Shadow People

by James Swain

  She thought back to Peter. He was safe, but for how long? He’d been kidnapped twice tonight, and it could happen again. He was not going to win this fight without some help. As a rule, the Friday night psychics did not get involved in each other’s personal lives, but this was different. This had started during a séance, when all of them were together. It was as much an attack on the group as it was on Peter, and the group needed to fight back.

  She dug out her iPhone. The digital clock on the face said 3 A.M. What some people called the witching hour.

  She rang her aunt, knowing she’d be up.

  * * *

  “What are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?” Milly asked by way of greeting.

  “Peter needs our help,” Holly replied, getting to the heart of the matter.

  “Is he there with you?”

  “No, he’s at home, and I’m at my studio.”

  “Have you been talking to him?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know Peter needs us, unless you’ve been scrying on him.”

  The words were not a question, but a statement of fact. Witches often spoke in such a manner to each other. It made small talk all but out of the question. “Come to mention it, I have been scrying on him,” Holly replied, deciding to meet her aunt’s charge head on. “I love Peter, although you already know that. I watch him sometimes. Actually, I watch him a lot.”

  “Shame on you, Holly. That’s wrong.”

  “Tell me you haven’t done the same thing, and I’ll apologize.”

  Her aunt went mute. Of course she’d done the same thing. Holly had spent part of her childhood at her aunt’s place, learning the art of witchcraft. Many times when she was supposed to be practicing, she’d snuck into her aunt’s study, and had seen Milly scrying on an unsuspecting person. Holly had never questioned it, and did not want her aunt questioning her now.

  “Tell me why Peter needs our help,” her aunt said, breaking the silence.

  “He came home to find that black thing from the séance in his house. It pulled him back to the other side. That’s two times in one night. When he came to, he looked shaken up.”

  “We cannot fight Peter’s battles for him,” Milly said.

  “This thing appeared at our séance. It’s a battle against all of us.”

  “It’s called a shadow person, and it has an interest in Peter. Peter must deal with this.”

  “You’re not going to help him?” Holly’s voice rose indignantly.

  “Peter is the son I never had, and I love him with all my heart. But there are some things which a psychic must experience on his own, without the interference of others. It is part and parcel of the learning process we all go through. Someday, you will go through it yourself.”

  “He nearly died,” Holly said, not hearing a word her aunt just said.

  “So?

  “What do you mean, so?”

  “Did I not teach you anything when you were growing up? Our lives are not days at the beach. The trials and tribulations that a psychic must endure are far greater than those of a normal person. It is the price we must pay for these dark gifts.”

  “Have you paid such a price?”

  “I most certainly have. So have Max, Lester, and Homer, who was struck by a car and left blind. Every psychic goes through a trial of some kind. May yours not be so harsh.”

  “We still must help him,” Holly said. “If not for Peter, then for ourselves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The FBI were in Peter’s place when this happened.”

  “How did the FBI get involved?”

  “Peter contacted them. Instead of calling one of us for help, he called them. Do you see my point now?”

  The sharp intake of Milly’s breath sounded like a gun going off. Next to the Devil, the police were their worst enemy, and capable of ruining their lives. “Yes, I do,” her aunt said. “I will call the others in the morning, and seek their opinions. I don’t like you interfering in Peter’s life, but in this you are right. We must help Peter deal with this.”

  Holly was relieved. Milly was as stubborn as a mule, and so was she. The difference was age. It was rare for Holly to come out on the winning side of an argument, and she chalked this one up as a major victory.

  “May I make a suggestion?” her aunt said.

  “Of course.”

  “Instead of scrying on Peter, why not scry on the killer Peter saw during the séance? Once he’s caught, this thing will be over.”

  “But I don’t know who the killer is. I need a name to work with.”

  “Why not use the name that Peter gave him—Dr. Death?”

  “Will that work?”

  “It should. Peter gave you the man’s physical description, and said that he lives in Westchester County and is a college professor. How much more information do you need?”

  “I’ve always had a name before.”

  “It’s time for the training wheels to come off. You can do it.”

  “I’ll most certainly try. Good night, Aunt Milly.”

  “Good night, dear child.”

  * * *

  Holly ended the call. Milly was right. Her time was better spent finding Dr. Death than spying on Peter and his girlfriend. And if she did happen to find the killer, then wouldn’t Peter be thrilled? It would put their relationship on a whole new level.

  Drawing the shades, she relit the candles, filled the vase with tap water, mixed in the magic herbs, and pulled up a chair. Into the vase she stared.

  Oh, spirit from above, help me find a twisted college professor,

  Who’s trying to kill the man I love.

  This man is small and somewhat fat, with a thick beard, and eyes like a rat.

  He lives in a county called Westchester, where he kills women for his pleasure.

  His name is unknown, so we’ve given him one, all our own.

  We call him Dr. Death, and so should you.

  For Death is his calling card, and the thing he shall always do.

