Secret Portal to Heaven.[noir] A PI on a search for a missing woman. (standard:mystery, 4622 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1426/1045	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sam Muscosolo PI is contracted to find a missing woman. The search leads him to an abandoned house in a rural setting. The old falling-down structure hides a secet that changes his life.

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might be interested?" 

"Rural? I take it nobody lives there? What about the tax rolls?" 

"The county had a period of insolvency 'bout fifty years ago," Al said.
"They offered a cut-rate on projected taxes if paid for long periods in 
advance. The owner...." He took time to consult a notebook from his 
jacket pocket. "The owner, a Miss Agnes Jefferson, paid ninety-nine 
years in advance, with still over forty to go. Now the house is 
abandoned, falling down, and old Aggie is nowhere to be found. County 
records show nothing else on her." 

"You were with the Bureau. What about income tax records? Social
Security? Medicare? That shit." 

"I asked a guy to check. Nothing since about the time she bought the
property. Also no record of relatives. It's as if she appeared one day, 
bought the place, and disappeared the next. She never applied for a 
Social Security number and never paid any income taxes. I couldn't even 
find a guy named Jefferson with her as a wife or dependent." He stubbed 
out his smoke, lighting another. "It isn't often I get away from Helen. 
She made me promise to give up smoking. Anyway, I thought of you." 

"Fucking wimp." Brave words, since Tammy did the same with me. "I'll
have to give it some thought. You still living at the same number?" 

"Where else would I be? If we moved we'd have to take along an acre of
fucking landscaped flower garden. Even I couldn't afford it." I could 
hear him opening drawers on the other side of the desk. 

"Bottom, right," I told him. "Pour me one." 

*** 

Way the fuck back in the early days of Roosevelt's dole, one hell of a
lot of people were either never covered by their work or opted not to 
apply for Social Security. Farm workers, waiters and waitresses, and 
many others didn't have the option and got to keep all their pay. If 
this Agnes were married and didn't work, she may never have paid any 
taxes. If not a driver, no license on record. 

*** 

After rechecking some of Al's efforts, I take a flight to the Midwest
and rent a snazzy foreign roller-skate of a vehicle. My key works to 
wind it, but I need a shoehorn to get in and out. Those fucking Japs -- 
no offense meant, Tammy, honey. 

It's about the most ramshackle house I've ever seen. Although only
mid-October, the small island of trees where it stands are leafless ... 
dead looking. I wonder whether the house holds the trees up or the 
other way around? If the structure has ever been painted, it doesn't 
show. 

The house and about a quarter-acre of ground are set, like a dry oasis,
well back from the road and roughly in the center of a large extent of 
plowed land. Although I search, there's no road or driveway leading to 
the isolated structure. My guess is that a local farmer has plowed it 
under long ago. 

Before trying to reach the house, I want to find who's working the land.
There might be a contract with a name and address on it. To that end, I 
make a wide circle around the area, searching for farmhouses along the 
way. It doesn't take long to find a nearby working farm. 

My lower back has ached ever since a terrorist in Frisco almost broke it
fifteen years ago. I can feel it as I step up from the Tinkertoy 
vehicle. A decent American make would have cost more per day and a 
fucking fortune in fuel. Shit. A hard-boiled private dick like me can 
take it -- I hope. 

The place appears to be a successful hardworking business, from what
little I know about farms. Although the house appears aged, a barn 
looks brand-new. I stop at the entrance to a circular drive, seeing a 
man apparently working on a lawnmower, tools spread out on a large red 
rag. 

"Excuse me, sir. I'd like a little information, if you have it?" 

"I ain't buying. I either got it already or don't need it." 

"No. I'm not selling anything." I show him my ID. On the other side of
the leather case, I purposely keep my old Associate FBI ID card. 
Although Al wouldn't have approved my having it in plain view, and I 
don't flaunt it, that card has more pull than the Illinois State PI ID. 
Especially, like now, working out of state. Long ago, Al issued it to 
me for when I investigated prospective Bureau employees. 

