Morris was in good shape and he covered ground quickly. The werewolf was running now, too, and the geography of the neighborhood meant that it had only one direction to go— straight toward Morris.
Morris stopped running about fifty yards from the pig’s house. Chest heaving, he stood in the middle of the street, feet apart, and waited. His left hand held the phone near his mouth. The right arm dangled by his side, the fingers twitching slightly.
The werewolf had seen Morris now. The half-animal brain realized that Morris was the only obstacle between the werewolf and safety. It ran right at Morris, growling, carnivore’s teeth bared.
Morris waited. The creature was about forty yards away, and closing.
Thirty yards.
Twenty.
Morris said into the phone, “Hit it, Libby! Now!”
At once, the black tornadic spiral began to dissipate. The werewolf, who either didn’t know the danger was gone or just didn’t care, kept coming.
Ten yards. Morris could hear the animal sounds the thing was making.
The werewolf was seven yards away when Quincey Morris drew the Colt .38 Special from the holster on his right hip and put a silver bullet right between its red, crazed eyes. Momentum kept the corpse traveling forward a little longer, until the dead thing came to a stop barely an arm’s length from where Morris stood.
Inside the brick house, Porgie Pig started at the sound of the shot.
“W-w-what the hell was that?”
Libby Chastain looked at him, a wide grin splitting her face as she said “Th-th-th-th-that’s all, folks!”
* * *
This fractured fairy tale is set, more or less, in the universe of my “Morris and Chastain Investigations” series, which is much darker, both in plot and tone, than what you’ve just read. It includes the novels Black Magic Woman, Evil Ways and Sympathy for the Devil, the novellas Play with Fire, Midnight at the Oasis, and Strange Magic, and the short story “Deal Breaker,” which is found elsewhere in this volume.
* * * * *
Bump in the Night
This is the city — Scranton, Pennsylvania.
It was a coal town once, but the last of the mines played out in the 1950s. Times were hard after that for a while, but people around here are tough. They bounced back. Today, Scranton’s a pretty good place to live and raise a family — give or take ghouls, werewolves, trolls, sorcerers, and the occasional demon. It’s enough to make you nostalgic for black lung disease.
Supernatural creatures are everywhere. We know that now, ever since they started “coming out of the coffin” following World War Two.
But Scranton’s got a bigger share of un-dead, former-dead, and almost-dead residents than you find in a lot of other places. Turns out, northeast Pennsylvania is the point of intersection of a whole bunch of ley lines, those invisible channels that carry spiritual energy. Apparently, the concentration of all this weird karma in the Wyoming Valley has been drawing supernatural creatures here the way a magnet attracts iron filings, and the “supes” didn’t even realize it.
Over the years, humans and non-humans have gradually worked out a relationship of peaceful coexistence, which is another way of saying, “Live and let unlive.” The arrangement works pretty well— except when it doesn’t.
In Scranton, if a vamp puts the bite on an unwilling victim, or some witch casts the wrong kind of spell — that’s when they call me. My name’s Markowski. I carry a badge.
I also pack a crucifix, some holy water, a bottle of powdered wolfsbane, and a 9-MM berretta loaded with alternating rounds of silver and cold iron. I was never a Boy Scout, but “Be prepared” is still a good motto to live by— especially if you plan to keep on living.
I’ve been a detective in the Occult Crimes Unit for six years now, usually on the graveyard shift— yeah, laugh all you want. I do it because that’s where the action is. My partner’s Karl Renfer. Like I said, I work nights by choice, but Karl does it because he has to— him and sunlight, they don’t get along so well. Karl’s a good cop, and I’d trust him with my life— even if he is one of the bloodsucking undead.
He knows I’m only kidding when I call him that.
The nightshift boss in Occult Crimes is Lieutenant McGuire. He’s an okay guy to work for, but the last time I saw him smile was two years ago— and even then, it might just have been gas.
One Wednesday in late September, Karl and I caught a complaint from some guy claiming that his house was haunted by a poltergeist. He was demanding that the department send an exorcist to drive the pesky thing away.
“Go check it out,” McGuire told us. “I’m not gonna call in one of our consulting clergy if this is just a case of rats in the attic.”
“Or bats in the belfry?” Karl grinned when he said that. Vampires have a weird sense of humor, sometimes.
“Them, too,” McGuire said. “Just try to get a fix on whether some supernatural entity is involved here. If there is, we’ll send the specialists in to handle it.”
“Anybody in the house been hurt?” I asked him.
“Not far as I know,” he said. “Just unexplained sounds, stuff moving around by itself— you know, like in the movies.”
On the way downstairs to our car I said to Karl, “Let’s hope it’s gonna be one of those movies with a happy ending.”
* * *
James and Eloise Irvin lived in a pleasant-looking white colonial on Lackawanna Avenue with their two kids— Claudia was 13, and Brian had just turned 11 a week earlier. If any of them were put out by a visit from a couple of detectives at 9:30 at night, they didn’t show it— of course, they had asked for us.
Karl and I interviewed the family in a living room full of wood paneling and brittle-looking French provincial furniture. Everybody was friendly enough, but the kids had trouble meeting my eyes for some reason. Maybe they were scared of cops. Lots of kids are, sometimes with good reason.
