Let's Scrooge

by R. L. Caulder

  The shadowed forms of couches and an entertainment center fill the family room, with a door at the opposite end that leads into a hall. I cock my head to the side, listening for any sign of the boogeyman, or for the screams of the humans who live here.

  But everything remains silent.

  As Flint steps in behind us and softly closes the door, I turn to him. “Do you feel anything?”

  His eyes unfocus, a distant look on his face, before he shakes his head and touches the front of his shirt, where a small clay jar hangs from the strap of leather around his neck. “Should I send Thomas to scout ahead?”

  Thomas is one of the spirits bound to Flint. He lives in the bottle with his sister, existing in limbo except when Flint lets them out to play. They’re the last of the coven that raised Flint, the only thing that remains of the family he loved before he joined up with Marc and me. The spirits come in handy as invisible scouts or when we need to animate a dead body, but boogeymen can see spirits and harm them.

  I shake my head. “No reason to risk it until we know more.”

  Relief sweeps over Flint’s face before he unclips the safety latch on his holster and withdraws his revolver. “Down the spooky hallway then?”

  I nod in agreement. “No way around it.”

  I go first, with Flint behind me and Marc bringing up the rear. It’s a formation we’ve built over years of working together, putting our most vulnerable member in the middle.

  The shadowed hallway leads into a great room, with a kitchen on the left and a sitting room on the right. A dining table in the center provides the illusion of separation.

  Blue and red lights fill the room with vibrant strobes through a large bay window that overlooks the front yard. From where we stand, I clearly make out the police cars parked in front of the house, the officers conferring together. Past the marked cars, I spy Detective Sharpe’s dark sedan parked across the street, though I can’t see the man himself.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” I murmur as the clump of officers split apart, and one lucky uniform strides up the front walk.

  “I hate open concept houses,” Flint mutters as he peers over my shoulder.

  “We’ll have to use the dining table for cover.” I crouch, tuck my batons close to my sides, and wait for the brief gap in light before scuttling quickly across the open space to the dining table.

  Flint follows just as the pound of a fist sounds against the front door, followed by a loud, “Police! Open up!”

  As fast as possible, we make our way to the staircase on the other side of the room. Thankfully, the open concept doesn’t extend to the railing, and a half-wall hides us from view as we creep up the first flight of stairs.

  At the switchback, I straighten and drop my weapons back to my sides to take the second flight of stairs at a more comfortable stride.

  The smell of blood pricks my nose the higher we climb, and my stomach tightens. We’re too late to save this family. We were probably too late before Sharpe even got the call to check it out.

  Why didn’t the girl just go to the police? Why summon a demon to seek her revenge?

  As I step onto the second floor, dark splotches stand out against the light carpet, and streaks of red smear the walls. They lead right off the staircase, to the end of the short hall where a bedroom door stands open.

  I carefully place my feet to avoid the blood puddles as I walk toward the bedroom to peer inside just long enough to register the torn apart bodies within. My mind registers an arm and part of a torso, cataloging how many pieces are needed to make a whole. Two people, and from the wedding ring on one feminine hand, and the gray hair on a man’s head, I’m guessing it’s the parents.

  Turning back to the guys, I motion toward the left side of the hall, where two other bedrooms wait at the end.

  There’s no blood on this side of the upstairs, and the bathroom and bedroom, while tossed, lay empty of bodies.

  “There were only the parents in the master bedroom,” I whisper. “Where are the kids?”

  As if in answer, something slithers across the ceiling, and Flint swears. “Not a fucking attic.”

  “Better than a basement,” Marc whispers.

  “Where’s the access point?” I run my gaze over the unmarked ceiling, searching for a way up.

  “My guess is somewhere in there.” Flint twists to stare back at the master bedroom

  The slither comes again, followed by the thump of footsteps. “Someone’s still alive up there.”

  “They won’t be for long.” Stride fast but careful, I hurry back to the master bedroom and through the door.

