Memoirs of a Monster Killer: Killing Forever Book 1

by David J. Phifer

  Serena flipped through Zac’s Wired magazine. “You think she’s Forever?”

  “I’ll find out soon enough. She may work for Poe.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And what will you do to her if she does?”

  “Torture her. Melt her head in acid. The usual.”

  Serena rested her hands behind her head. “And if she is a Forever but doesn’t work for Poe?”

  “Same answer.”

  Serena jumped to her feet. “You’d kill her? Right in the hospital?”

  “Hasn’t stopped me before.”

  “God, Sol,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re fucking unbelievable.” Not only was she condescending, she was judging me. Which was the epitome of irony.

  “You play with dead people for fun,” I said. “You destroy their souls and tarnish their memory. You’ve killed men and women with a smile and without a second thought because of a twisted agenda that would give you power.”

  I closed the closet and headed to the hall with everything in hand, stopping at Serena before continuing. “You, Serena Acosta, are a monster. You’re only masquerading as human. The only reason you’re still alive is because I allow it.” She stiffened her jaw and furrowed her brow. “Go ahead, roll your eyes at me one more goddamn time.” My eyes dug into her retinas. “Do it.”

  She looked at me for several seconds trying to challenge me. But she didn’t roll her eyes. She knew better. Instead, she turned away.

  With Serena, you have to remind her of her place. She doesn’t play the part of a witch, she is a witch in every sense of the word. She has daddy issues and needs a father figure on occasion. That’s who I am for her.

  And most of the time, she needs a good spanking. And she knew it.

  Hell, she’d probably even ask for it.

  But with a wild dog, you have to keep it on a short leash. As much as she hated that, she respected it. Not that it ever stopped her from trying to screw me over. Or screw me period.

  She was good for one thing: Magic.

  She pushed my buttons. I needed to cool off. I was pissed. And when I get pissed, people get dead.

  I got to my room and gathered my things in the duffel bag. I picked up my last vial of Black Death and stuffed it in the side pouch of the bag.

  My cell phone rang. It was Augie. But I knew it wasn’t. I picked up. “What do you want?”

  Poe spoke into the phone. “I’d like to make a deal, Reverend. You give me the broker, Alan Dill. I give you the boy.” He paused. “Sadly, I’m getting the better part of the deal, but still, I think you’re open to it.”

  “I don’t deal with Forevers. I kill them and chop off their heads.”

  “Don’t be difficult, Solomon. The boy is a hunter, yes? Hunters are hard to come by. I know, I’ve killed my fair share.”

  “You killed Grace. I’m going to rip out your intestines. You’ll feel yourself die slowly.”

  “Is this about the old woman? Come on, Solomon, let bygones be bygones.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  CLICK!

  I hung up.

  He wasn’t going to kill Augie. It was the only leverage he had. Poe was smart. Smooth. Calm and collected. He wouldn’t kill him out of anger. He’d think it through. Plan. Wait.

  Augie was safe. For now.

  It was late, but not too late to visit the mysterious survivor.

  If Maya worked for Poe, she’d be on the receiving end of a needle. If she didn’t, she could go back to her life. Either way, I didn’t think Poe would let that happen. Loose ends and all.

  From the bottom of the duffel, I withdrew my pair of round, ruby specs. You remember, the ones that show me their auras to confirm they’re monsters? That’s how I’d know for sure.

  If Maya was a monster, she’d light up like Christmas Eve at the Griswold’s.

  Part of me hoped she was one of them. I desperately needed an excuse to kill something.

  Chapter 32

  Impostor

  As I walked out the freight elevator to my truck in my pastor uniform, my cell phone vibrated. It was a text from Zac.

  Found him.

  His name is Rory Clark.

  Southside Chicago.

  Glennwood Apts. Room 4D.

  East 130th St.

  Riverdale

  It was time to pivot. I’d visit Maya in the morning, but thanks to Zac, it was time to find the gateway. He came through after all. And fast.

  Who needed a necromancing witch when I had a computer wizard?

  Southside was the bad part of town.

  The slums.

  But if the building was built on a Nexus, I wouldn’t be surprised. The veil was thin between worlds there. Not only did it create portals to other dimensions, but it was an escape for things coming into our world as well. Not just entities, but energy. It could easily have infected the neighborhood with dark energy and subtly, over the course of many years, cause things to go downhill.

  The whole neighborhood was a literal hellhole.

  When I found the apartment complex, I waltzed right in. There were several locks on the outside door, but they were all broken. The front door of the building was cracked open when I got there.

  When I found the apartment, I knocked three times. He’d probably think I was a drug dealer.

  I checked my watch. It was 11:17 p.m. A little late to be knocking on a stranger’s door in this neighborhood. Too bad for him someone’s soul was at stake.

  The door opened.

  The guy wore a torn T-shirt with a flaming skull made out of electric guitars. He seemed young, but looked old and weathered. He was thirty years old going on eighty. With bags under his eyes and powder under his nose. It looked like I was too late. The drug dealer was already here.

  He staggered while holding the door. He eyed my pastor’s uniform up and down. “Am I at fucking church? Who the fuck are you?”

