Lounge Lizard
When a bird chirped nearby, Clara gestured with her chin, still arm-in-arm with Harry. “Hear that? That’s a piping plover. Rare to hear a shorebird this far inland.”
Harry smiled as he patted her arm. “The Susquehanna River is a couple miles away. It runs all the way to Chesapeake Bay, so it probably came in from there. Makes sense that they’d nest at the river.”
A few steps behind them, Edward lit a cigarette, then quietly grumbled after an exhale, “Of course I’d be stuck with flat tires on this trip.”
When Walter traipsed past him, he pursed his lips for a moment before lifting his smoke again. “Well. I guess some are still more round than flat.”
Walter didn’t seem to hear the comment, but the fundamentalists gazed at Edward curiously. Finally, James broke the silence by asking, “What were the Gates like, Harry?”
The smile he was exchanging with Clara faded. Still in step, he was silent for what seemed like ages until a tightness crept into his shoulders alongside a softness in tone. “They weren’t right, James. I didn’t go far.”
“Then we’re on a good mission,” Ruth declared, chipper as a sandpiper. “Imagine actually expunging evil from the world. Imagine if it crept out from this one spot and we stopped it.”
After pushing his glasses further up his nose, Isaac added, “It’s been documented before. Hellmouths, they called ’em. Common in medieval literature, described as actual portals to hell.”
“A mere reminder of possible damnation,” Millie muttered, a surprising outlash against her husband’s steadfast beliefs.
Clara couldn’t help it… She shot a curious look at her twin. He glanced back sanguinely, seemingly awaiting her response. When nobody came to Millie’s defense, she added, “I agree. The Gates just sound like symbolism, like spirituality. Believers see what they want to see.”
“‘Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,‘” James said. “Hebrews 11:1.”
Clara tilted her head, her brows knitting contemplatively. “Scripture’s good and well, James, but not everything in this world needs a verse pinned to it. Sometimes, legend is just that. Legend. It’s just as godly to debunk a common belief and place your energy in more pious things.”
James’s jaw tightened. “And sometimes, it seems, a woman’s tongue gets too sharp and she forgets her place.”
Before Clara could bite back, Harry slowed his stride and leaned just slightly toward her, his tone soft enough to keep the conversation private. “Don’t waste the energy. Men like him wouldn’t know a sharp tongue from a sharp wit.”
That coaxed a smirk from her, quick and sly, before she returned her gaze to the barely-worn gamepath.
Walter, oblivious to the tension, swatted at a cloud of bugs – the mosquitoes had been liking him since they stepped into the deeper parts of the woods. “Scripture, hellmouths, symbolism – who even cares? If we find this treasure, then it’s all real enough to my pocketbook. I might actually retire.”
Isaac scoffed, and beside him, Ruth jumped at the sound. “Ancient evils shouldn’t be used for profit. I hope you find what you came for, but I hope it doesn’t involve the evils we’re here to suppress.”
“We don’t need flim-flam evils to turn a buck,” Edward cut in, cigarette dangling from his lips before he tapped ash near the knotty roots of a massive tree. “Take your nonsense, wrap it in sawdust and glitter, and make a dollar off the crowd. That’s all we do, and we’re quite good at it. Harry here is just our most recent victim.”
“Blasphemy,” James hissed.
“Bullshit,” Harry echoed, his jaw tight as his eyes remained locked on the faint game trail.
Clara shook her head, choosing to redirect before the men came to blows. “Symbolism or not, places like this keep records. Local tales. If you study enough of them, the pattern’s the same… People are terrified of what they don’t understand. And what they don’t understand, they name. In this case, they’ve chosen to call this thing the Gates of Hell. Our two parties will find out the truth, one way or another.”
Her tone was crisp, matter-of-fact. She glanced sideways at Harry, half-expecting him to laugh her off. Instead, he looked thoughtful. “I’m certain we’ll find something. Walk away with a good story, at least.”