  Here, the blood is harder to avoid, as are the body parts. I scan the ceiling while Marc checks behind the door.

  “In here,” Flint calls from within the ensuite bathroom. “There’s a closet.”

  As we move toward the bathroom, I register the broken lock on the door and the claw marks on the exterior, the signs of a monster forcing its way inside.

  From downstairs comes the sound of another door being forced open with the splinter of wood.

  “Fuck, we’re totally going to jail tonight,” Flint groans from inside an open doorway in the bathroom.

  Marc and I join him to find a large, walk-in closet stuffed to the brim with clothes. In the center, an old, wooden ladder leads up to a wide rectangle of darkness in the ceiling.

  I stare up at it and swear, “Shit.”

  It opens into the center of the attic. Whoever goes up first will be completely exposed. I strain my ears, listening for the sound of more slithering, but with the commotion downstairs, it’s impossible to pinpoint what’s happening above us.

  I look at Marc. “Toss me up.”

  Expression grim, he glances from me to the hole in the ceiling. “I can go.”

  I thump him against the chest. “You’re mortal, or did you forget that? You know where to find me if something goes wrong.”

  “Stop wasting time.” Flint casts a nervous glance into the bedroom, where the distinctive sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs drifts in. “Boss lady said toss her, you toss her.”

  A gleam of fire enters Marc’s eyes before he blinks it away and kneels. Like before, I put my foot in the cup of his hands, my knee bent slightly. As he surges up, I straighten, flinging myself through the open hatch. Weapons tucked tight to my body, I land in a roll, the shadows of a neatly organized attic spinning past me.

  I come to my feet, batons out, and turn in a slow circle. “Kids?”

  A quiet whimper comes from the left before it quickly cuts off.

  “Just stay where you are,” I call softly as I scan the shadows. “We’re here to help.”

  A slither of scales on wood comes from my right, and I turn to keep the boogeyman in front of me.

  Creaking comes from the ladder as Marc and Flint climb up, then the hatch closes, and a lock snicks into place. It will only slow the police for so long, though. We need to wrap this up fast.

  The slither comes again, higher up this time, and I lift my eyes to the rafters, where black, shining eyes stare down at me.

  I point my baton up at it. “Get down from there, right now.”

  A tongue flicks out, narrowly missing my face, as its enormous body coils around the roof of the house.

  “Thank fuck it’s only a snake,” Flint whispers as he creeps past me. “If it were rats, I’d be out of here.”

  “Stop giving it ideas,” Marc snaps as he steps up beside me and pulls the shotgun from its holster on his back. “It killed humans. We can’t let this one off the hook.”

  Excitement zings through me as I nod in agreement. It won’t make Nickodemus happy to hear we killed one of his demons, but there are rules we all abide by. It doesn’t matter that this boogeyman was summoned across the veil by an incompetent wannabee witch set on seeking out an act of valid revenge that ended up costing her the lives of her parents. We play the hands we’re dealt, and this demon knew that when it slaughtered the elderly couple be
low.

  It hisses, its head swiveling to track Flint’s progress as he heads for the kids. It’s locked in this house until it kills its summoner or completes its mission of revenge. But the asshole from earlier is locked up at the police station, and the young witch already proved she was no match to be its master. Killing the summoner is the easier and more logical choice to gain its freedom.

  And all it has to do is go through us.

  As it lunges down from the ceiling, jaws spread wide to display long, poison drenched fangs, my heart leaps with excitement.

  As if choreographed, Marc ducks left as I duck right and bring my batons around to slam down on top of its head. Its scales sizzle, and it lets out a shriek of pain. The magic crafted into the long rods of metal I wield releases with a flash of bright light and an explosion of flesh and bone. Gore splatters us as the snake’s head pops like a meat-filled balloon.

  Its enormous body thrashes, the boogeyman far from dead, and one scale-covered side rakes against me. It feels like a cheese grater as it snags my Santa duck pajama top and rips through it. I tumble out of the way before it can take skin, too, and Marc shoves his shotgun against the beast’s side, pulling the trigger. The monster’s mass muffles the blast, and more gore sprays across the attic space.

