Homecoming (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 1)

by Scott Langrel

  “Don’t have much of a choice,” Finn McCoy replied. “Not if you want to keep on breathing.” He looked at Ron with no small amount of disdain. “If you shit in the devil’s bed, he’s likely to take notice of you.”

  “How was I supposed to know it was a demon?” Ron looked sick, his defiance beginning to melt away.

  McCoy shook his head. Ron wasn’t a bad guy, but he was a complete idiot. A self-proclaimed paranormal investigator, Ron spent his time hanging out in cemeteries and old, abandoned buildings, taking readings with his various instruments and snapping hundreds of photos of dust particles. He was harmless, for the most part, but this time he’d stepped in a pile of crap he couldn’t scrape off his shoes. While performing a “cleansing” for a client, Ron had managed, through a series of mispronounced words in Latin, to royally piss off a major demon.

  Now it was up to McCoy to minimize the damage. Getting the demon out of the client’s house wouldn’t be a problem, but ensuring that it wouldn’t follow Ron home and fillet him like a rainbow trout might be a bit tricky. Demons were grudge-holders of the highest order, and once they got a whiff of your aura they could hunt you down anytime and anyplace they wished. To save Ron’s mangy hide, McCoy would have to banish the demon, not just from the house, but from the physical world entirely.

  “We went over this when I agreed to help,” McCoy said. “I’ll get rid of the entity, but the only way I can be sure that it works is if you’re in there with me.” In truth, Ron did not have to be there at all, but McCoy was intent on teaching the fool a lesson. For Ron’s own good, of course.

  “But it scratched me,” Ron whimpered. He lifted his shirt to show McCoy, for the hundredth time, the small red welt on his side.

  “It’ll do a lot worse than that if we don’t get rid of it.”

  “Couldn’t you just do it by yourself? You know, one PI helping out another?”

  “I’m not an investigator, Ron. I’m a handler.”

  “What’s the difference?” Ron whined.

  “Well, look at it this way. You investigated. Now I’ve got to handle it. And you’re coming with me.”

  Ron looked miserable. He was scared to go back into the house, but he sure as hell didn’t want the demon following him home. All of his electronic equipment and recorders would be of no help to him against the evil spirit. He had no choice but to do as McCoy said, like it or not.

  “Okay,” he said reluctantly.

  “That’s the spirit,” McCoy said with a grin. “No pun intended.”

  They left the sidewalk where they’d been standing and walked up the front walkway to the house. It was a big colonial with a gambrel roof. McCoy thought that that the owner must be doing pretty well for himself, and wondered if Ron had charged for his services.

  “The family isn’t here?” McCoy asked.

  “No. They ran out when the dining room chairs started flying around the room.”

  “Swell,” McCoy said. He pushed the front door open and peered inside. Nothing seemed amiss, but McCoy was too seasoned to go waltzing in unprepared. He removed his canvas knapsack from his shoulder and set it on the front stoop. From within the bag he produced a small jar containing a powdery substance. He opened the jar, poured a small amount of the powder into his hand, and sprinkled it on himself. Then he turned and dusted Ron, who looked at him questioningly.

  “Powdered lavender,” McCoy said.

  “Um, okay. Listen, Finn, I know you’re really into this Voodoo stuff…”

  “Hoodoo,” McCoy corrected. “And I’m into whatever works, Ron. Now shut your trap and follow me.”

  McCoy stepped into the front foyer, Ron reluctantly on his heels. The air within the house was acrid—stale, with a bit of sulfur thrown in. The curtains had been drawn over each and every window, affording them limited visibility. The furnishings inside the home were modern, and in this room, at least, everything seemed meticulously neat and in order. McCoy flipped a light switch to no avail. He took a small flashlight from his knapsack and thumbed it on.

  To their right, a doorway opened up into what appeared to be a den or sitting room. Directly opposite of that, to their left, was the dining room. McCoy headed in that direction, the beam of his flashlight sweeping the interior of the house in wide arcs. The house was silent except for a soft ticking noise, probably a large grandfather clock which McCoy had yet to see.

