Dead Pool (Exorcist Files Book 1)

by Marty Shaw

  “She was pregnant,” Adult Carla said, spitting up more water, her skin growing cold and clammy. “She wanted to help me, but she was pregnant.” She looked at Lochlan, her eyes becoming milky white. “Please help me,” she said in a gurgling voice, her lungs filling with water. “I don’t want to be like this.”

  A cough drew Lochlan’s attention towards the side of the pool. Susan and Ashley were kneeling on the white tile floor, Samantha sitting up between them. Lochlan looked around as if waking from a nap. The vision was over. He was back, still kneeling before the angry spirit of Carla. She glared down at him. “Now you know,” she said in her waterlogged voice. “They have to die.”

  “Do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord,” Lochlan recited. “It is not your place to judge for that right belongs to one above all of us.”

  Carla growled deep in her throat. “I see no judgement; no justice.”

  “You’re right,” Susan said, climbing to her feet and positioning herself protectively in front of her daughter. “We were a bunch of dumb kids too scared to tell anyone what happened. . . but I’m not a dumb kid anymore. I’ll tell what happened. If it helps you find peace, I’ll tell. . . and I’ll make the others tell, too.”

  Carla glared at Susan and then turned her gaze to Lochlan. She closed her eyes and took a deep, gurgling breath. When she opened her eyes, it was the adult Carla he’d seen in his vision that was standing before him. “Thank you,” she said in a soft, clear voice before disappearing into a mist of water droplets that floated to the floor.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lochlan sat back in the recliner in their hotel room, reading the main story on the front page of the paper. Susan Stephenson, formerly Susan ‘The Shark’ Jones, had come forward about an incident that had happened fifteen years ago. Plagued by guilt, she had decided it was time to reveal what had happened that fateful night when Carla Bailey was found dead in the school’s swimming pool. She named names, and the police were working on locating all the girls who had been present that night. Charges were pending, but it looked like Susan would avoid any serious charges since she hadn’t actively participated in the events that led to Carla’s death.

  “Woohoo!” Ashley exclaimed, giving Derek a high five. She spun the laptop around so Lochlan could see the screen. “Check out those numbers,” Ashley said gleefully. Views and subscriptions are going through the roof. We might set some kind of YouTube record.”

  Lochlan leaned forward and studied the page. “The Exorcist Files?”

  She grinned. “Yeah. I figured you deserve the credit since you do most of the hard work.”

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “We’ll just bask in your glory.”

  “I work alone,” Lochlan said.

  Ashley nodded. “And you can keep working alone. Just with the two of us tagging along.” She flashed an innocent smile that Lochlan didn’t buy for a second. “What do you say?” she asked in a sugary-sweet tone.

  Lochlan stared at her for a few seconds. His eyes dropped to the pentagram necklace around her neck. He remembered another redhead with green eyes who wore a necklace just like that. She was filled with dark magic and an insatiable hunger for death and destruction. Was Ashley like her? “We’ll see,” he said, raising the paper back up.

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  Keep reading for a sneak peek at Fractured Reflection.

  FRACTURED REFLECTION

  “It’s ugly.”

  Sarah sighed heavily, and then flinched out of habit, ready to feel her husband’s fist against her face. Instead of looking at her, he continued looking at the mirror, his face twisted in disgust. She breathed a sigh of relief. Hank didn’t usually let his dark side show in public, but there was a first time for everything. “It’s vintage,” she replied.

  “Vintage shit,” Hank replied, glancing around the cluttered flea market. “Like everything else around here.”

  “You didn’t think that was shit,” Sarah said, nodding her head towards the waistband of his jeans.

  Hank snorted. “That is a handgun to replace the one those fucking cops took from me when I got pulled over for no reason last month.”

  Sarah fought to keep from rolling her eyes. She had been with him the night he got pulled over. After begging him to let her drive because he had been drinking—and getting cussed out for it—she had endured the most terrifying fifteen minutes of her life as he swerved from lane to lane. She felt unadulterated relief wash over her when the police pulled them over. Of course, Hank had to be an asshole to them, resulting in them deciding to search the vehicle. The relief she had felt vanished when she saw his eyes fill with rage as they confiscated his unlicensed weapon. She was thankful, for herself and the two policemen, that Hank was in handcuffs when they put him in the police cruiser.

  She had been so happy as she drove Hank’s shiny, new Chevy pickup home. Hank was drunk, and he was angry, and that meant he would surely run his mouth and possibly even try to start a fight. He’d be behind bars for a couple of weeks at least; plenty of time to make plans to be somewhere else when he got out.

  But she hadn’t counted on the on-duty sergeant at the police station to be one of Hank’s hunting and drinking buddies. The paperwork on the incident mysteriously disappeared and the two arresting officers suddenly couldn’t remember pulling anyone over that night. Hank was back before sunrise, and he had been as mean as ever, somehow blaming Sarah for his little misadventure. It had taken two weeks for the bruises to go away.

  “Please, honey?”

  Hank snorted again. “Funny how you only call me honey these days when you want something.”

  Funny how I thought you were a decent man when I met you. Sarah forced a smile on her face. “It’s not as special if I say it all the time.”

  Hank shook his head, but she could see a slow smile form on his face; the same boyish smile that used to make her weak in the knees. “You always know the right thing to say.” He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll buy the stupid, ass-ugly mirror for you. . . but I’m not loading it.” He turned and walked away, muttering not quite under his breath about women and their stupid little knickknacks.

