American Demon Hunters_An Urban Fantasy Supernatural Thriller

by J. Thorn

  Corey nodded and stepped from beneath Hank’s shadow and into Martha’s, his breath visible in the winter air.

  “We’ll see you back at the house, Hank.”

  “I’d like to say my final goodbyes, Corey. Want to talk to mom one last time, in private. Go with your grandparents and I’ll be home soon.”

  Fred turned with Martha on his arm. Corey stood on his grandmother’s right as the three of them walked toward the car. Hank watched as they moved through the headstones. The headlights flashed on Fred’s Buick as he used the remote key to unlock the doors. Hank stifled a giggle as he thought about Fred locking the car door at a funeral.

  The old-timers are nothing but a bagful of idiosyncrasy and habit, he thought.

  Hank wanted to stay in that thought. His mind began to list all of Fred’s weird habits. He thought about Fred’s compulsive grass cutting, how the man could not go two days during the summer without starting the mower. He also thought about Fred breaking out the snow shovel when those first light flakes fell.

  But his mind did not indulge him for long. Thoughts of Michelle’s parents faded when Hank looked down. She was in the ground and that’s where she would be forever.

  He stood alone as the rain intensified, blurring the landscape with a cold, wet blanket. The taillights of Fred’s Buick blinked as the old man tapped the brakes and turned on to Mayfield Road, leaving Hank with the faint smell of exhaust mingled with roses.

  Hank reached into his pocket and pulled out a black hair band. Michelle liked it when he wore his shoulder length hair in a ponytail, so he thought he could at least do that much for her. He tied his hair back, exposing the creep of a widow’s peak and flashes of gray above his ears. He rubbed his goatee and blinked.

  The crying made his normally brilliant blue eyes watery and bloodshot. He stepped back from the edge of the dirt, sighed and looked over his shoulder. He was alone, the last living soul in the home of the dead.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do, honey.”

  His own words pierced his ears, feeling like broken glass inside of his head.

  “I, I just...”

  Hank coughed and shook his head.

  “I have to pull it together, right?”

  He waited for an answer that wouldn’t come.

  “I don’t even know what to do with Corey. I don’t know how he’s going to handle your death. I mean, he scribbles ‘milk’ on his notepad when he’s thirsty, but I can’t imagine what he’s going to write now...”

  Hank let the words trail off, aware he was close to blaming his dead wife for impeding his son’s recovery.

  “I’m going to miss you so much.” The words sounded trite before Hank finished the sentence. “I was never tempted. Not once. I know you liked to joke about the college girls throwing themselves at me, that I could have had my choice. But it was always you. I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. I remember the way your dark hair fell on your shoulders and that devilish spark in your eye. I can still smell your hair and feel the soft, smooth skin of your thigh. I could never love another.”

  The cold front passed above Lake View Cemetery on its way east over Lake Erie. The water was not yet frozen, allowing the wind currents to scoop up moisture and drop it back to the ground in the form of sharp, frigid December rain. The ground had not yet had a chance to freeze and the rain kept it cold but soft. Hank smelled the soil and when he considered why it was fresh, his stomach clenched.

  “I’ll protect Corey. I’ll do whatever it takes to be the dad he needs. It won’t be the same without you, but I’ll do everything I can to help him get better.”

  Hank smiled.

  “Your dad locked the Buick during the funeral. You know they’ve had a recent rash of car-jackings in the cemetery.”

  A rumble of thunder moved through and Hank almost believed it was Michelle laughing at his joke.

  “I love Fred and Martha. They asked to bury you here, where you grew up. I didn’t hesitate. I’ll always respect them and they’ll always be part of Corey’s life. I know that’s hard with us in San Francisco, but as much as they can be part of his life, I’ll make sure of it.”

  The rain came down harder and the sky disappeared beneath a gray gauze of clouds, as though the gods lowered a wool blanket from the heavens. Hank couldn’t remember how long he stood there or when the funeral ended.

