The model ghost whirled toward me, rage boiling behind those unfathomable eyes.
"No one likes a fat model!"
The ghost hunters gawked at me as if I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had. After all, I was baiting a homicidal apparition—not the smartest move in the monster-hunting playbook. I felt guilty about stooping so low as to resort to body-shaming, but I didn’t see another way. I hoped my taunts would make the dead girl’s spirit lose control, which might give me an opening.
The first part of my plan appeared to be working.
Objects inside the club began to shake. The row of spotlights running along the ceiling vibrated and the bar's mirrored wall cracked. The specter's keening moan turned into a primal, shrill scream of unbridled rage.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
As the ghost advanced with quick strides, I brought up my hands in a defensive stance. Once the ghost was upon me, my fist snapped out in a punch. Under normal circumstances, my hand would merely have passed through the ghost, but I was wearing the Seal of Solomon. The magical ring allowed my fist to connect with the ghost's chin as if she were solid. I hate hitting a lady, but I make an exception when she’s dead and trying to kill me.
There was a sizzle of spectral energy as the punch landed. The model's head whipped back. I followed up the first punch with a renewed burst of bullets from Hellseeker. The projectiles stitched her chest and the ghost shuddered, losing shape and form, skeletal figure growing blurry. The model attempted to launch a final, desperate attack, but it was too late. She emitted a pitiful howl and dispersed into thin air.
It was over. For good this time.
I eyed the spot where the doomed model had vanished. The younger me would have told her to rest in peace, but that wide-eyed kid was a distant memory. Instead, two other words came to mind: Good riddance.
3
I freed Dr. Gould from the heavy curtain and helped her get back to her wobbly feet. If I was hoping to receive some gratitude for my efforts, I was in for a rude awakening. Gould's withering expression didn't feel like a prelude to a warm thank-you hug.
"You cold-blooded bastard. You destroyed that poor lost soul, monster hunter, ruining any chance that she might find peace in the afterlife."
Was this woman for real? Anger rose in me, but I did my best to keep it out of my voice. “That precious lost soul was trying to kill both you and your team.”
"Selina Hill was acting out," she said with firebrand conviction. "With a little patience, I believe we could've reached her and made her understand that we were here to help."
"Tell that to the poor couple she murdered, and your assistant whose arm she snapped," I said coolly. "If I hadn't showed up, you’d probably all be dead now."
Dr. Gould stayed mum. I doubted that my words resonated with her, but at least she was letting me talk. "There are souls who need our help so they can embark on that final journey,” I explained. “But some are too far gone for words. And that's where I come in." I took a deep breath and felt the psychic's eyes boring into me. He was following our exchange with grave interest.
"You okay?" I asked the man.
"Let's just say seeing dead people doesn't agree with me," he said.
"Good news is you'll never get used to it." I walked over to help him up and asked, “What's your name?"
"Joe Cormac." He shook my hand with a surprisingly firm grip.
I'd met my fair share of natural-born mediums over the last few years, and they all shared an ethereal, otherworldly quality, like they already had one foot in the next world. This guy was different. There was a flicker of fear in this fellow's eyes, which suggested that all this craziness was new to him.
"Use your sixth sense, but be smart about it," I advised him. "This isn't a reality TV show and you’re not up against Casper, the friendly ghost. These entities are disturbed individuals with incredible powers, driven by unchecked emotions.”
"So I noticed," Cormac said in a sober voice. The psychic had a good head on his shoulders, giving me hope that my words weren't falling on deaf ears. For once. I wish the same could be said for Dr. Gould.
I holstered Hellseeker, all too aware of the envious glances I received from some of the ghost hunters. Gould might be a ghost-hugging hippie, but the young men on her team looked like they wouldn’t mind some blessed weaponry to go with their scientific gadgets.
"Alright, ladies and gents, as much fun as this ghost hunting business can be, I need to catch up on my beauty sleep,” I said. “Just try to stay out of trouble and avoid any psychotic dead people."
