“As you may recall, I paid your college tuition and supported you through your internship,” he began. His tone was apologetic yet firm like a father grudgingly disciplining a child. “This was not a cheap endeavor, and I expect to be repaid for my generosity. Your current payment plan suffices for the majority of recompense, but this month, I require a little something extra.”
Isabelle shook her head. Given his reputation, she was certain he was about to make an unreasonable request and she doubted she wanted any part of another illegal scheme. While her current situation didn’t complement her preferred plan, their discussion still provided an opportunity for a new bargain to be struck, and she took her chance. “I’m afraid I’m not willing to allow that, Mr. Everest,” she said, naming him with a confidence she didn’t feel. He appeared unfazed, which unhappily was not the reaction for which she’d hoped. Regardless, she’d chosen this path and pushed forward, hoping it would lead to luckier destinations. “Yes, I know who you really are,” she affirmed, knowing that she was now treading in dangerous territory, and plastered a predatory grin on her face; she’d learned on the streets that confidence was everything, and it might prove vital now.
He raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Do you? And what advantage do you believe this grants you, Miss Martin?”
“I could inform the police,” she said. “Not only are you blackmailing me, but they would love to have a lead on your nefarious activities.” While Mr. Lionhart’s pseudonym was never spoken freely, during her independent investigation, she had discovered several outfits similar to her own illicit prescription service across the city, and it was not implausible to speculate that they belonged under the same criminal umbrella, which couldn’t have escaped the attention of the local authorities.
“Is that so, Miss Martin?” he asked, amusement evident in his tone and a smirk tugging at his lips. “You would turn yourself in so I might be arrested?”
Her self-assured expression fell as doubt began creeping into her thoughts. “You are blackmailing me into cooperating,” she replied, a tremor creeping into her previously calm voice. “And your criminal activities are well publicized. The police would—”
“Miss Martin, stop this foolishness,” he snapped, reprimanding her like a child, and she halted mid-sentence. “You would never surrender yourself to the police, and even if you did, your allegations would never stick,” he continued, lecturing harshly her as she attempted to regroup mentally. “There is no connection between myself and Mr. Everest, who is a prominent lawyer who would likely sue you for libel. This conversation only serves to test my patience, so I suggest you discontinue whatever scheme you think you have crafted.”
Almost reflexively, his harshness softened, further reminding her of their pseudo-paternal connection. “It is not a difficult task I ask of you on a monthly basis, and this request is no worse. If you continue on this path, I will be forced to reconsider your payment plan, and you know you do not want that.” There was no warning in his voice—only an ultimatum that she knew better than to challenge. In her investigation, she had uncovered tales of cruelty beyond murder and simple criminal enforcement, and she did not want to become a target, so she tabled her ill-considered plan to disentangle herself until she was better prepared.
“Good girl,” he said approvingly when she acquiesced quietly. “Now then, your additional payment,” he said. He hesitated briefly, pressing his lips together as he cradled his mouth and chin in his hand; he was clearly choosing his words carefully. “I need you to be the observer in a little experiment of mine,” he continued in a pleasant voice. “Well, I suppose you’d actually be the administrator in this case, or perhaps even the control conditions.” He paused, smirking almost self-consciously, and added, “But I digress.” Strangely, his civil veneer remained as he announced nonchalantly, “I need you to euthanize a subject and confirm his medical death as a clinical state.”
Isabelle recoiled, backing against the desk and leaning on it for support. “I can’t—”
“Oh, don’t worry, love; he’s not actually human,” he reassured her in the same urbane tone, seemingly rebuking her for her uncivilized response, and she considered that he might have meant an animal, in which case she had overreacted. He continued, “Do you recall those monsters I warned you about?”
She shuddered, remembering the tales he had told her about beings who could manipulate the laws of nature to do their bidding. He called them the Gods of Old, but he had also cautioned her to fear them, particularly the one he called Vampire, a creature that sustained itself by draining the life force out of others. He had told her many tales about this character, and Vampire had slowly supplanted the police as her boogeyman. “Yes,” she replied meekly.
“Well, our subject is one of those monsters, and I suspect our little experiment won’t actually harm him, so this is really not as morally objectionable as you presume,” he reassured her, ostensibly reframing what she would normally consider homicide and the breaking of her Hippocratic Oath as an anodyne in vivo testing. “You’ll need to provide the, ah, mechanism to do it as well,” he said delicately, “so I’ll leave the details up to you. But do not believe that I’ll be fooled by some sort of Romeo and Juliet substitution nonsense.” His eyes narrowed again, and his face tightened. “You will perform this task as I instructed,” he commanded firmly. “Understood?” Speechless, she smiled weakly and nodded, and his affable expression returned. “Good girl,” he praised encouragingly and promised, “I’ll be by after your shift ends. Cheerio, love.”
