Trinity of Darkness: The Darkness Unbound Collection

by Glenn Porzig

  "Here is your coffee—just the way you like it—have you decided what you're having?"

  "I'll have Montezuma's Revenge. And can I have extra sour cream on the side?"

  "My, you are a brave one," she smiled at him, a twinkle in her green eyes. "One Mexican Special, side of cream!" she hollered out to the cook.

  Drake watched her walk away. She always had a smile on her face and a bounce to her step. Sometimes it was just nice to be around someone who was cheerful and upbeat.

  His job usually had him dealing with the worst of society. There was no denying that she was cute… but way too young for him. He figured he was a decade or more her senior.

  He'd long ago come to the conclusion that she was just naturally flirty. Still, it was nice to have the attention of a younger girl. It helped him to not feel as old. He remembered thinking that thirty was old. He'd turned thirty five this year and felt that forty was looming just around the corner.

  Then there was Belle. Actually there probably wasn't much of an age difference between Bryce and Belle, but while Bryce may have just been a girl—Belle was a woman. A mysterious woman. How could that fail to draw the interest of a detective? He wanted to know more about her, and hoped he'd have the chance.

  Drake looked up from his coffee to notice Bryce was now talking to a young man. Like Bryce, the man had red hair. He appeared a little older than her, and quite a bit larger.

  He couldn't make out what they were saying, but they appeared to be having some minor disagreement. Before long, the man turned and left. Drake noticed the young man had a slight limp.

  Bryce disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later she reappeared with a steaming pot of coffee and offered him a refill. She was smiling as if nothing had happened.

  "Top you off?"

  "Sure. Thanks."

  "Your order should be up shortly."

  "Hey, everything all right? Who was the big guy?"

  "Oh, him? That's just Derek, my big brother. He's nothing to worry about. But thanks for looking out for me."

  "Of course I look out for you. You're the one who brings me coffee."

  ***

  It had been an exhausting night, but it had been fulfilling. It was official, she had made the next evolutionary step in her career. Her first book had been published and readers had been lined up out the door to get it. All of those hours staring at a screen had paid off. Now she just needed a movie deal.

  Vicki Taylor made her way out of Belle's Books and Candles. She had parked out back to avoid being seen coming and going, a practice she had picked up as a television reporter. Normally she wasn't happy to be in the midst of the 'unwashed masses', but tonight had been all about her. Everyone that came tonight came to see her, and she took pride in it.

  She was almost to her car when the sudden appearance of a man drew her attention. She was startled and almost dropped her keys. She let go of the rolling cart that held the last of her books and rearranged her keys in her hand to be used as a weapon if necessary.

  "The signing is over, I'm sorry you missed me."

  The man stepped out into the faint amber light of the lone street lamp. She recognized him from earlier. He was holding two copies of her book in his hands. She felt the muscles along her shoulders relax as she stopped tensing them.

  This handsome well-dressed man may be a stalker, but he wasn't a thug. She was used to dealing with admirers who had maybe gone a little too far in the past. But a mugger would have been a different story.

  "I'm so sorry to have startled you Miss Taylor. It's me, Chris. We met earlier… you signed my book…"

  "I remember you. I'm sorry, it's late. I'm tired and about to head back to my hotel for the evening."

  "I was so happy to meet you and get my book autographed… I told my wife about it and she said her co-worker is a big fan. The girl has a birthday coming up and my wife asked if I could get an autographed book as a present for her… if it wouldn't be too much trouble…"

  Vicki hesitated. Her gut told her to get in the car.

  "It will only take a minute. I already bought the book… I've got a pen right here…" He was slowly walking towards her as he spoke.

  Vicki really didn't feel like dealing with him. She wanted to get back to the hotel, get out of her high heels, and relax in the hot tub. But, the last thing she needed was a disappointed fan spreading a story about how she wouldn't give an autograph to his friend for her birthday. With the Internet bad reviews spread like wildfire. Trying not to appear put out by the whole situation, she smiled and waved him over.

  Chris Clarke smiled back and walked over to her car where she was waiting.

  "Here's the book," he had it opened to the front already when he handed it to her. "And here's a pen…"

  Vicki took the book. She had her keys in her other hand and had to place them on the hood of the car before she could take the pen that he offered. She flipped her blond hair back and leaned down to personalize the book.

  "What's your friend's name?"

  "Oh, it's my wife's friend…"

  "Her name?" Vicki said. A hint of agitation showing through in her voice.

  "Brandy…"

  That was the last thing Vicki remembered. Chris took the other copy of her hardback book that he still held and slammed it into the back of her head. She slumped forward onto the hood of her car unconscious.

  ***

  Everyone was finally gone, including her guest of honor. Belle was pleased by the response to her shop's grand opening. She'd sold a lot of copies of Face of Evil and a fair amount of candles as well. She was glad she'd had the forethought to order a supply of both of James Nichols' books; Bloody Sunday: The Carver Massacre, and Confession of the Damned.

  Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves and she'd received a lot of free press. Most of it she assumed was due to Vicki Taylor's ties to the local media. That was a gamble that had paid off.