  “I think I should be going. Martha probably has three cups of hot chocolate inside of Corey already and he’ll no doubt be having a full-course meal of donuts if I don’t get back soon.”

  More thunder rolled above the Garfield Monument in the middle of the cemetery. The wind pushed the rain sideways and Hank let it hit his face. He embraced the tears, taking comfort they were washed away by the rain. He didn’t want to leave his wife in grief, even if she was not able to see him.

  “I guess this is goodbye. When Corey and I come to visit your folks, I’m sure we’ll stop by, but it won’t be the same.” Hank squatted and reached down to touch the casket. It felt hard and cold. “I love you.”

  Hank stood, his chest burning and the rain pelting his head and shoulders. He took one last look at his wife’s gravesite and spoke again.

  “Goodbye.”

  Chapter 3

  “How long has he been asleep?”

  Martha smiled as she rocked in her chair. She held both hands up to the gas fireplace and nodded at Hank standing in the hallway.

  “Since Fred turned on the fireplace. You put a cold kid in front of a warm fireplace, you get a sleeper every time.”

  Hank grinned at Martha and pulled at the towel around his neck. The water dripped from the end of his ponytail, but Hank felt better after changing into a T-shirt and sweatpants. Empty, but better.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you and Fred.”

  Martha waved a hand in the air as if to shoo a pesky gnat at a summer picnic.

  “No, I mean it. Ever since the lightning struck Corey, we’ve been...”

  “You don’t have to say it,” Martha said. “We know.”

  Hank sat back on the couch. He looked around the living room and saw his wife’s face everywhere. Fred and Martha wanted their turn-of-the-century home to be as original as possible. When they first moved into the house in the mid-1960s, Fred spent evenings and weekends stripping the paint from the crown molding and restoring it. The Siszaks loved the elegance of the Rust Belt wealth, even though the neighborhood itself no longer sparkled with old, industrial money.

  They kept pictures of their children and grandchildren in ornate and matching frames, some hanging over the mantle and others dangling above couches fashionable when Kennedy was still in the White House. Hank’s eye was drawn to Michelle’s face no matter where he looked. He shook his head and turned back to face Martha.

  “You and Fred have helped us more than I can ever say. With Michelle gone, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Fred walked from the dining room, through the open doorway and into the living room.

  “Can you give us a minute, Martha?” Fred asked with a mug in one hand, steam rising upward and obscuring his swollen eyes.

  “I’m going to get Corey into bed,” Martha said.

  She set her cup on the end table, got out of her rocker and walked to the couch. She tapped Corey on the shoulder and the boy shivered. Without saying a word, Martha helped him up and guided him toward the steps and the upstairs bedrooms. Although it was still early evening, the storm clouds squeezed the remaining daylight from the skies.

  Fred sat in his favorite chair, across the coffee table from Hank.

  “She’ll get him situated,” Fred said.

  Hank nodded.

  “How are you doing?”

  Hank shrugged, unable to conjure words.

  “You’re a good man, Hank. We knew that the day our daughter brought you home. We know how much you loved her, what a great father you are. We love you like our own child.”

  Hank closed his eyes
. He squirmed and was tempted to ask Fred about the last time he changed his oil or how the Browns’ playoff chances were looking this year.

  “Please, Fred,” he said.

  “No. I know it's not easy for two men to be having this conversation.”

  Hank laughed and then shook his head.

  “What I mean is we love you, son. You treated our daughter like a queen and you’re a great father. You’re loving, attentive and you make a good living. I don’t know exactly what a college math professor does all day, but they pay you handsomely for it.”

  “I teach and I write,” Hank said, knowing Fred wasn’t really asking for an answer. “The last time I saw her, I...I don’t know how to say this.”

  Fred waited.

  “The last time we were together, I was kind of an asshole.”

  “What do you mean?” Fred asked.