  The thing about demons is that you have to destroy the energy core, and with shapeshifters like the boogeyman, they can hide the core anywhere, which can mean a lot of digging.

  The snake’s mass continues to plow toward Flint as I roll back toward it and slam my batons down again. Another pop and more gore.

  Marc unloads a second round into his side, but the thing just keeps coming. How much body can it possibly have? It takes energy to create mass, and energy to stay on the human plane. Most boogeymen will pull back on size to save power. So, we’re either dealing with an older boogeyman who’s had time to amass a lot of energy, or we’re dealing with another fledgling who doesn’t understand conservation.

  I hammer away on my side as Marc reloads. It’s like a packing line at a slaughterhouse, with a funnel of meat between us. The smell of blood fills the air and chokes me with the taste of pennies, but I don’t stop, because if I do, it will reform a head and eat Flint, who holds a weak line of barrier in front of a stack of boxes where the kids hide.

  Over the noise we’re making comes thumps from the trap door as the police try to force their way in. I cross my fingers that the lock holds long enough for us to finish the job, because there’s no way to explain a snake of this size to humans.

  At last, I see the tail, and none too soon as the explosions from my batons sputter and give out. I drop them and yank the flare guns from the holsters at my shoulders. They’re not as effective as the batons or Marc’s shotgun, but they’ll work in a pinch.

  Pointing at the tail, I pull the triggers, and crackling balls of magic streak through the air to splash against the demon’s side. The crackles spread outward and burrow between the black scales.

  The tail thrashes and rolls, narrowly missing Marc as he skips out of the way and fires a final blast into the beast. The flesh separates, and a ball of energy streaks out of it.

  Victory rushes through me with a thrilling rush of endorphins that leave me buzzing. Over the corpse, Marc and I share bloody grins.

  “Got you!” Flint yells, his hands stretched toward us and clenched tight.

  The ball of light halts in mid-air, spinning desperately, but Flint holds it captive as he steps forward. He forces the ball back into the mess of the body. The pieces suck together as Flint enforces his will on what’s left of the boogeyman, and the mangled remains of a large bear forms.

  It’s not the most believable creature for this area, and of course, there will be questions of how it got into the attic, but it’s enough to explain the massacre downstairs and give the young witch a scapegoat. Because humans always need a scapegoat. If we left nothing behind, they would pin the blame on the kids, and while technically true, enough harm has been done tonight.

  The demon’s core won’t be freed from the spell until the human authorities destroy the body. Until then, it will continue to suck up the demon’s energy, which means it will be a long time before this particular boogeyman gains enough power to answer a call for revenge.

  As silence fills the attic, the sound of a saw whirs to life. The lock on the trap door won’t hold against that, which just adds urgency for us to get the hell out of here. But I have one more thing to deal with first.

  I holster the flare guns, then pick up my batons, collapse them, and shove them back into their sheaths. While Flint does his thing, I walk over to the stack of boxes and peer behind them.

  A teenage girl holds a younger girl in her arms, and both stare up at me in horror and fear. I imagine I’m quite the sight, covered in blood. Usually, destroying demons takes the mess with them as their corporeal forms disintegrate. But Flint needs the demon’s core to power the illusion of his bear, which means the mess stays.

  Focusing on the older girl, I ask, “Are you Amber?”

  She gives a frightened nod.

  “Good.” I extend a hand, and Marc slaps his shotgun into it. I hold the butt-stock out to her. “Take this. When the police come up here, you will tell them you shot the bear that murdered your parents.”

  Her younger sister whimpers as Amber reaches out to take the shotgun.

  I hold Amber’s gaze steady, infusing my words with authority. “They will take you to the station for questioning. You will tell them nothing about what happened tonight except that a bear broke into the house and you defended yourself. Do you understand?”