  They stepped into the spacious dining area. Unlike the foyer, this room was a mess. The chairs that Ron had described as flying around the room now lay scattered on the floor, a few seemingly intact but most in pieces. The bulbs in the overhead lights had shattered, leaving shards of broken glass which crunched under their feet as they walked. The smell of sulfur was stronger here, and for the first time since entering the house, McCoy sensed a hint of the evil presence, but only for a split second, and then it was gone.

  “We need to go upstairs,” McCoy said, motioning at Ron to lead the way.

  “But most of the activity happened here,” Ron argued.

  “I’m not debating that. The thing we’re after, however, is upstairs.”

  “Why do I have to go first?”

  “Because I’ve never been inside this house before, and you have,” McCoy said impatiently. “Get me to the stairway, at least.”

  Ron backed out of the dining room and back into the foyer. He turned deeper into the house, past the sitting room. Just beyond that, to the right, was a staircase which led to the upper landing. McCoy went first, taking the steps slowly, one at a time. A cold draft drifted down the stairwell, causing their clothes to billow and turning their breath into a white mist. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees for each step they ascended. By the time they reached the upper landing, Ron was visibly shivering.

  They came out into a hallway which led to the four bedrooms and one bath on the second floor. All of the doors were closed, but Ron pointed out which doors led to which rooms. The door at the very end of the hall led to the bathroom. McCoy was less interested in that one; he sensed the evil presence in one of the bedrooms on the left side of the hallway.

  “Stay close,” he whispered, and moved to the first door on the right. The vibes here were bad, but just to be sure he went to the second door and stood in front of it. Satisfied, he returned to the first door. He turned and gave Ron a serious look.

  “Okay, this is it. It’s liable to get nasty from here on out, so I want you to stay behind me and keep out of the way. Got it?”

  Ron nodded solemnly, but he looked ready to bolt at any minute.

  McCoy grasped the doorknob. It felt nasty in his hand. Stifling his revulsion, he twisted the knob and eased the door open.

  It was even darker in this room than in the rest of the house, though that shouldn’t have been physically possible unless the windows had been boarded up. When dealing with demonic entities, however, the laws of physics went out the window. The smell of sulfur was nearly overpowering. As far as McCoy could see, nothing moved within the room, and no sounds crept out of the darkness.

  He shifted the knapsack so its contents would be within easy reach and eased into the room. The décor indicated that it was a child’s bedroom; a boy, from the looks of it. The small bed was made to resemble a racing car, and the bed covers were decorated with cartoon images from a popular children’s movie. The curtains on the window were pulled back, but no light entered the room from the outside. Evil dwelt within the room, and McCoy could feel it watching him with cold, hate-filled eyes.

  “Ostendo vestri,” he said softly. Show yourself.

  He received a menacing, otherworldly growl in response.

  “Ostendo vestri!” McCoy called loudly, and Ron jumped backwards with a pitiful gasp. Behind the bed, in the corner of the room, the darkness began to deepen and solidify. The room grew colder by half, causing goosebumps to form on the flesh of McCoy’s arms. The growling resumed, rising in intensity, like a maddened pit bull approaching at breakneck speed. A toy car raced across the fl
oor and into a wall, the impact shattering it into a thousand pieces.

  The demon formed from the shadows and regarded McCoy with unbridled hate. It had taken on a canine-like appearance, something between a dog and a wolf. It was a favorite among demonic entities, meant to inspire terror and dread. Looking at the thing, McCoy was forced to admit that it worked pretty damn well.

  “Tell me your name,” he said, this time in plain English. Now that the demon had been forced to reveal itself, the rules of communication were much more lax. More so than human spirits, dealings involving demons tended to rely heavily on structure and ritual. It irritated McCoy to no end, and he just wanted to be finished with the whole affair.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the demon purred. Demons were gender-neutral, but could take on the appearance and characteristics of either male or female as they pleased.

  “I demand it,” McCoy said flatly.