“You folks lived here long?” I asked.
“We moved in just over two months ago,” Mr. Irvin said. He was wearing a white button-down shirt and a tie— at 9:30 at night, in his own house. I wondered what he wore to bed— a tuxedo?
“And what brought you to our fair city, if you don’t mind me asking?” I may be the only person in town who refers to Scranton as “our fair city.”
“I’m a systems engineer, and the job they offered me at Customized Data Solutions pays quite a bit more than I was getting in New York,” Irvin said. “The cost of living here’s lower, too.”
“Whereabouts in New York?” Karl asked. He’s always careful to keep his fangs concealed when talking to civilians. Some people still freak out a little in the presence of a vampire— even one with a badge.
“Long Island,” Mrs. Irvin said. “Commack.” The circles under her eyes said she hadn’t been getting much sleep, lately. I figured that I knew why.
“How long were you there?” Karl asked.
Mrs. Irvin looked at her husband. “Fourteen years— right?”
He nodded agreement, then said, “What does it matter how long we lived in New York? The poltergeist problem is here.”
“We’re just trying to get a picture of the overall situation,” I said. “So, I assume you had no unusual … incidents … in your former residence?”
“Nothing at all,” Mr. Irvin said.
“All right, then,” I said, “what kind of poltergeist manifestations have you been dealing with here?”
On the ride over, Karl had used his laptop to check the municipal and police records. The house had been built in 1986, and four different families had lived there before the Irvins moved in. None of them had ever reported any supernatural phenomena, apart from one guy who’d complained that his werewolf neighbors were getting too noisy during full moons.
“Loud noises, objects flying around all by themselves, stuff l
ike that,” Irvin said.
“What kind of loud noises?” Karl asked him.
“Like something big, slamming into the house,” he said. “But when I go outside and look, there’s nothing there— not even any damage.”
It’s easier to get the back-and-forth going if there’s only two people involved in a conversation. So, giving Karl a slight nod, I took over the questioning.
“Notice any pattern to the noise? Does it happen every day?”
“Not every day,” Irvin said, “but three or four times a week, over the last month, at least.”
“How about time of occurrence?” I asked. “Any consistency there?”
He thought for a few seconds. “It happens in the evening, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Irvin looked at his wife. “Well, there was last Saturday afternoon, when I was watching the game— right?”
“Yes, I remember now,” she said. “I was getting dinner ready, so it must have been around 6:00 or 6:15.”
“Are you home on weekdays, Mrs. Irvin?”
“Yes I am— I’m a housewife. I had a job when we lived in New York, but Jim’s salary is bigger here, so I don’t need to work. I can focus on making a home for my family.”
“Have the noises ever occurred during a weekday?”
Her forehead wrinkled a little. “No, I don’t think so. Not that I can recall.”
“Okay, now, about the flying objects. “What kind of items are we talking about?”
“Glass, some plates,” Mrs. Irvin said. “Not the good china, thank God. A vase, once. Oh, and a pot on the range one night, while I was cooking.”
“Were you burned?”
“No— I was on the other side of the kitchen when it happened.”
“What were you cooking, do you recall?” I don’t know why I thought that was important, but my cop instinct said I should ask, and I always trust that instinct.
“I think it was… Brussels sprouts. Yes, that’s right.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Claudia make a face.
“My mom used to make Brussels sprouts sometimes, when I was a kid,” I said. “I got to admit, I didn’t like ‘em very much. It was a battle for her every time, getting me to eat the darn things.”
“Well, my kids eat them,” she said, a little stiffly. “Brussels sprouts are very nutritious.”
“I’m sure they are. All right, so everybody in the family has seen things fly around, is that correct?”
They all agreed, including the kids.
“Any kind of pattern that you’ve noticed there?”
“Now that I think about it,” Irwin said slowly, “it’s pretty similar to the noises— evenings, usually. Sometimes on weekends.”
I looked at Mrs. Irwin. “Never during a weekday?”
She shook her head slowly. “Nooo, not that I can remember. Do you think that’s significant?”
“You never can tell with these things. Any piece of information can be important. Now, let’s go back to the banging sound. Does this generally happen when the family is all together?”
Irvin scratched his chin. “I’m trying to think. The last time we heard it, I was in the living room and Eloise and Claudia were in the kitchen. I guess Brian was upstairs, someplace.”
“I was in my room,” the boy said quickly. It was the first time he’d spoken since Karl and I got there.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Can you remember any other occurrences?”
“It happened last Tuesday, I remember that,” Mrs. Irvin said. “Jim and I were on the sofa, watching the news, and Brian was sitting on the carpet, playing with those toy soldiers of his. I guess Claudia was—”
“I was upstairs, using the bathroom,” the girl said at once. Since the pounding noise had been happening pretty frequently, I wondered what it was about last Tuesday that made her remember so quickly just what she’d been doing at the time.
I thought about what I’d seen and heard in the Irvin house, and compared it with some other things I’ve come across over the years. Then I said, “If it’s all right with you folks, Detective Renfer here will sit down with you at the kitchen table and take your statements. We want to get as many details about these incidents as we possibly can.”
