THE MUDDLED MYSTERY OF THE MURDERED MUSE, Chapter 36: Space Coast Ghost to Ghost

The Muddled Mystery of the Murdered Muse is a full-length novel, presented to you in Medium-sized chapters twice a week (Tuesday and Friday), that tells the story of Sebastian Holden, a paranoirmal investigator who solves the strangest cases this side of Jersey City and Brooklyn.

If you missed the previous chapter, read it here; if you’ve already read this chapter, read the next one here.

CHAPTER 36: SPACE COAST GHOST TO GHOST

It took seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes before the final copy of The Most Secret Li(f)e of Houdini sold out at Forbidden Planet, and by then I was run ragged strolling up and down the aisles of my own geek memories, further reliving my childhood of transforming cassette tapes and sword-wielding cats from Planet Thundara while trying to stave off my own regrets of selling everything I could’ve sold for some major bucks, had I kept them in the packages and basically never been a child. Well, at the very least these toys adorned my old Weehawken apartment nicely for a time long after I’d grown up from a boy into a man into a man-child.

Von Nestor and I strolled around the West Village for a while, and I filled him in on the case of murdered muse Annie Hathaway, or at least as much as I could reveal to a civilian, of course. I then filled him in on my belief that somewhere along my travels, I had been hypnotized. I told him about a conversation I had on the train with Paul Verlaine, and he simply nodded.

“Yep,” he said, “Paul Verlaine is a sure sign of hypnotism.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking, being sarcastic, or drop-dead serious at the time. We cracked open the door to a bustling Strand Bookstore, and he told me to follow him. He led me past all the would-be philosophers and poets, past the Strand-branded Moleskines and tote bags and to a door, and we walked right on through it, and none of the Strand staff stopped us.

And then a very strange thing happened. All went silent, and we were no longer in Strand Bookstore. No, it seems we were somehow transported to another familiar and more historic bookstore about 3,000 miles away.

“Um, Gordon? Where are we?”

“City Lights Bookstore,” he said without as much as a slight tremolo in his voice. “Oh,” he continued, “and welcome to San Francisco.”

That’s how I knew he was serious about the Paul Verlaine comment earlier.

“Thanks.” I said, ’cause what more was there to say?

He brought me up to the Poetry Room on the second floor, and all around me, books by William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, and Jack Kerouac, among all the other beat generation writers that didn’t stake as hard a claim to fame in the collective psyche as the “Big Three” had. And as I strolled by the shelves, the books, they all seemed to sigh as I passed them on the shelves. I even thought I could hear grumbled whispers between the pages.

“Have a seat, Mr. Holden,” Gordon ordered, pulling out a pencil from behind his ear and using it to point me to the greatest chair of all –– The Poet’s Chair. Again, I could’ve swore I heard voices grumbling all around me, and a few expletives, too. I shook my head, cleaned out my ear with my pinky.

“Don’t worry about them,” Gordon husked. “They’re just a little pissed ’cause they know who you are. Or rather who you used to be.”

“Really?” I said, attempting to mask my disbelief. “Guess there’s no need for formal introductions then.”

Gordon smirked and sat across from me. He pulled out a sheet of paper from his back pocket and started sketching. Suddenly the lights dimmed, and the floor shuttered beneath my feet a little. Out the corner of my eyes, I could see shadowy figures in the corners of the room, each reading books or simply leaning against the shelves staring in my direction.

After about five minutes, the floors creaked apprehensively all around me as the strange shadowy figures began walking about the room, browsing for other books while some continuing to stare right at me.

That’s when Gordon spoke to me in a voice a little unlike his own.

“I am Harry Houdini,” he said, and seemed to gaze straight through me.

“Thank you for being here.” I said, aiming my words to Gordon’s body, which was now possessed by the dead spirit of Harry Houdini.

Or so I thought…

>> Continue reading: Chapter 37: Houdini Speaks! >>