"What you want?" the guy asks, putting down a wrench to wipe his brow. 

"You know that old house? The one way back from the road? Looks about to
collapse?" 

"Yeah. The Jefferson place, I think. Anyway, that's what we call it." 

"I'm looking for the owner." 

"What for?" 

"A guy that wants to buy it. He can't find the owner." 

"You check with the county?" 

"Sure. First thing. They don't know." 

"Sounds like them. Old Jenkins has always had his head up his ass, and
been lazing about in that County Records chair forever. Before that, 
his useless fath...." 

I smile and nod, letting him run down. 

"Do YOU know?" I ask again. 

"Jefferson, of course." 

"Where can I find Jefferson." 

"Beats me. I ain't never saw the guy." 

"Guy? I heard it was an Agnes Jefferson." 

"Yeah? I do remember a woman. Figured she was married. Ain't seen her
for years, though. A pretty woman, too. Blond with hooters a mile long 
and hips I could hitch my plow to." 

"I know the type. Say, you wouldn't know who's working the field around
it, would you?" 

"That would be Tom. Tom Sylvester." 

"Where could I find Tom?" 

"You could try the Riverview. He might still be there, lessen he's dead.
If dead, he's probably still there." 

I can see getting information out of this guy will take patience. 

"And where's this Riverview?" 

"Everyone knows the Riverview. We'll all get there sometime or t'other."


"I'm new here. Can you give me directions?" 

"The Riverview Retirement home and Mortuary," he says, laughing.
"Somewhere on Adams, downtown. You can't miss it. The only four-story 
building in town." 

I find the place on my second pass. The first time, I went right past
the fuckin' place. Seeing a two-pump gas station and a small general 
store, I never figured it to be a town and didn't slow down. It wasn't 
until I saw a sign in my rearview mirror that I realized I'd passed 
Grove's Point. Needless to say, finding the Riverview was easy as pie. 
Hell, at that time of day most of the town lay in its shadow. 

*** 

Past the entrance, I notice the place teeming with old people, some in
wheelchairs and many sitting stiffly while lost in private worlds of 
their own making. It isn't until I pass a floor-length mirror that I 
recognize that many are younger than myself. 

"Can I help you, sir?" It's a smiling young man in a gray suit. 

"I'm looking for a Tom Sylvester. Is he around?" 

"Tom? Yes. He's over there. The guy with the white hair, playing cards,"
the man says, a look of curiosity on his face. "I'm John, the director. 
Can I ask why you're here?" 

Again, I open my ID case. "Business." 

"Well. Gollleeee. We don't get you government guys here. I don't think
I've ever seen one before, in person." He reminds me, at that moment, 
of Sheriff Taylor -- or was it Don Knotts? 

"Uh. They all have white hair. Which one is Sylvester?" 

"The one with all his hair." 

That narrows it down considerably. 

I stumble through the same process with Sylvester. Although more than
willing to tell me his life story, he knows next to nothing of Agnes 
Jefferson. 

"When I asked, she said it was okay to farm her land, so's I been doing
just that. I only saw her three times an talked to her that once't," he 
told me. "She's got an account at the Farmer's Savings and Trust bank. 
Every year, I put her share in an at's all I know." 

"What about the driveway? She must have had one." 

He blushes. I can see a reddening slowly extend to the top of his head,
detouring and moving around his hairline. "Well. I hope I'm not in 
trouble. I can have my son, Harry, put a new one in? It's hard to plow 
around a driveway so, when I saw the place was abandoned I sorta ... 
well, uh, accidentally drove over it with my tractor." 

"And how long ago was that?" 

"Ten, twenty years ago, I guess. My memory ain't so good no more." 

"I'll let you know, Tom, but I wouldn't worry about it. I don't think
anyone's going to fix that place up. It looks pretty worn down to me." 
I stand up to leave, then ask, "Have you seen anyone there, lately, in 
the last few years? And do you mind if I go in?" 

