The Hallowed Hall by Richard L. Rubin

Freddy Shelton scanned the seemingly endless banks of filing cabinets that lined the walls of the empty union hall—the place that had served as the headquarters of the International Workers’ Guild for the past eighty years. Leaning back in his chair set in a far corner of the cavernous room, he recalled many years ago when this union hall had been filled with working folks—chatting, playing cards, or reading pulps while waiting to hear of a railroad line being built, a factory opening, or some other chance to earn a few greenbacks.

Freddy had manned the desk in the corner for over two decades. The veneer fronting the cabinets was cracked and peeling, and most of the paperwork inside had yellowed and was barely legible, but at this point, hell, it didn’t really matter. There was nothing to be done; he would leave the records behind today, and tomorrow it would be the landlord’s problem. Perhaps there was a college or library somewhere, someplace, that would want the damn things, but he had called a few and simply didn’t have the wherewithal to pursue it any further. He was all burned out. He just hoped that darned ghost wouldn’t show up today of all days.

The sound of the distant door creaking open broke his musings. “Hi Freddy, it’s me,” called out a familiar voice from the other end of the huge room. “And I’ve brought something special.”

Freddy noticed that his friend was cradling a paper grocery bag in his arm, and he grinned, guessing what was inside. Upon reaching the desk, Phil used his free hand to ceremoniously sweep aside two high stacks of papers, sending them cascading to the floor. Then, with a chuckle, Phil gently set his bag down and extracted two squat glass snifters and a bulbous green-hued bottle.

Freddy fixed his eyes on the bottle’s elaborate label and whistled. “Phil! That is one very bourgeoisie drink you have there!”

“Doesn’t matter, not today, Freddy. I’ve been saving this here bottle of fancy French cognac for a very special occasion—guess this fits the bill. It’s over thirty years old. You by yourself today?”

“Yeah, aside from you, it’s a big deal if I get more than one or two guys a month wandering in here. And usually it’s just to ask for some money to tide them over, but the Guild hasn’t had any extra moolah for years. Sometimes one of the old-timers stops by just to chat and ask how things are getting along, but when I tell them flat out the problems we’re having, they never come back. So most times here it’s just me and the ghost.”

Phil produced a formidable Swiss Army knife from his pants pocket, cut the foil from the bottle’s neck, then pried off the cork with the main blade. With an exaggerated flourish of his wrist, he filled each of the snifters about a third full with the rich amber liquid.

Raising a glass, he said, “Here’s to the Guild, the best damn union that ever was!”

“Won’t quarrel with that.” Freddy lifted his glass, clinked it against Phil’s, and downed it in a single shot, relishing the fiery liquid as it coursed down his throat and warmed his gut.

Phil followed suit, smacked his lips, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He frowned and said, “You know, this here really fine stuff really should be sipped and savored, rather than guzzled down, like we just done.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not much on protocol, and I guess neither are you. But let’s try to slow things down a bit on the second round, if you’ll oblige.”

Phil nodded, pouring out two more drinks. He said, “Are you sure you have to do what you’re gonna do? Ain’t no other way?”

“We haven’t got more than a handful of dues-paying members left, hardly any money coming in. Can’t pay the bills, can’t pay the rent, can’t pay the city taxes, can’t pay to keep the lights on, can’t pay any of it. Gotta shut the union down. No choice.”

Phil shook his head sadly. “Sure seems like a shame.” He took a sip from his snifter. “What’s that you said before about a ghost—that was a joke, right? I hope he don’t want any of this cognac.”

Freddy didn’t smile. “A joke? Not exactly.” He paused. “Sometimes, when I’m here alone, I feel like there’s some spirit here with me. For quite a time, while I was struggling for the union to hang on, the spirit seemed kind of comforting and reassuring—like it was trying to give me moral support. A voice would whisper in my ear, telling me to ‘buck up,’ or I’d feel a gentle hand on my shoulder when nobody’s there. But more recently, after I decided to close the hall, it seemed like the spirit had gotten upset, disturbed. Or maybe I’m just going daft.”

Phil shook his head. “Well, you’ve always been a crazy old coot,” he said. “How about another round? Let’s drink a toast to them.” He raised his glass in a sweeping arc toward a row of black-and-white photographs on the wall to his right. He focused on a picture of a grim giant of a man dressed in a black Stetson cowboy hat and an inexpensive, ill-fitting suit. “To Big Jim Keller, our larger-than-life leader, who died holed up in Russia so he wouldn’t be prosecuted in the U.S. for sedition.” They clinked glasses and took another drink. “And to Nelly White, the sweetest Rebel Girl who ever was.” Phil gestured to a photo of a pretty dark-haired young woman with a wistful smile and sad, serious brown eyes. They clinked glasses and drained their drinks. Phil quickly poured refills.

“And especially to him.” Freddy raised his snifter toward a picture of a man who looked much younger and far more innocent than the other personalities on display. Phil looked at Freddy quizzically.

“That’s Joe Farrow,” Freddy continued. “And there’s his ashes, over there in that urn on the far shelf. He was our poet, our troubadour. He was the one who wrote those great songs: ‘The Glorious Union’ and ‘Rebel Girl,’ inspired by Nelly White’s devotion to our cause. And he died so damn young. Cut down in the prime of life by a firing squad for a murder he had nothing to do with, poor bastard. I think it’s Joe’s ghost that’s here with me—like his spirit is right here keeping me company when I’m by myself in this big union hall.”

“To Joe!”

“To Joe!” They clinked their glasses again and downed their drinks.

“I should take that there urn home with me when we shut down today. It wouldn’t do to have that damned landlord throw Joe’s ashes in a dumpster. Remind me when we leave today.”

