Occult Detective

by Emby Press

  I made a quick decision and fired. The shot was deafening in the domed building, causing everyone to pause except Elizabeth who flew forward, smashing her face into the pool’s edge as my bullet exited her chest.

  To their credit the Haverford locals backed away from their hostages as they realized I had the upper hand, but the Scandinavian continued to advance, committed to stopping Petunia. I didn’t have a clear shot at him but Petunia was on him in a flash, blocking his wild swings with her chain-wrapped forearms and then laying him out cold with a deft uppercut that resulted in a blizzard of teeth. Perhaps I should have warned him.

  With our main adversaries incapacitated or dead, Petunia began to work on the only door that would release us from this foul annex, although from the sounds she was making it was not merely a case of turning the handle. I glanced down at Penfold who was still crumpled on the steps and grabbed the rest of my equipment before setting out to cross the bridge to assist her. No sooner had I stepped upon the wooden slats than a thunderous belch issued from the turbulent center of the pool and a great shape heaved out, crashing down into the liquid mud which flew high enough to spatter the ceiling. I froze for an instant to size up this new foe, and really wished I hadn’t.

  The beast appeared not to be solid but a writhing mass of translucent tentacles, some as thick as my waist, others as fine as human hair. Floating beneath the surface of this repulsive mess were dark orbs that danced this way and that which I took to be eyes. On the back of the thing, coiled like a fiddle head, was the fleshy appendage that had done for the large woman and then several more of the pink tubes rose to the surface of the thing, unfurling and waving, tasting the air. The thinnest tendrils quivered and danced as the bulk continued to pour from its hidden lair and thicker limbs stretched out to probe the bridge at my feet, no doubt looking for a meal.

  Predictably, pandemonium had broken out at the far end of the bath house. The locals, who had surely seen this creature before, now clamored for the exit knowing full well that its hunger would need to be sated. Petunia rolled to one side with Stella, not wanting to be crushed against the thick oak barrier, and shielded the woman from the mayhem all the while keeping one eye upon the vile entity in the pool.

  It was at this moment that August Penfold chose to regain consciousness and he surveyed both the chaos in his bath house and his dead wife with an anguished scream. He fixed me with a venomous glare and started to run across the bridge. By now the creature’s fleshy probes were testing the area above the bridge struts and I had to hop and skip to avoid their flailing.

  One of them brushed against my leg and before I could move it instinctively snapped around my ankle and began to tug with great strength toward its main body. Penfold saw my predicament and smiled as he grew closer. I raised my gun and aimed at the old man, then swung it around and fired into the tentacle restraining me. Clear jelly burst like a firework into the air, coating me in foul smelling slime, and the limb released me only to be joined by two more which angrily thrashed in an attempt to locate their aggressor.

  My timing had been perfect and I neatly jumped to one side as Penfold reached me only to run into the welcoming arms of his God. The tentacles wrapped around his skinny frame and dragged him effortlessly off the bridge and into the pool while I continued my run to the other side. Penfold gargled a shriek as he was drawn head first into the gelatinous mass of the monster and then his protestations slowly abated as he was drawn deeper in, until all I could see was a faint and rapidly dissolving outline of the man.

  The beast now shifted its weight to turn toward the throng at the door and its tendrils whipped the air as it searched for more flesh. I squatted next to Petunia and Stella and cocked my revolver.

  “You planning to take care of us, mister?” whimpered Stella, eyes wide and full of tears.

  “Not in the slightest, my dear,” I replied, looking at my watch, “this is merely my back-up plan.”

  Perfectly on cue there came a loud thump and pieces of wall above the dais cracked and fell. A second loud thump, then another, and even the creature’s interest was piqued; its limbs following the sounds as they seemed to travel up the wall to the roof. Suddenly a metal spike lunged through a porthole and waved in the air then disappeared. A split second passed before an area in the ceiling half the size of the mud pool cracked like old varnish and collapsed, raining stone and plaster into the muck below, followed by the unmistakable bulk of a crab tank.

