American Demon Hunters_An Urban Fantasy Supernatural Thriller
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Table of Contents
Title Page
A note on the series...
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Other works from J. Thorn
About the Author
A note on the series...
Let the demon hunting begin! Thanks for purchasing a title in the American Demon Hunters world. Before you start reading, here’s a bit of essential info on the series: The full-length novel chronicles the amazing journey of our heroes from normal Americans to demon hunters. The American Demon Hunters novellas have been written by some of today’s best horror authors, with J. Thorn. Each novella is a standalone “episode” set in a different American city. There are no major novel spoilers in the novellas and any title in the American Demon Hunters collection can be read in any order—same characters, new adventure.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1
February 26, 1971
Ancient sorcerers and shamans could raise the dead, but only a modern man of science could make them alive again. Dr. George Singleton was smarter, he did the research. The man believed he could apply the scientific method to the arcane texts, which would bring his fiancée back from the grave.
Singleton spent weeks sketching out the process in his notebook. He’d draw a map of the stars as they appeared on the night Mary died—a star chart. He would then recreate what he had called a “death map” on the wall of the university’s observatory. The building mystified him, beyond the massive lens and gears that pointed it at the most distant reaches of the galaxy. He understood its power but not the source of it—much like the spiritual energy flowing from the Egyptian pyramids. George considered himself lucky the observatory could open a portal to the land of the dead, and that it existed here, in the small town of Cleveland Heights.
From what he found in the research, the procedure for raising the dead—a “summoning”—was almost impossible to do beyond the first anniversary of the person’s death. The presence of friends and relatives of the deceased created a cosmic amplification that would help pry the portal open and let the dead through.
He’d found the historical narratives. Horus, Lazarus, Romulus—even Jesus. They all returned from the dark void of death. In many cases, the dead came back with their minds foggy and their bodies sluggish. But over time, they could re-enter this world and live the rest of their natural life the way it was supposed to be, spent aging with loved ones and friends.
But it wouldn’t happen that way. Singleton was about to learn what the ancients had known: Some fates are worse than death—best to leave them to their eternal rest.
He drew the equations on the wall in chalk beneath the observatory’s open dome. Fred and Martha Siszak stood in silence. Martha squeezed her husband’s hand and used the other to caress the underside of her pregnant belly. Fred looked at Singleton, his boss, and shook his head back and forth. The man had no friends or relatives he could ask here tonight. Only an employee and his wife.
The doctor convinced the Siszaks he could bring his deceased fiancée back from the grave using a combination of astronomy and black magic. All he had to do now was draw her star chart on the wall and read the incantations and they would be reunited.
“We shouldn’t be doing this, Fred. This is not right.”
Fred looked down into his wife’s face and nodded. He let go of Martha’s hand and smoothed the front of his blue, collared shirt with both hands before stepping toward George.
“I think we should talk about this more. You asked us to come and pay respects to Mary, that we could help settle her spirit. But now I’m not sure what you’re doing or why we’re here.”
George’s head spun around while his arm kept moving, fingers clutching the chalk that drew more mathematical equations on the wall.
“This is my research at my university. I won’t let a janitor and his wife tell me what to do.”
“This is not research. It’s sacrilegious. Evil.”
George stopped writing. He spun and stood nose to nose with Fred while Martha stayed in the shadows.
“Mary was my fiancée, goddammit. So you shut your mouth. If it was her,” George said, his eyes moving to where Martha was standing, “you’d want to do the same thing.”
“I would not—”
“Bullshit, Fred. Don’t lie to me.”
Fred sighed and nodded.
George went back to the wall and his mystical equations while Martha appeared on Fred’s right.
“I can’t stop him,” Fred said to his wife. “He’s going to bring her back.”
Martha shook her head. Words couldn’t prevent what was about to happen. Fred walked to the door and grabbed the end of a baseball bat leaning against the trim. He gripped the Louisville Slugger with both hands, hoping it would be enough of a weapon to protect Martha from whatever was coming. Fred stood near the doorway while Dr. Singleton initiated the ritual.
“From the stars we come and hence we shall return. Unite the living with the dead and save us from an eternity in the urn.” George paused and then spoke once more. “I give you the chart inscribed by the summoner.”
A cold wind blew out the ceremonial candle as the floor vibrated with an unseen energy. A gray haze appeared above the opened dome ceiling of the observatory. The telescope protruded into the night sky like a fang. Fred, Martha and George watched as the haze coalesced into the form of a human. Within moments, Mary, Dr. George Singleton’s deceased fiancée, stood beneath the telescope at the top of the spiral staircase.
Singleton gasped. He walked toward the staircase and started to ascend when Fred stuck out his arm to stop him.
