The Crypt Artist

The Crypt Artist by Deborah O'Toole was released by Club Lighthouse Publishing in June 2020.

A near-starving artist finds himself inspired by a group of long-dead classic painters in a rundown loft in SoHo, New York.

From Chapter Three    

"GOD, NOT AGAIN," LUCA MOANED as he puked into the commode for the second morning in a row. His barrel fever seemed worse today than yesterday, the muscles in his stomach contracting painfully as he heaved.

"Give it a rest," came the Irish whisper. "You can't get and keep the pretty colleen if you choose hootch over all else."

Luca threw up again, trying to pretend he didn't hear the whisper. Was his sanity so far gone, his senses so off-kilter, that he heard spooky chatter drunk, as well as sober?

He lurched to the kitchen, not bothering to rinse his mouth or smooth his hair. He ate a package of ramen noodles raw, anxious to get the bland cuisine into his jumpy gut.

Feeling slightly better, Luca made his way to the easel. He knew he'd gotten started on the John Quidor piece, but couldn't recall how far he'd gotten before passing out. Since his drunken sleep last night had been devoid of any dreams that he was aware of, he had no inkling of what he might find.

He stared at the portrait resting on the easel. It was finished. John Quidor's "The Headless Horseman Pursuing Ichabod Crane" was complete, almost as good as the original. While shocked, Luca was also pleased but highly wary. He knew he wasn't talented enough to create such fine art, especially working from a snapshot in a magazine.

Luca sat on the couch, resting his head back and closing his eyes. Just two days ago, his life was a daily slog of predictable misery that had somehow turned into a rash of unexplainable events, some real and some not - lights, music, ghostly whispers, and most memorable of all, being in bed with Izzy.

He returned to the bathroom, where he took a quick shower and changed into a clean pair of blue jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt. He gathered all of his laundry, stuffing it into a large, plastic lawn-and-leaf bag.

When he stepped into the hallway from his loft, Luca glanced toward Izzy's door. All was quiet, eerily so. He glanced at his clunky wristwatch, shocked to discover it was only half-past seven in the morning.

The Ramsey Building had a tenant laundry room in the basement. If possible, the facility was damper and creepier than the loft apartments. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was the small room's only illumination, which also contained three old washers and dryers. Luca guessed their models to be in the realm of the 1980s.

The laundry room was deserted when Luca arrived with his bag in tow. He threw all his clothes into one washer, setting the water temperature to cold. He sat on a small stool in the corner to wait out the cycle. He covered his mouth as he yawned loudly.

By the time he tossed his wet clothes into a dryer, Luca's eyes were growing heavy with drowsiness. He returned to the stool and leaned his head against the wall. Maybe he could take a quick nap while his clothes dried. It didn't take long before he nodded off. Never expecting to dream in the creepy darkness of the basement, he was nonetheless transported into another surreal delineation.

He was in an empty room, standing next to a small man. The two stood face-to-face, staring at one another warily. Luca had to look down because he had several inches of height on the older man. While small in stature, the stranger had a vivid smile on his face framed by strawberry-blond hair and striking sky blue eyes. He wore a black wool suit with a white shirt and dark tie. He reminded Luca of a leprechaun, with twinkling mischief present in his bright eyes and a crooked smile twitching at his lips. The only thing missing was his shillelagh and a pot of gold. And to add odd to strange, there was a cat perched on a small desk positioned next to the man, it's face in an open-ended, never-ending hiss, its green eyes on Luca exclusively.

"Who the hell are you?" Luca demanded irritably. "And where are we?"

"Me name is Malachy O'Leary," the man replied, his sing-song Irish brogue thick and cryptic. "And we're standing in my old flat."

Luca paused. "Malachy O'Leary, the poet?"

"Yes, that would be me," the little man beamed with pride.

"But you're dead," Luca objected, his eyes growing wide with fear as he recognized the voice as the Irish whisper haunting his days and nights.

"Of course I'm dead, but there's no need to fear me. I mean you no harm."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You've got no choice, boyo. Like it or lump it."

"What do you want from me?" Luca asked plaintively.

Malachy seemed surprised. "I don't want anything from you, young man. In truth, I only want to help you."

"How?" Luca prodded. "And why?"

 The little man gave a deep sigh, regarding Luca with his bright eyes. "I don't believe I'm saying this, given my own rather hootch-ridden history, but you need to stop imbibing the grape or your life will amount to nothing from this point forward. If you can't stop altogether, then for the love of God cut back considerably."

"Why do you care?" Luca asked, annoyed by the man's teetotaling pontification.

"You're a fellow creative soul," Malachy replied, his tone calm and soothing. "I'm not sure why I was sent to give you a helping hand, but I do know I feel an affinity with artsy types. In fact, quite a few of my friends are artsy types. But I digress." Malachy looked straight at him. "You're special, Luca, whether you know it or not. You've got what it takes to make a great success of your life. It's up to you whether you reach your God-given potential. Entirely up to you."

"This is bizarre," Luca muttered, closing his eyes, as if doing so would erase what was occurring. "And it can't be happening."

"Oh, but it is," Malachy reassured him, his voice matter-of-fact with an odd hint of cheerfulness. "And that's not the half of it, boyo. These artists you're replicating? Butler, Padwick, Quidor and Hébuterne?"

Luca nodded.

"Their ghosts are here too, along for the ride." Malachy chuckled, obviously tickled with himself and the situation they found themselves in. "They're here to help you, to assist you in this important endeavor. For it is very important for you personally, as you shall see in the long run. But rest assured you have a team on your side, so to speak."

Luca asked the next question that came to his mind. "Your old loft here is off limits, and the landlord told me what happened in there. What made you so unhappy that you would take your own life?"

Malachy went quiet for a full minute, then his tone came wistful and barely above a whisper. "That's a tale for another day, lad. For I shall not speak of it, not here, and not now."

Luca was speechless. He did not dare ask too many questions about Malachy committing suicide, or of the other ghosts he claimed were inhabiting the Ramsey Building, for fear of the answers Malachy might give him. However, he was ready with one more question that was closest to his heart at the moment.

"What about Izzy?" Luca wanted to know. If the little man could wax wise about his artistic possibilities, perhaps he had some answers about Izzy as well.

Malachy chuckled, a low, throaty sound that curled his lips into a wide grin. "I can't tell you the exact future - it's forbidden, don't ya know? - but if you do right by yourself first, Izzy will be part of the picture. I guarantee it, boyo."

"I think I love her," Luca confessed in a hushed voice. "I don't know her very well, but I think I already love her."

"Sure and you do," Malachy said agreeably. "All the more reason to do right by yourself. The rest will follow, I assure you."

Luca stepped back slightly. "Do I think I love her because she's the only woman whose shown the slightest kindness to me in years, or because I well and truly love her?"

"Only you can decide that."

"You're not much help," Luca accused him.

"But I am helping you, boyo. You just don't realize it yet."

Luca clutched his head with his hands. He wasn't sure which was worse - talking with a ghostly apparition, or believing the words coming so easily from his mouth . . .