  The tank crashed into the rubble strewn water and slowly righted itself on hydraulic legs while twin steam vents on its back bellowed out thick white plumes and its crown of cannons rotated slowly, spitting fire at the glassy limbs already enveloping it. They exploded into sizzling blobs and the creature shuddered, gathering in its tendrils and attempting to retreat back into its hole.

  The tank scuttled forward, two of its metal legs pinning the beast to the floor of the pool while the guns tore into it. I saw one of the black eyes explode; shattering into fragments inside the transparent mass and the monster renewed its efforts, ripping its limbs free and oozing into the underwater hole. The iron crustacean had other plans and scuttled forward, plunging its two fore legs deep into the grotesque pile of limbs and allowing itself to be dragged along with it.

  A loud splintering crash told me the front door was now open and I remembered never to underestimate the power of a panicked group. As the naked and filthy group spilled out into the cool night air I motioned for Petunia and Stella to join them.

  “What about you?” yelled Petunia above the cacophony.

  “I need to see this through,” I shouted back, trotting over to the pools edge, “just get everyone clear!”

  “Will do!”

  The Swede was beginning to stir now, but I ignored him as I watched the combatants struggle closer to the middle of the pool. The crab tank had been flipped onto its side as it was dragged further under and the hatch on its belly popped open to reveal the lunatic grin of Billy Rusden.

  “Best be moving your arse, Mr. Rend!”

  “I’ll wait for you Billy, make sure you get clear.”

  “That won’t be happening, Mr. Rend, the old girl’s got a short fuse…” he punctuated his statement by waving a cluster of dynamite; a cluster that was already smoldering. “Thanks for the drinks!” he shouted before slamming shut the hatch and then the tank disappeared into the gloom along with the monster.

  I turned, leapt over the giant blond man and sprinted from the chamber into the sweet-smelling garden. Petunia had already herded the escapees toward the main gate and they were spilling out into the street much to the bemusement of several Haverford locals who had gathered to see what all the commotion was about.

  “Get down!” I yelled as I flung myself to the lawn. With my good arm shielding my head I twisted back to look at the bath house which now resembled an Indian tandoor oven as steam and dust billowed out from the gaping hole in the top and diffused the candle glow in the remaining portholes. I saw the silhouette of the Swede standing in the doorway; a silhouette that expanded rapidly as the building blew up. The ground gave a tremendous shudder and the sound of the explosion, though muffled, was still loud enough to wake the rest of the village. A mixture of filth and gore erupted into the sky and rained down into the grounds of the spa and then the building collapsed in on itself, disappearing in a confusion of rubble and mud.

  The masseur landed in a handsome pile next to me and groaned, his back peppered with shards of shell and stone. In an instant Elin was at his side, caressing his locks, and then a wailing woman rushed past me and I watched as one of the local cultists waded into the wrecked building, desperately attempting to gather globules of mud in her arms. I left them both to it and grabbed a tattered robe that had landed softly next to me like a petal.

  The road was now solid with onlookers but it took me mere seconds to spy Petunia and I pushed through the milling bodies toward her, taking her by the arm and throwing the robe over Stella’s shoulders before le
ading them away from the chaos.

  “Time to go, Pet.”

  “There’s quite a bit of wrapping up to do,” she said as we broke free of the rapidly expanding group of onlookers, “shouldn’t we stay?”

  I pressed on, eager to be as far from the stench as possible. “Krellen can send a team. I’ll message him as soon as we get back to my lodgings.”

  “Is it dead?” The question came from Stella Greene who had pulled the tattered cloth around her shivering frame and was walking backwards in her attempt to continue watching the mayhem.

  “Hopefully,” I replied, hugging Petunia closer as we strode purposefully toward the edge of the village, “at the very least we have given it reason to relocate.”

  Petunia smiled ruefully. “A pity about your friend in the tank.”

  “He died a hero; I’ll make sure the newspapers understand how he saved a dozen guests from a faulty water heater explosion, perishing in the process.”

  “Is that the best you can come up with?”

  “Right now? Yes. In case you had forgotten, we are still in chains, both of you are in need of clothing and we all smell of demon bile.”