  The demon made no reply. Instead, it began to move toward them, its powerful haunches swaying with each step. With a shriek of undiluted horror, Ron turned tail and sprinted across the hall and down the steps, his screams echoing in the downstairs rooms and out the front door. McCoy gave his departure only passing attention; his eyes were fixed on the evil entity in front of him.

  “You know you can’t harm me,” he said. His tone was casual but steady.

  The thing stopped and looked at him, its head cocked the way a dog’s might. It appeared to smile, inasmuch as its twisted features would allow.

  “Do you think I wish that?” it asked.

  “Of course. It’s what all of your kind desires—the torment and suffering of humanity.”

  The demon laughed, its voice changing from that of a sultry young siren to that of an old, rattle-breathed hag. “Yes,” it croaked. “You’re right. But sometimes the deed is more pleasurable to watch than it is to perform.”

  McCoy paused. Demons often spoke in vague terms or riddles, and seldom answered any question with a direct response. Obviously, the entity was inferring that it need not harm McCoy because someone or something else was going to, thus saving it the trouble. Since demons, like ghosts, could see future events to a certain extent, he thought it might be prudent to pursue the conversation a little further.

  “You can only watch it if it actually happens.”

  As if in response, the demon changed forms, no longer a mutated wolf-dog, but a young girl in a white sundress. The child had blonde hair and appeared to be about three or four years old.

  “Do you recognize me, McCoy?” the demon-child asked in a little girl’s singsong voice.

  “No,” McCoy answered, but he was suddenly on guard. He didn’t know who the little girl was supposed to be, but he thought that he had seen her before, somewhere. It could have been a child he’d passed on the street or had glanced at in a park. She could have been anyone.

  “Then mark my face,” the child said with a giggle. “I am your doom. I am your destruction. All who stand in my way shall perish.”

  “Are you trying to kill me with riddles?” McCoy asked. He was no longer in such a hurry to banish this particular demon. Though they were notorious for being deceivers, it was possible that this one might have information that could be helpful, if not downright critical. But it was like trying to trace a phone call in an old movie—you had to keep the demon engaged long enough to find out what you wanted to know.

  The child-thing giggled again, then its face mutated into a terrifying visage. The eyes were black as night and bulged from their sockets. The mouth stretched out and became a thin slash along the lower part of its face. The nose all but disappeared, leaving two gaping wound-like holes in its place.

  McCoy had to force himself not to shrink away from this sight, for he knew the creature standing before him all too well. A Sluagh, one of the Unforgiven Dead. He suddenly felt very cold. Outside of Europe, he knew of only one place where the Sluagh could be found.

  Shallow Springs.

  “Ah, but you recognize me now!” the demon cackled, seeing McCoy’s revulsion. “Your end is coming, Finn McCoy, and I will be there to bear witness!” With a deranged laugh, the demon spun and leapt back into the shadows in the corner of the bedroom. McCoy, too slow on the uptake, fished a bottle of holy water out of his knapsack, already knowing that it was too late. The demon was already fading, its laughter receding like the horn of a speeding train. By the time McCoy uncorked the bottle, it was gone. Sunlight poured into the room, and the temperature shot up a good thirty degrees in seconds.

  “Shit,” he said to the empty room. The cartoon characters on the bedspread grinned at him.

  Ron was waiting safely across the street when McCoy came out of the house. He gave McCoy an apologetic look.

  “Is it gone?” he asked.

  “From the house.”

  “What?” Ron was suddenly alarmed, his embarrassment forgotten. “What about me?”

  McCoy reached into his knapsack and retrieved the lavender powder. He tossed it to Ron.

  “Your new bath powders,” he said.

  “But…”

  “Relax, Ron. It wasn’t there for you. It wanted to give me a message.”

  Ron looked unhappily at the jar, but remained silent. McCoy left him standing there and went to his truck. It was a beat-up relic with fading camouflage paint. It would never win a race, and simply making it to his destination was sometimes questionable, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

  “Time to go home, Boo,” he said, referring to the nickname he’d given the truck long ago. He patted it on the side of the bed. A few flakes of rust drifted to the ground.