“Wait,” Fred said.
Martha stood fixed to the floor, her mouth hanging open. Mary walked down the spiral staircase, wearing the same white dress she wore in her casket. Her long, dark hair sat upon her shoulders and spilled down her back.
Singleton’s mouth moved, yet he did not speak. As Mary rounded the last spiral of the staircase, the hazy glow dissipated and she stepped to the floor, barefoot and corporeal.
“Why did you do this, George?”
The lights in the observatory flickered, making movements appear like an old movie on a broken projector. Martha stood one moment, but the next time Fred looked at his wife, she was crumpled to the floor in silent tears. Fred sa
w Mary and George speaking but he could not hear what they said.
Mary turned away from George and faced Fred, her eyes blackening and her lips turning up into a nefarious smile. Clumps of hair slid from her skull and fell to the floor. Fred took another look at Martha. He raised his arms as though he was buried beneath an icy avalanche.
“She is my eternal love,” George said.
Fred lunged forward, one hand on the bat and the other reaching for George. He grabbed the scrawny scientist by the arm and threw him against the wall, Singleton’s white coat now soiled with black smudges from Mary’s embrace.
The dead woman rose up and glared at Fred, her eyes red and her greasy skin pulsing as if her veins were about to explode. She began to chant indecipherable words, her hair now completely gone and her stomach bulging like a balloon. The white dress slid from her body and she hunched over, turning her head sideways. The demon grinned at Fred.
“I’m taking you all to Hell, where you belong.”
Fred brought the baseball bat up and gripped it with both hands. He heard Martha sobbing in the corner, while George continued to mumble.
“You summoned me. You brought me here,” she said.
“You cannot stay,” Fred said.
The floorboards rattled as the demon that was Mary approached Fred. Saliva dripped from her mouth in slimy, green strands.
“I’m here because you opened the portal. Others shall follow,” she said.
George stood and piss dribbled down his leg. He ran a hand over his widow’s peak, removed his black rimmed glasses and tucked them into a worn pocket on the front of his lab coat. Fred waved the bat at George and forced words through the tiny gap in his front teeth.
“That’s not your fiancée. We have to destroy that thing.”
Mary turned her bulbous head to Fred, black eyes inside a hollow face, skin a sickly bluish-gray. With a mouth too tight to hold all of her thin, pointy teeth, she spat at Fred. Green mucus that smelled like an infected wound sizzled on the floor.
“I’m going to feast on your unborn child.”
Fred stepped forward and brought the baseball bat up behind his right ear. He swung as hard as he could. The Louisville Slugger struck Mary on the left ear hole. She stumbled and Fred raised the bat again when George stepped between them.
“Don’t hit her.”
“That’s not Mary any more,” Fred said.
George laughed and shook his head.
“What the fuck do you know about her? She’s dead. Do you know what it feels like to lose the one you love more than yourself?” George asked, pointing at Martha. “You don’t because she’s standing right there, carrying your child.”
Fred looked at George and then back to Mary. She sidled up to George and was now whispering in his ear, a forked tongue caressing George’s earlobes like a sultry lover.
“That’s not Mary,” Martha said.
George turned to look at her, a greasy smile on his face.
“Shut up, Martha. You shut your fucking mouth.”
“Don’t talk to my wife that way,” Fred said.
The demon before them stretched its neck and roared. Fred put his hands over his ears but George remained unmoved, as though his dead fiancée was singing a joyous melody.
“You brought Mary back, but she has turned into a demon and must be destroyed. We’re not supposed to be able to bring our dead back. We’re not godless,” Fred said.
“God is nothing more than the ability to resurrect,” George said. “And I’ve done that tonight. This is Mary. Even if you can’t see that, I can.”
Fred looked at Martha before speaking to George.
“I’m sorry, George, but this has to be done.”
Fred used the end of the bat to push George in the chest. George stumbled backward and fell to the ground. He screamed and held his clipboard up as if to use it as a shield. Fred turned around, reared back and took another swing at what was Mary. The bat struck the same spot as the previous blow and Mary fell into the wall.
“Stop,” George said, his voice cracking like glass. “You’re hurting my Mary.”
Martha wailed as Fred brought the bat back and struck Mary’s head over and over until nothing remained but a slimy pile of flesh at the top of its neck.
George buried his face in his hands. Martha stood and placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Fred dropped the bat and embraced her.
A bright light opened on the opposite wall, filling the room and the dome overhead. George looked away from Mary’s remains at the light spilling into the room. The light yanked the feet of the headless creature, dragging the body into the portal that separated the world of the living from the world of the dead. Nothing but a dark, wet trail remained on the floor.
“You killed her. She’s gone forever.”
