The Tenth Ward

by Rockwell Scott

  “You got my message, right?”

  “With all those audio files? Yeah, of course.”

  Rand looked around at the disorganized state of the place. “Have you had time to look into it, or have you been distracted with all this spring cleaning?”

  “It’s fall. And I’m not cleaning. You know how much I hate to clean. I’m just trying to reorganize. The stacks have gone crazy on me.”

  “Or you’ve been negligent.”

  “If it weren’t unethical to charge for my side gig, I wouldn’t have to worry about running this dump.”

  “So you had time to look at the files?”

  “Let’s step into my office.”

  Miller Landingham was a head shorter than Rand and far more overweight than the last time Rand had seen him. His neck and chin sported a healthy orb of fat that spread his already-thin stubble. His black hair was disheveled and greasy, matching the thick rims of his glasses, which made his eyes pop. He almost always wore a button-up, plaid, short-sleeve shirt and khaki pants, and he walked with a deep limp from an injury that Rand had been present for long ago.

  The two never would have become acquaintances in real life if Miller’s unfortunate brush with the demonic hadn’t brought them together years before.

  “Even after all this time, the stuff you send me still freaks me out.”

  “Come on. Where’s the professionalism?”

  “Don’t tell me it doesn’t get to you, too. Keep in mind I’m listening to this by myself in here after hours.”

  He opened the door to the bookshop’s back office. It was uncomfortably warm inside, and besides the usual desk and computer and overflowing filing cabinet, there was a brown mattress pushed against the far wall with a single bedspread and a flattened pillow. Crumpled fast-food wrappers and empty soda cans were accumulating around it.

  “You’re really committed to the overtime.”

  “Larry spiked the rent on my place last month. Can you believe it? The man’s always been a dirt bag.”

  “So you live here now?”

  “I’m crashing until I figure something else out.”

  Miller sat heavily in the chair at his desk, making the cracked leather groan and let out a puff of air from the seat. He jiggled the mouse and the computer came to life. “So this Shindael. Yeah, there’s a lot on him. He’s been busy the past couple of years. Where did I put it?”

  Miller rummaged through a pile beside the monitor—invoices, shipping receipts, and overdue bill notices—until he found a stack of papers he’d paper-clipped together. “Here it is. Printed out every instance where I ran across his name on the web.”

  Rand skimmed through the documents. The printouts were from message boards, online forums, and niche websites that Miller owned and moderated—places where people recounted their own personal accounts of the demonic.

  Rand knew well that Miller did not want to face a demonic entity again in person, but he wanted to help out after Rand had rescued him from an intelligent haunting a few years before. The way he did that was by scouring the darkest corners of the internet for information people posted on their own encounters, then saved it all in a large file. It contained eyewitness accounts and personal experiences, and he cross-referenced them for similarities and grouped them together. If one account determined a demon’s name, then Miller could match it with other similar stories and discover a type of “MO” for that particular demon. Knowing whom you were dealing with gave you the upper hand in any battle with the demonic.

  He also used this information to create a database of known demons and their names—as well as their appearances when someone was unlucky enough to glimpse one in their true form. All of it was like a modern-day grimoire, he’d said once, and Rand had to admit that the data had been useful to him on more than a few occasions.

  “And you’ve vetted the crazies?” Rand asked.

  “As much as I could. You’ll see all those accounts have at least a few similarities. There are three or four mediums who managed to speak with him. Apparently he is quite talkative and receptive and usually shows up quickly when called by name.” Miller shivered. “Freaks me out just to think about.”

  Rand thumbed through the pages. The stories were long and drawn out, so he’d have to sit down and read through them later.

  “The short version is, he’s a high ranker,” Miller said. Rand looked up at him. “Yeah. The real deal. There are several demons that are under him, or are his slaves, or servants, or whatever. I saw one account of someone who was able to send away Rakhon-om simply by threatening to invoke Shindael. You remember Rakhon-om?”

  “He’s a rotten piece of work. But why would Shindael tell me his name?” Rand said, flipping the stack of papers closed. “That doesn’t make any sense. These bastards do anything they can to keep me from learning their names. But this one, Shindael, he wanted me to know.”

  “Because he’s an arrogant prick would be my guess,” Miller said. “He commands other demons. He ranks in hell. Wouldn’t you think you were awesome too?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Also, get this. Those recordings you sent me…”

  “Yeah? You figured them out?”

  “It wasn’t so simple as Latin or backwards English. I had to ship that off to my linguist friend at the university, and then she had to pass it along when even she couldn’t place it.”

  “And?”

  Miller leaned back in his chair, proud of himself. “Ancient Sumerian.”

  Rand stared at him.

  “I thought you’d be confused,” Miller said. He spun and made a few clicks on his computer. He played the audio file Rand had sent him—the recording of Shindael yelling in his deep voice in the morgue, the words unrecognizable.

  “Sumer was a civilization in Mesopotamia around three thousand BC,” Miller said. “Modern-day Iraq. One of the first to exist. They spoke their own Sumerian language, but it only lasted about a thousand years before intermingling with other civilizations caused Akkadian to become the primary spoken language in the area.”

