In the Memory of Andy
“In the Memory of Andy” is a short horror story, which is meant to pay
respect to the old Masaryk Circuit in Brno
and to all those, who lost their lives there. It tells the story of three
friends with a strange hobby of visiting memorials of the dead – necrotourism.
In the Memory of Andy
They called it necrotourism. It sounded like a
good joke. To them, at least.
And so, every time it
was too late for sitting in the pub, but yet too early to go home, they got in
the car and headed to the old Masaryk Circuit, to pay their respect to Mr.
Baltisberger. Hans Baltisberger, of course, was a motorcycle road racer, who
lost his life on the occasion of the Grad Prix of Czechoslovakia, half a
century ago. Over the guardrail and through the wet grass they went, where they
found rather small, but sturdy block of stone, reminding all generations what
happened here. Are those the stumps, which cost Baltisberger his life? Mike
speculated driving the darkness away with his flashlight. Not likely, after 50
years, Christine opposed quite logically.
They didn’t mean to be
disrespectful. They didn’t find death funny. Who knows, why they made their
trips to Baltisberger a habit. Maybe it was the name – Hans – which was also
the nickname of their third companion. The one, who regularly was – being the
most sober one – their chauffeur. Driver just like Baltisberger, Hans himself
cracked the joke.
Or maybe, it was the
dark poetry of their tradition. How easy it could be to swerve, crush the
guardrail and break their necks on stumps and monuments. Would there be anyone
willing to find their way to the old Masaryk Circuit at half past midnight, just to light a little candle
for them? Mike asked.
Or maybe, they were
just glad that they were together and they shared something belonging solely to
them, because no-one else understood.
Be that as it may, one
monument gets boring over the time, even if it’s famous, even if Hrabal himself
wrote a story about it. But the old track of Masaryk Circuit has more of these
little memories. Rocks and stones, the garden of granite pillars on the Farina
curve, celebrating the races and racers, celebrating Giuseppe “Nino” Farina,
who killed two young lads there. Thus, necrotourism was born.
Once, on their way from
headstone to headstone and from death to death, they came across a little black
monument of unusual brevity: “In the memory of Andy”. Date of death. A single
silver rose. So they finished off their cigarettes, threw them away into a
respectful distance, and leaned towards the cold stone to make a little memory
of their own, as tourists do.
The flash of Hans’
camera changed the darkness around into bright daylight for the briefest of
moments. There was nothing special in the picture – three smiling faces over
the black block of stone with a silver rose on it. But, if they had looked
behind their backs during this short moment of light, they would have found
Andy smiling with them.
A white cat ran across
the road and the car with three necrotourists left the darkness of the forest
to return back to the tired, but still buzzing reality of Brno. As usual, good old Hans offered his
companions a ride home. They played some music, fighting fatigue with some
conversation and letting their midnight
experience slowly fade away. Christine got out of the car first.
She lived on the top
floor of a respectfully old house (historical even) on Mlýnská street. She owned a stylish penthouse
flat there and she was quite fond of it. She closed the entrance door, turned on
the corridor lights and started climbing the old cold stairs to the attic. A
drawback of historical houses is their lack of elevators.
After the midnight
trip, Christine was, let’s say, unsettled. She wasn’t a coward or something,
just these ghost stories were getting under her skin. Alas, in the boys, the
journey amongst headstones had always provoked an urge to speculate about the
afterlife and to make stupid jokes about how all three of them were in fact
long dead, killed on the very first necrotouristic trip. When she protested,
that this kind of nonsense doesn’t make her feel good, it just inspired them to
play a creepy version of the song about a drunken sailor, sung by a little
girl. Dead, of course, why not. Climbing the floors, Christine found herself
singing that cursed song and she hated herself for it. Stupid boys.
„What shall we do with
a drunken whaler, what shall we do with a drunken whaler…“
Naturally, from the
dead girl, their conversation had to turned to horror movies, to the sequel of
the legendary Ring and the murderous Samara. Hans was joking, that if it is the
same with cursed songs as with cursed videotapes, poor Samara will have to
crawl out of the tiny slit on his radio. Christine laughed, but she didn’t find
it funny a bit.
Bloody Samara.
„Wey, hey and up she rises, wey, hey and up she rises.“
The hallway lights went
out.
„Wey, hey and up she
raises…“
Christine nearly
stumbled as she instantly jumped over all the remaining steps to get to the
mezzanine, where she knew she could find a switch somewhere. She was aware,
that nothing was happening, that she never managed to get to the garret during
just one cycle of the lights timer. But the darkness… As a rational being, she
knew very well how stupid it is to be afraid of the dark. But on the other
hand, to be afraid of what is in the
dark…
She burst herself into
the mezzanine and found a switch on the wall. She turned it on, scared of
whatever she was expecting to see.
It wasn’t Samara, of
course.
Mike lived with his parents
in Královo Pole. He got into the apartment very quietly, for his brother had
dropped his daughter there for a couple of days and Mike didn’t want to wake
her up. He didn’t dare to turn any lights on, so he settled with sneaking
through the darkness like a thief, invisible in his black clothing. He waved
his hands, felt familiar shapes of knobs and walls, took off his coat
carefully. He was more drunk than he thought, and he was in the mood for
poetry.