He kissed her gently on the cheek, for that was easier for him to reach than her forehead now that she was taller, and he departed quietly, leaving her to process what had just occurred. Had she just become an accessory to murder? Or, as he had stated, was she experimenting on one of the monsters of her youth? He had never offered evidence of their existence, but she’d fully believed his stories and felt deep in her chest that they were true. There were monsters, and they were not just the figurative allegories of childhood.
If she held onto that certainty, she could stomach what the end of the night held. She had agreed to assist Mr. Lionhart, and she sensed that she could not withdraw now without unpleasant consequences, but she could still turn the events to her advantage. If she recorded the night and gathered enough evidence, she could implicate Mr. Lionhart and his alias, Jack Everest, down the road for the crimes they committed. She could extricate herself from the situation or even exonerate herself completely. Eager to implement her new plan, she began her preparations.
- - -
John Reeves’ desk was buried under piles of folders. Unlike its more successful sister department, the Paranormal Division had been unable to secure adequate funds to convert all of its archives into electronic files, so the majority of the cases were still paper copies kept in heavy, worn folders bound together by strained, rotting rubber bands. He preferred it this way; there was something more real about physical files and feeling the paper between his fingertips as if he were actually connecting with the original investigators. He felt transported back in time to the decades of the Cold War when every department, even his division, had adequate funding and investigation was painstakingly done by hand and in person.
It was a fantasy, as were most things in the Paranormal Division, and it was a pleasant diversion while he transcribed the files, struggling to read chicken-scratch handwriting and faded Xeroxes. He had scoured his usual alternative news sites and forums for the day, and none had turned up any supernatural activity, so this meant it was time to input files into the electronic archive. He had already scanned the folder he was currently working on, but there were several documents that weren’t quite legible in PDF and needed to be reproduced manually.
His computer beeped, signaling that it had received an alert from one of his sites, and he welcomed the distraction. The email contained a link to a news articl
e involving a recent accident at a New York art gallery, and its key element was the mention of Sitara Shah as the sole witness. Though the email briefly explained her importance and included speculation about the event, Reeves was already eagerly pulling her file to review it in its entirety.
Sitara Shah was the subject of the 2003 Savannah, NY Haunting, which was exciting because it was one of the first cases documented in the new millennium using modern techniques. The girl, then a young teen, was plagued by an entity she called Billy. Every time she tried to leave the house, Billy would lock the front door, throw objects, and even upturn furniture in an attempt to prevent her from departing. Sitara would often burst into tears, at which point the attack would subside temporarily. She was practically restricted to her house as a recluse for a full year before paranormal investigators became involved, and the footage they caught was startling. Thermal imaging captured a full-body apparition following Sitara around the house, and video caught it picking up objects and throwing them, though other recording devices never picked up a disembodied voice or other electronic voice phenomena no matter how often researchers tried to reach out and speak with the entity. While groundbreaking evidence in and of itself, the ghost also began to shut off all devices when it detected them, indicating that the entity had learned how to interact with the modern world.
Unfortunately, the activity began to taper off as soon as researchers began to seriously observe and experiment with the entity, which they determined must have been a poltergeist or, sadly and strongly theorized, the ghost of the Shahs’ elder child, who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances six years previously. One paranormal investigator regrettably mentioned the standing hypothesis to the Shahs, and they shut down the experiment immediately, leaving many questions unanswered.
At the time of the experiment’s closure, the activity began to decline, occurring only when the researchers were not immediately present, and this cast doubt on the whole incident, despite the earlier side-by-side thermal and video recordings revealing an unseen entity. Sitara retreated into obscurity and mediocrity, opting for a career that she could pursue from home.
The construction accident at Félicité revealed that the poltergeist had not gone dormant, which was common once the unfortunate subject of its attention completed puberty; Félicité had independently gained a reputation for possibly being haunted because objects occasionally moved themselves, doors opened and shut, and people heard running footsteps while they were alone. To Reeves, this meant that Billy had not been an actual poltergeist and instead suggested the alternative parapsychological theory: The alleged poltergeist was, in fact, Sitara’s latent telekinetic powers developing during her puberty. Poltergeists tended to latch onto one individual, tormenting them through pinching, biting, or hitting, but Billy only threw objects and never at Sitara. Likewise, telekinetics focused on levitating objects, which was the phenomenon most often observed with the girl.
True, it did not explain the thermal image detected in her house, nor the sound of the footsteps that were heard at Félicité, but Reeves was more inclined to believe that one of the investigators had accidentally captured himself on film, especially because the entity began to shut off cameras rather than be recorded. This followed the actions of a researcher covering up a mistake that could weaken or invalidate all other documentation.
