Beddal Road was lined with consecutions of foreclosed shopping malls and factories caked in rust. Sixteen insolvent mills stood in total, some taller than others, but all had grey walls painted with graffiti.
Women had been killing themselves there the same way.
Each one climbed to the top of the abandoned structures and leapt. All of them wore a body cam, a tactical Go-Pro made of airplane metal, and some unknown source uploaded their suicides on social media streaming platforms following their demises.
It did not take long for curiosity seekers and armchair sleuths to collect the footage for unified viewing. The series came to be known as ‘the jumping women,’ numbers one through six. Their voices could often be heard in the form of panting or screaming, but words did not seem to be used. Audible fright resonated in the noises they made before their flights. Each incident occurred in January.
Moderators tried to remove the videos after lengthy protests from families, but by the time it made local news authorities could not stop people from sharing the mini morbid documentaries.
The clips went viral, of course, although no one knew the name of the director. The women had no associations with one another, other than how all were from Michigan. The similarities were undeniable as runaways in their twenties – all shared aspirations of moving to Hollywood one day and becoming world-class actresses. Rhoda Abbott, Elizabeth Duke, Joanne Ennenga, Lindsey Gowan, Dascha Palladino, and Catherine Zaillian were all given posthumous fame.
I drove through the neighborhood with my car windows locked and a can of pepper spray within easy reach on the passenger seat. Windowless red brick houses wedged in between the edifices had jagged chimneys which seemed able to topple at any time. Dying leafless oak and sugar maple trees with spindled and warped branches stood hunched over on their snowy lawns, their shadows draped over the bowed metal fences.
Chalk white outlines of the victims on the pavement preserved by street artists in memorial caught the public’s attention, despite how no one saw who the illustrators could be since they labored at night.
The area’s reputation was as a drug dealer’s haven, and no one lived there except the indigent. The majority of locals did their best to avoid the long-forgotten neighborhood which had not seen economic prosperity in decades, like most of the surrounding regions.
A homeless encampment existed behind a pallid meadow made of trampled and weathered dropseed grass. Beyond the grazing land was a prominence with a manor, though the steep ravine next to it prevented most from ever daring to trespass.
A small group knew who lived in the out-of-place yet remote marble residency, and I was one of them, as someone who considered herself an efficient investigative journalist.
The estate had been inherited by forty-year-old Alec Sloyan, a painter who came from old money. I did an extensive search for anyone who may have been considered a friend of his without a bit of success. I found his phone number through digging on-line and in antiquated yellow pages at the public library. Every time I called, a voice answering machine with nothing but silence greeted me.
I parked at the front black metal gate of the monolithic residency and stepped out. On the right was a cliff with a panoramic sight of dilapidation, an observatory of ghettos. The left had nothing but dreary pastures.
Yellowed shrubberies layered in frost sat beneath an electrical buzzer. My hand pushed the button and a sound of crackling static greeted me. Heavy panting filtered through the speaker over white noise. A surveillance camera perched on the top of the lattice craned its neck to where I stood.
“Mr. Sloyan, I don’t know if you can hear me. I know this may seem abrupt and I apologize in advance. My name is Samantha Essoe. I am an art critic based in Manhattan here to interview you about your popular portraitures for a blog on new works of creativity. I know you don’t engage in publicity at all, but I’m an admirer, and a lot of people listen to what I say. Your legacy is important to me, and it is my goal to expand your fan base. I would like to schedule a meeting for another time and location if right now isn’t convenient for you.”
The gates creaked open after the latches came undone with a grinding clang of metal. I interpreted it as a summons. I walked onto a paved concourse with makeshift ponds on either side. I saw a few dead fish in the waters before I stood in front of a main mahogany medieval-style door, and used the knocker.
It swung open, and a wiry man with red hair met me with a stern expression. He was in his mid-thirties and donned a drab coat. I never saw a photograph of the artist before because one did not exist, so I was unsure if the individual before me was a butler or the man himself. I reasoned it was smart to be forthcoming and polite regardless.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said. “Are you…?”