  “Santa Claus,” I said. I shoved him and barged into the room.

  “What the fuck, man?”

  “The gateway to Ghostworld,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “Did Spaz put you up to this? I told him I’d pay him back when I get paid.”

  He was stoned and drunk. Being Mr. Nice guy wasn’t going to get me anywhere with him. I pulled the Beretta and shoved it in his neck. “Where is the gateway?”

  “You’re crazy, man.”

  Grace flashed in my mind. She had two more days before she was trapped in Ghostworld forever. Unable to ascend to Heaven. I’d get her to Heaven even if I had to be the devil to do it.

  I shoved the gun into his skin. “How do I access the portal to the ghost dimension, Rory?” I tapped the barrel of the Beretta against his temple.

  “Go fuck yourself, old man.”

  I cracked the gun against his skull and threw him to the floor. He practically tumbled down on his own. He was a junkie. Treating him gently would’ve been a disservice to mankind.

  I pulled back the hammer to the Beretta. “How do I open the portal?”

  “You’re jonesin’, man.”

  “I need to save Grace’s soul,” I said, jamming the gun barrel in his mouth. “How do I open the gateway?”

  He mumbled something. Of course, I couldn’t hear him because my gun was jammed down his throat. I pulled it out and let him talk.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. I heard a water sound. Felt something wet against my hand. I looked down. His pants were soaked. He pissed himself.

  “Are you Rory Clark?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You had a class with Harold Landon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you talk to him about a gateway to other worlds?”

  “No?”

  “Do you know what I’m referring to?”

  “No clue, bro.”

  He may have been a loser junkie, but he wasn’t lying. At least, he didn’t seem to be. His memory could have been wiped out by the drugs. Or a consequence of using the Nexu
s. A few minutes of breaking his fingers would get me what I needed.

  From the bathroom, there was a banging sound. Like someone dropped the shampoo.

  On instinct, my hand flew up with the Beretta, pointing at the bathroom. “Who’s there?” Silence. “Come out or I start shooting.”

  The door creaked open slowly. A shirtless woman stumbled out.

  With a baby in her arms.

  I had my hand cannon pointed at a topless mother breastfeeding her infant.

  While dressed as a pastor.

  She shushed her baby, rocking him, while trying to avoid eye contact with me.

  I let go of Rory. “Get up,” I said. He got to his feet and pressed against the wall.

  I headed to the door. As I walked out, I turned to him with a stern warning. “Get your act together. Get yourself straight. And if you tell anybody about this, you’ll see me again. And saying your hail Marys won’t save you.”

  He turned around and tended to the baby. The back of his T-shirt said DIE ALONE in large white letters.

  The name of a heavy metal band? Maybe. But more than that…

  …It was an omen.

  Those were the same words on the billboard when I left the cabin. One time, it’s nothing. Two times, in as many days, it looked more like an omen.

  Alan Dill spoke the same words to me before I buried him. When a message is followed by a voice with the same words, it’s not just a sign, it’s a warning. The voice could be from a radio commercial, a TV show, or someone in person who doesn’t realize they’re being used as a divine messenger. In my case, Alan Dill was that voice. And my omen was death.

  I fucking hate omens.

  I slammed the door.

  Zac was wrong. This wasn’t the Rory we needed. If Zac couldn’t find him, Rory might not be his real name. Could be an alias. If Zac can’t find someone, it’s because they don’t want to be found. And was smart enough to cover their tracks.

  I needed the location of that gateway before I confronted Poe. I needed the insurance. Without the ticket to Ghostworld, getting Grace’s soul back from Poe was pointless.

  Which meant only one thing. To get the location of the true Rory, we had to commune with the dead.

  We had to ask Landon’s spirit.

  Serena was our best shot.

  Maybe my visit with Maya in the morning would turn up a new lead.

  A new direction.

  At the time, I didn’t know how right I was. But it wasn’t the direction I hoped for.

  In fact, it would direct me straight down.

  To Hell.

  Chapter 33

  The Wonder of Maya Hayes

  I slept in the truck for the night in a car pool. In the morning, I finished warding myself before heading to the hospital. If Maya had half the magical power Poe did, I’d be caught off guard.

  I threw on my robe and strolled through the hospital with a heavy step. People smiled as they passed or ignored me completely. People were never quite themselves when they felt judged or looked down upon.

  What they saw when I strolled down the hallway as a pastor wasn’t me. Not exactly. I was a mirror. Reflecting back to them what they hated most.

  Themselves.

  They took one look at the collar and all their issues came to the surface. Those who smiled did so because they wanted approval. God’s approval. Those who ignored me were the ones too ashamed to ask for it.

  Sure, there were a few here and there who were generally kind people. But for some reason, I didn’t attract those people. Go figure.

  I reached under my arm and felt the handle of the Beretta. I touched the vial of Black Death on my belt. And several other areas on my person just to double check my arsenal was complete.

  It was.

  I approached the woman at the counter. “Hi there,” I said, resting my arms on the counter while holding my bible. “I’m Pastor Cullen. Can you tell me where I can find Miss Maya Hayes, please?”

  “Of course,” she said, immediately jumping to the computer to search. “She’s in room 81G, Father.”