"Nope. About ten years ago, abouts there, I had to call the sheriff to
chase some kids out. Hippies. I put up some'a those 'keep out' signs 
and ain't see'd nobody since. Sure. Knock yourself out. Ain't none'a my 
business." His eyes fall. "My family ignores me, in here. I haven't 
seen any of them for the last two years or abouts. I guess," he said, 
tears forming, "It's the way of the world. Us old people are useless, 
our time long past." 

Getting permission from the director of the home, I ask around without
any more luck than with Tom. Then I drive over to the county seat and 
make another search of land and tax records for the property. Whenever 
I see a senior citizen, the polite term for us old fuckers, I ask about 
Agnes. Nobody knows her or even recognizes the name. It is as though 
she never existed. 

Before I leave for the house, I prudently buy a pair of rubber
hip-boots. 

*** 

Parking on the shoulder of a narrow one-lane asphalt road, I put on my
new boots and lock the car. I hope a passing truck doesn't suck the 
fucking thing into a ditch. 

Sighing, back hurting like hell, I test the water -- so to speak --
sinking in to my ankles. Finding a dead limb by the road, I use it as a 
brace as I start across sixty-feet of plowed mud toward the house. I'm 
stuck in my investigation, hoping there will be some sort of clue 
inside the structure. 

Thank God for cellphones, I think, imagining the equipment the nearest
fire department would need to pull me from the sticky morass. As I 
proceed, the deeper I sink, soon nearly up to my knees in mud. With 
every step, I can feel and hear the suction as I pull a foot free, only 
to plant it again. Near the island, as I think of it, the ground firms 
again, thank the Lord. I hope the trip is worth it. 

Exhausted,I fall to a wooden front porch, my back feeling on fire. As I
lay there, listening to crickets singing their own brand of operatic 
music, I feel long-unused muscles creaking as they stiffen. God help 
me, I pray -- actually pray. Pulling myself up by both hands on a shaky 
porch support, I manage to get to my feet and stumble toward a door. 

Before the prayer has time to ascend, I add a verse to the Supreme Being
to please, please, not let the damned structure fall in on my head. 

Inside is as to be expected. The place has obviously been looted. Only
one table and a broken-backed couch remain among the clutter of trash 
in the living room -- including a pile of dusty fast-food containers 
and beer bottles. I guess that was from the aforementioned teenagers. 
At least the years have taken away the stink, leaving only a musty 
smell. 

The entire downstairs is in that condition, with the exception of one
door. Seemingly out of place, it's metallic and locked tight. I try my 
special keyring, using every skeleton key known to mankind. Finally, I 
decide to leave it till later. Written on a panel, in silvery script, 
are the words, "No Evil May Pass This Portal" along with some sort of 
mystic symbol. From the hippies? I shrug, bringing a sharp pain to an 
already aching back. 

Oddly, I notice no windows are broken. I would think most would be.
Maybe the farmer kept them intact for some reason? Or, maybe it was 
simply too damned far from the road for kids to chuck horseshit. 

Testing the stairs to the second floor, I edge my way upward, using only
the extreme edges. Upstairs is a little cleaner, with several stained 
mattresses lined up in one room, one with an old-fashioned brick 
hearth. Articles of clothing are strewn around, along with a peace 
symbol painted over the fireplace. The police must have chased those 
hippies off in a hurry. 

It isn't all idle exploration. As I go, I keep an eye out for any papers
or graphiti that might help in my search for the missing and mysterious 
Agnes. What missives and scraps thereof I do find are useless, no names 
or addresses I can use. 

One piece does have a few telephone numbers. I call five of them from my
cellphone. Three are no answers or a "disconnected" message. The other 
two are the families of missing kids, for which I have no reply to 
questions of their whereabouts. 

