The Pirates of Hart Island

The crumbling tenement building at the corner of Orchard and Broome in Manhattan’s East Village had long exceeded its original purpose for immigrant shelter. The doors blew off their hinges as the bite of another late sixties spring chewed at the paint and tore strips off the layers of wallpaper, long abandoned by its hopeful residents, but far from its eventual redevelopment into the exotic housing of a renewed neighborhood. The community which had built these homes was now homed elsewhere. Numerous tongues now absorbed into downtown New York’s melting pot, which these days only melted dreams and money. The wind produced a chill which would freeze the hearts of those brave enough to venture out for essentials, and punish those foolish enough to tear themselves away from the warmth of the television. The building at 103 Orchard was long condemned, but had defiantly weathered the elements of both climate and city bureaucracy as a final tenement, a final testament, a final middle finger to those who would destroy it in the name of progress and profit.

As the neighborhood exodus accelerated, myths had grown up around the old buildings. Ghost stories told by parents to warn off the curious from going inside. Tales of a colony of giant baby-devouring cockroaches, hundreds of rats whose tails had grown together over time into the monstrous tale of the mythical Rat King, and how the building’s water system fed directly into the alligator-infested sewers below. A favorite of John’s parents was to tell him that Peter Pan had died inside the tenement at 103 Orchard, and that going inside would see the youth sucked out of him by a deranged and violent adult Peter, consumed by a rabid appetite for the lost young. But even at aged eight, John was wise to his parents’ warnings, and knew they were just as fabricated as the shows he loved to watch late into the night when his folks had gone to bed. The kids at the local school would dare each other to go into the building in search of the truth, but no-one ever found anything. Wendy Peterson had gone inside with a freckled boy from the neighboring school, and eloped north with him shortly afterwards, disappearing into local myth herself. Or at least Yonkers.

John’s best friend Mike had always been the more adventurous one. He’d once hidden in the public library after hours, spending the entire night there alone in search of a hidden doorway which held a codex used by a secret society. Or the time he found a map of the entrances into the tomb of James Bennett in Herald Square. John had always followed Mike into the unknown, but upon the threshold of not being back by the agreed-upon curfew, all-too-frequently would let Mike adventure alone. But tonight would be different. They’d been daring each other for weeks to see who could summon the guts to reach the roof of 103 Orchard, and a bitter evening in March would be the opportunity for them both to make good on the dare. As they crawled under the rotting doorway which moaned with cold, they began their ascent through a sadness of narrow ornate stairways which had seen more departures than arrivals. Careful to tread lightly, they began to check the open doorways of apartment buildings along the way. “It fucking stinks in here” muttered John under his breath, betraying his innocence to Mike, who was already inside. “Jesus Christ, what the hell happened” replied Mike, sifting through an abandoned dresser and finding only damp and disease. “There’s bird shit everywhere, someone needs to teach these little fuckers how to use the can, let’s keep going” smiled Mike as he wiped a clump of it from his boot.

Mike’s parents had always warned him about apartment 6B. They said it was where Peter Pan had died. John knew the bedtime stories meant to scare him too. And as they reach the sixth floor, curiosity got the better of them, and they sought it out. The entrance had been nailed shut, and someone long ago had scrawled the words ‘Never, ever land’ across the name plate. The wind intensified its howl outside. It was getting late but the boys were already too far in to go back any time soon, and they had already woken up that day and chosen violence. Despite the sign, the door easily gave up its resistance with a couple of short, sharp and well timed shoulder charges. The door collapsed into a rotting heap in front of them, and the apartment exhaled with a deep, sustained groan. “Fuck me, it’s even worse in here” mumbled John, covering his mouth as the smell hit his nostrils. “Take this, it’ll help” offered Mike as he handed John a torn piece of old linen to mask his face. “Do you really think anything ever happened in here?” asked John. “Fuck knows, but tonight we’re going to teach those old maids a lesson about how to get the truth” retorted a defiant Mike.

Apartment 6B had never been well lit, but the years of decay had opened a nocturnal skylight into which streamed the glow of a full moon, a nearby clock face, and two adjacent stars in a sky which was increasingly becoming consumed with the pollution of the neighborhood’s redevelopment. The boys were keen to creep cautiously around the apartment, still unsure if their movements were being surveilled by the myths of their parents. The apartment crackled with its own rhythm of decay, but through it all, a faint groan called out in the darkness, stopping the boys’ hearts. “What the fuck was that” asked John, more statement than question. “What was what?” laughed Mike, convinced John was hearing voices in his head… again. Another groan. And then another. Mike looked at John, but both knew they weren’t alone. “It’s in there” pointed Mike, nearing the bedroom, “… you first”. John looked at Mike and finally realized that it had all been for show. That it wasn’t he who was the coward, but Mike. All the times John had gone home early had only emboldened Mike to invent more and more fantastic adventures. But tonight would be different. This wasn’t an adventure, this was real life. John’s hand slowly squeezed the brass door handle, and he pushed his way in.

In the corner, illuminated by the second star to the right, was Bobby. More decayed than alive, he had become one with the building’s rot, and the years of heroin abuse had robbed him of the good looks which had long ago seen him ride a beautiful wave of childhood success. The sad figure was clinging to life, like a decayed, scratched drawing. His eyes sunken, his skin a grey leather, and his ribcage more rib than cage. His heart burnt out. Bobby’s own star had fallen, and his life had been broken by the neglect of a world which had simply moved on from the innocence he had so brightly embodied in his youth. The discarded paraphernalia of addiction surrounded him, but also the redemptive literature of the nearby Church of Heavenly Rest on 5th Avenue. Bobby, barely there, saw them. And they saw Bobby. Every impulse boiled within the boys to run. It was true. All of it. There was a lost boy living in the building after all. Bobby’s shadow danced across the wall in the as he lay still, slumped against the broken chair which, like Bobby, had seen better days.

What was left of Bobby pointed at the night sky above him, and then at the boys. “Straight on ‘til midnight” instigating a swirling supernatural miasma which accelerated and consumed them all. The boys, too terrified to run, became swept up in the scalding current of light, and were being drawn towards Bobby. As they grew nearer, Bobby was growing younger. The rot of neglect began to fall away, as did the years of abuse. The more he consumed youth, the more youthful he became. The life swiftly drained out of the boys. John fell first, his lifeless husk thrown in the corner with the filthy remains of what used to be a blue dress. Mike was more resistant. Struggling to free himself, he only encouraged Bobby to consume him faster. The life drained out of an extinguished Mike as the light bled into Bobby. If Bobby had been Peter Pan, the boys had been Icarus. Bobby’s life had been destroyed by adulthood, but reclaimed by the consumption of youth. Restored and reclaimed, Bobby swapped his junkie’s clothes for those of Mike, groomed himself, and calmly headed downstairs.

As the tenement resisted yet another night of biting New York weather, Bobby let himself out and walked slowly into the uptown darkness. That morning the boys were gone, but the myth remained. And as the warmer weather eventually arrived, a new sign appeared nailed to the front of the building.

’Coming Soon. Luxury Rentals.’