The parents murmured their assent.
“In the meantime,” I said, “I’d like to take a walk through the house, if that’s all right.”
Mrs. Irvin looked at her husband, who shrugged and said, “All right, Sergeant. Do whatever you need to, if it’ll help us get rid of this… thing.”
Irvin stood up, and the rest of the family followed suit. They were all heading toward the kitchen when I said, “And I’d like Claudia to show me around upstairs, if you don’t mind.”
Mrs. Irvin shot me the kind of look that people give to known sex-offenders. “I’ll be happy to give you a tour, Sergeant,” she said.
“I appreciate that, ma’am, but I’d rather have Claudia do it. Poltergeists are very responsive to children, for some reason. Maybe it will manifest itself if she’s with me, and I can get a better idea of just what kind of ghost we’re dealing with here.”
A determined-looking expression appeared on Mrs. Irvin’s face, and I knew she was going to give me a hard time about this. A mother’s instinct to protect her child, maybe. Claudia was in no kind of danger from me, but Mom didn’t know that.
I looked at Karl. Vampires don’t read minds, exactly, but he knew me well enough to understand what I wanted him to do.
“I really don’t think this is a good—” the mother began.
“Mrs. Irvin.” Karl didn’t say her name loudly, but she stopped talking and turned toward him. His dark eyes locked with hers as he said, softly, “It’s really all right. There’s nothing to be concerned about. My partner just wants to look around upstairs. No harm will come to your daughter.”
Vampire Influence— you gotta love it.
Mrs. Irvin’s face slowly cleared, like a thunder storm breaking up. “Well, I guess it will be all right. We certainly want to cooperate with your investigation.” She turned to her daughter. “Honey, will you go upstairs with Sergeant Markowski for a few minutes, and show him around?”
Claudia did not look happy about this. I was wondering whether Karl would have to use a little Influence on her, too, when she said, “Yeah, whatev. If I have to.”
The rest of the family headed into the kitchen with Karl. Claudia let me to the stairs, and I followed her up to the second floor.
I was pretty sure that’s where I’d find the poltergeist.
* * *
“There’s not much to see,” Claudia Irvin said, looking both irritated and nervous as we stood in the central hallway. She gestured toward the different doors. “There’s the bathroom. This is Mom and Dad’s room, here. Brian’s room is down there, and that’s my bedroom, the one on the right.”
“Let’s take a look in Brian’s room for a minute.”
I got the kind of put-upon shrug that seems to be part of every teenager’s repertoire, but then she turned and walked down the hall. It was in the boy’s room that I’d be most likely to find what I needed.
“Here it is,” she said. “It’s not usually neat like this, but Mom ran around straightening up everything when she heard some police officers were coming over. Like the cops are gonna care about Brian’s dust bunnies.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I told her. “I haven’t arrested a dust bunny, yet— although I once gave warnings to a couple of them who wouldn’t disperse when ordered.” From her reaction, I could tell that Claudia found me about as funny as algebra. I scanned the room slowly, trying to act like I knew what the hell I was doing. Then I spotted the kind of thing I’d been looking for.
I walked slowly over to the four-drawer bureau. On top of it was an alarm clock with some carto
on character’s picture on the face, half a Mars bar, some loose change, four or five toy soldiers— and a Wiffle ball.
The lightweight plastic sphere had slits cut all around its surface, to reduce mass and velocity when it was thrown or batted around. It was invented something like fifty years ago, so that kids can throw a ball around inside the house without breaking anything— that’s the theory, anyway. I’d been looking for something like the Wiffle ball, just in case I was wrong about Claudia— no point in her getting hurt. But I didn’t think I was wrong.
With my body between her and the bureau, I palmed the little plastic ball. Then I turned back toward Claudia, keeping my hand out of sight.
“Well?” she said. “Are you all done detecting in my brother’s room?” She was still giving me attitude, but that undercurrent of unease remained in her voice.
I let my gaze drift toward Brian’s double bed, saying “Yeah, I guess I’m just—” Then I stopped speaking, and stared at the bed with narrowed eyes.
“Claudia,” I said, “Will you do me a favor?” I kept staring at the bed. “Pick up those pillows off the bed for a minute, and hang on to them. There’s something I want to get a look at.”
With a theatrical sigh, she bent over her brother’s bed and grasped a pillow in each hand. I got ready, and as soon as she’d straightened up and turned back towards me, I whipped the Wiffle ball right at her head with all the force I could muster— which wasn’t a hell of a lot, considering what I was throwing.
She had only an instant to react. Something was flying right at her face, and her hands were full of pillows. So she did the only thing she could.
The ball had almost reached her when, defying the laws of physics, it veered left at a sharp angle. A second later, it bounced off the wall and fell to the carpet, just as if Claudia had swatted it away. Which is exactly what she’d done— she just hadn’t used her hands.
Claudia gaped at me, and the pillows fell to the floor. “You — you made me — you….”
“How long have you had the power?” I asked her softly.
The Devil Will Come Page 22
