by Trudi Jaye
For a second, there’s silence. And then I realize why that’s so bad. The vibrations in the box have stopped. The paranormal monster, now glowing a vibrant blue and only just human-shaped, emerges back out of the metal box with a loud screech, like fingernails down a blackboard. A hissing whoosh of steam follows it out of the box, filling the air around me with a warm fog, blurring my glasses.
A squishy clunk comes from inside the metal box. The sound of my invention dying as it’s forced to release its captive.
In the air above the box, the monster lets out a cry of defiance, then screams off into the night, like an enormous, glowing-blue Jurassic firefly.
I let out a half growl, half groan, and slam my fist into the dirt next to me. Staring up into the sky, I watch as it disappears, my view hampered by my partially fogged-up glasses.
I was so close.
So. Close.
I glare at the young, overweight guard who’s now standing at the end of the alley on the other side of the metal box, shifting slightly on his feet and pointing his Taser at me.
“What just happened?” he asks, a tremble in his voice. The whiskers of his goatee shiver in the moonlight as he speaks.
I was so close.
“You ruined it!” The words burst out of me without thought, and I scramble to my feet. Clenching my fists, I take a threatening step toward the guard. I’m so mad I can hardly think straight. “You dumb, ignorant idiot!”
The guard lets out a squeak. He’s young and scared and has a trigger finger.
The tips of the Taser hit me in multiple places, sending pinpricks of pain into my skin.
Then the electricity slams into me.
I fall to the ground, convulsing as pain lights up my body.
If only I could remember to keep my mouth shut.
3
“What are these, Hazel?” The stocky police detective is holding up my metal box and the tiny broken remote control, his bushy eyebrows raised in my direction.
We’re in the messy office at the recycling yard. Papers are strewn across the desk and the remains of the guard’s microwave dinner—macaroni cheese with bacon—sits awkwardly on top. Tiny television screens monitor the activity around the yard.
They’ve got me sitting on an old wooden chair, too-tight handcuffs securing my arms behind my back, and a second pair of handcuffs looping through the chair to keep me in place. The spots where the Taser pins hit me are stinging; the security guard yanked out the tiny darts after he handcuffed me.
Turns out he was much better prepared than I gave him credit for.
“Just stuff,” I lie. I shrug, but it’s awkward with my hands cuffed behind my back.
I’m feeling woozy, like the Taser had something more than an electric shock in it. I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them again. Shaking my head, I try to clear some of the haziness away. I definitely can’t afford to be out of it. My glasses slip down my nose, and I automatically raise my hand to push them back up. I grimace as my wrist hits the metal of the cuffs yet again.
My fingernails dig into my palms as I try to stay calm, and appear unconcerned. I’ve been in worse situations than this and survived.
And this would totally be true, except for one disastrous detail.
The idiot guard found my bag after he Tasered me, and his over-zealous search led to the discovery of an ancient Walmart loyalty card with my real name on it, shoved deep inside an internal pocket. I was so careful to leave everything with my current identity at home, just in case.
But I didn’t check my bag properly.
And they now have my real name. If the detective checks my records in the system, it’s the end of everything.
My job. My hunt. My life.
Everything.
The thought of what will happen to me if I’m matched up in the police database with my real name is making my stomach twist and the bitter taste of bile rise into my throat. There’s no way I’d escape a second time. They’d haul me back to the Ravenwood Mental Health Facility for Violent Offenders quicker than you could say crazy-girl-who-probably-killed-her-parents, and this time they’d lock me in the deepest darkest ward and throw away the key.
I’ll do anything to avoid that happening.
Anything.
I narrow my eyes, studying the detective. The haziness is already easing, and I’m starting to think this through more clearly. It’s obviously a quiet night, because he’s come out to a scrap metal yard to talk to a lone B and E suspect. He’s middle aged, with dark hair and olive skin, and kind eyes. He also looks smart, like he’s seen it all before. I’ll have to be careful.
The detective places the metal box on the table, and I try to pretend I don’t care what happens to it. But it‘s hard to suppress the wince as he knocks on it with one big knuckle. It took me a long time to create that particular piece of gadgetry with the right tone inside it. He’s going to make it worse than it is already.
“This isn’t just stuff. This is…” He hesitates and stares thoughtfully at the trap. “This has been carefully designed with a very specific purpose in mind.”
Panic flares in my stomach. “Look, I already told you, I’m a student at Stanford. I’m doing research on rats. I figured there’d be loads of rats around here. I didn’t realize I’d get into so much trouble over some rats.” I widen my eyes and look up at him, like I imagine an innocent student might do.
“That doesn’t explain the noise. Or the blue light.”
“The noise is a frequency that calls rats,” I say as if it’s obvious. The blue light has me stumped. I have nothing that could explain it away. “I don’t know about the blue light. Maybe your man’s been drinking? I know he’s trigger happy.” I glare at the guard.
