Memoirs of a Monster Killer: Killing Forever Book 1

by David J. Phifer

  He attacked. His heel came at my face. I blocked and counterattacked. He dodged. The blade came in for a body shot. I sidestepped.

  We exchanged blows for nearly thirty seconds. It ended when my fist connected with his jaw. He spun away from my punch, did a sideways back flip though the air, defying the laws of gravity. The knife came down as he rolled on the grass, slicing my shoulder blade before landing.

  “Enough,” I said.

  He stood tall and shook himself out of whatever mental state he was in.

  Serena was hooting and hollering like she was at a rock concert. “I’ve never see anyone get the upper hand on Solomon,” she said. “That was amazing. You’re a superstar. I take full credit for being your muse.”

  I was out of breath. “Kid, how did you do that?”

  “I-I don’t know. I was just in the zone.”

  “Zone, my ass. I’m an expert at knife defense. You’ve never held one in your whole damn life. Much less trained with one.”

  “Just lucky, I guess. Can’t you accept that maybe I’m just a badass?”

  “No, because you’re not.” I tore the knife from his hand and spiked it in the ground. “Hit me.”

  He swung at my face. I turned his punch back on him. He busted his own nose. His focused, warrior self was gone, giving way to the old Augie that couldn’t fight worth a damn.

  “Shit,” he said, slightly unbalanced. He took a breath and swung wide. I ducked and spun him around, throwing him in a chokehold from behind. I stepped backwards, making him lose balance. He fell into me. His throat pressed into my forearm with every step I took. He turned bright red and was about to pass out.

  He tapped my arm and gasped. “Okay, you win!” I let go. He fell on his ass.

  “You’re not a fighter,” I said. “You’re a psychometrist.”

  Serena sat up and paid attention. “Seriously?”

  Augie laid on the grass, gasping for breath. “A what?”

  I gathered my weapons and put them back on my person. “You’re psychometric.”

  He coughed a few times before getting the words out. “You mean, psychometry? As in having the ability to read the history of objects with my mind?”

  My mind worked overtime, putting the pieces together.

  “At the restaurant, you were touching the drink glass when you had your panic attack. It wasn’t the waitress that did it to you, it was because you were touching the glass. That glass was used by hundreds of people. That’s hundreds of psychic impressions embedded in the molecules of the glass. The same for my Howdah pistol in the alley when I stabbed Blake.”

  “What about it?” he asked.

  “You were holding it when you freaked out and dropped your pills. It wasn’t that I stabbed Blake that made you freak out and need your meds. It’s the fact that you were holding the gun. A gun with a history of violence. Because you’re psychometric, you picked up that energy in your body.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  “When you fought with the demon blade, you knew what you were doing. Like you were possessed. You weren’t consciously choosing the actions. The knife was.”

  “It wasn’t me?”

  “You channeled the energy from the knife. Your body moved through several different styles of martial arts. Martial arts that you don’t know. But the knife does.”

  “How can a knife know how to fight?”

  “Every object still holds within it the energy from everyone who has ever touched it. In a sense, every object is alive, for lack of a better term. Weapons hold inside them the energy of every battle they’ve ever fought. The demon blade is special. It’s been passed down through generations. Forged by a demon in Hell. It’s been in more battles than any other weapon on Earth. And held by more masters. You channeled the energy of the warriors who held it. You weren’t channeling the blade. The blade was channeling you.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “I wasn’t one hundred percent positive until that last move. I’ve only seen it once before. From a demon. You were using that demon’s fight patterns without consciously realizing it. That’s what you did with the butterfly knife. You performed a move with it that I invented.”

  “My God,” he said. “I’m a superhero.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said. “Without a weapon, specifically without a weapon with a history of battle, you still fight like a moron.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  “Remember, a new weapon will be worthless to you.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I’ve seen my fair share psychometrists. They can sense emotions from objects. They can feel what it’s been through. Or see emotional events that played out with it. But you’re channeling it differently. You’re not just seeing or feeling the energy, your expressing it through your body. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I’ll take that,” he said.

  “What did you experience when you held the blade?”

  “I don’t know,” he said rubbing his temples. “You said to let it do what it was built to do. In my mind, I asked the knife what it wanted. I felt like it knew me. Like an old friend. That sounds stupid.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “What did you feel?”

  “I felt… alive.”

  “Did you see visions?”

  “I saw white flashes of movement. I couldn’t make out what it was. I felt like the knife was leading me into those movements.”

  “Any auditory sensory input?”

  “Did I hear anything? Not really.”

  “Auditory may come with practice. Be prepared for it.”

  “Why have I never experienced this before?”

  “Because of these,” I said, throwing his pill bottle on the picnic table. The top popped off and the pills poured over the table onto the grass. “I suspect that Grace knew something was going on when you were a teenager. She may not have known what it was, but she wanted to protect you. Save you from a life of danger and monsters. Your fits of anxiety aren’t anxiety. Their expressions of your power. Trying to be free.”