  She snorted and squeezed my waist. “Then our first order of business should be a bath.”

  I was more than happy to concur.

  MATT BRIMSTONE, P.I.

  Christine Morgan

  Finding yourself chained hand and foot to a wooden chair in a falling-apart warehouse down by the docks, surrounded by big bruisers with brass knuckles embedded into their rock-hard fists, is nobody’s idea of a good time.

  Least of all mine, when it’s happening to me.

  Shot at, roughed up, chased down an alley so deep in festering garbage that it had about sucked the shoes off my feet…

  And I called myself a gumshoe? If only gum was the worst of it.

  Far as that went, if only roughed up was the worst of it. Could have done without the part where the goons wrestled me to the sidewalk with my face in the gutter—not pretty in any city, a damn sight worse in this one—cuffed my wrists behind my back, hogtied my legs, folded me in half and stuffed me into the trunk of a car that was not designed with comfort in mind.

  Now here I was, in this dingy, dismal warehouse. One swelled-shut black eye. Split lip crusting over with blood. Couple teeth that felt loose. Sprung ribs and bruised kidneys. Kneecap throbbing. Coat torn.

  Also, lost my hat. My favorite slate-grey fedora. I wasn’t happy about that part.

  The way these goons were glowering at me, though, I figured my hat really was the least of my worries.

  “I’m telling you,” I told them, “you got the wrong guy. I don’t know anything about—”

  “Shaddup, dick!” One of them swung backhand at me, the brass spurs on the brass knucks digging ragged furrows in my face.

  Here they were supposed to be questioning me, but every time I opened my pie hole to reply, they hauled off and let me have it across the chops again.

  Thuglodytes. Not too much in the smarts department, but they did enjoy their work.

  They were also uglier than the south end of a northbound Corpro-Leech. Lumpy, greenish-white skin dotted with weeping red pustules. Vital spots armored with thick grey chitinous plating. Clicking little round mouths like sphincters set full of yellow-toothed mandibles.

  But I’m getting the rumble seat ahead of the hood ornament, here. I should explain how this all got started. And it got started in Los Angeles, California, in the year 1939.

  *

  Los Angeles. The City of Angels, they called it, back in the day.

  Could be they still do, for all I know. It was glitz and glamour then. Movie stars and motor cars. The big studios, the big deals. The beautiful people. Dreams, flash, magic and opportunity.

  And like all things bright and beautiful, there was the underside. All things grim and gloomy. Dark, seamy, nasty as an alleyway quickie with a two-dollar whore. The crimes and the ugliness. Human nature at its barrel-bottom worst. It never ended.

  Lucky for me, or else I would’ve been out of a job.

  Back in the day, back in those days, the letters on the office door said Matt Brimmer, Private Investigations.

  Yes sirree, that was me. A gumshoe. A dick. Earning my scratch by people paying me to get the goods on other people. Cheating spouses. Runaways. Threats and extortion. Blackmail. Scandal. Those were my bread and butter, baby. Hell, they still are, after a fashion.

  Wish I could tell you how I had some trusty Gal Friday in my office, a doll perched there on a steno stool, skirt hiked just past dangerous, showing off gams like there was no tomorrow. Blonde like Jean Harlow, more curves than the road up into the Hollywood Hills. Playing the nubbin end of a pencil across full red lips like poisoned roses. With moxie, and to spare, when the chips were down.

  Wish I could tell you that.

  But it’d be a lie.

  No Gal Friday. No secretary at all, no one to take calls, make coffee, or chase around the desk. Was all I could do to afford my few closest friends: Mr. Beam and Mr. Daniels, for the most part.

  Those two fellas, a deck of cards and a deck of smokes got me through plenty of lonely nights when money was tight and prospects were tighter.

  I was no slouch, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t starting off each day scraping for enough dough to get a paper, a sinker and a cup of joe to blast the cobwebs out of my gray matter because I was some kind of knucklehead who couldn’t do his job.

  If anything, I was too good at what I did. Had a knack for it. Found out too much. Got my clients the answers that were true rather than the answers they wanted. Broke a couple cases that should’ve made me famous and instead made me enemies. Cut some corners, broke some laws.

