Haunted By The Succubus

by Michelle Dorey

  He sits back watching his fingers, all the while tapping a pen against the desk. “Not yet. But it’s strange. Every Tuesday and Thursday for the last few years Anthony has worked late, supposedly at a meeting with the other partners.”

  “Supposedly. So you know he isn’t doing that.”

  “He leaves work at four, goes to a Philippine restaurant and doesn’t leave there till nine at night. The last couple of times I followed him, I went into the restaurant to see what’s up. No one spends five hours eating. The building where the restaurant is has a few upper floors. So I think, yeah, that’s where he’s spending time. Is it a massage parlor? A front for some gambling joint? I couldn’t find any entranceway to the upper floors from the restaurant—I managed to check that out.” He drums his fingers on the desktop. “But now it gets oddball.”

  “How?”

  “Well, last week I followed him into the restaurant’s restroom and he literally vanished. No sign of him even though I’d seen him go in there.”

  “So what’s upstairs in that building?” I got a sense of the place, the cooking smells and chatter from what was ringing around in Mike’s head.

  “Apartments, from what I could tell from the entrance on the side of the building. I checked out that entranceway, but it’s locked up tight. I could see some mailboxes and doorbells.” He shrugged. “It looks legit—I don’t think there’s a gambling joint or brothel up those stairs.”

  “Why are you sure?”

  “No traffic. I spent a full night staking out the entrance of the apartments. Places like bootleg casinos or brothels have people coming and going all the time. The apartment entrance is just where some people live. The place looks a little rough on the outside but inside is a whole different story. From what I could see there’s only four apartments, two on each floor. They’ve got to be huge and the hallway has Berber wool carpets.”

  “So, somehow he’s able to get into one of these places from the restaurant?”

  “Something’s fishy about the place. And guess what? The lawyer owns the building. It took me a while to track back through the numbered companies, but yeah, it’s owned by Anthony Wilson.” He sits back and crosses his arms over his chest, straining a couple buttons on his white cotton shirt.

  “So you want me to go in there? Follow Anthony to the restaurant tonight and try to get a reading on him. See what he’s up to.” I pull my cell phone out to check the time and get the address of this restaurant. “You have a picture of this guy?”

  Mike opens the file folder and flicks a photocopy of a man in his fifties, graying hair, handsome even if his nose was more like a beak. It must be from a newspaper article at some charity event because he’s in a tuxedo standing next to a petite blond only a few years younger. Probably his wife, Sheila. I snap a pic with my phone and then stand up.

  “I’ll case the joint.”

  Mike snorts a laugh. “You been watching too much TV, Adam.” He scoops up the photo and puts it back in the file. “It’s out on Counter Street. You can’t miss it. It’s the only Philippine restaurant in town.” He looks sad for a moment. “I seriously hope I’ve been wrong and that it’s some kind of cathouse. Sheila will be heartbroken if he has a mistress.”

  Mike is giving off genuine fondness for Sheila while at the same time resenting her sister, even though it was Mona who had steered the business his way.

  “How much is all this worth to me, Mike? I mean, aside from the pleasure of your company?”

  “I charge seventy-five an hour, kid. Let me know how much time you spend. Needless to say, I don’t dog it to rack the bill higher. That’s not my style.” He turns to his laptop already moving on to whatever other cases he has lined up.

  This is a trial run for both of us. But I’m getting good vibes that things will work out. “I’ll call you later to let you know what I’ve found. Or maybe I’ll see you at The Slip tonight? You can buy me a beer.”

  “Gladly, if you can get this case off my back. I’d love to find that hidden door in that joint. He’s got a slick operation going, whatever it is.” Mike is a two-finger typing wizard punching the keys of the computer.