“No one else lives here.”
“I see. I’m a huge fan, and I run a website called Hopper’s Window, named after the painter whose most famous piece was ‘Nighthawks.’ The forum is dedicated to bringing together those who appreciate the flourishes of a certain kind of style, one brought to the canvas by unique visual artists–”
“I heard you the first time, and I know about Edward Hopper.”
“My mistake. The frequency was a bit distorted.”
“Why are you here? My work is obscure. I don’t have fans.”
“You’ve got more than you know.”
“I’ve never gone out of my way to sell my portraits. I share them from time to time with visitors, and those are in scarce numbers these days. I live quietly and don’t like to be bothered by anyone, let alone a little girl who considers herself a would-be journalist.”
“When there’s a demand for something, people will always pay money for it. You’ve never made anything off your work, not even a dime?”
Sloyan scratched his chin at my condescension in direct reaction to his. His expression changed from hostile to curious.
“If so,” I continued, “I can help you try and make some profit by leading you to the people who are capitalizing on your imaginative labor. They may be admirers who want to spread the word of the kind of work you’ve created, but their hands shouldn’t be in your pockets. It’s bad enough how budding painters can almost plagiarize their heroes without any penalty due to flexible copyright laws, but if your pieces are selling, which they are, you should get paid for it.”
The wind increased and pierced through the ramshackle structures in the distance. The man opened the door wider and waved me in, and I obliged his invitation.
The main foyer appeared as though it had once been elegant but was ruined by corrosion, like a continuous blustery wind swept through the hall over years. The tiles had chipped paint and the walls were peeled. The staircase led to a darkened second story with rusted railings. A wall of glass did give a sight of the factories outside. In the center of the space was a faded crimson sofa, which he sat on and motioned for me to join him with an angry wave.
Canvases were littered throughout in a disorganized array, most of them half complete. Their frames were shaded and speckled with deep lavender. All of the projects depicted quagmires and engineered artificial farmlands with off-colored & chemical soaked soil. His singular sense of realism was filtered through two consistent portrayals – economic depravity and nude women.
I showed him the website, the domain of which was real, although I lied to him about being in charge of it. I did not know the identity of the true operator the fansite, nor could I help him in retrieving the addresses of the gallery workers and sellers who capitalized on his art, but I formulated a crude fabrication about tracking internet placement addresses and using them to achieve a legal finality in his favor at a later time, all with the assistance of a lawyer whose name I improvised by combining the cognomens of my two favorite poets - Ted Servis.
I wrote the number of a foreclosed restaurant and handed it to him under the pretense of it being my imaginary friend’s. I hoped he would not find a phone to punch in the digits in my presence, but he tucked the piece of paper in his pocket and stared at me. I did not see any electronic devices or any hint of modern conveniences in the chamber, and a part of me contemplated if he even accessed Wi-Fi.
“Is it okay if I interview you?”
“I’ve never engaged in such public idolatry because it’s too suffocating. Being at the center of it has never done anything for me, unlike the rest of the population.”
“Understood, but there are a lot of people who would love to get a glimpse of what your process is.”
“Painting is one step. You transcribe the dream world with three elements: blood, paint, and bits of your soul. Everyone knows this and has for centuries. The few who don’t are art instructors.”
“When some discuss your work, there’s a theme some find odd. All my research tells me you’ve never experienced financial desperation as this massive house demonstrates. Yet almost every piece deals with worldwide destitution of some kind, whether it’s physical or pecuniary.”
“Go on.”
“Now would be the time to clarify something, is all.”
“You want to know where my inspiration comes from. The inquiry is clichéd and it’s like asking a lion how many gazelles it’s eaten in the Serengeti. The predator doesn’t hesitate, and how it maintains its energy is a mystery to him beyond the hunt of the kill.”
“No, sir. Some are curious as to how all those vivid images of impoverishment can come from someone well-off.”