  “I said some things. She was bitching about the leaky faucet in the kitchen, the one I let go for weeks, and she said she was going to call a plumber. She knew it would cost at least a hundred dollars for him to come out and another hundred to fix it and she knew that would anger me. I went all passive-aggressive on her and said ‘whatever’ and that’s the last time I saw her alive.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Fred said.

  “It does to me. I never got the chance to tell her I loved her, to tell her how much she meant to me. The last thing I said to my wife was ‘whatever.’”

  “Why don’t you transfer from San Francisco to Cleveland?”

  Hank sighed and shook his head. “It's not that easy. We have the house, Corey’s therapy, my job...”

  “You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you could derive a formula for all of that. Martha and I could help with Corey. The Cleveland Clinic is phenomenal. We’d find a new therapist for Corey and I know some of the maintenance guys at Case Western Reserve University.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” Hank said, “but they’re shoveling dirt on Michelle’s grave right now.”

  Hank stood. His head swirled as the grief and exhaustion took its toll. He reached out to steady himself by grabbing the top of the couch and waited for the vertigo to pass before speaking again.

  “Let me think about it. I’ve got a department report coming up and I’ve got to finish out the semester.”

  “Fair enough,” Fred said. “You let me know what you need.”

  “What I need is my wife, another chance to say goodbye.”

  “You’re not thinking straight. Your pain has you all twisted up inside. Michelle is gone and you can’t get her back. Trust me. I know it ain’t worth it.”

  Hank stopped and looked at Fred. The old man looked down. “What do you mean?” Hank asked.

  “Nothing. You should go to bed.”

  Hank turned and put a hand on the railing. He started walking up the stairs, stopped and turned to face Fred. The man’s face appeared to be melting as the light from the fireplace washed over it. Hank knew the old man was hiding something.

  Chapter 4

  8 Months Later (August 3, 2014)

  Although it would take longer, Hank knew the train ride from San Francisco to Cleveland would be easier on Corey than flying. After the lightning strike, his ears were more sensitive and the change in altitude was painful. The moving company arranged to have their truck arrive in Cleveland a day after the train. Hank decided having Corey’s grandparents nearby would be worth the move back to Cleveland.

  Hank decided to let Corey sleep and see if he could grab a coffee in the dining car. The boy couldn’t go anywhere on a train rumbling through the desert and Hank would be back in their sleeping car before he even woke up.

  Hank pushed the button on the door and waited for it to slide to the right. He stepped between the train cars, feeling the Nevada heat rise as though from an asphalt parking lot on a summer day, and continued into the dining car. The door slammed behind him and the train's air conditioning unit hissed and rattled as it struggled to regain the temperature. He sat at the first table, the white Formica glowing beneath fluorescent lights. He knew they wouldn't be serving at 2:30 in the morning, but Hank didn't care. He turned to gaze at the Nevada desert sliding by at seventy miles per hour when he heard the door open, sending another puff of hot air into the train's dining car.

  “May I?”

  Hank looked over his left shoulder as the woman stepped past and turned to face him near the opposite side of the booth. She wore a shawl and bifocals hung from a chain around her neck. Her hair sat in a silvery bun on top of her head with renegade wisps dancing like curls of smoke. The train shifted as it hit a seam in the track and the woman gripped the top of the seat, her glasses bouncing upon her huge bosom. Hank was about to stand and extend his hand when the train hitched back in the other direction, pitching the woman into the booth. She landed on the plastic seat with a soft thump.

  “I never get used to this no matter how many trips I take.”

  Hank smiled and the woman smiled back.

  “I hope I'm not interrupting you?” she said. It came out as a question.

  “No, not at all. I couldn't sleep.”

  “First time on a train?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Hank said, watching as she shifted her balance in response to the train’s motion. “I'm guessing you've ridden the rails before.”

  The woman chortled and leaned back into the booth.

  “I used to work for them, back in the late sixties, right around the time the government took over.”