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know what she would’ve done if Hank hadn’t changed his mind. Probably laid down on the ground and died. She wanted—no! NEEDED—the mirror that bad. It called to her with a siren song she couldn’t resist. And the really strange thing was, she had no idea why.

  The mirror was obviously an antique, made back in the day when craftsmen spent time including details that showed off their skill. It was a full-length oval mirror on a swivel stand, with a frame made of dark wood that had a wide variety of strange, intricate characters and designs carved into it: leafy vines curling up the sides, with little smiling elf-like faces peeking out here and there, little birds—robins—flying over bare skies of wood when the vines stopped, and in the center, directly over the middle of the mirror, a medieval-looking jester, who appeared to be smiling and crying at the same time.

  Sarah hated to admit it, but Hank was right. The mirror was ugly. But she loved it.

  “Need help with that, ma’am?”

  Sarah jumped, startled. She looked over at a young man who couldn’t be much older than twenty-three, his broad shoulders and thick biceps stealing attention from his friendly smile and curly blond hair. He looked like a California surf god. For just a second, she wished she was ten years younger. He was young, virile, and seemed friendly. In other words, he was everything Hank wasn’t. She smiled up at the tall, young man, imagining having a torrid affair with him, imagining Hank walking in on them and this young hunk with biceps like tree trunks beating her husband into the ground. Her smile grew wider. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Mr
. Biceps chuckled good-naturedly. He had to have noticed the way she was ogling him. “I asked if you needed any help with the mirror. Your husband paid for it but made a point to say he wouldn’t be helping you load it so it would... never mind.” His cheeks flushed red, anger flashing through his eyes.

  Sarah patted his shoulder, letting her fingers linger just a little longer than they needed to. Damn, those muscles were solid. “It’s okay,” she said. “I imagine he said something like it would take all day or he wished he brought a few beers because he was going to be here a while waiting for me to do something useful.”

  Mr. Biceps nodded. “Something like that.”

  Sarah shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  “A gorgeous woman like you shouldn’t have to get used to being treated like that.”

  Sarah blinked. Did this mountain of handsome testosterone just call her gorgeous? She felt her cheeks heat up and ran a hand nervously through her hair. She looked up into his blue eyes and thought again about having him on top of her, inside her, imagined the shocked and then angry look on Hank’s face when he walked into the bedroom, not suspecting anything, imagined the anger being replaced by an expression of fear as Mr. Biceps climbed out of bed—completely naked—and beat her dog of a husband to death before returning to bed to finish pleasuring her.

  “Jesus, Sarah!” Hank bellowed from the truck. “Are you going to move your ass or do I need to get my money back?”

  Sarah grimaced. Mr. Biceps frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Let me help you with this.” He picked up the mirror, his biceps growing even larger as they strained under the weight of the heavy mirror.

  Sarah bit her lip and held back a moan as she followed him to the truck, watching the muscles of his back move under his tight t-shirt. She had never cheated on Hank, despite his best efforts at being an asshole 24/7, but she would toss those wedding vows in a heartbeat if she had half a chance of getting this blond beefcake in bed. She laughed silently at herself, shaking her head.

  It was a nice thought, but Sarah knew it could never be anything more. She was always the good girl. If Mr. Biceps stripped down right here and she knew Hank would never find out, she’d still do the prim and proper thing. It was just who she was. She was honestly surprised that she was even having thoughts like this.

  Well, if you go long enough without having that itch scratched, you start looking for ways to scratch it. And DAMN! I bet he can scratch places that have never even been touched.

  Sarah gasped, her cheeks warming as she looked around wide-eyed. Did she really just think that? It was her voice. In her head. But she had never had a thought like that before in her entire life.

  Mr. Biceps sat the mirror down at the tailgate and looked at her. “You okay?”

  Sarah nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  He looked at the bed of the truck. “I’d hate for the mirror to get scratched up or broken before you even get it home. Let me find an old blanket or something to cushion it a little bit.

  “Thank you,” Sarah said softly, not wanting to say any more than absolutely necessary; afraid those thoughts—those strange yet exciting thoughts—might find their way out.

  “Yeah,” Hank said, rolling his eyes. “It would be a crying shame if something made the ugly piece of shit even uglier before we even got it home.”

  Mr. Biceps gave Hank a look that threatened violence before quickly turning and heading back towards the cluster of tin buildings that made up the flea market.

  * *

  Mr. Beach Bum isn’t here now so let’s see how you get that monstrous thing in the house.

  Those were Hank’s words to her before giving her an evil laugh and walking towards the house. He expected her to fail, expected her to come begging him for help.

  “Fuck that,” Sarah muttered, and then gasped. She swore every now and then but she had never used the F-word before. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. It had taken nearly half an hour but she had managed to slide it off the bed of the truck without breaking it. Her reflection looked back at her, fiery pride shining in her eyes. Did she really have that look? She doubted it. She blinked, and then leaned closer to the glass. She would’ve sworn she saw her reflection nod; just one tiny, quick nod. But that was impossible. This time, her reflection gave a quick shake of her head, again very subtle. One tiny turn to the left, one tiny turn to the right, and then back to center.

  “Oh my god,” Sarah gasped. “Did you just shake your head?” She immediately felt foolish, but then her reflection gave another up and down tilt of the chin.

  “Oh my god,” Sarah said again, excitement and worry coursing through her at the same time. Excitement because she had a mirror that was somehow alive, worry because she thought there might be a good chance she was going insane.

  Inside.

  It was her voice, whispering through her mind like smoke on the wind.

  Fractured Reflection will be available soon.