With these words, I turned away from Gould's team, my trench coat billowing out dramatically. I like to think I know how to make an entrance and exit. It's the time in between that can be more challenging.
I marched out of the club and found a couple of punks circling my spruced-up, jet-black muscle car. I opened my coat, making sure they noticed the green, glowing pistol holstered to my side. A beat passed and they wisely retreated into a nearby alley, having determined that a joyride in my Equus Bass was not worth the price of admission.
I got into the car and seconds later I was blasting down the street, fighting back a wave of tiredness. I was spent, having pushed my mind and body to the limit over the last few days.
Yawning incessantly, I somehow made my way back to our loft warehouse, located on the industrial outskirts of the cursed city. I barely remembered getting in the elevator and stumbling into the loft. I shouldn't have been surprised to find my wheelchair-bound partner, Skulick, still awake and hunched over his flickering bank of terminals. Slashing streams of data bathed his scarred face a spectral green. His watchful eyes, which rarely missed anything, alighted on me.
"Damn, Raven. Did the ghost give you a hickey?"
I touched the burn marks on my neck where the model's electrical field had reacted with my organic tissue. It would heal up in a few days, but until then made for an unsightly blemish. "Do I detect a note of jealousy in your voice?"
Skulick broke into a grin. "I dated my last ghost a decade ago. Nowadays I like my women to have a heartbeat."
Was Skulick joking or offering up another highlight from his monster-hunting past? Better to not even go there. I decide to take it as a joke and said, "Haha, very funny. I'm way too tired for this conversation. Why don't you go back to chatting up some retiree who believes Bigfoot lives in her basement and let me get some much-needed sleep."
With those words, I lurched past my partner and staggered down the length of our loft until I reached the door leading into my bedroom. The modest room had no windows and felt a bit like a prison cell, but I knew no supernatural creature would ever catch me off guard in there. If any beast should find a way to bypass our defenses, they'd still have to come through the front door if they wanted a crack at me.
Well, unless they were a ghost and could walk through walls.
I crumpled on my unmade bed, still fully dressed. Despite my weariness, sleep didn't overtake me immediately. My thoughts kept wandering back to the events of the last few days. Talk about having your world rattled! I faced the demon who murdered my parents twenty-one years ago, and the man responsible for unleashing it. Horne was gone, but Morgal still ruled the pits of Hell. There was no doubt in my mind that I’d go after the beast again, but dispatching higher-level demons isn't a task undertaken lightly. No matter how formidable Hellseeker was against the lower minions of Hell, its bullets had failed to make a serious dent against Morgal.
My mind turned toward Jane Archer, the cop who helped me escape the fallout of the Horne murders. She had left at least nine messages in the last 24 hours. Jane, smart cookie that she was, knew I’d been in the thick of things back at the Horne estate, but she’d let me go, anyway. Part of me desperately wanted to dial her digits—not to confess, but just to hear her voice. If I let myself have feelings for a woman—especially a brave and independent one like Archer—she’d become an easy target for my paranormal enemies. Casual hookups were o
kay, but a real relationship was out of the question.
I kept telling myself that even as I reached for the phone.
Man, this was going to be a continuing internal struggle. I closed my eyes and instead grabbed the half-empty bottle of Maker's Mark waiting for me on my nightstand. Booze will put even the most tormented soul to sleep. A few swigs later, the liquor filling my chest with a pleasant warmth, I began to drift off into a dreamless slumber. Sometimes the only sane option was to wash away one's problems with a stiff drink or two.
Encroaching darkness swept images of the lovely detective aside. The less I thought about Archer, the better.
Little did I know that I was about to be drawn into a life-and-death battle for Detective Jane Archer's soul.
4
JOE CORMAC MADE his way through the city, his eyes unfocused as he navigated the swirl of humanity. A torrent of faces, the streets exploding with life and energy, both natural and unnatural. As he brushed past a store window, albino-white features pressed against the glass, bloodshot eyes following him. He blocked out the apparition as best as he could.
