undergrowth, the night is calm. She accepts the claw-like hand extended to her without hesitation, puts her hand in his, and lets out a long sigh.
Together, they stand in Central Park, New York, admiring the beauty of the night. The beaten path through the shrubs and trees in front of them is illuminated by silvery moonbeams. He throws his head back and lets out a wolf howl after turning his face toward the moon. He turns to the woman standing next to him, his voice hoarse, as he feels his vitality drain away and he senses her presence.
“Come, let's walk around.”