  ***

  After leaving Mike’s office, I have some time to kill before I have to go into the delivery job. As I pass by a thrift store, an idea pops into my twisted brain so I duck in. At the back of the store, rack after rack of men’s clothing hangs, but it’s a hat that I want. And right there on a shelf are a few dark fedora’s that don’t look like they’ve seen much use. I pluck the brown one and plop it onto my head. Immediately a sense of grief wafts over me, and I picture the previous owner—some old man who’d worn this at his brother’s funeral.

  I put it back and grab the other one. That’s the problem with buying anything used. Sometimes the karma that comes off the stuff is not right. But the second one, black and in perfect shape is neutral. I picture some skinny guy getting this and being too self conscious to ever wear it.

  Eyeing myself in the mirror hanging on the wall I adjust it so that it hangs low over my eyes. I fish my cell phone from my pocket and take a selfie. My thumbs flew texting Amy with the pic.

  Adam Rafferty P.I. Specializing in finding lost causes.

  I chuckle picturing her face when she gets it.

  “Do you need some help?” A middle-aged, black lady scowls at me. “You buying that hat or just being one, as in asshat?”

  I feel my cheeks warm and notice another patron eyeing me as well. But this guy looks like anything he finds in the store will be a vast improvement to the rags he’s got on. “Yeah. I’ll take it.” I slip the hat off and skulk behind the lady walking to the cash.

  I hand her a few dollars and then scurry out of there.

  When I walk into Rabbit Express my shoulders slump. Just my luck that Phil is behind the counter, giving Hilda an early lunch break.

  He looks up from his iPhone for a moment. “What happened? You fall out of bed or something? You’re not due in for another hour.”

  “It’s you, Phil. I couldn’t wait to see your ugly mug.” I walk over to the counter to see the order sheets. Again, luck is with me. An order for a pickup from the wrecker’s and deliver to an auto-body shop near that Philippine restaurant. For good measure I grab the second order as well which would keep me out on the road away from the office and Mr. Personality.

  “I might as well get these out of the way.” I grab the keys to the van and head out the back door. Phil doesn’t even bother looking up from the porn site he ogles.

  A half hour later I park the van in front of the restaurant and get out. I look up at the rust-colored brick building checking the windows for any sign of life. It’s funny but I get impressions of children flitting through my mind—not scared or brutalized, more like happy images. This doesn’t sit with what Mike said. He’s under the impression that the place might be a brothel of some kind.

  I go into the restaurant to check it out. A tiny Asian lady rushes over to hand me a menu when I take a table near the window. “Thanks. But I’ll just have a coffee.”

  She smiles and nods while scooping the cutlery up, lest I dirty it with my presence.

  “I’ve never been here before. I’ll have to come back for dinner later. I love to try different ethnic foods. Have you been open long?” Already I feel all P.I. and stuff, being chatty to get information.

  “Open five year. Yes. Please to come back for dinner. Adobo on special today. Only nine ninety-nine.” All the while her head nods like a bobble, and the smile never leaves her dark eyes.

  “Sounds great!” I can’t help but smile back at her. There’s nothing sinister about this woman, only a hard worker who cherishes her family. I sense a son and daughter in college that she’s very proud of.

  She walks away, and I take that opportunity to check out this restroom where the client’s husband has given Mike the slip. The restaurant isn’t all that busy considering it’s close to noon. A few tables are occupied with older Philippine people who look lik
e friends. This is their daily routine stopping by for lunch. The aroma of garlic makes my mouth water when a waft leaves the open door of the kitchen. Another server appears carrying plates of food.

  The men’s room is nothing special. Just a few urinals, three stalls and sinks. I pop into each stall looking for anything that would indicate a doorway. But of course, it probably isn’t easy to spot and who would want to have to slide by a toilet to get out anyway? I tap along each of the two wood-paneled walls, but there’s nothing hollow sounding or suspicious. But still I get a feeling, and it’s not just the rough grain under my fingers. It’s an awareness of anticipation, a feeling of love that the last person who touched this wall experienced.