This is a city filled with ghosts, he thought for the thousandth time since returning from Iraq. Things had been bad in Baghdad, but this was somehow worse. Were other urban centers afflicted by the same problem? Or was there something about his hometown that made it difficult for troubled souls to cross over into the next world? Joe had asked himself the question many times, and he wasn't even close to coming up with an answer.
Two weeks had passed since the incident at the night club. His mind kept cycling back to the mysterious stranger and the glowing weapon that could banish spirits from this plane of existence once and for all. Even though Dr. Gould had tried to assure him he wasn't crazy, words were a poor substitute for direct experience. Or being able to share those experiences with someone who could relate in a deeper way. The hunter had shown him that there were others out there who could see the dead the same way he did. But more importantly, there was at least one person who fought back against the shadows.
Ever since that fateful night, he'd been ignoring Gould’s calls, unwilling to risk his life again on some fool's errand. The monster hunter had been right—Dr. Gould didn’t understand what she was dealing with here. Perhaps the man could teach him, show him a way to use his abilities for good without getting himself killed in the process.
Joe wanted in. Whatever the monster hunter was doing, he wanted to be part of it. But despite his many requests, Dr. Gould refused to offer up the man's contact information. She didn't even give him a name. Nevertheless, he'd managed to dig up some info on the monster hunter. Mostly urban legend stuff from fringe websites. Various rumors suggested that he worked with a partner in a secret base on the outskirts of the city. Maybe that's why on this day Joe had decided to take a long walk through the rougher neighborhoods encircling the shiny metropolis. He didn't have an address but refused to let that little detail stop him. Even if he didn’t find the man he was looking for, Joe figured that stretching his legs would be more constructive than staring at the four walls of his tiny studio apartment while obsessing about the lost souls lining up outside his home.
As he proceeded on his long walk, the neighborhood grew steadily worse. Seedy, condemned buildings and the rusted shells of abandoned cars became more common. At the same time, the incessant wails of the dead grew louder, becoming a chorus of the damned. He slowed his pace as he approached a parking lot. A chain-link fence enclosed the makeshift basketball court where African-American and Hispanic men were playing an intense game. On the other side of the fence, a lone, bony figure watched longingly. Joe took in the bloodless face, the torn Jersey matted with gore. He figured the specter must've been a victim of a recent shooting.
The ghost gave him a brief, forlorn look before passing through the fence and vanishing into thin air. Some spirits sought him out, demanding his attention. Others preferred to remain anonymous and retreated when they sensed his presence, not quite ready to confront the dark reality of their situation. One of the players scored a basket, and his team mates exchanged enthusiastic high fives, oblivious to the dead man.
Joe turned away from the game, resuming his haphazard journey. As he walked past a broken-down motel, its sinister neon sign glimmering in the fading light, his attention turned upward. A distorted figure stood on a ledge, dressed in a suit straight out of an old gangster movie. Despite the twelve stories separating them, he felt the entity's hungry, desperate gaze. Its eyes dug into him a second before the man leapt off the building.
With a violent rush of air, the ghost smashed into the sidewalk right in front of him, and Joe jumped back with a stifled cry. Blood pooled around the suicide's broken form. Some of the dead were doomed to relive their last moments, bound to the place where they died, not even aware that they were dead...
God, there are so many.
Shaking from the experience, Joe continued his walk through the urban canyons. Suddenly, the four walls of his tiny apartment seemed preferable to this city of lost souls. Up ahead, a bridge cast a long shadow over a river. Joe warily regarded the dark water, and backed away as a bloated drowning victim emerged. He fled the scene as fast as he could.
But there was no escape from the spirits.
Less than a half an hour later, Joe stumbled upon the skeletal remains of a building that had recently burnt down to the ground. Standing in the blackened rubble, the ghost of a little girl. Dead children were the worst. They always broke his heart. The girl tightly clutched her doll and gave him a shy smile. Without warning, the doll began to bubble and melt.