  “So in other words, he’s showing off.”

  “That was also my conclusion.”

  Shindael was probably trying to impress upon Rand how timeless he was. Show how long he’d been watching humans, tormenting them.

  “How’s the girl?” Miller asked.

  “All right for now,” Rand said while rubbing at his eyes, exhaustion setting in. “They kicked me out of the hospital, so I have to find a way back to her if I’m going to help.”

  “Hang in there,” Miller said, standing from the chair. “Read those Shindael encounters I printed out for you. See if you can get any useful information.”

  “Will do.”

  “And be careful. If this gets nasty and you need any assistance, give me a call.”

  “But you hate the front line.”

  “I do. But I have a bad feeling about this one, this Shindael. He seems like a real son of a bitch, so just... watch your back.”

  27

  Stacy Thompson was the last one to hand in her quiz. She always checked and rechecked it, making sure her answers were correct. Rand didn’t even have to grade her work against the answer key to know she got a hundred percent.

  The girl seemed oddly interested in this stuff. Not something he would have ever expected from someone like her.

  She rose from her usual desk at the front of the classroom and passed her paper to him. “Thank you, Stacy,” Rand said. “I’m sure it’s an A as always.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “This was harder than the rest.”

  It wasn’t. It was one of the easiest quizzes on his syllabus. As long as she hadn’t overthought it, she’d be fine.

  He stuffed her quiz in the stack along with the others and shoveled them into his bag. He closed his laptop and put it inside his case. Stacy didn’t move.

  “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, sir,” she began, although Rand c
ould tell she had something she needed to say. “It’s just that… you seem off.”

  “Off?”

  “Yeah. Distracted, spaced out. I don’t know. Is everything all right?”

  No. Everything was not all right. Stacy was quite perceptive. Georgia Collins and the case at hand had dominated his thoughts lately, as they tended to do, and he was trying his best to keep that from spilling over into his lectures.

  “Just some stuff going on right now,” he said.

  “Like what you talk about in your class?” She gestured toward the screen where he projected his photos of previous cases, hauntings, and demons.

  “Yeah.”

  “That sounds scary,” Stacy said. “Please be careful.”

  “Thank you, Stacy.”

  Once he was alone in the classroom, he scooped up his stuff and bounded for the door.

  He almost ran into someone as they were coming in.

  “Excuse me,” Rand blurted out, and tried to maneuver around the lady in his way.

  “Mr. Casey.”

  A familiar voice. He turned and saw that the person he’d almost bumped into was Doris Galloway, the woman who’d audited his class and wanted to remove it from the university curriculum.

  “Afternoon,” he said, trying to keep his tone pleasant, but he couldn’t afford to think about this right now. “Sorry I ran into you. I’m in a hurry, actually. Is there any way this could—”

  “This isn’t about the audit,” Doris said, stepping closer to him and keeping her voice low. Her face was not stern and inquisitive, as it had been in their previous meetings.

  “Oh. What can I help you with, then?” Rand checked his watch.

  “The little girl,” she said, glancing around them as if she did not want to be overheard. “The one who that couple came to see you about?”

  “Yeah?” Rand said, curiosity piqued.

  “Is she… okay?” She looked genuinely concerned.

  “Not yet. But I’m working with her.”

  Doris nodded as if she’d been given a bad health diagnosis. “Right. Sorry, it’s just that ever since then I’ve been thinking about it. And about her.”

  “It’s complicated at the moment.”

  “I understand. Well, I don’t, but… I’m just hoping you can help that family.”

  “I appreciate your concern.” Rand smiled.

  Doris nodded. Then she straightened herself and her professional mask returned. “That will be all, Mr. Casey.”

  Libby stepped out of the elevator on the tenth floor, expecting to be greeted by Harold’s friendly smile, but instead it was another man at the security desk.

  “Where’s Harold? Is he off today?” she asked as she signed in.

  “Harold’s been suspended,” said the man—whose name was Jerry, according to his badge.

  “Oh.” Libby frowned as she placed the name tag on her shirt. She surmised that had happened because he’d helped her dad.

  Libby had never before gotten so involved with one of her dad’s cases. But something about Georgia was different. She was a girl Libby could see herself being friends with after this whole mess was over. No one ever deserved to be tormented by a demonic spirit, but Georgia was an especially vulnerable victim. She found herself eager to help in any way she could, so when she’d gotten a text from Georgia an hour before asking her to come and visit, she’d called Justin and cancelled their date so she could go.

  When Libby entered the nurse station, she stopped short in her tracks. Georgia Collins, her parents, Nurse Donna, three more nurses, and four other children—patients, Libby assumed—formed a circle near the desk, hands joined, heads bowed.

  “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” Nick Collins intoned. “For thine is the Kingdom, and the power, and glory forever.”

  Georgia caught Libby’s eye and gestured with her head for her to come and join them. Libby walked over and broke into the circle between Georgia and a nurse and clasped their hands.

