They expected he was going to either attempt a feckless and unwise escape to the south, which was blocked by another phalanx of police, or he was going to stop and surrender. They never expected him to do what he did next.
Rev broadcast his energy field in all directions and caused the molecules in the Phantom to resonate at the same frequency as he did. It was an instantaneous event. Almost imperceptible to the human eye. Those who were watching noticed, but only subconsciously. A slight flicker, as if one frame of a movie was missing. Then something wonderful and bizarre happened. Something that blew everybody’s minds.
The Phantom turned to dust. Not all at once, and not immediately, but bit by bit. Starting with the two black fenders that curved together in front. Then the chrome grill, the round external headlights, all wrapped in chrome. The shiny metal crumbled away like glitter, shimmering and remaining in outline, only in elongated streaks, heading straight for the sides of the parked cop cars.
A shot rang out, puncturing the Phantom’s extended hood and engine compartment before it had the chance to dissolve into mystic powder completely. No harm done. Cosmetic damage. Still, it was close. The whole thing was close. Inches close. Then the car dustified from front to back, melding right into the squad cars, disappearing.
Shock pervaded the minds of those who witnessed the bizarre spectacle. Shock and a certain amount of pride. Somehow, the people knew that strange and arcane specter in his old-fashioned yet ultra-modern machine was a force of good. Even the police, though not pleased with the show of speed and reckless driving, somehow knew this person, this thing, had no sinister intentions.
Gasps and murmurs. People with their phones cheered that they’d gotten the event on video. Later, they would be disappointed as all they had recorded were smears and blurs. Nothing tangible. Rev’s identity was safe.
But his ass wasn’t.
“What did you do to the Phantom!” The second Rev materialized in the underground Gasworks garage, he wished he hadn’t. “What is this!” Morris cleaned his glasses furiously, then flung them onto his disheveled face, widening his bloodshot eyes as he examined the car’s hood. “A bullet hole! Rev! What have you been doing!”
“Relax,” Rev wafted out of the Phantom in a rapid breeze. One millisecond he was seated in the car, the next he was standing next to it. Simple as that. “There’s no real damage done.”
“Sure,” Morris was peeved at Rev’s cavalier attitude toward his work. “What do you care? You go out, demolish the equipment, and then bring it in for good old Morris to repair. Did you ever consider me for a change?”
“Morris,” Rev said assuredly. “You can fix it. I know you can.”
“Sure I can. I always can. But you have to understand I have about a quadrillion other responsibilities around here, and none of them include fixing bullet holes in the Phantom. You’ve been out playing chicken with the police again, haven’t you?”
“No, I—”
“Rev, you agreed you wouldn’t race through the city. It draws too much attention. If just one police officer gets a good look at you our cover could be blown and then…”
Morris stopped talking because he noticed someone had joined them. Abby, still sweating from her workout, heard the commotion and ran to see it if was what she thought it was.
“What did you just do?” she couldn’t catch her breath. Not from the exercise. She was beginning to hyperventilate because she knew Rev’s SME level was low. She could tell by looking at him. “Did you just translocate the Phantom?”
“No.” Rev stated categorically. Morris quickly and decisively rebuked him.
“Yes,” he said. Rev cast him a glare but Morris only shook his head as if to say he deserved it. “And he put a bullet hole in the fender!”
“A bullet hole!” Abby was now officially hyperventilating.
“I didn’t put it there,” Rev was trying to smooth it over but only made it worse with his next statement. “It was the police.”
“The POLICE!” That did it. Abby went beyond concern for Rev’s supernatural health. Let him exhaust all of his energy until he faded into nothingness never to return, never to exist again. She meant to tell him that, meant to give him a rarified and raw piece of her mind. But before she got the chance, an alarm rang out. An all too familiar alarm from an all too familiar source. In the basement it came as an old-fashioned bell, a metal hammer pounding on a brass cylinder to the beat of some otherworldly tune. Right away all three Ghost Guard members knew who it was—Mahoney, their contact from ParaIntell, the super-secret government agency that kept order in the supernatural realm.