“I presume you’ve been outside. I may have been born into an affluent lineage, but the place we’ve called home is not teeming with abundance. My whole life, I’ve watched once burgeoning blocks of flourishing retailers and production outlets decay. How could I not be influenced by such a sight?”
“Everyone knows your father made his fortune in the oil industry, yet not much else is out there in terms of autobiographical points about him, nor the circumstances of your upbringing. Can you enlighten us with details?”
“My parents always wanted a child, unfortunately for me. Life is unendurable from the moment we see afterbirth for the first time. I was delivered by a midwife who took a fatal fall six weeks later from the edge of a closed shoe shop in Pontiac. I have always sensed she was wracked with guilt for assisting me in this rotted society whose taste for genocide and war is insatiable. My Dad was a hardworking man who never spent much time at home since he globe-trotted with other bourgeoisie men in suits until his personal Bentley driver drank before getting behind the wheel one morning and sent my father to a palatial nursing home after a terrible accident for the rest of his enfeebled days.”
“What about your mother?”
“She insisted on making sure I was disciplined,” he said as his eyes morphed into glassy nebulas. “Though she is no longer here, her voice – a shrill and baneful screech – still gives me orders when I am about to fall asleep at night.”
“What was her background?”
“She came from a successful lineage herself and spent most of her youth horseback riding and going fox hunting with Grandpa until his stroke. Her early years were beyond munificent, so she wouldn’t settle for any less in a husband, hence the reason for her pursuing a baron. After he was buried, she inherited enough to take care of the next generation of her ascendants if she so wished. Her hypocrisy was in the way she threatened to leave me broke as a non-beneficiary should anything happen to her, which of course it did.”
“How did she pass away?”
“A fire.”
“What started it?”
“No one knows the source. How do any of these inquiries relate to my creative labors?”
“Many want to know what the root of your inspiration is.”
“I don’t believe in such a thing,” he said with a scoff. “There is drudgery and the rare miracle others label good work.”
“What did your mother teach you? Did she spark your interest in painting?”
He looked at me and winced at my analogy, and I remembered how he had said her life had ended before he spoke: “No. She had dreams of me being an athletic swimmer, despite my asthma and chronic fear of drowning. Where she stole those delusional ambitions for me from I have no idea, but I still need to float every once in a while. Did you see my pool out back?”
I shook my head and he went to the other end decorated with archaic propped ornaments. I undid a few blinds and a termite eaten pier was exposed. It led over a reservoir whose liquid swirled in an enormous spiral, a man-made whirlpool.
The area did not appear safe to me in terms of being a place for exercise. It seemed like a trap one would threaten to chuck their worst enemy into. None of the usual decorations around a pool such as lawn chairs, tables, or umbrellas were there. It was but a mere vacant deck with low railings which hinted at a fatal drop on the other side.
“Despite my apprehension and constant nightmares of being caught in an undertow, I believe water’s connection to baptism was documented because dying beneath it is as close to being reborn as a human can get. I’ve speculated on how the apostles hoped most of us would never resurface, which is why they lied about it purifying our sins.”
The strong whirlpool outside became obsidian as an overcast blanket of smog showed its presence. I looked out at the skyline of trade and industrial rot.
“Do you follow the news, Mr. Sloyan?”
“I am detached from the psychological pitfalls of the paranoia machine called the media. The programs are cloacal flows of garbage to the minds of the masses.”
“Your place looks out on the rooftops of the factories over there. Are you a night person?”
I was steering the conversation towards the real reason why I was there as an investigator. Sloyan’s place had caught my attention at the beginning after I made one simple observation. The owner would have been the sole man who could have seen the women’s final leaps from his window as they occurred.
Police canvassers did not catch onto the layout due to how their preoccupation was with dusting the shoeprints on the ledges of the factory rooftops and trying to stop the onslaught of unfavorable reportage about their department.