  Hank wasn't sure what she was talking about, but he let her continue. He smelled an odd mix of muscle ointment and cinnamon.

  “I'm guessing we're still in Nevada?” Hank asked.

  “Until morning, at least,” she said. “We'll probably be asleep when we pass through Salt Lake City.”

  “Not if it's anytime soon.”

  “You are correct. They'll be asleep,” she said, waving her left arm at the cars tethered behind the dining car. “It'll be dark for us. We won't see the Great Salt Lake, regardless.”

  Although it was his first night on the train, Hank was accustomed to the small talk passengers made to get through the long trip. He spent most of the day in the sleeper car with Corey, each of them gazing at the golden California landscape beyond the tracks. But during meals and walks, they met enough people to understand the etiquette of train travel—small talk and banal chit-chat was expected of the passengers.

  “Where you headed?” Hank asked.

  “New York. I'm visiting my son and his family in Rochester.”

  “My boy and I are moving to Cleveland. He has a disability that makes driving or flying out of the question.”

  Hank hated the explanation worse than the pandering comments, but he figured saying it this way would allow them to move past it and discuss other banal topics.

  “I know.”

  Hank cocked his head. The mental script he prepared was now useless.

  “Huh?”

  “I've seen you with the boy. You were over there during lunch, two booths from me. He's handsome.”

  “Right. I mean, thanks.”

  The woman laughed again. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

  “It's late,” Hank said. “I'm not my sharpest right now.”

  “How's he doing?” she asked.

  “The doctors aren't sure he'll make a full recovery. They don't think he'll ever speak again. He was struck by lightning.”

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “But I meant, how is he doing on the train ride?”

  Hank sat back, exhaled and looked up at the ceiling. He shook his head and put both hands on the table.

  “My name is Hank,” he said.

  “Estelle,” she said, grasping his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Don't take this the wrong way, Estelle, but you remind me of my grandmother.”

  “I hear that often, although I'll bet half of this train reminds you of your grandmother. We senior citizens love the rails.”

  Estel
le smiled and waited for Hank to speak next.

  “Corey. My son's name is Corey and yes, he's loving the train. I'm sure he misses his mother.”

  “Ah,” Estelle said. “That is the shadow I see upon you.”

  Hank looked into her eyes and felt a tug at his chest.

  “You have nothing to fear from me. I have the sight. Not a psychic, that’s different. Let’s just say I can see and understand the feelings of others, those who are willing to share that with me.”

  Estelle still had his hand in hers.

  “I should be getting back to the sleeper car to check on Corey.”

  “He's sleeping,” she said.

  Hank looked around the empty dining car. A passenger walked down the aisle behind them toward the bathrooms. The lights flickered as the train took a curve, gently pushing them against the window-side of the table.

  “How do you—?”

  “Not important, Hank. Forget how. Look at me. Do you feel threatened or do you feel love?”

  He stared into Estelle's eyes and felt a surging love, like the warmth of a campfire on a cool autumn evening. “There,” she said. “Now you have your answer.”

  “I miss her. He misses her.”

  Hank shook his head. He couldn't believe the words were coming and yet Estelle nodded in understanding.

  “We all go when we're ready. When you hear people say, 'but they were so young,' it’s a misunderstanding. We all go when the master spirit calls us. Not a minute sooner.”

  “That doesn't help us, the ones left behind.”

  “No, it doesn't,” she said. “But this isn't about us.”

  “It's not fair for Corey.”

  “Don't lie to yourself. The pain you feel is not entirely on your son's behalf.”

  Hank looked around the dining car and saw the dry, empty coffee pots sitting on the burners. It would be at least three hours before the crew turned them on again.

  “I want her back.”

  “As you should,” Estelle said. “Longing is natural and part of the grieving process. Michelle knows that.”

  His deceased wife's name shook Hank harder than the seams in the track. He shivered and rubbed his forehead.