“We’re not done here,” Abby warned.
“I still have a little bone of contention as well,” Morris wasn’t as angry as Abby, but close.
*****
When Abby, Morris, and Rev reached the conference room, Ruby and Brutus were already there, staring at Mahoney’s obese image on the big screen. Mahoney squinted and shook his head as if some terrible bug was in his brain and if he rattled it hard enough the thing would seep from his ear. “I have some, well, let’s say not bad news, but not the best of news, either.”
“Mahoney,” Abby was already irksome at the fat man’s coyness. “We’re all adults here,” she glanced at Rev. “Most of us, anyway. Just say it.”
“It’s your next assignment,” he gulped down what sounded like the biggest frog in Calaveras County. “Oh what the heck, I’ll just tear of the Band-Aid and tell you—it’s an exorcism.”
“An exorcism,” Abby sat back in her leather recliner. She feigned aloofness when her heart rattled in her chest. Not from nerves, but from exhilaration. This was what she lived for. This was why Ghost Guard was formed. This was the pinnacle of their mission profile. When it came to protecting spirits, exorcisms were by far the most sinister, the most dangerous, and the most harmful to the innocents. Most of the time, the one administering the rites didn’t know what they were doing. They didn’t know that exorcisms had wholly detrimental effects on a transient spirit. In almost every case, the possessing spirit is sent to a place from which no soul ever returns.
The word went around the room like a rumor, muttered in low breaths.
“I thought that would get your attention,” Mahoney said, paying particular consideration to Rev and Abby. “This is as serious as it can get. A spirit is in danger of the worst kind of banishment, and it’s up to you to stop it.”
As he spoke, a flood of data poured forth on the screen. The first was a picture of a girl. Seventeen. Golden blonde hair and a hint of acne.
“This is Melissa Hardgrove. She’s possessed.”
“Possessed by?”
The picture changed to another female, this one older, though not by much. However, the image itself was quite older. Dated to the 1940s by the dress and hairstyle.
“Alexandra Petrovic, wife of noted scientist Emile Petrovic.”
“Emile Petrovic?” Morris perked up immediately.
“So you know of Emile Petrovic?” Mahoney should have known.
“Of course. He’s influenced much of the technology I work with today. When he died he was on the forefront of electro-paranormal research, the very innovations that led to the use of the statmag recovery chamber and many of my other inventions.”
“Then you know when he died he was working on a device that he claimed could—”
“Summon and control demons, yes,” Morris completed Mahoney’s sentence. “That’s what he claimed. I’ve tried to replicate it many times with no success.”
“Not just demons,” Mahoney said with almost too much delight. “The machine could reportedly control all manner of malevolent beings.”
“Fascinating stuff, guys, really,” Rev had to break into the conversation. “But what does that have to do with our exorcism?”
“Everything. As Morris can tell you, our Doctor Petrovic died under some violent and mysterious circumstances. After he died, his young bride started accusing people of murder. Powe
rful people.”
“And then she was killed, wasn’t she?” Abby said.
“Yes,” Mahoney closed his eyes and opened them slowly. “And before she died she said some very interesting things.”
“I’ll take this,” Morris cleared his throat. “Mrs. Petrovic vowed she would come back from the grave to clear her husband’s reputation and seek revenge on those who wronged him.”
“Is that what she’s doing?” Abby cycled through the data. Pictures of the young couple together in a park, summer blossoms, a sweet, lily laden pond in the foreground. “She’s come for revenge?”
“She’s come for more than just revenge. She’s looking for her husband. In all of her statements before she was murdered, and from the things we are learning about what Melissa Hardgrove is saying in her possessed state, the widow Petrovic is confused and scared and alone. And, most of all, she’s saying her husband’s soul is still being persecuted even in the afterlife. That’s why she inhabits the girl’s body. She keeps saying her husband’s soul is being tortured and held against his will and she’s desperate to free him.”
