Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns

by Andrews, Christopher

  PARANORMALS

  Darkness Reigns

  Other Works by Christopher Andrews

  Triumvirate Series

  Pandora’s Game

  The Darkness Within

  (collection)

  Of Wolf and Man

  (Bronze IPPY winner for Horror)

  Araknid

  Paranormals Series

  Paranormals

  Paranormals: We Are Not Alone

  Novelizations

  Dream Parlor

  Hamlet: Prince of Denmark

  Night of the Living Dead

  Macbeth

  Screenplays

  Thirst

  Dream Parlor

  (written with Jonathan Lawrence)

  Mistake

  Vale Todo/Anything Goes

  (written with Roberto Estrella)

  Web Series

  Duet

  Video Games

  Bankjob

  PARANORMALS

  Darkness Reigns

  a Novel by

  Christopher Andrews

  Book Three in the Paranormals series

  Copyright © 1980, 2020 by Christopher Andrews

  Paranormals: Darkness Reigns

  ISBN Number: Hardcover #978-1-7361983-0-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the creator’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book was printed in the United States of America.

  Rising Star Visionary Press hardcover edition: December, 2020

  A Rising Star Visionary Press book

  for extra copies please contact by e-mail at

  risingstarvisionarypress@earthlink.net

  or send by regular mail to

  Rising Star Visionary Press

  Copies Department

  P O Box 9226

  Fountain Valley, CA 92728-9226

  2020 has been quite the year, for all of us,

  and I’m especially grateful to the two who

  have weathered these long months with me:

  My magnificent wife, editor, and Imzadi,

  Yvonne Isaak-Andrews

  And our wonderful daughter,

  Arianna Kristina Andrews

  I love you both, so very much.

  TWO YEARS AGO

  THE GLADIUS

  John Davison leaped. The muscles in his legs screamed in protest, but he had no choice; if he didn’t hit the target, this was all for nothing. He stretched his arms out over his head, his hands ready to slam the—

  None of it mattered. At the last instant, his opponent appeared from nowhere, soaring through the air with far more grace than John had ever possessed, or ever would. His opponent, who had always been able to run faster, jump higher, fight harder ...

  Oh, lay off it, John, he chided himself, even as the ball was taken from him. Be an adult. You should be used to this by now.

  Yes, he knew he should. But he still felt that familiar sting as Steve Davison, his baby brother, not only took the basketball from him, but managed to spin around and make his own slam-dunk without the need to return to earth for a second jump.

  “Oh-ho, man!” their cousin Dan bellowed, punctuated by that annoying laugh of his. “John, man, doesn’t that just ...” He tried to go on, tried to retread the well-worn joke about how John’s younger brother got all of the athletic genes in the family. But then the Davison brothers came back down, Steve light as a feather while John tripped over his own feet and hit the gym’s basketball court floor so hard that he slid a few feet ... and that was just too much comedy for Dan to handle, and the little asshole lost it.

  “You okay, John?” Steve asked, offering his older brother a helpful hand.

  And that was exactly why John didn’t truly mind looking like a fool by comparison. Because in the end, Steve had never once tried to show John up, never tried to make him feel bad about his inherent clumsiness. Steve’s grace stemmed from superior natural prowess, but also from a shit-ton of hard work, years upon years of his youth spent on gymnastic mats and in kickboxing rings. And when John inevitably stumbled and fell whenever he tried to chew gum and walk at the same time, Steve was the first one by his side, to help him back to his feet.

  Smiling, John swept his sweaty, blond hair out of his hazel eyes and accepted Steve’s assistance. “Thought I had you there. Can’t remember the last time I made a basket with you guarding.”

  Steve pulled him to his feet, then shrugged. “I just got lucky.” His matching hazel eyes gleamed as he jerked his head toward Dan, who was still doubled over with obnoxious laughter. “Don’t mind dickhead over there.”

  “Never do.” John collected the basketball, considered tossing a Think fast! right at Dan’s face, then sighed and passed the ball to his brother instead. “Just do me a favor and give—”

  “Oh!” Dan blurted, his laughter evaporating in an instant as his eyes widened. He pointed up and over their heads toward the large windows high above the court. “Look, look, look!”

  John and Steve followed his wild gaze, peering up into the late-afternoon sky. Far overhead, an object soared westward, leaving a long condensation trail behind it.

  The brothers exchanged a bewildered glance before Steve commented, “Um ... yeah?”

  “Is that ...?” Dan joined them, gaping, his eyes filled with wonder. “Is that a paranormal?”

  It was John’s turn to feel a rush of hilarity; unlike his cousin, however, he did his best to swallow the laughter. “Dan,” he said, in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “that’s a rocket.”

  Dan’s youthful glow faded; he squinted, staring hard at the object. “No, no, it’s ... are you sure?”

  “Come on, Dan,” Steve said with a barely-suppressed chuckle, trying to emulate his brother’s taking the high road. “You’ve never seen a rocket launch before?”