  The water became the color of mushroom soup. As it cleared, Holly saw the image of a man sleeping on a bar in a smokey tavern. A cigarette burned in an ashtray while a movie played on an old TV with bad color. Was this Dr. Death? The man looked more like a drunk than a serial killer. The bartender tried to shake him awake. The man stirred, and raised his head off the bar. He looked directly at Holly, and she froze.

  Evil had a face. It was mean and cruel and lacked a soul. It could be seen in the faces of evil dictators and ruthless madmen as they stood at podiums and made hateful proclamations. The man sleeping on the bar had such a face. His expression was ugly and harsh, and lacked compassion for other human beings. No wonder Peter had christened him Dr. Death.

  Dr. Death continued to look right at her.

  Then he spoke. “Fuck off.”

  The water grew cloudy, and he vanished.

  “Damn it!” Holly said.

  10

  The serial killer in Holly’s vase of water was named Harold Munns, “Doc” to those who knew him. Forty-five, never married, he lived in the town of Pelham in Westchester County where he’d grown up. He had no friends except the bottle of whiskey on the bar.

  “Last call,” the bartender announced. “Come on, Doc. Don’t make me toss you again.”

  Munns lifted his head off the bar. “Fuck off.”

  “Watch your language.”

  “Gimme some coffee.”

  A steaming cup was set in front of him. Munns sucked it down, felt himself come around. The bar was clearing out. He settled his tab and followed the others outside. Someone asked him if he had the time.

  “Three A.M.,” he replied.

  Munns wondered if the others understood the significance of the hour. Christ had died on the cross at three o’clock in the afternoon, so it had been decided by Satan that his disciples would be most active twelve hours later.

  Three A.M. Some called it the witching hour, others the Devil’s hou
r. It really didn’t matter: More bad things happened at three A.M. than at any other time of the day. That was a fact, and had been for two thousand years. Munns, and people like him, made sure of that.

  “This town sucks,” Munns said hoarsely.

  The late-night crew laughed. To them, Munns was a fat, chronically shy townie who worked at the local college and liked to get drunk on cheap whiskey, and that was all he was. If the police ever caught Munns and his crimes became known, his friends would be sure to say, “But he seemed like a decent guy.” because that was how he acted around them.

  The late-night crew got in their cars and spun their tires in the loose gravel. Soon Munns was all by himself. He sucked on a cigarette.

  “I hate this fucking place,” he shouted.

  He’d lived in Pelham his whole life. The town had redbrick streets and gaslight replicas on every corner. It sold itself as a great place to raise a family, but that was a lie. A child could be locked in a dungeon here, and no one would care.

  Soon, he was driving his Volvo through town. The streets were deserted, and he could have broken the sound barrier and not gotten a ticket. But that wasn’t his style. He never broke the law or drew suspicion to himself. The trick to being a killer was to stay off the police’s radar. His friend Ray had taught him that, along with many other useful things. If not for Ray, he’d probably be doing life in prison right now.

  He passed the railroad station where the town’s homeless lived. Ten years ago, he’d used it as his laboratory. With the promise of a warm meal, he’d had lured homeless men to his car, strangled them, and dumped their bodies en masse in a field. He’d read in a book that when the homeless died, no one cared. The book had been right. No one had cared.

  He pulled into a seedy strip mall, his destination a tattoo parlor called the Blue Devil. A blue neon sign in the window said CLOSED. Munns knew better and got out.

  His legs felt like rubber. Booze was his weakness, but that was okay; the town was filled with drunks, and he fit right in. He banged on the front door with his palm. Ray, the owner, came through a beaded curtain and unchained the door. A self-proclaimed body artist, Ray had decorated himself in tattoos which covered ninety percent of his skin. Every tattooist had something he did particularly well. Ray’s specialty was ghoulish skeletons, flesh-eating zombies, and the assorted demons and serpents that guarded the gates of hell.

  “How’s it going?” Ray asked.

  “I’m hungry,” Munns said, shaking off the cold.

  “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, over nine months.”

  “Is there someone in the wings?”

  “You’re very perceptive.”

  “Give me a name. It will help me visualize her.”

  “Her name is Rachael.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirty-two. Single. Tall and trim. A runner. Tight ass.”

  “You’ve seen pictures?”

  “Google Images.”

  “Is she coming here?”

  Munns smiled and nodded.

  “When?”

  “Friday night on a train from New York. I’ll be picking her up at the station. She thinks she’s been invited to do an internship at the college. Won’t she be surprised when I take her to my house, and lock her in the basement.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought everything out.”

  Ray headed toward the back of the parlor. Munns fell in line behind him.

  Just thinking about Rachael’s arrival got Munns excited. Like most serial killers, his killing fell into cycles, which could be represented by the hands of a clock. Each time he killed, he felt satiated and very happy. That was the first three hours on the clock. The happiness faded away, and he would fall into a depression, hardly able to come out of his house and function. Those were the next three hours. This depression led to a manic stage, where he would begin to plot to secure his next victim. Often, he would stay up for days at a time, and was filled with unbridled energy. The next three hours. Finally, he would reach the countdown, where his next victim was about to step into his web. During this phase, he drank heavily, and felt like he was having a nervous breakdown. Those were the last three hours on the clock.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Ray said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A new tattoo. I’ve been working on it all day.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. Just for you.”