  The timing of Vicki's book launch as she was opening her shop couldn't have worked out better. And there were other benefits as well. The topic of Vicki's book all but guaranteed that Detective Drake would be in attendance.

  A lot of the mess had been cleaned up, but the rest could wait until morning. It was time to close up and get some sleep. She turned out the lights then closed and locked the back door behind her.

  Once in the small lot behind the shop she was surprised to see another car still parked next to hers. It had to be Vicki's car. She was the only one who she'd told to park back there. Belle put her bag in her own car and then looked at the other car more closely.

  It was locked. There was no sign of any problems with it. Belle walked around it to make sure there wasn't a flat tire or anything like that. But if Vicki had car problems wouldn't she have come in and asked for help? Maybe not. Everyone has a cell phone these days. She was a local, maybe she caught a ride with someone she knew? Maybe she was out celebrating with a suitor?

  Belle's shoe hit something metallic and sent it sliding across the parking lot. She walked over, knelt down, and picked it up. It was a keyring. She pushed the remote button on one of the keys. Vicki's car chirped and the locks clicked open.

  "That's odd," she said out loud, despite the fact she was alone.

  Maybe Vicki had lost her keys? Not likely. They were right by the front driver's side tire when she kicked them. Something wasn't right.

  Belle got her purse out of her car and rifled through it until she found a card. His card. The detective who'd been at her shop only hours before. She dialed him.

  "Drake here."

  "Alex… it's Belle…"

  "Belle? Is everything all right?"

  "I don't think so… could you—could you come to the shop? I think—I think that Vicki Taylor may have been abducted!"

  ***

  Scraping and cutting sounds echoed through the basement. The lone figure of Christopher Clarke was sitting at a cluttered workbench. He was hunched over working furiously at something. Chisels, blades, large shears,
and a leather punch were scattered around him. The single light bulb above was hardly sufficient for the task at hand.

  The blade skipped along the rounded surface occasionally making nicks and gouges as he scraped harder and harder in an attempt to clear the dessicated remains. Strips of dry rotting material flaked off and fell to the floor at his feet.

  He lifted a course sheet of black leather and cut it down to size with the large shears, following a haphazard pattern that had been scrawled on the underside with a white wax pencil. He snatched up the punch and a small mallet and began to create holes along the edges of the leather. His heavy pounding sent deep dents into the table as the punch forced itself through the thick material.

  His hand reached down to grab a drill. A squeeze of his finger and the bit whirred to life, spiraling down into the hard white surface. Fine dust went spraying into the air and then drifted to the floor. The bit popped through to the other side and Chris worked it back out and then bored another hole opposite of the first. He placed the drill on the bench, white powder still caked in the deep grooves of the drill bit.

  He took out a large needle and used it to string a length of catgut through the holes he'd punched in the leather. It was meticulous work and he continued without a break, sweat dripping from his brow, like a man possessed. Soon all of his hard work would pay off. Soon he would have his face back.

  ***

  Time was of the essence. If Drake could find Vicki Taylor fast enough, he might be able to save her. Luckily he had a hunch. The psychic girl, Amelia, had said someone was living in the old Miller home. His gut instinct told him it was his best shot.

  He'd rushed over to the house and parked down the street to avoid tipping his hand. He walked past three houses until he arrived at the Miller home, his .45 held tight in his grip. It would still be a few hours before the sun came up, so he wasn't too worried about the neighbors seeing him.

  When he reached the house the lights were off. He made his way to the front porch. He listened at the door and tested the handle. It was locked. He went around to the back door. It was locked as well. His Maglite swept across the room through the window in the door. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

  He flipped his Maglite around, took the handle and broke out a pane of glass, then quickly ran it along the frame to knock loose any hanging shards. He was able to reach in and twist the knob of the deadbolt and swing the door open. He carefully stepped over the broken glass to avoid any further noise.

  The back door opened into the kitchen, the same room where they'd found the mummified remains of Lee Miller's mother a year before. He was surprised anyone would have actually bought this house knowing the history of its occupants.

  A quick and quiet sweep of the ground floor turned up nothing. He hoped he hadn't just trespassed on the property of some innocent family. That would not be fun to explain to Underwood. This had to pan out. If it didn't… well, Vicki Taylor didn't have much time left, and neither did his career.

  He found the door to the basement. The place where Amelia had witnessed the Shadow man. He opened the door and caught a faint whiff of something rotting. He braced himself and quietly said a prayer before descending.

  "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."

  The light was on, but he kept his flashlight out to illuminate the dark corners that the basement's single bulb couldn't reach. He tried to make as little noise as possible, but the old staircase wasn't cooperating. Finally reaching the base of the stairs, he didn't see anyone or anything that seemed out of place. The rotting smell was stronger now, but he couldn't pinpoint its origin.

  The basement was like any other old unfinished basement. Shelves lined some of the walls and old boxes full of Christmas decorations were piled up and covered with dust. He wondered if the boxes has been left from when the Miller family had owned the place. Had Lee Miller as a child helped put that fragile glass star on top of a tree with a loving family? Or had they all been a bunch of sick and twisted devil worshipers?