  “I ... I mean, yeah, sure, I just ...” Dan’s wonder was gone, embarrassment surging to take its place. “I just thought, maybe, you know ...”

  “It’s probably another communications satellite going up,” John observed. “They send them up sometimes when the weather is good like today.” Then, in a token effort to make Dan feel better, he suggested, “But, you know, it might be related to the paranormals. With the PCA regional headquarters so close, they might be launching it to, you know, help track rogues.”

  “Oh,” Dan mumbled one last time, then he turned from the window, took the basketball from Steve, and dribbled away from his cousins without making eye contact.

  John looked to Steve, who shrugged, his expression saying, Dan’s always been able to dish it out but not take it, right?

  True, but still, the paranormals had been around for about five years now, so ... what in the world would prompt such spontaneous exuberance from their cousin?

  John was tempted, very tempted, to comment aloud, But if it were a paranormal, wouldn’t that be ... magical? But he had been down this road more than once. Neither Dan nor Steve (nor anyone else in his family) wanted to hear his theories, again, about the paranormals proving the existence of real magic.

  PCA

  When they were playing basketball, John had been annoyed with Dan. But as John prepared for bed that night, he was angry at his cousin. And at his Aunt Carol.

  He had wondered why Dan had go
tten so excited about the possibility of seeing a paranormal flying through the sky. Sure, he understood in general — not long ago, one did not see a man soaring through the air unless watching a movie about a guy with a big red “S” on his chest. But for better or worse, this was the new world they lived in, and Dan had seemed a little over-the-top about it ... and now John knew why.

  Dan was going back to college this semester and would be majoring in Pre-Law, with an emphasis on Paranormal Rights. But he hadn’t bothered to mention this to John or Steve, not even after his little display on the basketball court. No, that honor had gone to dear Aunt Carol, who held nothing back as she gushed about it during that evening’s family dinner.

  That itself wasn’t so bad. She was excited for her son, and proud of Dan’s gallant new major (which was a far cry from his original major of Getting High All Freshman Year). That was her right as his mother, obviously.

  But it was that look she gave to her sister, John and Steve’s mother. That look of cloying sympathy, followed by that flick of her eyes toward Steve. And what really pissed John off was not just that he had seen it, but he knew that Steve had as well.

  Rather than diving right into college straight from high school, Steve had chosen to take a year off ... which had turned into two, and maybe even three. Their parents had been understanding and supportive (maybe semi-supportive in their mom’s case) at first, but that had been wearing thin as the next semester drew closer and Steve made no move to enroll. John had talked to Steve about it, and knew that the problem was his brother’s lack of direction, of any real passion beyond his athletic pursuits; but when he suggested that perhaps Steve could pursue, say, a Bachelor of Science in Athletic Training, his brother balked at the idea.

  John himself would soon be a Senior in his current major, Literature ... in theory, that was. That was another factor that was making him feel awkward and uncomfortable, which contributed toward his anger at Carol and Dan on the whole subject of college: John might not be returning next semester, because he didn’t know if he could afford it.

  It wasn’t a literal question of finances, per se; his parents were graciously paying his tuition, so long as he maintained a respectable grade-point average. But when they find out why the latest deposit into his account, which had been earmarked for the coming semester’s tuition, had already been spent ...

  Pulling on his pajama bottoms, John sat bare-chested on the edge of his bed, leaned to the side, and pulled the cloth-wrapped book from behind his nightstand. Carefully, gingerly, John unfolded the velvet from around his precious prize, then unbuckled the straps on the leather-bound tome. He gazed upon the aged book once more, and his muscles somehow relaxed — the anger at his aunt and cousin fading into the background — even as his breath quickened and his heartbeat stepped up a notch.

  No title emboldened the cover of this book; this was not that sort of opus. This, to the best of John’s knowledge, from the scope of his meticulous researching and questing, was a book of real magic. If the former owner had truly known what it was she had possessed, she would never have parted with it. Or would have asked for millions of dollars, rather than the thousands she received from John.

  John Davison had loved “magic” all his life, but had only believed in real magic since he was sixteen years old, shortly before the Night of the White Flash.

  He was still in Kindergarten when he saw his first stage magician, an old David Copperfield TV special that his parents (much to their later chagrin) had thought he might enjoy. John had been enthralled, his jaw hanging limp as he watched the showman perform illusion after illusion.

  But that’s all they were: Skillful illusions. John knew that — he was not a “gullible” boy; far from it. From that day forward, he watched every magic special he could rent, buy, or view on television. He became a royal buzzkill for anyone watching with him, especially Steve, as he meticulously analyzed, broke down, and explained how the illusion had been performed. He couldn’t know if he were correct one-hundred percent of the time; it wasn’t as though he had access to most of these people, could never fully verify his theories. But he was certain that he could feasibly pull them off via his own proposed methods, and for quite a while, he wanted to be an illusionist, a “magician,” when he grew up.

  And then, one day, he saw an act that changed everything.