  They entered Ray’s studio with its black walls and a space heater that faced a barber chair hex-bolted to the floor. Munns stripped down to his trousers. He was shaped like a bowling pin, with all his weight centered around the middle. His upper body was covered in tattoos, but not as spectacularly as Ray’s. There was still much work to be done.

  “Where’s this new tattoo going to go?” Munns asked.

  “On your right arm,” Ray said. “I want you to look at it every single day. It will serve as a reminder. Now take a seat, and we’ll get started.”

  Munns sat in the barber chair and tried to get comfortable. He’d been physically abused as a child, his body used like a punching bag by his parents, and the prospect of having a hot needle stuck into his skin was not appealing. But there was no getting around it. Ray’s tattoos had been his salvation; each time he got one, he became a new man.

  Ray snapped on a pair of rubber gloves like a surgeon. He removed the needles from the sterilized autoclave bag, fitted them into his tattoo machine, and turned on the power by stepping on a foot pedal. Coils sent an electric current through the machine, causing the needles to move up and down at a rapid pace. His unblinking eyes searched for the virgin skin on Munns’s arm. Finding his target, he pounced.

  Munns settled in for the ride. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d gotten a flyer in the mail containing samples of Ray’s work. Looking at the grisly images, he’d known that Ray was someone he should meet. Up until that point, Munns’s killings had been poorly organized, more to satisfy a dark craving than any life calling. Meeting Ray had changed that. Ray had gone over to the dark side long ago. A convicted rapist and murderer, Ray had spent twenty years in prison, where he’d become a member of a group of devil worshipers called the Order of Astrum.

  The first time they’d gotten together, Ray had convinced Munns to join the Order. Ray had shown him that the taking of innocent life was part of the Order’s master plan, and that if he subscribed to that plan, his ability to cause suffering would only grow.

  Munns had liked Ray, and had decided to sign up.

  Part of the process required that his body be covered in tattoos, just like Ray’s. It had all been done in secret, with the sessions taking place late at night in the Blue Devil’s back room. Thirty-three sessions so far, his pasty white skin gradually being replaced.

  New skin, new attitude.

  One day, in the not too distant future, he’d be done, and everything but his hands and face would be covered with images of death and despair. And when that day happened, the Devil would own him, just as he owned Ray.

  “Can I see the new tattoo?” Munns asked.

  “Not until I’m done,” Ray replied. “Now, tell me about Friday night. Who is this woman? How did you find her?”

  “She e-mailed the college about an internship that was posted online. I intercepted the e-mail, and made contact. She sent me a résumé, and it fit all the requirements. Young, brilliant, filled with ambition. She thinks she can change the world.”

  “Does she push back at the darkness?”

  The vibrating needle touched a nerve in Munns’s arm. He silenced the scream coming out of his mouth. “Yes,” he gasped. “She pushes back at the darkness.”

  “How?”

  “Cancer research. She told me she was on the verge of a huge discovery, but it was going to take more time before she could publish her findings.”

  “Our Father will be pleased.”

  “My only desire is to make him happy.”

  “And mine as wel
l. Will her disappearance be noticed?”

  “She has no family, and recently moved to New York, and has no friends. I spoke with her several times and gained her confidence. She believes I’ve arranged living accommodations for her on campus, and even the use of a car. She will step off the train on Friday night into my trap, and will never be seen or heard from again.”

  “Won’t the people she works with miss her?”

  “She works part time at a college when she’s not doing research. She told me she was planning to resign her post this week. Friday will be her last day.”

  “A perfect victim. There, I’m done.”

  Munns’s right arm felt like it was burning. Never before had a tattoo hurt like this. Ray picked up a mirror, and held it in front of his latest creation. In its reflection was a red-eyed demon holding a decapitated human head.

  “What is that thing?” Munns asked.

  “Surtr,” Ray replied. “According to Norse mythology, Surtr is a member of a race that is as strong as the gods. He looks small, yet can spring up at any time, and become a Jotunn, or a giant. At the end of the world, Surtr will wage war with the gods, and ravage the world with fire.”

  No wonder his arm felt like it was burning. “Whose head is he holding?”

  “Don’t you recognize him? He’s famous.”

  The decapitated head belonged to a handsome young man with dark spiked hair and an expressive face. He looked vaguely familiar, and Munns tried to place him.

  “I feel like I know him,” he said.

  “He’s a professional magician named Peter Warlock, who’s also a psychic,” Ray replied. “Warlock will come to Pelham, and try to stop you from killing Rachael. Your job will be to kill Warlock. If you succeed, you’ll become one of the Order’s chosen few. Does that sound appealing to you?”