  Hurt some people along the way.

  Most of them had it coming. Most of them, it was self-defense. If it’s him or me, I don’t want it to be me. Or if it’s them or me, like the time Mulroony’s boys jumped out of the back of a truck and opened up on me with Chicago typewriters…to this day I don’t know how I squeaked out of that with only two perforations in my hide.

  Ever see me with my shirt off back then, it was like looking at a country road map drawn by a not-too-bright school kid. I’ve been shot, stabbed, sliced, bonked on the bean with everything from a beer bottle to the driver’s side door ripped off a Chevrolet. I’ve been pushed down fire escapes, off rooftops and through windows.

  That makes it sound like I wasn’t so aces at my job after all, but I was. Those are the exceptions. Most times? Easy as pie. Get in, get the goods, get out, get paid.

  Sometimes I’d be asked, by dames mostly, why I did it. Why not, they’d ask, take a real job? A safe job? Or, if I was so set on being shot at, why not go John Law?

  Only answer I had was to laugh. No way I’d ever have made it as a flatfoot, never was much for the brown-nosing and lick-spittling that went along with a uniform and a badge.

  “Matt, it’s dangerous,” they’d say. “You could get killed.”

  “Like I’m gonna be around forever?” I’d give back.

  Turns out, you can do both.

  That’s what I learned the hard way after the case at the hotel. The Chateau Marmont. New Year’s Eve.

  You can get killed and still be around forever.

  Look at me, for example. I’m still in business.

  Just not in business in the City of Angels any more.

  It’s the City of Devils these days. It’s the Mephistopolis. The teeming and eternal city of Hell.

  *

  The four thuglodyte goons who’d stuffed me in the trunk were the same four looming around me now.

  Others moved in the warehouse’s dank recesses, shifting crates onto hand trucks. They were your basic working stiffs, lowbrow knuckle-draggers. When you buy your hired muscle by the pound, you don’t get the brightest bulbs in the marquee.

  Five or six fancyboys loitered nearby, passing around a jug of something that hissed-smoked-bubbled when a spilled drop hit the fl
oor. They were lean and wiry multi-limbed types, with oily-black fur and supple, boneless bodies that could bend themselves into pretzels.

  The fancyboys weren’t goons and weren’t dumb labor, and that was what worried me most. Well, that and the way they kept rummaging through assortments of boning knives, scorpions, wire strippers, miniature drago-magnesium blowtorches, and other items I didn’t want to see up close and personal.

  All in all, this was not looking good for Mother Brimmer’s baby boy.

  *

  The stenciled lettering on my door now reads Matt Brimstone, P.I.

  It’s the same basic story as before—creep joints, fences, grifters, shills, drugs, gambling, hookers—but with some infernal twists.

  Husband looking for his missus not because she’s been playing footsie with the sharp-talker down the street but because she stole out his kidneys and sold them to a passing Evisceration Wagon. Parents concerned about their Broodren daughter getting tangled up with some brainwashing hallelujah chorus instead of joining a Maenad blood-coven like any normal teenage girl. Tracking down a would-be blackmailer before incriminating pictures of some rich uptown devil with a kinky good-deeds fetish can hit the papers. Butchers using Sham-Rot to treat fresh meat and pass it off as the fine aged stuff to their Ghoul customers.

  That kind of gig. It’s a living. Or as close as you can get down here.

  I may not be rolling in kale, but I get by. Rent’s pricey down here, food’s pricier even if you don’t slop up the pasta viscera, ganglia marinara and vermicelli verminus every meal, like the big shot underworld crime bosses who run this part of town.

  The building where I hang my trench coat is ten stories of grime and decay on the corner of Bonnie and Clyde, a couple blocks over from the main drag of Dillinger Avenue and within shouting or shooting distance of a dive called Badfellas. I’m up on Eight, a long hike on days when the elevator decides it’d rather sprout brass fangs and chow down on anybody who steps in and grabs its lever. Which you wouldn’t want to do if you had any idea where that thing’s been.