He’s sitting across from the police detective, eyes on the older man’s every move, like he’s a little sea sponge soaking up the bigger sea sponge’s vast knowledge.
Great. A security guard with aspirations of greater things. Just what I need.
But as I look back at the detective, I catch the glimmer of a smile. This guy isn’t taking this as seriously as I’d previously suspected. I straighten up slightly. I might have a chance of getting out of this without having to go downtown.
“I’m really sorry, Detective. I didn’t know it would be such a problem. I’m not here to steal anything, I promise. I’m just testing my device on rats.”
“Where’s your car?” asks the detective.
I think of my little blue Suzuki sitting just outside the gates with the rest of my equipment, including documentation about unexplained paranormal phenomenon and an unlicensed firearm. “I took the bus,” I say firmly. My glasses have fallen halfway down my nose, and I can’t push them up. It’s driving me crazy. I narrow my eyes at the guard over the rims.
The detective looks over at the guard as well. “It’s up to you, Harold. Do I take her in?”
My heart sinks. Harold, the sneaky rat, is going to sell me down the river.
As expected, he nods. “Yes, sir, Detective Cappello. She broke the law coming in here. It’s a gateway crime,” he says like he knows what he’s talking about.
The detective nods decisively. “All right. Just show me one more time where she was loitering.” He gestures for Harold to lead the way outside.
As soon as the two men leave the building, I start struggling against the cuffs. I’m going to have to escape somehow. There’s no way I can let the detective look me up. But as much as I wriggle about, I can’t get them undone; they’re securely fastened. Harold is much better than he looks at using the tools of his trade.
They’re back before I get anywhere, and the detective doesn’t even bother to hide his grin when he catches me twisting about in the chair.
“Okay, young lady, it’s time to take you downtown. Into the car.” He unlocks the handcuffs attaching me to the chair, grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet with surprising gentleness. He glances back at the guard. “Thanks for your hard work, Harold. Keep it up.”
>
I can’t help it. I roll my eyes.
Detective Cappello helps me into the back of the car, and I sit quietly, my brain in overdrive, working out how I’m going to get myself out of this mess. I squint over to where my little car is sitting forlornly on the side of the road. Without it, I’m not going to be able to get to work on time tomorrow morning. And it’s going to be a pain in the butt to get back out here to pick it up.
On the plus side, I won’t have to worry about any of that if I’ve been sent to back the living hell of Ravenwood.
4
The detective turns onto the street before looking at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are twinkling again, like he’s some kind of mix between Santa and the granddad I’ve never had.
“You gonna tell me what you were really doing in there?” he asks.
I widen my eyes, the same expression I gave him earlier. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective. I’ve been nothing but honest with you.”
“Look, Hazel, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what blue light and a device that gives off high-pitched notes means. You’re playing around with demons.”
“Demons?” I squeak. My whole body goes stiff. My eyes are naturally wide now, staring at him like he’s just announced he’s from another planet.
He gives me a look. “Of course, demons. Don’t play dumb with me, Hazel.”
“But…” The rest of my words freeze in my mouth. I want to ask “Not paranormal monsters?” but the words won’t form. I’m too used to keeping it all in. Saying the words means I’d risk being sent back to Ravenwood, and I can’t make myself do it.
But…
They’re demons?
How does he know? What makes him so sure? The questions whirl around inside my head, and I can’t catch ahold of one long enough to figure any of it out.
How can he so casually talk about something that I’ve only suspected and hypothesized?
No one at the compound where I was raised knew what I was talking about when my friend Becca was killed. I was sent to a psychiatrist who told me it was all hallucinations, my overactive teenage brain trying to make sense of trauma. She worked for a year to convince me I’d imagined it all.
Then later, when another of the creatures killed my parents in front of me, not one of the police officers that found me at the scene, or the psychiatrists who examined me afterwards, believed me.
They all told me I was having hallucinations. That I’d somehow killed my parents and tried to block it out by creating the monsters in my head. No one in any official capacity has ever believed me when I talked about the glowing paranormal monsters.
And now here’s a police officer casually calling them demons? My brain is buzzing. Is it really the same paranormal phenomena I’ve been chasing?
“Demons,” I whisper, tasting the word on my tongue.
Is he right?
Are they demons?
“You seem like a nice kid,” the detective is saying. “I don’t want to get you into trouble if you don’t deserve it. But you’re also going to get yourself killed if you’re not careful.”
“How?” The one word seems to encompass all my questions. How does he know about them? How can he know they’d hurt me? How can I find out more without having to tell him what I know? How is any of this possible?
“They’re dangerous, Hazel. Don’t try to convince yourself they’re not. Only people who’ve been specially trained can take on demons.”
Specially trained? There are more people who know about this?
It feels like something just exploded in my brain.
I have so many questions. The powerful river of my curiosity is currently thrusting against the cracked dam wall of my will power, desperate to burst free. But the habits of the last five years are hard to break. This man has the power to send me back to the one place I’ve sworn I’ll never go back to.