  McCoy removed his straw cowboy hat and ran a hand through his long, graying hair. He was tired—he tired a lot easier than he used to. He also suffered from insomnia, and his knees hurt like a bitch when it rained.

  Aging really needed a better PR guy.

  As he was pulling himself up into the seat, his cell phone rang. He looked to see who was calling and immediately had a bad feeling. Considering the events that had just taken place in the house, this couldn’t be good. He hit the answer key and put the phone to his ear.

  “We’ve got a problem, Finn,” the voice said from the phone’s speaker.

  “We? You got a mouse in your pocket, Lyle?”

  “Always the comedian. And after I’ve covered your ass so many times.”

  “Your ass more than mine, if I remember right.”

  Bob Lyle laughed. It was a nervous laugh. McCoy didn’t like the sound of it.

  “I’ve got seven people missing,” Lyle said finally. “Two this week alone.”

  McCoy winced. “From the same area?”

  “No. That’s the problem. They’re scattered. One from the Mill Dam, two from Drover Mountain. One near Miller’s Ridge. The rest are even closer to town.”

  “Closer than usual?”

  “Closer than ever before.”

  McCoy was silent. People were always disappearing in Shallow Springs. Usually, however, they vanished at a rate of one a year, maybe two. Sometimes they disappeared in groups, like the loggers and that environmentalist fellow a few years back, but that was rare. The Fey were hungry, but they were also sly and not prone to draw unwanted attention to themselves. Something was happening, something bad.

  “You still there?” Lyle asked.

  “Yeah. I suppose you want me to come up there.”

  “Who you gonna call?” Lyle meant it as a joke, but it failed miserably.

  “When?”

  “Today, if you can.”

  “Let’s make it tomorrow,” McCoy said. “Early, say nine or ten.”

  “I’ll be at the station,” Lyle said. Then he was gone.

  McCoy stared at the phone, but it wasn’t about to give him any answers. He sighed wearily. That town was going to be the death of him yet. He should have burned it to the ground fifteen years ago, when he’d left for the supposedly last time. The place was like a black hole, constantly drawin
g him back in.

  Well, he wasn’t going to worry about it until tomorrow. He’d messed things up enough for one day. Shallow Springs would wait.

  The Fey would wait. Just as they had, for centuries now.

  Chapter Two

  It was late afternoon when McCoy arrived home. His small bungalow, out of place among the nicer homes which lined the street, was located near the dead-end of the road. Most of his neighbors were elderly couples, and the neighborhood was usually quiet. Unless it was mid-morning, when they all seemed determined to drown out the sound of each other’s mower.

  The grass in McCoy’s yard was considerably higher than that of his neighbors. Lawn maintenance was not high on his list of priorities, ranking somewhere between cleaning the gutters and a trip to the dentist. Up until this summer, he had employed a teenager from the next block over to mow, but the little fart had up and gone off to college, leaving McCoy to fend for himself. He supposed he could work something out with one of the old guys on his street, but somehow it just seemed wrong to pay Grandpa to mow his yard for him.

  He guessed he would have to break down and do it himself. It wasn’t, after all, a large yard, and there were no ornamental trees or bushes to mow around. McCoy liked it that way. The fewer hiding places between him and his front door, the better. He kept the interior of the house the same way—sparsely furnished, nowhere to hide. It made things a lot easier for a man in his line of work. You never knew when something bad might follow you home, and a small, well-lit home with few furnishings was preferable to a large, dark, and cluttered one.

  He left Boo sitting at the curb and went to the door. He carried only two keys on his keychain: one for the truck, the other for his front door. That way, if it was dark or if he was in a hurry, it was not difficult to locate the right key. He unlocked the door, glancing down at the red brick dust under the threshold as he did so. It didn’t appear to have been disturbed. The dust was an old Hoodoo trick used to keep out unwanted spirits, and it worked without fail. But since there were other things besides spirits which would gladly strip him of his hide and use it for a throw rug, he also carried a 9mm pistol under his shirt.