  “Thank you, child.” I forgot how good it felt to be a pastor. People treat you so nicely. I miss that kind of politeness.

  Room 81G was directly down the hall on the right. I knocked on the door as a nurse left Maya’s side. The door was open.

  I knocked on the door frame. “Maya Hayes,” I said. “I’m Pastor Cullen.”

  She looked my way and smiled. It was a smile of courtesy. She wasn’t actually happy to see me. “Can I help you?” The voice was a tablespoon of innocent, three pinches of sweet, and a dab of nervousness.

  “It’s not a matter of you helping me, young lady. It’s a matter of the Lord helping you.”

  She breathed out heavily. “You’re not one of those pastors who preaches brimstone and damnation, are you? Because if you are, I’ll tell you right now to go to Hell and save you the sermon.”

  I liked her immediately.

  I chuckled. “No, I’m not one of those pastors,” I said. I wanted to say I don’t preach about Hell, but I’ll send you there if you deserve it. But I had manners. “I respect your honesty. So I’ll give you my honesty in return. I don’t give two shits about Hell and brimstone.”

  She smiled wide. This time it was real. “Are you here to ask me about my soul?”

  “Your soul is your business and no one else’s. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” I said. I pulled up a chair next to the bed. “I’m not here to talk to you about where your soul is going, Maya. I’m more interested in where it’s already been.”

  “You want me to talk about what happened in the house, don’t you?”

  “You’re the only survivor.”

  She looked down and fiddled with her fingernail. “I don’t remember how I got there,” she said. “I think they knocked me out or something.”

  “Did you know them before they took you?”

  “I never saw them before. I never want to again.”

  “How long were you down there? In the basement?”

  She scrunched her brow like she was trying to think. Her eyes glanced out the window. “I don’t know. A few days, maybe. A week. It was hard to tell with no daylight. No window.”

  “Were there others?”

  “There was five of us down in that basement. When I arrived, there was ten, but they took some of them.”

  “What did they do with them?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw them again. Probably dead.”

  “You remember hearing anything when you were down there?” I leaned on my left knee toward her, the bible in my grip. “Any plans they may have said when they were standing on the floorboards above you? Any names they mentioned?”

  She squinted in a suspicious manner. “You’re not a normal pastor, are you?”

  “I’m not a normal anything,” I said smiling.

  “I can jive with that,” she said. “You sound more like a detective than a pastor.”

  “I think every pastor has to be a detective. To get to the bottom of people’s issues. To get to the depth of their soul, to find out what’s inside, sometimes you have to pry it open.”

  “Touché, Mr. Pastor man.”

  “Did you notice anything odd while you were there?”

  “Odd?”

  “Like flashes of light or people disappearing? Did you lose time, find yourself from one location in the next with no memory of going in between?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “There isn’t much I wouldn’t believe these days.”

  “I remember working in my garage.”

  “Working?”

  “On cars. That’s what I do. What do you drive?”

  “A ‘69 Chevy.”

  “Ooooh, nice. Some serious block power under that hood. Original or custom?”

  “Original.”

  “Pure vintage, man. A classic piece of machinery.”

  “It’s been through a lot.”

  “You
’ll have to come to my garage. If I still have a job when I get back. My boss paid me under the table, I’m not sure if he’d even want me back.”

  “You said the last thing you remember was working there?”

  “I was under the hood of this sweet Ferrari, man. You should see this thing. A 488 Pista Spider. Silver with blue racing stripes. And that engine? Whoa. Seriously badass, man. Anyway, I must have forgot to lock the place up for the night. Some guy came in asking questions about a car. I told him the garage was closed, but he wouldn’t leave. He must have clocked me over the head and knocked me out.”

  “What do you remember next?”

  “Waking up in that house. But—”

  “But what?”

  “I woke up in that house last week. But when I got knocked out—”

  “What is it?”

  She huffed out a breath. “Nothing. I don’t remember much. I’m just glad I made it out of there alive.”

  I observed her hands, arms, neck, and face. She had no scratches. No bruises. No signs of struggle or fight.

  And if Maya Hayes seemed like one thing to me, it was a fighter.

  Forevers can be rough. Especially with their livestock. If she was their prisoner, she should’ve had scratches or wounds. It was possible they kept her around to feed from and left her to heal for a few days before feeding again.

  That’s a nightmarish existence.

  It damages the body, mind, and soul. Often beyond repair. I wasn’t surprised she didn’t remember.

  That is, if she was human. The other answer for the lack of wounds on her body was that she’s one of them and healed fast.

  “Where are your parents, Maya?”

  She looked down. “They’re dead. I don’t really have a place to live. I was couch hopping. The garage has a couch in the lobby. Sometimes I crashed there. My memory is all hazy.”

  The girl had been through a traumatic experience. She wasn’t lying about her lack of memories. Was the memory loss due to trauma? Amnesia? Or because she was Forever?

  “Thank you for your time, Maya,” I said, patting the bed.

  There was one last thing I needed to do. I reached in my robe and removed the ruby glasses. With my left hand bringing them to my face, my other hand reached for the vial of Black Death.