On pain of death.
If I’m not careful, I’ll give something away. For all I know, this could even be some kind of elaborate trick. I don’t have the luxury of talking to a police officer, not even one who knows about paranormal creatures.
Especially not one who has my real name in his notebook. So I keep my mouth shut around all of my questions. My policy of keeping quiet is the only thing that’s kept me free this long.
But still.
Demons.
I take a shaky breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say softly. The words feel ragged, raw against my throat. But I can’t say anything else. I don’t know this guy. I can’t trust him just because he seems to know something.
A sense of urgency pushes up through my body. My survival instinct is kicking in, and it’s telling me I have to get out of here before he gets to the station. I glance around the back seat, looking for an idea on how to get out. There’s not much back here. Maybe I could convince him to stop for some reason, and then make a run for it? Or maybe I should set the car on fire?
He sighs. “Look, I’m not going to take you down to the station, no matter what I told Harold back there. He’s a good guy, just a little overzealous. But you need to promise me you’re going to be careful.”
I freeze in the act of determining the most flammable materials in the back seat. Did I hear him correctly? “Pardon?”
“You need to promise you’re not going to play around with demons anymore. They’re dangerous.”
“No, no, the other bit.”
He smiles wryly. “I’m not taking you in.”
I blink, more relieved than I can let him know that I don’t have to set his car on fire. It was a pretty shaky plan. My night is suddenly a little better.
“Just tell me where to drop you home, and we’ll be done.”
I rattle off an address two blocks from my house.
“Come on now, we both know that’s a lie,” he says. “You couldn’t afford that neighborhood.”
I wince. I’ve gone too far south. “I work there. I’m a housemaid,” I mutter.
“I thought you were a student?”
“I work there when I’m not at school.”
He sighs and keeps driving. “So, you got family?” he asks.
I hesitate and then shake my head. There’s no harm in answering that question correctly.
“Any friends I can take you to?”
I glare at him again. “None that I’d let you drop me off at in a police car,” I say.
“Then they’re not very good friends, huh?”
I feel a flare of anger. “Why do you care whether I have friends or family?”
I immediately regret it. I’m breaking my usual rules of nonengagement. I clamp my lips shut again and promise myself I’m not going to answer any more questions.
“I care because I’m good at my job. You’re not the usual kind of criminal I pick up.” He hesitates. “I can tell you’re into something you shouldn’t be.”
I bite down on the inside of my lips to keep from answering him, even to say it’s none of his business. I need to disengage from this conversation, or he’s going to think he’s my buddy and start keeping an eye on me.
That’s the very last thing I need.
We finish the drive mostly in silence. Detective Cappello tries a couple more times to get me to talk, but I’ve regained my equilibrium and refuse to engage.
He stops outside the house I named, though we both know it’s not the right address. He comes around, helps me out, and unlocks the handcuffs. My wrists are really sore, and I rub them gently. He pulls something out of his jacket pocket and holds it out to me. It’s a business card.
I don’t reach for it.
“Take it. If you get into any trouble, give me a call.” His knowing eyes stare down at me, and everything inside me wants to take him up on his offer of help, right here, right now.
If I squint a little, he could almost be my dad. My heart gives a little hiccup.
But I know better. I can’t do it. I reach for his card, because not takin
g it would be more memorable than if I just take it. But I’m going to throw it out as soon as I get home.
It’s better that way.
I nod at him and grab my metal box and remote. There’s a dent in the main audio device on the box, and the remote is all dusty and dirty. I’ll have to do some repairs to get them both running again.
“Thanks for dropping me off,” I say, trying not to feel resentful about my two-block walk home.
He nods, walking back to his side of the car. “Anytime, Hazel. Remember, call me if you get into trouble.”
“Sure,” I lie.
5
By the time I make it back to my apartment building in a much shabbier street, my feet are killing me, and my body is protesting the late night and the rough treatment.
I can practically feel the bags forming under my eyes. I used to be tougher when I lived at the compound—hard work was our daily grind—but hiding out in big cities for the last few years has made me soft.
I roll my shoulder in an attempt to ease the muscle, but it just twinges painfully. The points where the Taser got me feel like wasp stings that are about to become infected.
As I open the heavy glass door to the lobby, I’m mentally assessing my first aid kit and wondering what I’ve got that will ease the soreness.
I pull out the key for my mailbox and walk stiffly across the tiled floor. A dim lamp in the corner gives off enough light to make it seem shadowy and ominous. I’m still jumpy from my evening’s adventures, and I’m tempted just to head up the stairs, but there’s a part from a metalworker specialist in Vegas that I’m waiting on. I put down my device and unlock the mail box.
The box is empty, and I’m just shutting the small metal door when I hear a scraping noise behind me. Light flares against the wall.
Demons.
Heart racing, I spin around, my hands out with the key between my knuckles. A shadow looms in the doorway, and for a second my mind screams in fear.