  She nods jerkily and grips the shotgun tighter.

  “A woman will meet you there. Her name is Gwyneth Laveau. She is from the Teatree Conservatory. You will follow her every word, and she will show you a safer way to seek revenge. Do you understand?” I demand, and she nods more fervently. As I lean closer, drops of gore drip from my chin. “Today, you became inhuman. You have been acknowledged and are now bound by our laws. If you ever summon another boogeyman again, there is no power on earth that will stop me from putting you down. Do. You. Understand?”

  Eyes wide with fear, she nods again.

  Satisfied, I straighten. Hopefully, it deters her from trying to summon any more demons before Gwyneth, leader of one of the local covens, takes her in hand and teaches her some proper curses that will shrivel that asshole’s dick into a raisin.

  “We gotta go.” Marc grabs my arm and hurries me over to where Flint waits with our last portal gun already out and pointed at the wall in front of him.

  Beneath the bear’s heavy body, the metallic grind of the saw against metal gives way to wood as the police finish cutting through the lock on the door. Shouts rise from the bedroom below, and the bear’s body sinks in the middle as the door under it is ripped away. More shouts rise, these ones startled, before the body heaves and dips in their effort to move it.

  “We’re turning the phones off when we get home,” Flint grumps as he pulls the trigger, and the portal opens in front of us. “And then, it’s cheesy Christmas movies for the rest of the day.”

  “Yes, Flint,” Marc and I sing-song together, and we step through the portal just as the police finally break through.

  Cold night air rushes over us, sweeping away the heavy scent of blood, as our feet land on the path that leads back to our cabin.

  Chapter 6

  SCRUB-A-DUB DUB

  On the long walk back to the cabin, the gunk covering Marc and me freezes into a nasty plaster against our bodies, and I hug my arms close to my body as the chill creeps into my bones. I don’t do well in the cold, while Marc strides forward, completely unaffected, the monster.

  Flint starts out grumbling but falls silent before we reach the gate, where he bounces on his toes for warmth while Marc punches in the code to let us pass.

  Usually, I appreciate our little slice of seclusion on the outskirts of town, but today, I just want to be inside where we
have heat and a hot shower.

  When we finally step inside the house, the warm smell of lingering coffee makes me drool, and I stumble to the kitchen only to find an empty carafe waiting.

  Well, crap.

  “You need to call Gwyneth,” Marc reminds me as he marches past. “Make a new pot while you bring her up to speed.”

  I shiver as I put the empty coffee pot under the faucet to fill it up. “Can’t you do that? I’m cold.”

  “We’re all cold,” he lies, because he’s not freaking cold at all. “And Gwyneth hates me.”

  Flint chafes his arms as he joins me in the kitchen. “Because you blew up her altar.”

  “It was haunted.” Unrepentant for the damage he caused to our relationship with one of the few witches we can call on, Marc stomps toward the back hall.

  Another shiver runs through me, and the coffee pot shakes in my hand, splashing water as I try to fill the water reservoir.

  “Here, I’ll do that.” Flint blows on his fingers before he takes the pot and hip-bumps me toward the phone. “Go make your call.”

  “Okay.” I shuffle over to the landline and dial the number for Teatree Conservatory.

  Even at just past six in the morning on Christmas, I know Gwyneth will be there. Because she’s one of those evil morning people.

  A chipper voice answers the phone on the first ring. “Merripen, I was expecting you.”

  “Stop being a creepy clairvoyant,” I grumble.

  “I’m not clairvoyant,” she chastises, not for the first time. “I have premonitions. And I woke up this morning knowing you would have need of me. What can I do for my favorite grumpy puss?”

  I ignore that, because I am grumpy most of the time we talk. It’s just the nature of our interactions, that I only call her when bad shit happens. “I need you to head down to the police station. They’re going to be bringing in a young witch and her sister. No idea about the youngest one. She’s your problem, now.”

  The good cheer falls from her voice. “How bad are we talking? Will she require binding?”