by Joshua Brown
BURDEN OF AN ANCIENT OATH
New York Murder Mysteries
(Book 1)
By
Joshua Brown
Copyright © 2020 by Joshua Brown.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
More Books by the Author
About the Author
Chapter 1
Jack
She entered my office in a whirlwind. Her eyes shone a bright green beneath the pale light of the room. Red strands of a colorful dress hung beneath the muddy brown coat wrapped around her shoulders. She walked with pomp and circumstance, like some royal princess late for an extravagant ball. Her long, brown locks were tightened on her head in a messy bun.
She was scared. I could tell just by looking at her. The way she held her bag in one hand and crumpled papers in the other. Her upturned nose and rosy cheeks accompanying a furrowed brow.
She caught my eye from across the room through a crack in my office door.
“Is this the Mercer Detective Agency?” her delicate voice asked anyone that would listen.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lauren Becket replied, getting up from her chair. She turned to me through the glass pane, the blinds half-drawn, then wiped a few misplaced strands of hair out of her face, attention back on the woman. “How can I be of assistance?”
Lauren had a keen sense for people, the same way I did. She’d see the nerves, the jitters, and would tend to the woman as if top priority. And on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, with no case taking up the Mercer Detective Agency’s time, this woman was the top priority.
“I hate to be a bother, but I’ve heard excellent things about Mr. Mercer,” she replied. I could hear her muffled words through the ajar door. “I believe I’ve found myself in a bit of trouble, but I don’t really understand how. I was wondering if Mr. Mercer would be willing to hear me out?”
“I think he’d much prefer you to call him Jack,” Lauren said. I knew the smile that accompanied her words, especially with potential clients. That charming, beaming grin, so warm and inviting—no one could resist. “But if you’ll give me a moment, I’ll see if Jack’s got the time to speak with you.”
I rose from my desk, walking to the door.
“I’ll take it from here, Lauren,” I said before she made it inside.
Lauren pushed the door open, pointing the way with both hands for the woman to enter. She did, giving a half curtsey to Lauren as she passed. I closed my door, drawing the blinds shut to provide the woman with peace of mind. Even though Lauren would listen in through the intercom, a potential client always needed to feel safe.
She took a seat without me offering one, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes scanned my office, most notably the pictures I had scattered around on the desk or on shelves. She didn’t speak, waiting for me to return to my seat.
“If you don’t mind?” I pulled a small, metal recorder from my pocket, clicking it on and setting it down on the desk.
“Not in the slightest,” she replied, rifling through her handbag. “And I hope you don’t mind?”
The woman drew a box of thin cigarettes. Having no doubt seen the ashtray with six half-smoked cigarettes on my desk, she might have seen it as an invite.
“Of course not,” I said, leaning back. Accompanying the recorder, I drew a notebook from inside the desk with a ballpoint pen.
My reliance on notes and thoughts on a case came in many forms. More often than not, the recorder was enough. Still, from time to time, handwritten documentation was the only way to go. Having multiple mediums to go through gave my mind enough stimulation to get the job done.
She lit her cigarette, offering me one. I declined the thin stick, grabbing my own box of Lucky Strikes and putting one in my mouth. She leaned over the desk, lighting it.
“What is it that brings you here, Miss…” I invited her to give me her name.
She declined, handing me sheets of paper that grew crumpled in her hands. “These letters.”
I scanned them for a name. Marilyn Crossley.
“And what about them do you find so suspicious, Miss Crossley?”
“That’s the thing, Mr. Mercer, I don’t rightly know…”
“Please, call me Jack. But do go on,” I scribbled her strange response down on my yellow paper.
“You see, I recently moved into my home with my husband and children. There’s nothing special about it, nor do I find it to be situated in a place where any strange events should occur, and yet, they have.”
“Strange events?”
My initial thoughts led me to think supernatural, not that I believed in any of the hocus pocus. Far too many people still believed in ghouls and goblins, so I wouldn’t put it past her to do the same.
The more she spoke, the more I felt intrigued to listen. There was something strange about her. The way she held herself, the lack of nerves regardless of whatever she was here for. Being in New York City, it was easy enough to think this was a strange encounter with the daughter of some rich tycoon who managed to get involved in some shady business.
Raised prim and proper, showing no emotion, and tucking whatever fears she held deep inside.
“I use it in the loosest sense, of course. I’m not much one to believe in witchcraft or spooks. But I can see that’s what you’re thinking, right?” she asked, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“You’re not wrong,” I said.
“Reality is often stranger than fiction,” she said. “That’s what they say, right? I think I’ve found myself in the prime example of it.”