Two of the rooms are completely useless to me. They have holes in their
ceilings and the contents decayed by rainwater. Bats flee on my 
entrance to the second and I'm not going to search in inches of 
batshit. The only place left is that locked room downstairs. 

On reattaining the first floor, I have to stop to sit on the steps,
trying to ignore pain as I deliberately twist shoulders and back to get 
rid of some of the stiffness. 

The kitchen yields what appears to be a rusty machete. I want something
to try to pry that door open. To my surprise, it has not only become 
unlocked, but is cracked open an inch or so. 

Going out quickly to both porches and checking from a few windows, I
search the plowed mud for foot or tire prints. The only ones are my 
own. How the hell, I wonder, did that door get open? I know damned well 
it had been locked. Was someone in the basement? Hell, if that is the 
way to a basement. It is. Grasping a shaky railing, I step gingerly 
down a flight of shifty rotten wooden stairs. 

There's enough sunlight through several narrow cellar windows for me to
see. My eyes automatically focus on a light showing from what I think 
must be a storage room. Is the illumination artificial? There's no 
electricity. 

As silently as possible, heart beating wildly and back aching
tortuously, I brandish the dull machete in front of myself, trying hard 
to hold it in both sweaty hands. Christ, I think, but I'm too old for 
this shit. 

Across yet another small room, I see a common door frame, sans door. The
space inside the frame ... well ... to put it simply, is NOT common. 

That space is filled to the brim with brightly-colored swirls. Some of
the colors are new to my eyes, and I'm an old man. They fluoresce and 
are in constant motion, sorta inviting while relaxing at the same time. 


Above the door, written in that same silvery script, are those same
words, "No Evil May Pass This Portal". Added are, "Such Evil Will Cease 
To Exist". 

It takes a few moments to catch my breath. Feeling at peace, and not
knowing why, I put down the machete. Next comes a couple of minutes 
investigating the edges of the doorway, looking for anything 
mechanical, such as wiring. I find nothing to explain the swirling 
patterns, only rotted wood. Also, no sounds of a generator on the other 
side. 

Bracing myself, I inch the fingers of my right hand toward, then into,
the colorful barrier. Except for a slight warm tingle, they go in 
without resistance. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and thrust my 
head inside. 

On opening my eyes a crack, I come face to face with a large brown bear.
Before I can process that information and pull away, the bear stands on 
two legs, sticks out its tongue and licks my face. Blinking saliva 
away, I see the animal back up, looking curiously at me. 

What the hell! From that angle, face a few inches inside and through a
misting of bear spit, I see a motion to the side. A deer stands a few 
feet away, soft round eyes staring and watching our brief contact, not 
paying any mind to the bear. 

I have to withdraw. I can't help it. You can imagine the confusion. 

Finally, a few minutes into partial recovery, I try again. That time,
seeing I'm alone, I step through the "portal". 

There's no sign of the plowed field, though the house itself, fixed up
and painted, stands over and behind me. Obviously, it's an outside 
door, supposedly underground yet? 

The area around the structure is ... the only way to describe it is
"lush". It's mostly forest, though several paths are in sight along 
with other buildings scattered in the distance. Feeling I should be 
doing something, and not wanting to immediately duck back inside, I 
tentatively start around the structure. 

A nice-looking young woman sits on a porch-swing on the front porch,
long blond hair shining in a sunbeam. It's the same porch as before ... 
but isn't. This one is well-maintained and edged by potted plants. She 
turns toward me. 

"Come on up," she advises. "You want some lemonade? I made it myself. We
have a lemon tree out back, you know?" 

What the hell, I think. I've come this far. Why not? 

Wordlessly, one eye on her and trying to watch the front door with the
other, I cross over and take a seat on the porch railing. She pours 
liquid into a glass and passes it to me. 

If that isn't enough, I notice something else. Two things, really. When
I reach out to grasp the glass, I see the veins in my arm are recessed 
again. Gone are the overly familiar age spots I hate so much. The arm 
looks twenty years younger. Also, my back pain is gone for the first 
time in fifteen years. In fact, I feel unaccustomed energy flowing 
through rejuvenated veins. 

