The Haunting of Wallace Beck

   The Haunting of Wallace Beck

Suzanne Marsh

November 12, 1959

“Turn around Beck, I want you to see my face, it is gonna be the last thing you ever see.” Wallace Beck in a movement as fast as greased lightning turned and fired the shot that killed his partner Max (the Brute) Larson. Wallace stared for a moment at the smoking gun in his hand, he dropped it and ran over to Max Larson:

“Oh God Max I am sorry, you would have killed me if I had not killed you first.”

Tears flowing down his cheeks, Wallace dragged Max’s body onto an old rug, wrapped it then placed it in the trunk of his Lincoln Continental. Wallace a lowly exterminator of the local Mafia had just killed Max Larson a Mafia Lieutenant. He had to think of somewhere to dump the body where no one would ever find a trace of the body, the question was where. The East River had more bodies than most rivers, it was then that Wallace had an idea, Niagara Falls, he could drive all night and be there before daybreak. Push the body over the falls and return home, no one would be the wiser, and no one would miss the Brute.

Wallace drove over toward Goat Island, he dragged the body out of the trunk then used quick mix cement on the feet to be sure the body sunk and would not resurface. He then pushed it between the rails; thinking; that would be the end of his problems with the Brute. He drove back to the City on Route Seventeen, and he arrived home late in the afternoon. His wife Gloria met him at the door, glad he was home safely.

Wallace later that evening went to see “Fish” Donan and an old pal of his:

“Fish, I gotta talk to you, the Brute...he ain’t gonna bother nobody again ever.”

“Fish” knew what Wallace had done and why:

“Your secret is safe with me my boyo.”

That being said the two men had a scotch and soda, then drank to the demise of Max “the Brute” Larson.

November 12, 1969

Time had not been kind to Wallace, he seemed to age quickly. Each year on November 12, he would go to bed, fall asleep; awaken to sounds in the house. A chain dragging, a hollow laugh; every year it was something different. He began thrashing around, Gloria gave him a shove in the ribs hoping that would quiet him. Moments later he awoke with a scream, he looked around; no one was in the bedroom beside him and Gloria. He pulled the covers over his head, going to sleep again for a short while. The wind began to howl, and snow began to fall as Wallace once again thought about his trip ten years before to Niagara Falls, the crack of the gun as “the Brute” collapsed and bled out. He thought of making a quick drive to Niagara Falls, just to make sure the body had not resurfaced, he decided that would make him feel safer. He thought of an old adage his mother used: “Once a deed is done, you can not undo it.” This was so true, he had been twenty when he shot and killed “the Brute”, newly married and happy, ergo he wanted to keep the status quo.

November 12, 1979

Wallace was now a forty-year-old man, with three beautiful children, a house in the country away from New York City’s mayhem. The night of the anniversary of the demise of “the Brute” Wallace had several drinks before nodding off in his favorite chair. Eerie sounds began with heavy footsteps in the long hallway; going to a coat closet. The wind howled like a banshee, and then he heard footsteps going up the stairs, his mind told him he was the only one home but his sixth sense said something was there besides himself. He grabbed a flashlight from the end table, shining it in several directions; to his amazement, there was nothing there. He went upstairs, and he saw nothing, but he heard sounds in the bathroom, it sounded as if water were running quickly: the sounds of Niagara Falls. Wallace quickly went downstairs and grabbed his car keys. He drove like a madman to Niagara Falls, he roamed over Goat Island, there was no sign of a body anywhere. He had to stop these feelings he got, for the last twenty years, “the Brute” was dead, he could not bring him back to life, and he had to live with the murder he had committed. He still could not understand why he thought it was murder since “the Brute” had fired first, there was a difference he was alive, “the Brute” was somewhere at the bottom of the Falls, and he couldn’t hurt him or his family. He drove back to Westchester where he resided, still hoping to avoid the eerie feelings he had every ten years.

November 12, 1989

Time moved on for Wallace, his children were grown, he and Gloria were divorced; all he had were the memories from his younger days. Those heady days of being part of the Mafia, being an executioner for the mob. Those were the days, he told himself; in the same breath, he thought about “the Brute” who aptly deserved his name. Wallace missed those days, he had been in his twenties then he was now approaching his sixties. How strange that seemed, he looked at the calendar, this was the thirtieth anniversary of what he now referred to as: “the night of “the Brute’s” demise. Wallace tottered upstairs to his bedroom, took two sleeping pills, and determined to sleep the entire night through. He fell asleep, when suddenly there was a loud bang, as if a door were being slammed. Doors began to creak open and shut, howls like the banshees of the tales Donon told. Wallace, pulled the pillow over his head, trying to return to sleep. The sound of water running in the bathroom was more than he could stand. He got out of his bed, treading toward the bathroom. He swung open the door, and there stood an apparition of black cobwebs dangling from its skeletal hands. The eyes were gone just big black empty orbs. The mouth on the apparition began to speak:

“Wallace, you thought you got rid of me, didn’t you? Not hardly, my friend, you are going to

take your life in exchange for mine. Just put the gun to your head and pull the trigger...there was a loud bang from the gun, and a few moments later Wallace Beck lay dead on the bathroom floor. The police were summoned, and they decided it was a simple suicide but those who knew the true story of Wallace Beck said something had haunted him for years, and now he was at peace.