Another short story-the Death of Ivan Bothco-pt.1

This morning I should be working on my online business but instead I am digging through the archives of my short stories. Here is something I started working on a few years ago that is heavily inspired by both modern world events and the writing of Edgar Alan Poe. It is an unfinished story and I am working on ideas for part two. The last story was more in the 70’s horror genre-not very original. This particular storyline is much more original but the premise is based on a reworking of Poe’s short story-the Fall of the House of Usher.

The Death of Ivan Bothco

As he drove through the countryside, Fred Larkington lit up a cigarette and tried to remember the last time he had seen Ivan Bothco. It had been three years since he left school, a lot had transpired-the army corps of engineers trip to that ravaged and war torn nation, back home a failed relationship, a fling or two, and than the move to the city to run his sputtering consulting business. He hadn’t seen his friend Ivan for many years but the news of his grave illness was disconcerting. At an age where most young men feel immortal, here was mortality staring him in the face and as he drove through non-descript farmlands, with the smell of fertilizer and manure permeating the air, he pondered the death and destruction he had seen around him and thought about the violence of the times. He felt in many ways numb to suffering having seen so much. Still, he and Ivan had grown up together and the illness of a close friend was a valid excuse to leave the city and return to Youngsfield, Pa. the small town where he grew up. He had been driving for a couple hours and he could feel the calm and peace of the countryside, far removed from the stressed out masses of the city and modern life.

The lights of town grew close and he decided to stop for a drink at the roadhouse on the edge of town. As he entered the bar he looked around into the half smoky emptiness. The roadhouse was a standard bar room, with a pool table, round elevated tables and stools, a large wooden oak bar with the obligatory Budweiser, Rolling Rock, and Pabst Blue Ribbon logos adorning the windows, sending their neon light out into the night. Fred noticed only a few rough looking patrons. He vaguely recognized the bartender and as he slid up to the bar the bar tender greeted him.

“I haven’t seen you around in quite a while, Fred wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, I’ve been out seeing the sights and trying to rebuild the world,” Fred said and quickly shifted the topic away from his personal life. Fred mentioned the reason for his visit.

“Ivan! That’s a shame about him. He always came through here with a glimmer in his eye. After he returned home from military service he was never the same. A lot of folks said he left his mind over there somewhere, but in my opinion he was a true hero. The fight can take a lot out of a man, I’m a veteran myself of the Korean War ……..” the old bartender trailed on with his war stories but Fred wasn’t listening anymore. Visions of bombed out desert landscapes and the chaos of war flashed through Fred’s mind, families lining up on the roadside begging for fresh water and food. The pounding of the ground from concussion bombs reverberated. He recalled the constant atmosphere of fear and death that was ever present as he worked to repair bridges and public works destroyed by American bombs. These thoughts were last thing Fred wanted to entertain as he sat at the bar world’s away in the agrarian peace of Youngsfield. As the bartender rambled on about patriotic values, Fred sat half listening sipping down a Mexican beer. He finished his drink and tipped the bartender and headed to a nearby hotel to spend the night.

Ivan Bothco was the richest kid in the entire county and lived in an almost baronial estate on the outskirts of town. His family had made a fortune in the last century and it was often rumored that the money might be tainted by criminal activity. Ivan himself was far removed from any type wrongdoing, a very loyal and patriotic country boy, living an idyllic life in the midst of the relatively simple folks and the poor community that surrounded his Citizen Kane like family estate. The grounds of the estate always seemed eerie to Fred. The landscaping included many stagnant manmade pools which always seemed lifeless and dead, overgrown with algae and lily pads. On this morning Fred noticed how overgrown the place was. Ivan had been the man of the house since the passing of his parents at a young age. In essence he had been raised by the servants but he quickly developed a strong autonomy and maturity which was to become a great asset to his military career. Ivan had entered the service after college, an officer, filled with a deep sense of patriotism but many people felt that it was a family he was looking for. It seemed very odd to Fred that Ivan would allow the grounds to become overgrown. Maybe the gardener was also ill? Ivan was always a man who paid close attention to detail.

A servant that Fred recognized but couldn’t remember the name of answered the door. The interior of the mansion, as always, unnerved him. The halls were immense with high ceilings and chandeliers. Light streaked into the halls through oak trimmed windows and dimly lit the corridors leaving dark shadowy corners. Antique furniture, trophies from big game hunts, a collection of antique firearms, and other military artifacts decorated the main corridor. Landscapes painted in oil adorned the upstairs hallways as the house servant led Fred to the guest room.