  “You’re saying I don’t have anxiety?”

  “You’re still an awkward dork,” I said, smiling. “But you’re not anxious. Or schizophrenic. You don’t have a disability. You have an amazing ability. In time, you’ll learn to harness it. On purpose. Consciously. With my help.”

  He stood straight and smiled. “Fucking A.”

  “We need to go to the drug store. I have some items to pick up that will clean the drugs out of your system.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, you and I are going after Poe. Together.”

  Chapter 17

  Detox

  After dropping Serena off at a friend’s place, we headed to the store. At the far corner of the Walgreens parking lot, I sat in the back of my truck, mixing the ingredients I got from the store.

  My chemistry set was put together. The same one I used to make my cocktails. I knew a brilliant chemist who specialized in extraordinary concoctions. He taught me everything I know. Well, most of it. This kind of stuff isn’t something you can just experiment with and hope it works out in the end.

  But there was no Forever blood in this cocktail. It may look like antifreeze, but it’s just a mixture of some household items that people use every day. Like lemons, sea salt, pepper, kale, and garlic. But there were a few, shall we say, questionable ingredients, that I won’t get into. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

  After mixing it up in a clear glass, I moseyed outside and handed it to Augie. “Here. Guzzle it.”

  He raised it in the air, holding it up to the sun. It looked like brown vomit and jet fuel with amorphous goop swimming around in it. “This is nasty,” he said. “I am not drinking this.”

  “You are if you want to use your power.”

  “I used my power. I’m a boss.”

  “You used it unconsciously,” I said. “You need to be able to use it consciously. On purp
ose. To do that, you need those drugs out of your system. This detox will do that.”

  “Detox? It looks like alien dog poop. How does it taste?”

  “Worse than it looks,” I said. “But it’s an instant detox.”

  He lifted it under his nostrils and took a whiff. “Ugh. It makes me want to hurl. It smells putrid.”

  “Drink it. Now.”

  “Be reasonable, Ivy—”

  “I am nothing if not unreasonable. Chug it.”

  He held it away from his face. “Can’t do it. We’ll have to go on without it.”

  I closed the back door to my camper. “Get outta here, kid. Call the police. Or the ghostbusters.” I walked around to the driver side of the truck.

  “Wait, what?”

  “You’re not serious about saving your mother’s soul,” I said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You still think this is some stupid interview for your worthless piece of shit podcast? You want to know what it’s like to be a hunter? To do what it takes to destroy those evil sons of bitches? Hunters make hard decisions every day of their life. Kill the monster child and have his mother despise you. Choose between your lover or your brother, only one can live. These are hard choices that haunt you in your dreams. It’s our life.” I poked him in the chest. Hard. “But you? Hell, you can’t even drink a detox because it smells funny. You’re a coward. And you’re weak. Get the fuck out of here. You’re wasting my time.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  I got in the truck and slammed the door. “It is precisely the definition of fair. Either you do what it takes or you don’t. Either you have what it takes or you don’t. But if you don’t, I can’t help you. Call the police. Explain to them what’s going on. They may get a good laugh out of it.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” he said. “Everybody makes fun of me.”

  “Because you don’t take yourself seriously,” I said. “You want to know the next rule, kid? Rule number four,” I said, starting the engine. “Do what it takes. Even when you don’t feel like it. Even when it’s viciously uncomfortable. Even when you think you can’t. Do. What. It. Takes.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “Do you want to save Grace or go back to your shitty band while your mother rots in Hell?”

  “But I can’t—”

  “It is your mother.”

  Without thinking, he guzzled that drink down like it was the last known bottle of ginger ale. He bent over. “That was awful. I’m gonna puke.”

  “Did you hold your breath?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You don’t taste anything when you hold your breath.”

  “Now you tell me.” He put his hand over his mouth. “I’m gonna—” He vomited in the bushes. There was a reason I parked in the back.

  He heaved and hurled. Tears ran from his eyes. Snot ran from his nose. I got out of the truck and slapped his back. “I told you. Instant detox. Comes out of every hole.”

  Hunched over, his face was beet red. He glanced at me. “Oh God. Is it over?”

  “I said every hole.”

  His hand went to his stomach. It rumbled like thunder. “Oh, shit—” He ran across the parking lot into Walgreens.

  I went to the back of the truck and packed up of the chemistry set. It’s actually a kid’s chemistry set I found in a garage sale ten years ago. But it worked like a charm.

  After getting back in the driver’s seat, I wrote several notes in my journal while listening to ‘Papa is a Rolling Stone’ on repeat. While downing another one of my drinks.

  After about fifteen minutes, Augie finally came out of the store. He jumped in and avoided eye contact. “You suck,” he said, shutting the door.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Twenty pounds lighter,” he said. “Because I puked ten and shit the rest.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Why is this stupid song on again? Are we leaving or what?” He had dark circles under his eyes. He was pale. The detox did its job.