  If this Anthony guy managed to give Mike the slip, it had to be from some catch in this wall that opens up to the other part of the building. But damned if I can find it. This is going to take meeting the guy for me to figure this out. There are clues but not enough to find that final piece.

  I wash my hands and then hightail it back to my table where a steaming cup of coffee awaits. I’m barely seated when my cell phone buzzes with a text.

  Go to 571 Oakley Lane for a pickup, and take it to Art Alter Gallery on Main.

  Of course I know the gallery, but I have to do a search for this Oakley Lane I’ve never heard of. Great. It’s going to take me out about five miles into the countryside according to the map. I still have a couple of stops to drop off the other items. But there’s no way I want to miss seeing this lawyer when he comes to this restaurant at four.

  I gulp the coffee and leave a finsky on the table. Yup. A finsky. With my hat and work with Drogan, I’m getting all Phillip Marlow. Sue me, sweetheart. When I leave the building the sound of children’s laughter in the schoolyard down the street fills the warm springtime air. I pause and look up at the building above the restaurant. Someone in that building has kids that go to that same school down the block from me. It comes to me in a flash and I know it’s true. The place isn’t a brothel like Mike suspected.

  Not. At. All.

  I get in the van and program the phone’s GPS for Oakley Lane. The Android woman on the phone practically purrs when she speaks, giving me sexy directions, taking me to the outskirts of town to this Oakley Lane place. Hell, hearing her voice is a welcome distraction. The way my luck’s been going, it’s probably the only sexy voice I’m likely to ever hear, so yeah, it makes me smile.

  Stands of trees bordering the two lane road show the undeniable march of spring with leaves bursting from their buds, peppering the branches. Two more miles of farms and fields follow before I see the sign I’m looking for.

  “You’re here, big boy. Come and get it.” The phone’s sultry robot purrs.

  Chuckling I flip the app off. It would have been nice if Jane or Jasmine had said that last night instead of hurrying out of the bar like I’d grown a second head.

  The lane isn’t paved, and I have to swerve to avoid potholes that threaten to swallow the van. Large oak trees border the cow-path drive like sentries. A flock of crows take flight darkening the meager sunlight that manages to filter through. There aren’t any houses besides the one up ahead that looms, a three-story, stone monstrosity with upper windows akin to the multi-lenses of a fly, watching my progress.

  The hair on the back of my neck tingles as I stop the van. The warmth of the day can’t shake the shiver that tightens my shoulders. The only time I’ve ever felt this way about a house was when I was twelve and had stumbled onto the Donnelly house property.

  That day scared the shit out of me.

  FOUR

  That day was seven years ago; I was just twelve years old. It had been a warm spring day, much like the one today. That morning I raced out of the house in time to see the yellow school bus at the end of the block on its way to school leaving me in the faint exhaust smoke. I was left with a choice. Skipping school would throw my parents into a conniption and I’d be grounded for a week, or I could suck it up and walk.

  I pulled the knapsack strap higher on my shoulder and set off down the street. As I passed by a vacant lot it occurred to me that the school wasn’t that far away as the crow flies. It would mean cutting through a ravine and stand of trees, but I’d chop the walking time in half. And if it wasn’t too hard walking it would allow me to grab an extra fifteen minutes of sleep each morning.

  A bonus on top of the extra sleep was that I wouldn’t have to deal with Ralph Bufford on the bus ride. He and his buddies picked on me the entire ride to school. Every day, all year long I’d been the target of their teasing. Well, it started with teasing, but by that morning they were starting to shove me around when the driver wasn’t looking. A crappy way to start your day, right? I squared my shoulders. To hell with catching the bus, getting picked on by that bully, Ralph, and his gang of thugs.

  After crossing the scrubby lot, the land dipped down, and I had to grab at the branches of mangy cedar trees to keep from slipping in the muddy spots. At the bottom of the ravine, the trees became larger and more plentiful. As I threaded my way through the wooded copse the sound of water gurgling made me pause. To my right was a small stream that followed the same direction where I needed to go to get to school.