The town’s homicide rates were so high it was difficult to treat each case with what I opined was the necessary level of compassion. They often waited for witnesses to come forward instead of hunting the people who may have seen something out of the ordinary.
I was not going to try and suggest tactics of interviewing to detectives. They would not have listened to me, and I wanted to collect tips on my own, as people in my profession are wont to do.
He stood and crossed the room to go through a rickety entranceway. When he came back, he had a pot of tea and two bone-white china cups which he sat between us on the floor.
“It’s green. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“So you’re asking me about the ration of deaths. Let me tell you something. Many die here every day. I’ve become numb to anything except whatever project is in front of me. I can’t afford to emote on the loss of people I don’t know. If I was going to expend energy towards something similar, it would be birth, for procreation is the greatest atrocity of all, committed by anyone who would dare bring new existence onto this appalling battlefield we call the world.”
“So you never saw a figure on top of those buildings?”
“Of course, but they’ve all been transients or ladies of the night. There have been evenings where I saw gunmen shoot at passing cars for the sole purpose of testing their marksmanship.”
“Have you ever seen someone jump to their death?”
“No. I would’ve tipped my hat to them if I had. Would you like some dessert? I have some cherry cake in the back.”
“No. Thank you for your time, Mr. Sloyan. I will put the quotes of your musings on art on the front page of the website. Call my number anytime it’s convenient to work on getting what’s yours.”
I stood and turned my back on him to make way to the door.
Two hands gripped my shoulders and attempted to push me. I jolted and fell forward. I whipped around to see the man run towards me with a club in his hand, a weapon he must have pulled from beneath the couch.
I heaved one of the canvases and threw it at him. It hit him and gashed his forehead. Redness dripped over his eyes as he maintained his advance with a crazed expression. I kicked his left knee. He fell with a screech as I sprinted towards the front and tried to open the door. A hand grabbed my ankle and tugged. I collapsed on the ground as I smashed the sole of my shoe onto his nose. A stream of crimson covered the floor between us.
I was back on my feet in seconds, and when I went to the door, a beeping sound filled the area. I found it was locked, and determined the place must have had some kind of digital security system I was naïve enough to believe could not exist with such a behind-the-times type of personality.
Sloyan got to his feet and screamed as he hurried towards me again. I tried to evade him by making my way near the foot of the stairs and saw an old door. I went through it.
Cobwebs caught in my mouth as I descended the steps and found myself in a hallway with exotic aquariums, their coral and algae kept fluorescent by radiant bluish-black light, the tops of the tanks layered with artificial snowcaps.
Every wall had more paintings, but each one was of nude women with faces of sheer terror, their jaws hung open with paralytic dread. Some of their pale bodies were covered in insects.
I went through the corridor as fast as my feet could carry me and stood in front of a massive threshold made of clay. I was soon inside of a personal home theater. Rows of red cushioned seats lined the area, and the screen was the size of a marquee. A film played, and it was of the flying women I had seen dozens of times by looking for any kind of indicators of who could have been culpable. Their issuances of trauma floated in the ether in full surround sound.
In the far corner was a glass coffee table. I broke it with my elbow and gripped a shard in my hand. It cut through my palm, but I decided the advantage of holding something I could use in the event of him rushing me again was worth the agony I underwent. I crept towards the threshold again and waited.
I held the makeshift weapon at waist level as he bombarded the space with a cry. I reared the sharp instrument back and aimed for his midsection. Instead, it plunged into his left leg, and he plummeted onto the mini-bulb decorated stairway in the hub of the entertainment center as jettisons of vital fluid slinked upon each step as a series of waterfalls.
He was sprawled on the ground. I crushed the bottom of my shoe on the side of his neck.
“You made them jump.”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “I fulfilled my promise. Their blood was so much better than any watercolor or oil on the market. They gave me the notoriety I always wanted but could never achieve for my art. They wanted fame, and I helped them soar into history.”
He pulled the glass from his leg and used it to slit his throat while the projector showed the last victim’s final moments as she hit the concrete.