The group trudged on, carving through trees that crowded tighter, the light thinning to streaks of gold and gray as the heavy forest closed around them. The path began to slope downward, perhaps toward a creek, and then, as if the woods had been holding its breath, the First Gate appeared.
It wasn’t ornate – just a black iron arch with the rusted remains of where a gate panel had once stood. The structure was pocked with rust and twisted with age, half-swallowed by vines and weeds. The fence on either side had long since rotted away, leaving the arch standing alone, a door to nothing.
And yet, the air changed when they neared it. Colder. Still, though not with peace. The sound of birdsong cut off, leaving only the muffled creak of metal as the wind teased the old hinges.
Everyone froze. Even Edward let his cigarette burn out in silence.
Clara scanned the forest around her with trepidation, allowing her hands to fall from the crook of Harry’s arms. Taking in the landscape, time seemed to slow.
Then, almost inexplicably, her eyes locked on the figure of a woman in the distance. Long, walnut-hued hair framed a pale face, but it was the old hospital gown that really captured Clara’s attention. It hung loosely around the woman, cinched at the waist like a bathrobe and flowing down to her ankles. It brought the faint smell of antiseptic, too. Clara blinked, unsure of what to make of the vision. Even if this woman had wandered from a hospital, the clothing was decades out of date, at least.
She shot a nervous glance at her brother. Edward was hinged at the waist as if stomping his cigarette out, but he was frozen, still as a statue. Beside her, Harry was also motionless.
Her heart started to pound. She opened her mouth to plead with her peers for help, but when her eyes tore back to the woman in the hospital gown, she was long gone.
“Well,” Ruth whispered, eyes wide with a kind of reverence. Though her tone was soft, the shock of movement returning to the world made Clara jump. “Would ya look at that. The First Gate.”
James crossed himself. Isaac, living up to his stereotype as the bookish sort, scribbled something furiously in his notebook. Walter only rubbed his palms together, either envisioning the profits he hoped Clara would reap or silently calculating ticket prices for an attraction like no other.
The Gates of Hell.
Well, one of them, at least.
Clara studied the arch, her jaw set firmly. She felt Harry watching her, and when she met his eyes, he gave her the smallest of nods, as if to say he felt it too, though neither dared admit what it was. She certainly didn’t feel comfortable admitting the strange freeze in time she’d just experienced.
And she had no explanation for the gowned woman who’d been largely hidden amidst the trees.
At last, Harry cleared his throat. “The day may still be young, but we’re in the countryside out here. Best to head into York and get rooms before these backroads turn to mud and travelers start spilling into the local inns. We can come back tonight.”
James opened his mouth to protest, but Millie’s hand on his sleeve stilled him. “The man’s right,” she muttered. “‘At night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.’“
And so, with one last uneasy look at the arch, they turned back toward the road.
As the group traipsed back toward their vehicles, all were deathly silent. Clara couldn’t quite tell if others had shared similar experiences to hers or if there was just a general moodiness about the caravan, but it was there.
Walking on in silence, she thought again of the gowned woman she’d seen hidden in the trees. Deep in thought, she almost thought she smelled sulfur, then the stale stench of smoke. Skeptically, she shook her head, feeling her heavy hair brush over her chiffon-coated shoulders. Edward shot an uneasy look at her as if he knew she was doubting herself. Twinly intuition, perhaps, but he’d likely just picked up on her fidgeting.
After a deep breath, she pressed, “Hey, Eddy? Pass me a ciggy.”
***
The speakeasy was tucked behind a butcher’s shop on East Philadelphia Street, the sort of place where you entered through a door marked “Cold Storage” and came out blinking at cigarette smoke and jazz. When Harry and Edward first entered, the piano reached them first, mournful and bright all at once, then the bass-like hum of conversation, as steady and ever-present as birdsong.