“Lunch will be served in one hour, the master encourages you to rest up from your trip.” Said the houseman and retreated into the labyrinthine immensity of the Bothco Mansion.

Since early childhood Fred had never felt comfortable in this place and had always politely declined Ivan’s offers to let him use the guest room, no matter how tired or intoxicated he was. There were rumors around Youngsfield about the catacombs that were built underneath the mansion. Originally they might have been part of a booze smuggling operation during prohibition but stories existed that there were dungeon like rooms down there where enemies of the family were dispensed of utilizing medieval torture devices. Fred never believed the stories and always knew Ivan to be very upstanding and responsible. A lot of the local farm boys saw Ivan as a type of role model. He was always very humble about his family wealth and often went far out of way to help others exhibiting and adhering to a strong sense of community. Many of his peers were deeply jealous of Ivan as he always commanded a lot of attention from the local farm girls. At the same time his generous and stoical persona made him a natural leader and Fred could never equate him with any wrongdoing.

After about a half hour a knock came at the door and there stood Ivan’s youngest sister Ismerelda. Fred remembered her as a child but now she stood there, 19 years old and a picture of beauty. Their reunion brought smiles and hugs to both of them.

“Ivan wanted to meet you for lunch but he is feeling very poorly. His doctor has recommended that he rest up for the remainder of the day and night. I thought we could spend the day together and go into town for dinner. There are definitely a lot of people who would like to see you.”

To Fred this seemed god sent. Here was this angelic beauty who he remembered as an annoying little sister, suddenly in the pride of early adulthood. The visit to his sick friend could definitely wait. The next hours passed with great ease as the two strolled about the grounds reminiscing of days past.

“Ever since Ivan got back from the war I haven’t been able to live in the house with him,” said Ismerelda suddenly becoming very serious and deadpan. “I’ve had to rent an apartment in town.” “It’s hard to describe the change that has come over him. He isn’t at all a threat in any way and he is harmless. It is his sudden turn that frightens me. It’s as if all the patriotic values and morals that we grew up with are completely forgotten and he is filled with an immense darkness and a very frightening obsession with his own death. He won’t talk about his war experiences much. We hoped he would open up to you.”

“My own experience over there is also very private,” remarked Fred. “I was never in the front ranks and didn’t see the kind of action Ivan did. My job was to repair the devastation, yet my small taste of modern warfare was enough to instill a deep distaste for it.”

Fred was suddenly both weary of the conversation and filled with apprehension. He only wanted to be lost in the dark haired beauty and green eyes of Ivan’s little sister, yet he couldn’t escape the memories that haunted him. Ismerelda had given him the impression that there was a deeper reason why Ivan requested him to visit the Bothco Mansion. He almost now dreaded his reunion with his childhood friend.

After an enjoyable afternoon driving around town and nostalgic visits to childhood haunts, Fred and Ismerelda met a few old friends and acquaintances and ate dinner at the local tavern. After a few drinks Fred was suddenly feeling very loose and often found his hands and arms wandering toward Ismerelda, clasping her small hands and playfully hugging her. She didn’t seem to mind for awhile, but she suddenly became very serious and almost cold and announced that she had to go. Fred felt a little woozy from the night’s drinks and was almost filled with a schoolboy crush on Ivan’s kid sister. That annoying brat who used to follow them about and often times whine incessantly. ‘My how she grew up,’ thought Fred as he drove through the summer night back to the Bothco Mansion. His light buzz made him forget his childhood fear of the Bothco Mansion and he drifted off to sleep effortlessly in the guest bedroom.

Late that night he awoke to an incredibly loud and annoying metallic grinding noise coming from the depths of the mansion. There than followed three very loud reports that sounded like a hammer being struck against a metal plate. This was followed by a very disconcerting silence which brought Fred back to the unsettling place he had avoided as a child and young adult. He felt like getting up to investigate the source of the noise but than reasoned that he was probably dreaming and the thought of trying to navigate the corridors of the mansion in the dead of night was vastly unappealing.