“That poor woman,” Abby gasped. Ruby agreed with a series of toots and chirps.
“And now she’s on the verge of being expelled into oblivion,” Rev added.
“There’s never been a case more perfectly suited for Ghost Guard,” Morris said proudly. “I’m just glad we’re around to help in this most desperate time of need.”
“Good,” Mahoney said. “Emile Petrovic was an innovative man. His soul deserves to rest in peace, and so does his young bride.”
“We have to help her,” Rev said.
“Yeah, but…” Abby hesitated. Rev caught onto her semi jocular manner and took the bait.
“But what?”
“She’s a beautiful woman, Rev. You sure you can handle yourself? Every mission involving an attractive woman you end up in bed with her.”
Rev was taken aback. That sounded like something she would have said weeks earlier, in the days before they were an item. If they were still an item at all.
“You know what, Abby? You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Good,” Mahoney chimed in. “Then let’s go save a soul.”
Chapter 4
In a quiet house, on a quiet street, in a quiet neighborhood, Father Gabriel Thomas stood before a lonely grandfather clock in tastefully decorated room nobody ever used. It was midevening, and outside the moon and stars shimmered enticingly while aromatic wisteria blooms sparkled with crystalline dewdrops.
Father Thomas watched the clock’s brass pendulum swing with rhythmic regularity as he pondered the task before him. He had his work cut out for him. That much was certain. Though this was the kind of job he relished. Saving innocent souls was his forte, his passion, the number one reason for his existence. Sending the unclean spirits who possessed those souls back to the place they came from was a close second.
Tick-tock-tick…tock
The ancient clock kept unreliable time. Father Thomas checked it against his Timex. Just as he thought. Slow. But its resonant tick-tocking and the melodic chime it produced every fifteen minutes soothed him as he prepared his sacrament.
Its lacquered cherry finish, sinuous curves, and crystal facing took the elderly priest to another time, transporting him back to his grandmother’s dining room. So did the baubles and trinkets, shelves of curios and collectibles. However, he wasn’t there for reminiscing. He had a delicate and exhaustive job to do. A labor of love. A labor of faith. A dangerous dance with an emissary from hell, if not the devil himself.
“We’re ready to begin, Father,” said Montague, aka Monty, the priest’s assistant.
“I’ll be there in just a moment. Go now. Prepare the parents for the Blessed Sacrament.”
“Yes, Father,” Monty disappeared into the hall, leaving Thomas alone in the parlor. Alone with the grandfather clock. And his bible, a relic just like the clock, only older and even more timeworn. The cover was ripped and its pages tattered and faded. Its binding crumbled despite the many crude attempts at repair. Even the words Holy Bible had been denuded by the countless hands that had held it, venerated it, turned its pages, felt salvation in the Word of God.
Father Thomas raised his right hand, holding his crucifix with rosary beads dangling from his fingers. He made the sign of the cross while issuing his final prayer before the rite was to begin. Under his breath he asked the Heavenly Father to protect him, to guide him, but most of all, to safeguard the poor girl who had been so savagely invaded by the unclean spirit he was about to cast out.
Before he went in, one last ritual was to take place. The adorning of the ribbons. Decorated with the visages of all the most revered saints of antiquity, the ribbons were carefully placed over his head by his assistant, who had returned and was waiting by the door. With a shake of his wrist, Father Thomas sprinkled a few drops of holy water on Monty’s face and shoulders. Then he did the same with the doorjamb leading to the possessed girl—Melissa Hardgrove.
Father Thomas heard hollow and insufferable cries of torment even before he entered the bedroom. The holy water only made matters worse. And when he opened the door, seeing the girl’s sallow, sunken eyes, the beleaguered cries grew even more unbearable. In her face the priest saw a wicked malformation. He knew the Hardgroves. This wasn’t Melissa Hardgrove
His first real glance at her made his lungs seize. The gravity of the circumstances hit him straight on. This was real. A real spirit from some contaminated place occupied that poor girl’s body. If he didn’t have faith in the family’s words and in their desperate pleas before, he did now.