  Against one wall a workbench caught his eye. He approached the bench and saw it looked like it had recently been used. There were fresh deep gouges in the surface of the wood, scraps of leather and tools were scattered across it. Something was piled up on the floor around the stool, he knelt down to get a better look at it. He reached down and pinched some of the debris between his fingers. He held it up in the light and looked at it closely. It was strands of human hair, some of it still clung to clumps of dried human flesh. He cringed at the thought of what he was touching and flung it down in disgust. There was a slight noise behind him. He turned to look but it was too late. Everything went black.

  ***

  Drake's head was swimming. His eyes fluttered open and he let out an involuntary groan. Where was he? The light hurt his eyes and he fought to keep them forced open. He was sitting on a hard concrete floor, his back against a cool concrete wall. It started to come back to him. He was in the basement of the Miller home. Someone had struck him from behind. Knowing he was in danger sent adrenaline coursing through him.

  The room finally shifted into focus. There was the dark silhouette of a man standing in front of him with his back to him. The man turned to face him. Still delirious, Drake recoiled when he saw the man's face. He was wearing a black hood, it was fashioned out of roughly sewn together leather. Affixed to the front of the hood was a skull.

  At that moment Drake knew what had happened to Lee Miller's head. The killer was wearing it. Wearing the skull like a trophy, or some tribal ritual to gain the original killer's power.

  Drake's focus shifted past the killer to see Vicki Taylor tied up across the room. In the corner near her was another woman, a young brunette. She was propped against the wall, wrapped in bloody plastic, and appeared to have been dead for a few days. She was the source of the rotting smell.

  "Finally awake?" a harsh voice escaped from behind the skull mask.

  Drake rocked his shoulders, testing his movement. He was stiff, probably from hitting the concrete floor, but surprisingly he wasn't bound.

  This killer was arrogant. Drake bent his knee, drawing his leg up to where his hand could reach his ankle holster. His fingers desperately grabbed for the .357 that usually rested there. It was gone.

  The killer laughed and lifted a gloved hand to show the snub nosed revolver that he held in it. He tilted it and carelessly waved it at Drake, taunting him.

  "Looking for this? It's the same one you used to kill me last time. I wasn't going to let you get away with that again."

  "Killed you? You think that you're that psycho Lee Miller? No, you're just another pathetic coward who gets off on killing women. You think that makes you a man? Think that shows you're powerful? You're nothing!"

  "Nice try Detective, but you can't trigger me. I've waited too long for this to lose my cool and make a mistake. Tonight… tonight you'll die by the same gun you used to kill me—but not before you watch me sacrifice Miss Taylor!"

  At the mention of her name Vicki Taylor cried out, her words lost in the gag stretched tight across her mouth. She struggled against her bonds as she stared at the detective, a desperate frantic pleading in her eyes.

  "Just because you're wearing his face—"

  "I'm not wearing 'his' face—I'm wearing my own again! I came back! Back to finish what I'd started. Back to serve my unholy master—and to have revenge on the man who killed me!"

  Drake didn't know what to think. There was something about him. His mannerisms, his to
ne, the way he spoke—the things he knew. Was it possible? Why was it so hard to believe? Drake had seen things—too many things. If a demon could inhabit a person—possess them, could the spirit of a serial killer do the same?

  Looking around the room the detective saw occult symbols scrawled on the walls. There was a pentagram on the floor in the center of the room, dried blood was all around it. This was the kill room, and the kills had been sacrifices. There could be no doubt.

  Drake struggled to his feet. He had to brace himself against the wall as he stood, he was still recovering from the blow to his head. He probably had a concussion. He'd have to deal with that later—if he survived. He still had the scars from his last encounter with a supernatural killer. He took a step toward the man in the skull mask who claimed to be Lee Miller, only to have his own gun pointed at him threateningly.

  "You stay put. I'm not ready to kill you just yet—but I will if I have to…"

  Drake did his best to appear shaky on his feet. He was exaggerating how bad off he was to make the killer underestimate him. He put his hand to his aching head. That part was real.

  "If I'm going to die… surly you wouldn't deny me a last drink?"

  "Who am I to deny a man his vices? Last call, better enjoy it while you can. I only wish that Sister Marian was here to join you in your final hour."

  Drake slowly reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. It was sterling silver and ornately engraved. He raised it up at his captor in a mock toast, pulled the stopper, and took a sip. He let out an appreciative sigh as the liquid refreshed him. He looked down at the flask and then up at the masked figure.

  "Care for a swig?"

  Drake took a long draw on the flask and stumbled forward. It was a feint, his arms were askew and not held out threateningly, his momentum carried him forward and caught the killer by surprise. He hadn't swallowed the last mouthful of liquid—he spat it into the eye socket of the skull mask.

  The killer recoiled. The silver flask dropped to the ground revealing a cross etched into its surface. Holy water. The flask had been a gift from Father Martin, the exorcist who had first driven the demon out of Sister Marian. That had been Drake's first experience with the supernatural, but far from his last.