“Right. Go on?”
She shook her head. “I believe it’s best for you to read the letters to get an understanding of what I mean. Saying it out loud will sound almost silly without context.”
I did as she instructed.
Every letter was handwritten in astonishing calligraphy—not just simple cursive, with every stroke ending in a flourish. The writing’s beauty didn’t carry over in the words’ contents, nor did it match the poor spelling.
She sat in silence while I read, only a faint whistle from her breathing and puffing on the thin cigarette, letting me know she was still around.
The handwritten letters gave very little in the way of help and understanding. They spoke of a different time, centuries before when the land was overrun by ghastly creatures and demonic entities. In the same line, it would cut to the modern-day and how vile the world had become.
Where
the penmanship was stylistic and splendid, the literacy was lacking tremendously. The writer continued in rambles and rants about old gods, Cthulu, Odin, Ra, and more, and how eternal fire would soon consume this world.
All of which somehow led back to Marilyn Crossley.
Apart from sparse details of her involvement, with more accusatory claims and bold expressions about her existence, there was little in the way of how she’d bring the end times.
“Looks like you’ve found yourself a secret admirer,” I leaned back in my chair. Her patience was remarkable, forcing the nib of her cigarette down in the ashtray.
“Indeed.”
“This isn’t anything new, Miss Crossley. Perhaps it’s just some kids having fun, trying to scare the new residents. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone’s sent threatening letters out in New York with nothing coming of it but movie deals and press releases,” I tried stilling her fears.
“Yes, The Watcher, correct? That was my first thought too. A little bit of ribbing because we were new in town. I also considered that maybe these letters weren’t for me, that they were intended for the previous owners—who left in a hurry, I might add. But you see, Mr. Mercer… Jack, I don’t believe that’s the case. I have more,” she stuck her hand into her purse, pulling out a stack of ten more letters and setting them down on the table. “The letters you read are the most out-there of the lot—the most recent, too. You see, they started off far more straightforward. Almost jovial in nature with a cheery tone. Nothing involving long-dead religions and lost gods, and far less blasphemy and cursing.”
She paused for a moment, lighting another cigarette.
I spent some time inspecting her hands. The light yellow shade that splotched on her index and middle finger led me to believe this chainsmoking was a new venture—no doubt from the nerves that came with the letters.
“But all of that changed one day,” smoke escaped her mouth with every word. “The jovial nature turned to this sullen, grim heresy. He spoke of cats and dogs and vile things that my children would want to do with them. My husband, God bless his soul, has rarely been home lately with work. He barely listens to my pleas of anguish, brushing these letters off as if they’re nothing. That’s why I don’t think them just schoolyard pranks, Jack.”
“Do you have any idea what this person could want with you or your family? The house, maybe? Trying to scare you out of it?” I asked, eyeing the box of Lucky Strikes on my desk. I’d have another myself if I wasn’t trying to quit.
“Maybe? The house was on sale for a damn good price when we took it. That’s why I thought these letters might have been addressed to the previous owners who had the common sense to run away before any of the threats got serious.”
“And you’ve spoken to them? The previous owners that is.”
“I have,” she sighed. “They left because the husband found work out of town. They don’t care much about the money. They wanted to get rid of the land without a hassle rather than deal with banks and real estate agencies.”
“And this only started when you moved into your new house then?”
“Yes, that’s why I thought it might have been related to the previous owners.”
An obvious question with an obvious answer, but there was no smugness in her response. She didn’t try and belittle or berate me for my foolish inquisition. A simple test of a person’s character, and thus far, she proved to be stronger than most.
“Do you have any idea what the end goal to all of this might be?” I shuffled with the box of Lucky Strikes.
“No, but I can’t imagine it being anything pleasant. You’ve seen the worst of them. You can almost picture the blood-curdling screams from the madman who penned these letters.”
“Blood-curdling? More like a toddler throwing his toys out of the crib, I’d say. Whoever’s doing this can’t be sound of mind, and they obviously think your family is essential for something. I guess I’m going to have to be the man who figures out what.”
“So, you’ll take my case?” she asked, near jumping out of her seat. The first signs of emotion she showed since entering the office.
“Yes, I’ll take your case. Whoever’s harassing you and your family will be brought to justice, miss Crossley, of that I can assure you.”
We got up, and I led her through the door. Saying our goodbyes, she departed my office.
“What do you think about this one?” I asked, turning to Lauren.
Flicking the intercom system to my office off, she leaned back in her chair. Her lime green dress stretched around the bosom and contorted down, reaching her hips. She looked as stumped as I felt, crossing her arms.