Being a drunk robber in my parent’s flat… flashed through his head.
And then, suddenly, bang! Terrible noise, as he tripped over the boot he just
took off.
… I’ll stumble over and I will be dead, he finished the rhyme. It
couldn’t wake his parents up, but the important thing was not to wake up little
Therese. So careful now! Step by step, waving his hands like a blind man, on
his way through the darkness…
Hurry, Mike, find the right door at once! Before the Grim Reaper takes
you to dance, Muses were persistent. Not bad for 1 a.m., Mike judged himself knowingly and found
his bedroom door at last. Quickly and silently he slid behind, but he didn’t
find any more light there.
The thing is – if everything he owned wasn’t
black, maybe he would be able to find a safe way to the lamp without tripping
over the slippers, a briefcase, a chair…
This is nonsense. I would give everything for one shot of
brandy, he carved another verse. Brandy, brandy… What rhymes with “Brandy”?
- click! - lights went on. Every danger, hidden in the pitch black,
revealed itself and ceased to be dangerous. The adventure was over. Mike wisely
decided to postpone another poetry til the morning and started to dig up his
pyjamas.
But then the noises
started. It wasn’t knocking, it was three dull, clumsy pounds on the door. Mike
stood frozen. What the hell… A cat? No, his cat couldn’t possibly do such an
ado…
Again. A throb into the
door. A rattle around the knob, as if something strange was trying to take it
into its hands. Mike freed himself from his stupor, made several quick steps
and opened the door.
On the threshold, there
was a little girl. But she wasn’t dead and instead of black greasy hair she had
fair blonde curls. It was little Therese, woken up by Mikes arrival. She
sneaked herself from her bed to greet him.
She stood there scared
to death, looking somewhere behind his shoulder.
Hans was returning home
in his car. He would never admit it to his fellow necrotourists, but he was
glad the trip was over. He was really looking forward to getting in his bed.
Hans worked in the UK
and he wasn’t back in his home country so often, therefore, he was grateful for
a chance to go on their pilgrimage among the headstones. But his frantic
lifestyle was taking its toll on him and his eyes were really closing now.
He kept himself up with
some radio music. But with some real music this time, no more drunken whalers.
„I wish I had an angel for one
moment of love…“, he hummed almost to the beat of the song, but the road
ahead was changing into nothing more than a blur of visual sensations anyway.
This won’t work.
Hans shook his head and
focused on the world behind the wind shield. What is this lunatic there, a
hitchhiker? In the centre of the city?!
But it wasn’t the
centre of the city anymore, he was in the suburbs. Focus, Hans, damn it! You
can do this.
„Old loves, they die hard…“
It would be so much
easier to stay awake, if there was any actual light on this cursed road. They
call this public lighting? What joker is sitting at the city hall again?
… no, wait. This isn’t
right. There should be some light here. Where is he, God damn it? He had to
have lost his way during the moment of being half-asleep and now he was…
somewhere. He could stop to ask this hitchhiker here for directions, but in
that case he would have to take him along.
„Old lies, they die harder…“.
The lights disappeared
for good. Suddenly, both sides of the road were fringed with trees. A forest,
basically. The realisation touched Hans lightly, but inevitably. In one moment,
he was torn out of his lethargy.
He was back on the old
Masaryk Circuit.
This is not possible.
Did he fall asleep and then drove all the way back in some kind of wacky
somnambulism? That is rubbish. After all, the same song has been playing all
the time…
Hit by the car’s full
beam lights, a white cat rushed directly under the wheels. In all this mayhem
and fright, Hans couldn’t think any better than slam the brakes and swerve to
one side frantically. With unpleasant screeching, the car wrote a semi-circle
on the road, but the guardrail just scratched it.
While he, in a deep
shock, stared into the cones of light, revealing stumps and wet grass in front
of him, Hans refused to believe that he had survived.
Some hitchhiker,
emerging from the shadows of the trees, probably interpreted Hans’ dramatically
sudden stillness as an invitation of a kind and hurried to try his luck.
Heavily breathing, Hans looked at him and… he wasn’t surprised at all.
„I wish I had your angel tonight…“
Midnight was near. The pub was slowly closing, but
night was still too young to go home. Sharon
rejoiced as Mike appeared in the doorway and dandily aimed for their table.
Close second, Christine headed to the bartender to negotiate three more pints.
Hans rattled with a pack of cigarettes in front of Joan.
These three never
appeared before the twilight. When no-one was expecting them to come anymore,
they just waltzed into the pub as if they have owned it, with plenty of smiles
and merry stories. You just can’t go to sleep! they said every time. Just look
at this beautiful night! Perfect one for a trip! A trip
among the trees and stumps, among the crosses and headstones. Come with us,
they lured the present company. Come, we will introduce you to our friend.
To Baltisberger? Sharon laughed. Something
like that, they answered.
They called it
necrotourism. It sounded like a good joke. To them, at least.
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