The Hardgrove girl had been showing classic signs of possession for several days, and the strange behavior had recently progressed into pure lunacy. It got so bad, the family had to tie down the poor teenager, and that’s what the elderly priest saw. A four post bed, the kind a young girl dreams of, the kind that would normally make a girl feel like a princess. Now it was her prison, her torture chamber. Wrists bound and feet tied, she struggled, thrashing her knees and elbows and jerking her midsection violently when she laid her bloodshot eyes on the man of God.
She whimpered and moaned, capturing the elderly priest in an involuntary stare. Father Thomas locked onto her for a moment, trapped in a visual snare set just for him. In that fleeting second, Melissa almost seemed normal. Her distorted features returned to that of a softly shaped and delicate teenager, the teenager he’d come to know well over the years. Then the features altered, strangely and grotesquely, into some other face, with some other eyes. Who was this spirit? Where did it come from? Father Thomas breathed deeply, casting aside petty questions. Whoever it was, this spirit had the wickedness and sinister motivations enough to overtake the flesh and blood of a living person, and that act alone was evil.
Father Thomas inspected the room’s occupants, scanning for any type of overemotional response. He didn’t want anyone in there who couldn’t handle the strange and often frightening events to follow. Sharon Hardgrove, the matriarch of the family, a young woman in her own right, clasped onto her husband Greg. The father and breadwinner of the family, Greg Hardgrove kept up a firm and brave face for his brood, which also included a boy, Danny.
“Are we gonna do this thing?” the redheaded fifteen-year-old showed off his metal mouth and held up his video recorder. “I wanna put it on YouTube.”
“Danny!” his mother wiped her eyes, yelling at her son without looking at him. Obviously she was used to scolding him. “Stop it! Your sister…she’s—” and she fell onto her husband’s shoulder, buried in his sweater, sobbing.
“I’m just gonna get the good stuff,” the boy held the camera to eye level. “You know, the green puke and the head spinning. That shit’ll go viral, dude!”
“Danny!” Greg glared at his son, who shrugged and blinked.
“What, Dad? We can make a killing on this. You know, clear evidence of the paranormal and all that.”
“I’d pref
er you not record today’s proceedings,” said the priest emphatically. Then he softened a bit and chuckled. “The church doesn’t exactly want this kind of thing advertised. You understand.”
The moans and howls from the bed became unavoidable. Melissa, or, more accurately, the spirit inside of her, required to be heard.
“Where is he! I demand to know!”
On the nightstand, Melissa’s frilly lamp flickered on and off. So did the lights in the vanity. Danny, impetuous as he was devious, shrugged again and lowered the recorder to his hip, pretending to oblige with the Father’s wishes but instead recording the entire thing.
Father Thomas initiated his rites with the help of his trusted assistant, Monty. Together they recited the ancient Litany of Saints, calling upon each of them for wisdom and guidance in casting off this unclean spirit while sprinkling holy water. Melissa Hardgrove wailed and reeled, shaking the bedframe and rattling the windows. The woman in possession of the girl insisted on finding ‘him,’ calling for ‘him’ and saying if ‘he’ was here they would never be able to do the things to her they were doing now.
“And just who is he?” the priest dashed a sprinkle of holy water directly on the girl’s face. She screamed and writhed in agony as her mother writhed in her father’s arms. “Is he the supreme unhallowed being?” More holy water and more darkly resonant cries. “Is he the lord of darkness and the purveyor of perdition?” still more holy water and more agonized wails.
Melissa’s mother twisted and howled. She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, unable to watch her eldest daughter’s torment. Then, like a mother’s radar, she heard her youngest, a baby of only eighteen months. Little Brittney. She had put the child down for a nap only a few minutes earlier, and now Sharon heard her crying from the nursery.
Ghost Guard 2: Agents of Injustice Page 3