“I… I don’t know,” Lauren replied.
“At least I’m not alone then,” I scoffed, making my way back to my office, collecting the envelopes and letters. It was going to be another long night delving deep into the startings of a case.
“Feel free to head home if you want. I won’t be in much longer,” I called through the door.
Lauren stuck her head through. “You sure? I don’t mind sticking around if you need someone to bounce ideas off.”
“Nah, I’m gonna look at it in the comfort of my chair next to the fire tonight. Just let Aaron know we’ve got business to take care of in the morning. He might come in handy with those computer skills of his.”
“Got it, boss,” Lauren said.
She left 20 minutes later, and I was soon to follow.
Chapter 2
Jack
Spending a painful night alone with the stack of letters, a pack of Lucky Strikes, and half a bottle of whiskey, I started my investigation into the case. As Marylin said, the earliest of the letters were almost pleasant to read. The calligraphy and style were natural, almost like a love letter with sing-song timing and rhythm.
The letters spoke of better times, not all that long ago, when the word was at peace. But even these pleasantries carried a dark undertone. When reading between the lines, it was easy to see that the world was a better place without Marylin Crossley in it. Perhaps the subtle nuances escaped Marylin. Maybe she wasn’t looking for them, but the sinister nature left a bleak outlook for her future.
Beyond the gibberish and rambling that sprouted throughout the letters, I found a few lines that caught my attention and kept me hooked:
On Parris, the mutt ate the cake, and the wicked sang their knowing song. With soot and piss, we’ll find your wrong.
Another read:
Prick, prick, pricking, tick, tick, ticking, your blood will flow. Filling valleys, and rivers, and oceans—sink or swim, let’s begin.
Out of 13 letters, these seemingly obscure messages felt more out of place than the rest. Why? I had no idea. Somewhere in the back of my mind, something clicked. A strange sensation of knowing, but it was lost in a sea of thoughts.
As I often did with strange notes and letters of this kind, I tried deciphering any code. Reading the first letter of both the right and left, trying to see if a message ran along the spine. I tried piecing together hidden messages in strange places, the first word of every page or paragraph. But there was no logical reasoning to how these letters were written. They were long slews of nonsensical babbling from start to finish, growing ever-more delirious with each new page.
There were only words, lines, and sentences, with some making more sense than others. Somehow, all of them eluding to Marilyn Crossley and her oncoming death. The thought that this might be a madman trying to warn her of some ill-timed fate seemed plausible. The preachings of a lost prophet trying to protect rather than harm.
But even that fell short with direct threats of murder and mutilation. Marilyn’s children had similar mentions. They were the spawn of the wicked and would someday, too, find their untimely fates at the hands of whoever sent these letters out. But never once did Marilyn’s husband come up in any of the documents—not even in fleeting.
Whoever was after her had no interest in anyone but her and those who came from he
r. Was that a clue? Or was this just some sick bastard looking to scare a poor mother?
After reading them one last time, polishing off a quarter of the whiskey and another two smokes, I decided to head to bed. In the morning, I’d be able to approach the case with fresh eyes. Lauren and Aaron could help too.
~
“Morning, boss,” Aaron said the second I stepped into the office. It was a little after 6 AM. I thought I’d get in early, before my team, and organize my thoughts. Seeing him there was a reminder of his loyalty to his position as my second detective.
“Aaron, you didn’t have to come in so early,” I replied, looking around the office. On his desk, Chinese takeout boxes stood, half-eaten with chopsticks sticking out the top.
“Come in? I never left,” Aaron chuckled. “Lauren sent me a message saying everyone was headed home, so I thought I’d come and make use of the computers and see what I could get on this case.”
“I already thought you were home,” I replied, removing my coat and hat, flinging it over the rack beside the door.
“Had a personal errand to attend. Everyone was gone when I got back,” Aaron ran a hand through his slick, black hair. “But let’s talk about the case.”
“You found something?”
“No,” Aaron shook his head. “But that’s the interesting thing, right? You’d think that a name like Marylin Crossley, so bold and out there, would turn something up. But it didn’t.”
“What do you mean?” I gestured for Aaron to follow, walking through the empty space to my office. Pushing open the door, drawing open the blinds, Aaron found a seat opposite me at the desk.
“I tried tracing the name back as far as I could. I found a birth certificate for a Marylin Crossley, here in New York, dated around the time the victim might have been born. But that’s about all I could find. There’s no record of a Marylin Crossley living in New York, and anyone who shares the name is so far from the city, too old, or long dead.”