I look around, briefly wondering what can be causing the illusions. It
has to be an illusion, maybe from some drug in the air? People can't 
change that quickly. Plowed ground can't change to forest. No fucking 
way. 

"I know. It's surprising, isn't it?" She gives me a bright smile. "I
don't miss the old world. This one is much better. No killing, no 
warfare, no ... evil is allowed. Just as it says on the door. If you 
were evil when entering, it's gone now." 

Her eyes drift up to mine, giving me a tingling feeling in my tummy.
Tummy? What the fucking hell. I haven't used that word since I was a 
fucking kid. 

"Tummy," I say. 

"Tummy? Are you hungry?" 

I shake my head. "No. I dunno. Maybe?" I shake it again, trying to get
some feeling of feeling, if you know what I mean. Something familiar to 
hang on to ... to think ... to understand. 

"Are you okay, mister?" 

"Yeah. Sure," I lie. "Look. I think I know the answer, but tell me. Are
you Agnes Jefferson?" 

"I used to be." She raises her head and gives a trilling sound like a
bird would do. A few seconds later, I can hear the same sounds coming 
back from a distant source. "I used to be. Now, though, I answer to 
Twilla. I left that name, along with the other world and old age behind 
me." She leans closer, sweet breath preceding her, to whisper, "Here I 
can be whatever I want, and even what age I prefer. Here, there is no 
death until I choose it ... and I will, when I'm ready. It's my choice, 
rather than chance or Father Time's." 

We talk for endless hours, it staying twilight for that entire time.
Agnes bought the house, used, right after her husband died. At that 
time, it had already been abandoned for a few years. She'd seen the 
door, at first locked, just as I had. It seemed to us as though the 
house, or something, had to inspect us before opening the door. 
Finally. Curiosity caused her to inspect the basement. 

Eventually, Agnes used the rest of her dead husband's bequest to pay
taxes for ninety-nine years, then crossed over for the last time. 

"I'll never go back to the old world," she tells me, "with its wars and
strife." 

"Listen, Agnes," I ask before I leave, "would you be willing to sell the
house to me?" 

"Why? Why don't you just stay with me, Sammy? There are other portals,
all over the old world. Some are in caves, some in basements, some in 
old houses or deep in forests. The sadness is that most people can 
never seem to see or notice them. People tend to move so fast on their 
way to nowhere that they pass heaven by ... unnoticed. 

"I think it's God's way of giving us all an equal chance. Why even go
back? You can simply stay. I ... we ... would be glad to have you." 

"I can't, Agnes," I tell her. "Unlike you, I still have a spouse and
kids to think about and support. I'll take a free pass, though. A 
rain-check. If you sell me the place, I'll be back later ... for good." 


In the end, she returns to reality long enough to sign over the house
and land to me for one dollar. Forcing myself, only the thought of 
losing Tamiko and the kids breaking the balance, I stay in the old 
reality -- at least for now. 

Next, I drive back to the Riverview Retirement Home and Mortuary. 

"Pack a bag, Tom," I tell him. "We're going on a trip. I want to show
you something. I guarantee you'll like it." I think he would have gone 
anywhere at that point, if only to get away from that place for a few 
minutes. 

We manage to slip out a side door to where I've already parked my
Suki-Mattel vehicle. 

Needless to say, after a brief stop at his old farm to say goodbye to
his family, I leave Tom in that other world. That's the easy part. 
Getting the fucker across the field by pulling him behind me on a piece 
of plywood is the difficult part. Actually, I still look and feel 
twenty-years younger and with a good back it wasn't all that hard. So I 
get something out of that trip. 

I do, though, have to call Al. I ask him to tell his friend that buying
that land is a lost cause -- that I now own it and he doesn't have a 
chance in heaven. That place is reserved for me and Tammy. 

The End.


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