It had been nearly five years since he had seen his friend but it was as if he had aged fifteen. Ivan Bothco appeared in the dining room the next morning, confined to a wheel chair and looking very pale and gaunt. He reached out an almost delicate hand to greet Fred. Fred was deeply struck by Ivan’s sudden decline. Ivan had been a champion athlete in school and had always been physically robust, once bench pressing 225 lbs over 20 times in the school weight room. Here in front of him stood a ghost of a man, looking more like 50 than 30.

“I haven’t got long to live, of that I am convinced,” said Ivan. “It was on my last combat tour when I knew I would become ill when I got back stateside and had the premonition that I would not live long. The strange thing is that I always felt invincible in the heat of battle. I remember in the early days of Operation Desert Disaster when the general ordered the armored column I commanded to make a show of force in the capital to help destabilize the regime. We mounted what we call a thunder run through the capital and the action was hot and heavy. The turret gunner in my vehicle took a piece of shrapnel in the eye and the rest of the men were too yellow to take over the guns. I went up there myself and could see and hear tracer rounds and AK47 rounds flying everywhere. Rocket propelled grenades were exploding against the armor plating of the tank and roadside bombs were detonating left and right leaving carcasses of vehicles strewn in every intersection. Yet with all that death around me, I knew that I was safe and took off my helmet and goggles so I could see better and feel more comfortable operating the turret machine gun. When we got done with our thunder run the outside of the tank was completely on fire as we rolled into base, but I still stood up there with my bare head naked in the sunshine and in the face of metallic death, manning the machine guns. I knew than and there that I could not be killed in military conflict, even though death and destruction stalked me at every corner. It was then I also realized I would have to pay the price.”

To listen to this suddenly decrepit old man of 30 sit and ramble on like this was very disconcerting to Fred. He didn’t doubt the validity of his stories. Ivan was always a man who seemed to defy the odds, a man who could tempt fate and take command under heavy fire. And here was a man who had survived the madness of modern war, at least physically, dying at a young age in a rural Pennsylvania mansion from a malady that no doctor could diagnose. His sister had told Fred that Ivan had gone to the best hospitals on the East coast and undergone a litany of different tests yet no one could diagnose his illness. Every month Ivan seemed to age several years and Ivan was now completely obsessed with his own death.

Fred spent the rest of the day trying to avoid the subject of war and tried to reminisce with Ivan about old friends and exploits of the past. Such conversation was very tedious as Ivan was very dark and almost devoid of any emotion. Anecdotes that once were side splittingly funny now seemed very hollow and steeped in the immaturity of youth. Fred was almost relieved when Ivan announced that he was too tired to attend dinner with Fred and Ismerelda that evening. He spent the evening at the movies with her and though he didn’t make any advances toward her, he felt a warm feeling inside from being with her and almost wished that her depressing brother wasn’t around even though he was staying as his honored guest at his landed estate, attending to his death bed.

The evening Fred slept very fitfully. Ivan’s war story had upset him on a deep level. There were many nights after his return from the war early on where Fred couldn’t escape the war zone. Every time he’d fall asleep he’d instantly be back there, the roar of jets, the far off sounds of bombs, the hostile and friendly locals, so interchangeable that there was an intense atmosphere of chaos and disorder. Now here he was, far away from the madness of war in the rural countryside where he grew up loving America, deeply patriotic and feeling like it was the duty of every generation to make sacrifices for his country. He remembered this patriotism was always greatly inspired by his friend Ivan and in a way Ivan’s example influenced him, along with his family’s lack of financial means to pay for his college, to enter the armed forces. Now here he was a few years later and he was left only with a tremendous numbness towards life and death as well as an inability to inwardly face his heavy emotions. And he was ten times better off than Ivan, wheelchair bound in his baronial living room, recalling battle scenes where every bit of sanity had seemingly abandoned him, leaving him a hollow and cynical man, far advanced in years and seemingly withering away on the vine. The greatest irony was that here was a man among men, physically powerful and intelligent who had immerged from the conflict unscathed. It was what was going on inside Ivan’s head that was killing him.

Later that night Fred again awoke to heavy metallic grinding noises and hammering coming from deep beneath the mansion, in almost muffled tones. At that point Fred was far too exhausted from his fitful nights sleep to bother investigating but resolved to question Ivan about it in the morning. The sounds suddenly subsided as they had before and Fred returned to his troubled dreams.

To Be Continued.

Well, maybe I’ll put up one more story this morning and than its back to the salt mines so to speak.

Blessings!