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 Nine 

LUCA DECIDED TO VISIT THE Marble Cemetery in New York City the next day, even though it was pouring rain. He was also still very much on edge about the possibility of a hit man coming for him around every corner. He left the Ramsey Building mid-morning, knowing full well Izzy would be busy with her patient schedule for several hours.

He stopped at the M&M Market Deli and purchased a simple arrangement of white daisies before catching a bus at the end of Broome Street. The bus was fairly empty that time of morning, with only a man in the back and a young woman a few rows behind Luca. The nine-minute bus ride did not give Luca much time to think, but he contemplated his reasons for the cemetery visit nonetheless.

Malachy O'Leary, although a ghost no one else could see, had come to mean a great deal to Luca. It wasn't just because the mouthy little Irishman helped him artistically, but rather he had grown fond of the man himself, for his unique presence, conversation and fascinating persona. In a strange way, Malachy felt like family to Luca. The fact that no one else knew of his ghostly existence did not matter to Luca. What mattered to him was Malachy, real or imagined in his mind, or whether he was sane or not.

Over the last few days, Luca had developed a strong urge to visit Malachy's burial site. He told no one, not even the ghost of the man, not even Izzy. He had no clue what he hoped to find by going to the grave, but fervently hoped it would give him solace that the physical remains of Malachy were safe, and resting in peace.

The New York City bus had almost reached Marble Cemetery when Luca felt a familiar cold presence next to him. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized Malachy had found him. Without turning to look and confirm his suspicion, Luca spoke softly so the bus driver could not hear him. "Don't be angry with me, Malachy."

"And why shouldn't I be?" the Irishman responded evenly. "What the feck do you think you're doing, going to the bone yard where my rotting skeleton is housed?"

Luca sighed. He finally turned to look at Malachy, who sat to his right by the window. He looked highly displeased, his arms crossed against his chest. Luca also glanced behind him to make sure no one nearby was listening to him talk to himself. He saw the young woman who'd been on the bus when he boarded, but she was intent on her cell phone. The man in the back of the bus also appeared to be talking to himself, turning his head left to right and moving his mouth as if in heated conversation.

"At least I'm not alone in my nuttery," Luca thought with a snort as he turned back to Malachy.

"I'm waiting for an answer, me boyo," Malachy said, his tone uncharacteristically harsh.

"I want to pay my respects to you," Luca replied quietly, averting his eyes again. "And to your final resting place."

"My final resting place?" Malachy asked, incredulity in his tone. Then his voice turned angry. "My final resting place is that ramshackle building you call home. I've been stuck there for sixty-two years now, through all kinds of weather." He pointed to the daisies in Luca's lap. "And what the bloody hell is that, may I ask? Please don't be telling me your plan is leave daisies on my grave." He shook his head, eyes wide. "Jaysus wept!" He slapped his forehead in disbelief.

Luca stared at the flowers in his lap. "I wanted to leave something there at your grave, for you. To remind you and everyone else that you are not forgotten."

"Bullshyte!" Malachy spat. Then he went silent for a moment before speaking with a mix of irritation and - was it - hurt? "But I am forgotten, lad. No friends recall me, they're all dead, too. And whatever blood relations I have back in Ireland surely have no inkling about me, not with the progression of time and the loss of generations." His voice caught, causing Luca to sneak a look at him. The Irishman almost looked pained. "I'm perhaps best left forgotten. I wasn't too much to write home about while I was alive, truth be told."

"I disagree," Luca said strongly. "But I won't sit here and argue with you about it."

"I can't stop you from going to my grave, can I?"

"No."

"Then I'll take my leave of you, boyo. I've no desire to see it."

Luca experienced a twinge of sadness when he felt the cold evaporate around him, knowing Malachy had departed. For now, anyway.

The Marble Cemetery was established in 1831, constructed following an outbreak of yellow fever. The premise had been to bury the dead below ground to prevent the spread of disease, providing grave markers with corresponding vaults on the property, accessed by a gate on Second Avenue. A second graveyard, a block away and established a few months after the first, was also named Marble Cemetery and accessed by a gate on Second Street. Detailed burial records were kept by the cemeteries, from grave markers to various vaults. Luca found Malachy's burial record by doing an online search, visible to anyone who cared to look into it.

The cemeteries were a splash of beauty in New York City, their greenery well-cared for and envied by many. At one point in history, they had become fashionable final resting places. People often rented the gardens for special events, the splendor hardly matched anywhere else in the huge concrete metropolis, aside from Central Park.

Luca found Malachy's gravesite rather quickly, one of the few to actually be buried under the headstone and not in a vault, located just inside the inner gate facing Second Avenue. Luca approached it slowly, the daisies still in his hand. Surrounded by lush green grass, ferns and yellow daisies, the flat headstone was rather small and to the point:

Malachy Michaleen O'Leary

10th March 1888 (Dublin, Ireland)

14th July 1954 (SoHo, New York)

Luca stared at the headstone, now somewhat worn with age, and was suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of sadness. What had driven Malachy to commit suicide decades ago? A waning career as a poet? Or the drink? What had been the last straw to lead him to such a desperate, final act?

"I should ask him about it," Luca thought, but then he changed his mind. "No, the pain it must cause him is unthinkable. I couldn't do that to him."

The rain stopped for a moment. Luca used the back of his hand to wipe the moisture from his forehead. He felt his eyes tearing, and he rubbed those away as well. He stared at the headstone one more time, touching the cold concrete with his hand briefly. Then he backed away slowly and turned to leave the cemetery.

On the bus ride back to SoHo, Luca felt his spirits lift somewhat. He was lucky. He had the friendship of the extraordinary Malachy Michaleen O'Leary in death, something that could never have been achieved in life.

Then a thought occurred to Luca, which made him catch his breath.

Who arranged and paid for Malachy O'Leary's burial at Marble Cemetery sixty-two years ago?