  “There is evil here, Lord,” Nick continued in prayer. “We have all been affected by it, and some have seen it. Please intervene and reclaim this place in your name. We are your children, and we dedicate our lives to you. Please rescue us from this creature from hell and give us the courage needed to see through its deceptions.”

  As Mr. Collins prayed, Libby felt Georgia’s hand squeeze hers tighter and tighter, as if afraid to let go.

  It had been a long time since Libby had prayed, and in a way she felt as if she did not belong in such a devout circle. But she understood the desperate times these people were facing and kept her head bowed respectfully.

  That was, until a sharp voice interrupted them from the other side of the room.

  “That will be enough.”

  Nick Collins’s prayer was cut short, as if with a knife. There stood a tall and ferocious-looking woman wearing a brown pantsuit, with dark hair tied into a tight bun. Her eyes were ice as she approached the circle, her heels clacking against the tile.

  “Miss Shaw,” Nurse Donna began, but the woman only held out her hand.

  “You know I support prayer and prayerful gatherings. But they are to be done in the appropriate venue and at the appropriate times. There is a very nice chapel on the first floor available to all of our patients.” She eyed Donna and the other nurses. “And prayer times should be restricted to your one-hour break. Doing this while on the clock is negligent to the other patients.”

  Donna looked like she had a great deal of things to say to the frigid woman, but in the end she acquiesced. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The prayer circle fell apart like a wilting flower. The nurses returned to the desk and the other children meandered back to their rooms.

  Libby had heard about this woman from her dad. Fiona Shaw, the director of the children’s ward, had confronted him and banned him from the hospital.

  Fiona stood her ground and watched everyone fade away. Then, she fixed Georgia Collins in her stern gaze. “I’m glad to see you getting back into your faith, Miss Collins,” Shaw said as she approached. “Father Calvin has noted your absence from his services lately. But as I said, there is a time and a place for that. There is an appropriate way to go about it.” As Shaw spoke, Georgia stared daggers at the woman, standing straight and defiant, as if her condition did not leave her body weak and broken. “And I do not appreciate you spreading stories that scare the staff and the other patients.”

  “They’re not stories,” Georgia said, her words sharp. “I know what I’ve seen, and everyone here knows what they’ve experienced.”

  Nick put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and squeezed, but it did nothing to make her back down.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick Collins offered. “We’ve spent so much time here that this place almost feels like our living room. We’ll keep the prayers inside from now on.”

  “I’m not sorry,” Georgia said. “I know what’s going on here, even if you refuse to believe it.”

  “Georgia,” Maria said, a warning tone in her voice.

  Georgia let out a loud groan, grabbed her portable oxygen cylinder, and stormed off down the corridor.

  Fiona Shaw then fixed Libby with her steel-blue eyes. “And you—Libby Casey, according to the visitor log. I won’t hesitate to ban you from this facility if you cause even a fraction of the trouble your father stirred up. You can consider this your first and final warning.”

  With that, Fiona Shaw turned and left.

  “Nasty woman,” Libby said when she was out of earshot.

  “She just doesn’t understand,” Nick Collins said. “Come on.”

  They caught up with Georgia in her room, where she was replacing her empty oxygen tank with a full one.

  “I don’t get it, Dad,” Georgia said as soon as they walked in. “Why do you act all weak in front of her? She’s the worst, and she doesn’t believe anything that’s happened!”

  “It’s her ward, Georgia,” Nick said calmly. “We have to play by
her rules.”

  But Libby remembered what her dad had told her. Shaw had threatened to remove Georgia from the hospital if she kept scaring the other patients. Surely Nick and Maria had been warned as well.

  “There are no rules anymore,” Georgia said. “Not when something like this is going on.”

  Her anger spike caused her to lose her breath, and she started to cough. She sat down, weakened by the spasm, and hacked her lungs into a tissue for several minutes before she could get her breathing under control.

  “Don’t wind yourself up too much,” Libby said, rubbing Georgia’s back. “Everything will work out okay.”

  Georgia wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. “How? Your dad isn’t allowed in here. How’s he going to help me?”

  “I don’t have an answer for that,” Libby said. “But one thing I know for sure is that my dad has never given up on a client. Not ever. No matter how bad it gets, he always wins. Now, let’s forget about that Fiona Shaw lady and go downstairs for some ice cream.”

  Georgia took deep breaths and seized control of her breathing again. “You know just what to say to cheer a girl up. How did you know her name anyway?”

  “Because my dad had plenty of terrible things to call her when he got home yesterday.”

  “I’m sure every word was true. Come on. If we hurry, we can get there before Mrs. Eloise’s shift is over. Then the ice cream will be free.”

  28

  Thunder rolled heavy and loud in the distance. The glass rattled in the window panes from the vibrations.

  Rachel pulled the curtain aside and looked out into the dark night, a worried expression on her face. “What are the odds that your power will go out?”

  “I think we’ll be good,” Rand said, not entirely sure if it was true.

  “Because I really want to watch this movie with you,” Rachel said. “I’ve been waiting a while, but you’ve been so busy lately.”

  Rand grabbed her and guided her down to the couch. “Nothing is going to stop us from watching this movie tonight,” Rand said.