Joe recoiled as the girl's angelic face followed, transforming into a mass of black burn scars. Seconds later, flames began to devour her tiny form. Giving himself an internal push, Joe hugged the burning girl. Spectral flames can't hurt me, he told himself. At least he prayed he was right. As he embraced the spirit, his lips moved, mouthing the most soothing words he could find.
It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now. It’s okay. Just let go.
The burn victim listened in hushed silence, and the fire started to die down. She pulled away from him, and ash flaked off her form, the skin restoring itself as she grew whole again. She smiled at Joe. Seconds later, she disappeared among the jagged ruins of the building, and he felt the presence of the ghost fade away.
A smile stole across his face. He’d helped at least one lost soul move on today.
His chirping cell phone brought him back down to earth. Dr. Gould was calling him again. Mood bolstered, he decided to pick up this time.
"What do you want? You keep this up I’ll have to report you for harassment-" he said.
"I need your gift, Joe," the parapsychologist replied, getting straight down to business. “The world needs you. You can’t let fear hold you back.”
Gould’s words pissed him off. She was right. He was afraid. But for good reason. "How many times do I have to tell you this? I'm done with ghosts."
But if that's true, what had he been doing just now?
"I propose a deal?" Gould said.
"What deal?"
"I know you think that the hunter can be some sort of mentor to you. Personally, I think he's a menace to the spirit world."
Joe shook his head impatiently. "Haven't we been over this before?"
There was a beat of silence before Gould laid it all on the table.
"If you really wish to sit down with this man, I can help you find him. I can even give you his name."
"But it's going to cost me, isn't it?"
Gould's silence spoke volumes.
After a long pause, Joe said, "Fine. What do you want?"
5
Joe Cormac sat in the passenger seat of Dr. Gould's van. Rain pearled on the windshield and ran down the glass in fat rivulets. Outside, milky sunlight outlined the stark folds of the countryside located about an hour's drive from the city. A secluded, imposing structure thrust out of the rain-swathed landscape and buckled under the
wind-swept sky. Looming guard towers and high stone walls topped with concertina wire dominated the massive complex. There were no signs of any guards—the prison was long abandoned.
"Welcome to Blackwell Penitentiary," Dr. Gould said dramatically. "Former home to some of the most vile and dangerous murderers and psychopaths to have walked the Earth. Eight months ago, a fire broke out, killing more than a hundred inmates and guards, forcing the state to shut down the place. Blackwell has been abandoned ever since."
Talk about the perfect spot to run into lost souls, Joe mused. No wonder Dr. Gould was chomping at the bit to have him inspect the prison. Had she not learned anything from their encounter at the night club? Did Gould truly believe that even the damned could be saved? Joe didn't share her wide-eyed idealism. The war had taught him that some folks were beyond redemption, whether in this life or the next. "Sounds like a lovely place to visit," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Why now?"
"The state has decided to refurbish the facility. Budgets are tight and inmate populations are booming. It’s cheaper to reopen this place than to build a new prison."
"I see," he said, shaking his head. That was bureaucracy at its finest.
"Some of the workers have reported strange phenomena. Bizarre noises, cold spots, shadowy shapes. I'm curious what you might be able to pick up in there."
If you could see what I see, hear what I hear, I wonder whether you’d still be curious, Joe thought. He kept the words to himself, determined to follow through with his side of the bargain. This would be their last adventure. He would pull off this final job, and Gould would provide him with the monster hunter's contact information.
The van pulled up to the massive structure. A fine drizzle lashed their faces as they piled out of the vehicle. Once again, Nick and Steve were back for more spooky fun, but Tony had wisely decided to sit this one out. Having a ghost break your arm could turn you off the paranormal for good.
Shadow Detective Supernatural Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (Shadow Detective Boxset) Page 14