  I opened the compartment between the seats and pulled out an antique watch. “I want you to have this.”

  He examined it. “An old watch?”

  “It’s an antique. Upgraded. Waterproofed. A new leather band. I wanted you to have it to symbolize your new role.”

  “My new role?”

  “As a monster hunter,” I said, smirking. “You earned it.” A huge goofy grin came across his face. He leaned into me with open arms.

  “Don’t hug me,” I said.

  “Got it.” He returned to his position.

  “You still need to learn to use your power,” I said. “On purpose. Consciously.”

  “How do I learn?” he asked. “To use it on purpose?”

  “There’s a lot of things you need to learn,” I said. “You need to learn how to use multiple weapons at once without frying your brain. You need to learn how to pick up certain energies and not others. You need to learn how to extract pure information, not just raw energy. And you need to learn how to do it at a distance, without having to touch the object.”

  “I can do all that?”

  “It’s just the beginning.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I’ve known my share of psychics. Even trained a few.”

  “Are they in the area?”

  I turned the engine. “They’re dead.”

  “You know that’s not comforting, right?”

  “When I’m done with you, you’ll be able to dodge bullets.”

  “Was that a matrix reference?”

  “You’re a natural, August. You’ll learn quickly.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because it usually takes a psychic years to wield their abilities. Because you did it without even knowing you were doing it. Because, in over thirty years in this game, you’re the best I’ve ever seen.”

  His backbone got a little stiffer. “Cool.”

  I put the truck in gear and pulled onto the road. Augie needed to be able to use his power consciously if we were to work side-by-side. Normally, I would spend months training him before putting him in the field. And even after that, only after rigorous exercises and soul-breaking simulations. But with Grace’s afterlife at stake, we didn’t have the luxury of time. I needed to speed up his training, increase the intensity, and put him through hell.

  Chapter 18

  The Table of Infinite Objects

  We laid up at an old white farmhouse in the area. A classic red barn out back. A tractor on the lawn. And a house full of floorboards that creaked. I knew this place well. It was a second home to me for many years.

  I spread over twenty objects and weapons on the kitchen table. Knives. Swords. Guns. Photographs. Tools. Silverware. Clothing. Even an old pocket watch that dated back a hundred years.

  Augie looked around the house. It was quiet. “Is this your house?”

  “A friend’s,” I said, placing the objects on the table. “He’s out of town at the moment. We use this place as a refuge.”

  “He’s like you? A hunter?”

  “One of the best.”

  His eyes scanned everything on the table. “What are all these for?”

  “Practice,” I said, placing a half-used cigar on the corner of the table. “Every psychic’s power works differently. Some can pick up energy from the future. Or at least one possible timeline. Others can see what’s happening somewhere else. Like remote viewers who gain impressions of current time in a far-off place. From what I can tell, you’re psychometric. You gain impressions off the energy of the objects you touch.”

  “Like what you talked about in your third book,” he said. “Psi Phenomena. How to use Your Latent Psychic Abilities.”

  This kid had a memory like a trap. I forgot I even wrote that book. “Yes. Just like that.”

  “Where do we start?” he asked, picking up an infantry sword from the Civil War.

  I removed it from
his hand and put it back on the table. “Not with this one.”

  “Dang, that looked cool.”

  “You seem to have a unique ability,” I said, handing him a Smith & Wesson revolver. “Psychometric psychics can pick up emotional energy from objects. They can tell where an object has been, who owned it, and what they did with it. Generally, the impressions are from the strongest emotional peaks in the life of that object. With weapons, those emotional peaks are in battle. Which is why you can pick up such strong energy.”

  “I can master any weapon that’s been in battle?”

  He took the revolver and looked it over. For my own health, I removed the ammo beforehand. Didn’t need a fool kid putting a bullet in my gut. “Unlike other psychics with psychometry, you can actually channel the energy, not just see or feel it. You can literally relive the past.”

  “Let me try to channel it.”

  “What do you sense with this gun?”

  He closed his eyes and slowly breathed out, like he was doing a deep meditation exercise with the gun.

  Magnum yoga.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to meld with the energy of the gun. Like a shaman.”

  “I know shamans. They don’t do that. Stop it.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I said. “You don’t feel anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re trying too hard.”

  If his power was untamed, he should be picking up impressions from every object he touches. He didn’t seem to pick up impressions from the watch I gave him, which meant he had to put himself in a certain state of mind before he could receive those energies.

  “I want you to use it,” I said.

  “Use the gun?”

  “On me.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “When you used the demon blade, you let it do what it was made to do. You weren’t thinking about it. You weren’t trying to communicate with it or channel it. You simply allowed it to be what it was meant to be.”

  “How do I do that with a gun?”

  “Point it at me.”

  “I don’t want to accidentally—”

  “I removed the bullets, dumbass. I’m not stupid. Now point it.”