It was fifty years ago, 1915, in Utah State Prison. Joe Farrow waited in the prison yard, about to be executed for a murder he did not commit. His life had taken a lot of weird twists, and he’d cut a few corners along the way, but he’d never expected it to end up like this. The whole damn mess had started up about a year ago, when he had shown up—at the wrong place and the wrong time—suffering from a bullet wound and seeking treatment from a local doctor. Due to that circumstance, Joe had been legally charged with killing some fellow who’d just been found shot to death in his dry goods store a few miles away. The shopkeeper’s friends said he owned a gun, which couldn’t be found after his death, thus casting a finger of suspicion on any stranger in town showing up with a bullet in him. In point of fact, Joe had been wounded, not by the murder victim, but by a jealous husband. However, that made things kind of awkward because Joe, in his own way, fancied himself a gentleman, and when a gentleman bedded a married woman, the gentleman safeguarded her reputation, no matter what.

Joe told his lawyer, “I don’t need to present no evidence. That government lawyer won’t be able to prove that I murdered some poor guy I never met and had nothing to do with.” But Joe’s faith in the American legal system had been misplaced. He hadn’t fully taken into account that he was an organizer for a left-wing, Communist-sympathizing union, and that meant he was suspect in the eyes of the law and the twelve good, upstanding citizens of Utah who sat on his jury. So here he was, minutes away from being executed by a Utah firing squad for committing a murder he had nothing to do with. An hour ago he’d written his last letter to his boss and friend, Big Jim Keller, president of the Guild. He told Jim that he was okay with dying this way. He would go out of this world shot down by the State, in the style of a True Rebel. He asked Jim to arrange for his cremation and to get his remains out of Utah as soon as possible—because he “didn’t want to be caught dead in Utah.” He wanted his ashes to wind up in an urn in the main Guild union hall in downtown Philadelphia, so he could always look over the union that he loved. Above all, he wanted his death to serve as an inspiration and recruitment tool for the Guild.

Now the time had come. Two burly guards seized his shoulders and pressed him down into the execution chair. They placed leather straps over his arms and legs so that he couldn’t move. A spare, owlish-looking man, who Joe recognized as the prison doctor, approached him and pressed a stethoscope to Joe’s chest. Then he pinned a small red paper heart on Joe’s shirt to show the riflemen where to aim. Some doctor! Just a damn quack helping the government kill people!

“Any last words, Joe?” asked one of the guards.

“I’ll show you all how to die,” Joe said. “I have a clear conscience because I had nothing whatsoever to do with killing that shopkeeper. That jury found me guilty because you folks don’t like union organizers.”

They placed a black cloth over his eyes so he couldn’t see a damn thing. Joe shook his head and managed to dislodge the blindfold a crack, allowing him to see five rifle barrels arranged about twenty-five feet in front of him. But he couldn’t make out the men behind the rifles. That was too bad, because he would have liked to look his own personal execution squad in the eyes. Joe called out blindly to three friends whom he’d invited into the prison to witness his execution: “Goodbye, boys. Don’t mourn for me—organize for the union!” He hadn’t seen his friends and he had no way of knowing whether they were actually nearby, but he sure hoped they were.

Joe heard that weasel of a warden call out in his squeaky voice, “Ready.” There was a pause, then he heard the command: “Aim.”

Joe had had enough. A grin broke out on his face and he shouted, “Fire—go ahead and fire, you bastards!”

And they accommodated him.”

Freddy lifted the cognac bottle to his lips, upending it, and drained the last drops of cognac. Then he braced his hands on the arms of his chair and staggered to his feet. “Time to go, Phil,” he said. “Steady me to the door.”

Phil wasn’t much more sober then Freddy, but he rose and slung his arm around Freddy’s torso. The two comrades, leaning against each other for support, slowly made their way across the hall, leaving the empty green bottle and glasses on the desk.

When they stepped outside, Freddy pulled his key out of his pants, then locked the front door for the last time. “That’s it,” he said, tears in his eyes. “The end of the glorious International Workers’ Guild. We had ourselves a nice long run, but now it’s over.”

Freddy pulled out a stamped envelope addressed to the landlord’s building manager and sealed the key in it. The pair made their way to a corner mailbox, where Freddy dropped the letter off. They walked on together, focusing on maintaining their balance as they negotiated their way through the nighttime streets in the direction of Freddy’s flat.

At one point, Freddy said in a slurring voice, “You know, I can’t get it out of my mind that I forgot something.”

An angry gust of wind lashed through the empty hall of the International Workers’ Guild. A filing cabinet began to rock and shake, then another one, and yet another, until the entire room rang out with the clang of metal smashing against metal. One cabinet tipped over and crashed to the floor, landing hard, spilling its contents of dried, yellowed papers onto the floor. Another cabinet fell sideways, shearing off the adjacent shelf holding Joe Farrow’s urn. The urn struck the floor, cracking open to expose clumps of gray ash inside. More of the cabinets came crashing down, dumping out documents, as the room resounded in an intensifying crescendo of fury and chaos. With a roar of wind, Joe Farrow’s ashes burst into red-hot flames, igniting the loose pile of aged paper beneath them. The wooden floor caught fire, and within minutes the great hall was transformed into a raging inferno. And in the center of it all, a half-century-old spirit, betrayed and abandoned, released a primal, savage scream of rage.

—

Richard L. Rubin has been writing science fiction and fantasy since 2008. Speculative fiction stories written by him appear in Cirsova magazine, Broadswords and Blasters magazine, The Weird and Whatnot magazine, Theme of Absence web-zine, and Eastern Iowa Review. In a previous life he worked as an appellate lawyer, defending several clients facing the death penalty in California. Richard is an Associate Member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife, Susanne. Richard’s website is at: richardlrubin.com.