  A splash in the water got my curiosity going and I headed over to check it out. In an eddy of water pooled and swirling slightly before trickling over a flat rock was a dark fish. He hovered just below the surface. I watched him for a few seconds before he skirted to the side and flew up, landing in the flow of the stream a couple feet away. The sunlight reflected a ribbon of pink going along his side when he’d been in the air. A rainbow trout!

  I raced after him, my eyes never leaving his thin body and the swirl of water in his wake. Time, school, everything was forgotten as I skipped along, pouncing from rock to rock in pursuit of the fish. I never noticed the deadly quiet as I went deeper and deeper into the woods. Not even a cheep from birds or crickets, only the gurgling sound of the brook.

  It emptied into a pool about twelve feet across, darker and with depth to it that made finding the fish harder.

  “Adam.”

  I jerked and then spun around to see the source of the voice. My heart just about stopped when I saw the house.

  Oh my God, I’d stumbled onto the Donnelly place. Even without hearing all the horror stories about the serial killer who once lived there, I’d known that it was a bad place. Seeing it from the safety of my parents’ car I’d felt a malevolent presence watching me as we drove by.

  And now it was about thirty feet away. Somehow I’d landed in the backyard of the cursed manse.

  “Aaadaaam.” A girl’s soft voice called in a singsong way that sent a shiver down my spine.

  She stepped onto the back veranda and my jaw fell open. She was a vision of beauty right out of a fairy tale, elegant and lovely in a frothy, white dress. Raven hair hung to her waist and her eyes, even from this distance, showed an azure blue next to milk-white skin. She was the most gorgeous creature I’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Adam? Come closer. Let’s play a game.”

  My feet started moving, pushing through the long, matted grass as I fell into her smile, my focus only on her. My foot was on the bottom step before a wave of nausea and sense of foreboding overcame me. I stopped short. The air around me wavered like the shimmering heat waves above tarmac on a hot day in July. The stench of sewer gas filtered into my nostrils.

  “ADAM! Come here!” She morphed right before my eyes! Her ivory skin darkened and her eyes glowed red. Even her lustrous hair transformed into writhing snakes, and the white dress was replaced with scales dripping a yellow ooze as she grew in size. Towering over me, she... IT bellowed, “COME TO ME!”

  As I recoiled back in horror, this thing lashed out like a striking serpent with glinting, yellow talons.

  “I MARK YOU, BOY!”

  A searing, hot pain ripped through my thigh! Gasping, I fell on my ass. I skittered backward, desperately trying to scramble to my feet. My back pack fell aw
ay as I ran through the yard, the grass tugging at my legs to ensnare me. The hair on the back of my neck spiked high as I looked for the stream.

  It wasn’t there!

  Only the trees with twisted dark limbs that looked like arms and hands reaching to get me.

  The laughter that blared from the house shot a jolt of fear up my spine. It held the hysterical ring of many voices, some young as children, some old as time—and all dripping with malice.

  It was only later, racing through the forest that the chilling wetness registered. I had actually peed myself. If only that were the worst of it.

  When I peeled my jeans away in the bathroom at home, three red gashes crossed my thigh. They weren’t deep enough for stitches but they hurt like hell. I still have the faint lines there, where I’d been clawed by that…thing.

  I’d had lots of encounters with spirits, but never, ever had I seen a demon. And what lived in the Donnelly house was surely that. A demon who had marked me.

  Needless to say, I never went back. I never missed the school bus ever again. Ralph Bufford and his buddies were nothing compared to what I had encountered.

  ***

  Shaking my head to clear it of the dark memory, I get out of the van slowly, my eyes taking in every nook and cranny, the sides of the building and the walkway to the large veranda. I can’t shake the feeling that something watches me. And it’s definitely a something not a someone. The pervading sense of déjà vu makes my blood run cold.