  He had been in high school, only weeks after his sixteenth birthday, and had saved money to drive across town to see a new act, “Ulysses the Unbelievable” (a corny name, but he had seen so many trite aliases that he barely registered that sort of thing anymore). His parents had no interest in joining him, especially since he could finally drive himself, and Steve had only agreed to go if John promised not to ruin the illusions for him. John had no qualms about Steve’s stipulation — by this point he had learned to keep his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself ... at least until after the show.

  John had been to this small theatre twice before, knew that he and Steve would get no flack for being unaccompanied minors, so long as they didn’t get cute and try to order alcoholic beverages. Soon after they shuffled into their seats — not first row, but close — the show began like many others, with a warmup comedian and ladies in skimpy clothes; the latter John appreciated (he was a teen boy, after all), the former just annoyed him. Eventually, Ulysses — a plain-looking, average-sized, middle-aged man, his bald pate gleaming in the stage lights — emerged from backstage, and the show started in earnest.

  Several minutes passed before John could put his finger on what was different about Ulysses’ presentation. The tricks were standard enough — the Dove Pan, the Inexhaustible Bottle, the Bill in Lemon, and a few others; all pretty routine, though Ulysses did put a new spin on the Quick-Change that John had never seen. Just run-of-the-mill illusions for an audience member as well versed as John Davison ... so why was he getting more and more excited as the show rolled on? What was nagging him, in a good way, about familiar tricks he had seen so many times before?

  He figured out part of it by the twenty-minute mark: Ulysses engaged in minimal banter. Sure, he addressed the audience from time to time, but he wasn’t bothering with the plethora of distraction techniques that were usually vital to an illusionist’s performance; nor had he opted for the typical, often-gaudy wardrobe, but wore a simple, black suit — not even a tuxedo, just a regular, everyday ensemble. Instead of trying to draw the viewers’ attention to one thing so he could manipulate another, Ulysses appeared comfortable allowing them to look wherever they wanted, to focus on any area that struck their fancy. Most looked right at the center of the trick, but John couldn’t be the only one who, if the illusionist waved around his right hand, would keep an eye on his left. Whatever his personal methods, Ulysses was clearly very confident that the audience would fail to see through them.

  He’s got balls, I’ll give him that, John thought with growing admiration.

  Another difference was Ulysses’ choice of “magic words.” Most stage magicians had dismissed with “Abracadabra” or “Hocus Pocus” many years ago, but Ulysses clearly embraced the classic verbiage ... except that he didn’t, quite. Instead of “Abracadabra,” et cetera, he punctuated the climax of each trick by blurting some sort of foreign language. It didn’t sound like pure gibberish to John, but nor did he recognize it; it sounded exotic, like Latin had sex with German. And he didn’t project those words, either, but said them in a regular speaking voice; had John and Steve not been sitting so close to the small theatre’s stage, he would not have heard them at all. Whatever they were, his favorite one seemed to be “Nignius;” he said it every time he used flash paper. It was another different approach, to be sure.

  Then, as Ulysses entered what felt like the final act, the first thing happened that really revved up John’s engine ...

  Ulysses did not have an official “assistant,” though one of the skimpily-dressed ladies from the pre-show popped on stage from time to time to move things around or take props away. One ite
m, however, had been overlooked — the bottle from the Inexhaustible trick still rested on the little table at stage-right, having merely been shuffled aside rather than removed.

  Ulysses was in the middle of a Cut and Restore Rope when someone backstage bumped against the side curtain, nudging the little table hard enough to jostle the bottle; it wobbled, then started to topple over the edge ...

  ... except Ulysses glanced over, saw what was about to happen, and with only the slightest interruption to his current presentation, he flicked a pinky finger at it and muttered something that sounded like, “Firmumin.”

  The bottle had been on the edge of falling ... and then it wasn’t. It was steady on the table, with only the barest shake to hint that it had ever moved at all, and Ulysses plunged forward with his rope trick as though no disruption had occurred. Four or five other audience members must have seen it as well, because there was a smattering of applause and one audible gasp from the row behind them, but Ulysses had done it with such brief, casual grace that most of the crowd remain oblivious.

  Thunderstruck, John sat with his mouth hanging open. What the hell was that? If Ulysses had called attention to it, he would have assumed it was a refreshing new trick, something to stand apart from the commonplace displays they had seen thus far ... but he hadn’t. He had called no attention to it whatsoever, had treated it like anything gone wrong during a live performance — adjust, adapt, down-play, and hope the audience suspected nothing.

  So what in the world had he just seen?

  For the rest of the show, he studied every little move Ulysses made, waiting for something, anything else to occur like the toppling bottle that did not fall. But nothing did. Ulysses ambled through the rest of his act, took an almost impatient bow to his applauding audience, and disappeared backstage.

  “Come on, we have to go, come on ...” John jabbered as he grabbed his brother’s wrist and pulled him across the row of seats, weathering grousing from offended people whose feet he trod upon and letting his mystified brother handle the mumbled apologies.