Edward felt at home the moment he stepped inside. Traveling often, he’d found that bars were a consistent comfort just about everywhere he went; dark, warm, illegal, and honest in an ironic way. He leaned against the polished mahogany bar, hat pushed back on his head, eyes locked on the bartender. A few moments later, there was a glass before him, so he took a sip and nodded with approval before slapping a couple dollars onto the counter. The gin wasn’t good, but it burned enough to remind him that he was alive. For now. Being away from the circus and his firebreathing gig, he’d accept that.
Harry naturally ordered a glass of wine. When the bartender asked questions about preference and Harry provided surprisingly well-rounded answers, the older man blinked in confusion. “I don’t know nothing about grape types or soil, young man, but I do see a few colors. Red or white?”
“Red,” Harry said with defeat. When a glass was filled and placed before him, he also fished a few dollars and placed them on the bar gingerly.
After his first distasteful sip, Edward said, “You’re too ritzy. Ostentatious. Relax and enjoy a bit of liquor, no need to brag about your visits to Paris…”
Trailing off, Edward swiveled halfway around on his barstool to flash a grin at the first pair of painted lips that passed within ten feet. Tonight, they belonged to a flapper in silver fringe, blonde hair bobbed sharp as a blade, eyes outlined in kohl.
The girl caught his gaze and, half-amused, stopped before him. She eyed his wide-legged trousers and suspenders before she glanced at the sharply dressed figure beside him. “I can sniff out a newcomer. What brings you to York?”
“We own a carnival,” Edward said, digging in his pocket for a cigarette. After lighting it, he gestured in wide arcs, almost clipping a man who passed by and shot him a well-earned glare. “Travel coast to coast, setting up tents, bringing the thrill of the world to dusty little towns like this. We have a medium, a sword swallower, and a dwarf. As for me… Ever seen a man breathe fire?”
The girl arched one penciled brow. “Can’t say I’ve wanted to see any of that.”
Edward leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if letting her in on a secret. “Well, you ain’t lived, doll.”
The girl’s smile faltered, and when the bartender approached, she signaled him to order a gin rickey. Harry smothered a chuckle into his glass.
“A woman of taste,” Edward stated. “I’m having gin myself. Maybe we can share a drink once you’re done?”
Not wasting a second or bothering to set down payment, the woman laughed and departed as soon as her drink was produced.
Watching her depart, Harry said, “Good job, Eddy. The ladies love a shameless lounge lizard.”
Edward shot him a glare. “Better than being the man who carries my sister’s luggage.”
Harry let the jab hang a moment, then smirked. “I’m a mere gentleman, Ed. Rising when she enters the room, holding doors, and so on. Besides, I don’t want to get on her bad side with her possibly holding the key to finding the fortune.”
Edward lifted his gin to his lips and took a large sip. “Right, Don Juan. And I recall how perfectly polite you were last night when you welcomed yourself into her space.”
“I was, in fact. I’m sure Hazel can attest to how perfectly polite you were, too.”
Edward opened his mouth to retort when the door creaked open behind them, and the smoke parted like a curtain.
Clara stepped through.
The light caught her face first, and Harry’s breath caught. The way the lamplight turned her dark hair fiery at the edges, the chiffon of her dress floating around naturally soft shoulders as she slipped inside… She was almost otherworldly. Not sequined like the flapper, not fringed, but understated, conservative – the kind of elegance that made heads turn. Walter loomed beside her, broad-shouldered and restless, his suit ill-fitting and his eyes narrowed in response to the dim lighting.
Harry straightened, glass forgotten in his hand.
Edward, noticing his transfixion, elbowed him. When Clara approached, Harry cleared his throat and said, “Hell, Claire, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Clara’s lips curved – not a full smile, but undoubtedly amused. “And here I thought you’d know better, Harry. You saw me handle my Coca-Cola high-balls well last night.”
Walter’s eyebrows rose as Edward scoffed and turned back toward the bar.