Fred kicked the bat into the darkness and put both arms around his wife. Before walking her to the door, he spoke to George.
“You’ve done enough damage for one night. Close the dome before others find their way here.”
“You killed Mary,” George said, wiping the tears from his face.
“And mop this up,” Fred said. “I’m a janitor, but I’m not your janitor.”
Chapter 2
42 Years Later (December 13, 2013)
Icy rain pelted the casket, bouncing off the polished stainless steel like a bag of marbles. Hank stood next to his twelve-year-old son, keeping an arm around Corey as the priest droned on. He looked at the water landing on his patent leather shoes and the ice gathering around his foot, inches from the open grave.
Hank wanted nothing more than to have his wife’s killer stuffed into that hole. The drunk driver who took her life and destroyed their family was nothing but a murderer in Hank’s eyes.
“We all loved, Michelle,” the priest said. “She was a wife, a mother, a friend, a daughter and a good soul. God has called her forth to be at his side.”
Hank lifted his head and looked at his friends and family draped in black. They ringed the hole in the ground while standing in silent reverence. Corey tried to hide his face but Hank saw his son’s tears through the rain. He wanted Corey to cry out, to talk about his mother’s unexpected death. But that wouldn’t happen.
Corey was struck by lightning ten months before. The doctors couldn’t find a medical explanation for his lack of speech. It seemed as though Corey recovered physically, but the massive jolt of electricity damaged the boy’s brain in ways CT scans could not show. Hank read the stories about people getting struck by lightning. Most died, some recovered and a few were forever changed. Some even gained new mental abilities.
“...now and forever, Amen.”
Hank made the sign of the cross and pulled his son closer. Several people shifted and a few of the women walked to the casket and laid a single red rose on top. The fragrance cut through the rare December rain of Northeast Ohio and the red petals glistened against the silver shine of the casket.
“I’m so sorry.”
Hank saw Michelle’s friends approaching. Each came forward as though sliding on a frozen lake. With every passing condolence, Hank felt Corey twitch. His son didn’t cry out, didn’t move. He remained fixed to Hank’s hip with his face buried in his father's black leather coat.
Most of the mourners hugged Hank and several whispered kind words.
Hank nodded and smiled, occasionally feeling the warm, salty tears reaching the corner of his mouth. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and did everything he could to give Michelle’s friends and family reassurance. His smile told them he would honor her memory and take care of their son.
Lori was the first to console Hank. Michelle's best friend her entire life, she kept her auburn-brown hair tucked beneath her black hat. The wind chaffed Lori’s porcelain skin, bringing out rosy patches that helped to accentuate her green eyes. She gave Hank a hug before stepping aside to let the other mourners pay their respects.
When the last of them removed the funeral flag from
their car and drove through the cemetery gates, Hank and Corey remained standing at the edge of the grave site. Across from them, on the other side of the chasm, stood Michelle’s parents, Fred and Martha.
Fred’s eyes were slightly spread, but warm and inviting. His silver eyebrows reached across his forehead and his full head of hair was pushed back, as it had been for decades. Fred’s lips concealed all of his natural teeth, including the narrow gap between the front two. He wore the only black suit he owned, the one Hank remembered from his wedding and Corey’s baptism.
Martha stood beside Fred, as she had for more than four decades. She kept her hair short and tight, the red dye failing to keep the silver from streaking at her temples. Laugh lines and crow's feet hinted at her age, although her smile was as dazzling as the day it caught Fred’s attention.
Hank saw Michelle’s face in Martha’s and although they used to joke about Michelle turning into her mother, he thought it would have been a glorious sight to behold. Michelle’s charm was a genetic gift from her mother.
“We should get Corey out of the rain. Maybe warm him up with a nice cup of hot chocolate.”
The sound of his grandmother’s voice grabbed Corey’s attention. The boy straightened up, his curly hair wet and tangled. His face thinned as the tell-tale signs of puberty began to whittle away the pudginess of childhood. Corey’s lips hid rows of teeth too large for his mouth. The acne on his left cheek was inflamed. He was thin but wiry. The kinetic energy was bundled inside his muscles like a downed power line.
“How about it?” Fred asked Corey. “Nobody can resist Grammy’s hot chocolate. Why do you think I’ve stuck with her all these years?”
Hank smiled at Fred’s joke before he realized he was doing it. He quickly brought a hand up to his mouth, looking down at his wife’s open grave, embarrassed to be smiling at a funeral.
“Sounds great, doesn’t it, Corey?” Hank asked.
The boy looked up at his father, holding back the pain like a levee about to burst. Corey’s inability to speak did not hamper his ability to convey emotion. The look on his face made Hank want to crawl inside the casket with Michelle.