Had Sitara refined her telekinesis during her reclusive years? While this seemed to be the case, Reeves had no definitive proof, other than a chance news article and a dubiously haunted building, which would not secure him a cent of funding for closer investigation. This left him with only one option: Forward the case to Morgan Connor. Though his colleague hadn’t revealed the final details of the Brian Chamberlain case, he’d thanked Reeves for his submission and informed him that it had been a valid lead; the case was now closed. Reeves could only hope for the same result with Sitara Shah: There was enough evidence that she was a telekinetic to warrant investigation—just not on his division’s budget.
- - -
Nihar pawed at the door, meowing like a cat. He thought that if he did it enough, his sister would let him out, but he had been at it for a while now and hadn’t heard a response. He supposed she might be napping, which would explain the silence, and he wondered why she hadn’t let him out to watch television like she normally did. Not that being in his room was unpleasant; there were several wonderful activities to keep him entertained. There were dinosaurs that roared when the batteries weren’t dead, a racetrack with cars that zoomed of their own accord, and his ever-expanding Lego set piled in a corner. Right now, the Legos depicted a space fortress with his favorite superheroes, some planes and ships, and lots of assorted townspeople.
Maybe once his sister awoke, she’d take him to the park like she’d been promising. He went over to the window, which overlooked the busy city streets, and squinted, hoping to make out the swing sets in the distance. His favorite part of the park was the sandbox, but Sitara rarely let him play in it because she said it got him all dirty; this was fine with him because getting dirty was the best part about it. She wouldn’t allow him to play with the other children either, because she said he was too old and would hurt them, and no matter how much he promised to be careful, she wouldn’t relent; he was only allowed to play in the park late at night or in the early morning when they were the only ones there.
He grabbed a handful of animal crackers from the tray his sister had left, shoved them in his mouth, and then turned toward the center of his room. He’d grown tired of playing with his action figures and had accidentally spilled water on his brand new puzzle, so he’d tried to get Sitara’s attention so she could entertain him. Since that had failed, it was time to find something else to do.
His sister loved painting, and she’d bought him a set of watercolors in an effort to coax him into sharing her interest. Since he enjoyed it, his supply had been gradually increased to several bottles of washable Crayola paints, and seeing the colorful containers made him think painting might be fun right now. He pulled some bottles from the shelf along with a few sheets of butcher paper and a brush. He uncapped the bottles clumsily and laid them out meticulously so that he wouldn’t tip anything over accidentally; his sister would yell at him if he did. When he finally started painting, he thought about how sad his sister seemed lately and realized he could make her a nice present to cheer her up.
- - -
As promised, Mr. Lionhart was outside waiting for Isabelle when her shift ended, and he took her arm, guiding her toward his waiting car. To her surprise, instead of being chauffeured as was customary for him, he opened the front passenger door of the nondescript vehicle and helped her into the seat before getting into the driver’s side. Once settled, he turned to her and stated crisply, “I know I said I didn’t want to hear the details, but it occurs to me that for this experiment to be successful, I should be familiar with the process. How do you plan to carry this out?”
Isabelle cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze, and retreated into a clinical mind-set, choosing to reframe the coming events as a case study. “In cases of physician-assisted suicide, they use an overdose of barbiturates to induce a coma,” she explained. She opened her small purse, revealing a syringe and several vials of premixed solution, and he inspected the contents with interest. “I chose sodium thiopental, which is an anesthesia, since we have a lot of it on hand, and it should render him unconscious within thirty seconds. It will also suppress his respiratory functions to the point that he’ll asphyxiate.”
“How long will that take?” he asked curiously.
“Three to five minutes. Maybe less at this dosage.”
“Marvelous!” he exclaimed. His eyes wandered, falling on her cell phone, which she had purposely overturned at the bottom of her shallow purse, and he retrieved it casually. Her pulse quickened, and she tried in vain to stop him from turning the screen back on. Indeed,
even though the device was password protected, it still betrayed her ruse and showed the recording app running when Mr. Lionhart activated the backlight. He frowned, raising an eyebrow, and then sighed as he chastised her. “I am disappointed in you, Miss Martin. I thought you were smarter than that.” He snapped the device in half, showing a remarkable amount of strength for his diminutive form, and pocketed the pieces. “All this time, I thought we had a trusting relationship. I guess I was wrong.” He shook his head chidingly as he started the car and drove off.
At this time of the night, traffic had eased, as the majority of the population was either asleep or already at their destinations, and it didn’t take long for them to cross the city into SoHo. After a few additional minutes, they were standing outside one of the many converted nineteenth-century warehouses. The apartment complexes were brightly lit, allowing her to appreciate the sterility of the prosperous neighborhood. With a reassuring, almost playful smile, Mr. Lionhart tightened his grip around Isabelle’s hand, and she felt as if every cell of her body had been pierced by tiny pins. Perhaps her mind was overcome by the sensation, for she suddenly lost her vision as well. As the inexplicable pain increased intolerably, her sight returned, and unaccountably, she found herself no longer in the car or on the street. She glanced at Mr. Lionhart, seeing his jaw set tightly in a grimace, and sought to regain her bearings.
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