Without asking, Clara swung smoothly into the stool beside him. Walter hung back, scowling at the crowded room, as if processing how busy his circus might have been if he’d thought to market in such places. Nevertheless, he eventually claimed the stool beside Edward.
Edward groaned, but not in response to his boss. “Oh, God. Here we go. I thought bars were sacred ground away from siblings.”
“They’re only sacred if you can actually afford to buy more than a round,” Clara shot back, reaching across to pluck his cigarette from his hand. She took a drag and exhaled. “And we all know you’re already broke.”
“To the contrary,” Edward snapped, “I’ve hardly spent any of Harry here’s downpayment. I need to stay sober-ish for the big adventure tonight.”
Harry leaned his elbow on the bar, watching Clara with the faintest grin tugging the corner of his mouth.
“Your brother’s right about one thing,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you here. You seem like the type to stay back and read, not seek out the nearest piano bar. Walter’s right where I’d expect him, though.”
Walter stiffened. “How rude. I seldom frequent speakeasies.”
“Course not,” Edward muttered. “A fish don’t need to drink when it’s living in a river.”
Clara ignored both men, lifting her chin as she studied her brother. She flicked her eyes toward Walter, who was now curiously craning his neck at the back tables, where card games shuffled under green lampshades. His hands twitched as if itching to buy in.
They eventually ordered drinks – white wine for Clara (though she, like Harry, crinkled her nose at its flavor), and a porter Walter didn’t seem to taste, his attention still locked on the card tables. Edward, determined to recover from his earlier humiliation with the flapper, kept flinging jokes at the bartender, though he seemed more amused by Clara’s dry remarks than her brother’s desperate attention-seeking.
Conversation flowed the way it only does in a bar where the law is technically being broken: loose, unguarded, a little too honest. Edward eventually tried to toast to “riches soon to come,” and nearly sloshed his drink, which made Clara frantically shush him. Walter muttered to a disinterested newcomer who’d settled beside him about “opportunities” in York while, all around them, conversation continued.
But under the warmth of the booze and the laughter, a thread of unease coiled.
Sensing it, Clara’s hand trembled slightly when she lit her next cigarette. Harry glanced at the door every so often, as though half-expecting the woman in the hospital gown or a Prohibition beat cop to drift in with the smoke.
Though conversation mostly kept them occupied, silence sometimes stole over them all at once when the memory of the First Gate pressed in again – the iron arch, the silence of the birds, the air colder than it should have been.
“Tell me something, Harry,” Clara said finally, leaning close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Her tone was playful, but her eyes were sharp. “Back there, when we saw the arch. You felt it too, didn’t you?”
Harry hesitated, glass halfway to his lips. He thought of the air turning still, of the way a chill crept over the space and silenced all living beings. It gave him pause.
He set the glass down. “I felt… something. Just like last time I was there. I’m not sensitive like you are, and even I felt it.”
“Something,” Clara echoed, with a sardonic lift of her brow. “And… Sensitive?”
“It wasn’t scripture,” Harry stated. “Not hellmouths. But not nothing, either. I can only imagine what you saw. You did have a vision there, didn’t you? I saw it in how you tensed and stared into the distance.”
Clara studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
Before she could elaborate, Edward broke the tension with a sloppy grin. “If the Devil himself wants to hand me a chest of gold, I’ll shake his hand and call him sir. Evil or not, money spends the same. To my new best friend, Harry!”
Walter’s eyes glinted at the mention of money. Cheerily, he clinked his glass against Edward’s.
Clara’s mouth thinned as she held Harry’s gaze. He leaned back on his stool, watching all three of them – the skeptic, the fool, the profiteer. And himself, the man who’d already been too close once before.
But, by God, he’d do it again. His aunt had recently died, and his siblings – her birth children – had decided to sell her house. The time to search it, assuming the money was there, was running out.
Around them, the music swelled, laughter rolled, glasses clinked. Yet, at their little stretch of the bar, the impending adventure felt fragile, as if one wrong word might break it.