“It’s in their best interest,” Vic continued. “They wanted worshipers to begin with because that’s one way to gain access to power for them. From the stories I’ve heard, they aren’t too different from ghosts, although they are made from different stuff. It’s said that stygia—the substance that lets us ghosts have form here on the living side—is a watered-down version of what they are made of.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow at this. “Wait, seriously? Stygia is diluted keeper blood?”
The detective shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you for sure, kid. Ghosts have their folklore exactly like humans, and if you think the old stories you hear can stretch a metaphor…” He rolled his eyes. “Woof.”
The waitress brought their meals and the conversation did not immediately resume once she left them to it. Everyone took a few minutes to process everything and think of further questions, but it seemed they had the same one in mind.
Valerie wiped her lips and looked around. “So what’s the plan from here?” She looked at Johnny, Vic, and Aiyana. “And do any of you want to back out?”
“From a case?” the young detective asked and looked at Vic. “Hell no. Weird or not, that would be a hit to our rep.”
The ghost chuckled as he put his hat on. “Hell, in our business, weird is better.” He smiled at Valerie and the siblings. “Besides, I’ve grown fond of ya. And it’s not like any of you have a choice here. It wouldn’t feel fair.”
“I will stay as well,” Aiyana declared. “It is my duty and I will not be so cowardly as to avoid it.” She speared some eggs with her fork. “Not only that but to come here and leave after only a day seems like such a waste.”
Marco frowned as he finished his mouthful of bacon. “I wish we could back out.” He nodded to his sister.
Annie shrugged. “It is what it is, I suppose.” She looked at the two detectives. “Were you able to find any reason why they have targeted me and my brother?”
“You specifically,” Johnny pointed out and waved his fork in circles at her. “Remember? Marco was not worthy, apparently.”
Her brother folded his arms. “Honestly, I would be inclined to be fine with it if it wasn’t for the fact that the creep still seemed to consider me as some kind of consolation prize.”
Valerie chuckled and stirred the fruit into her oatmeal. “So you are less worried about the fact that they might still have some plans for you and more upset that they consider you a spare or something?”
The young man nodded feverishly. “I mean…yeah, it’s disrespectful.”
“Yes, high on the list of sins these guys have committed is the discourteousness of it all,” Vic said sarcastically and earned an annoyed look from Marco. “Look, we at least have the players in place even if we don’t know the game yet. We have the Axman, who might or might not have at least one crony left. We are still a little in the dark about that, admittedly, but the killer at the bar mentioned a ‘pet,’ so it’s likely. But we have him, his possible pal, and whatever keeper he struck a deal with. While I would like to say that would be enough to get some real help with this”—he looked at Valerie—“I assume most people will react how I did initially and say it's bogus.”
The officer nodded. “I’ll try to see if anyone will believe me but they haven’t seen what we have. Plus, there’s the cover-up so I’m not sure how much fruit it will bear.”
“We might have better luck in Limbo,” Johnny suggested. “While we might still get some crazy looks, the ghosts are more inclined to listen to crazy after all.”
Vic nodded and looked around the diner. “Do you see any crossings?”
“In here?” Johnny moved his eyepatch away and gazed around. “Here, no, but next door has one. Without checking the maps we won’t—”
“We can back out if it puts us in a bad location,” his partner responded impatiently. “I wanna get in there to see if any of this is finally drawing attention. Limbo is massive, sure, but this dude has killed enough people and there’s been enough time to spread it around. I’m as sure as hell that some of the ghosts who ran off last night are hollering about it in the bars. They gotta be.”
He nodded and cut into a pancake. “It sounds good. I’ll be done in a bit.”
The ghost leaned back. “A ‘bit’ is relative for you.” He looked at Marco. “Do you mind running an errand for me?”
“Whatcha need?”
Vic gestured with a nod to the diner entrance. “I brought a stash of doubloons and need you to head to the market and get us some guns—damn hand cannons if you can get them.” He took his pistol out and looked at it for a moment before he slid it under the table toward him. “If you need extra cash…uh, make sure you get me something nice.”
“Vic! Are you honestly willing to sell that?” Johnny stared at him in shock. “It’s your memento.”
The ghost nodded. “It’s a nice piece and we had good times but unfortunately, for what we’re dealing with, it ain’t enough.” He frowned at Marco. “Make sure she finds a good home, all right? And don’t get cheated. Mementos go for a higher price.” He nodded to Valerie. “I’d ask her but I assume she’s as barred from it as we are—or probably is, at least.”
“I haven’t been back,” she admitted. “I can drive you there and have a friend who can go with you to keep you safe if you want.”
“I’m connected to the mob, remember?” Marco chuckled and bit into another strip of bacon. “They won’t hassle me and I’ll have my bat. It’s cool.”
“I appreciate it. Valerie might have some recommendations so I’ll defer to her. My knowledge of ghost iron is somewhat dated. If you had told me that the cops had better guns than my revolver, I would have laughed in your face until she proved it.”
“The police are taking the supernatural seriously now, at least compared to decades ago,” she told him. “Besides, it’s New Orleans. Spooky stuff is always going on here.” A light rain began to patter against the windows and the whole table tensed. They listened to the music playing overhead but it didn’t change from the sweet, simple, easy-listening number that drifted softly through the speakers.
Johnny rubbed his temples. “Good Lord. I used to like the sound of rain.”
Vic relaxed and chuckled. “I’m merely glad I no longer have a bladder.”
Chapter Thirty
The crisp fall breeze drifted through the vine maple trees of the Kisatchie National Forest. A light mist hung above to create a shrouded but hypnotic view of the moonlit trees. It was the perfect scene for romance for some and a chance to explore for others but for one, it was the ideal time to kill.
On the bank of Valentine Lake, nestled among the trees, a man stood and rocked in worn dark leather boots. One hand was tucked inside his black-and-white flannel and fiddled with a strap across his chest. He looked around and his head jerked anxiously but his eyes were alight with excitement as he checked the patch of dirt. It was important that it wasn’t too deep. He wanted to be sure they found him sometime soon.
This was his fifth time and tonight felt right. It would be the real beginning of his new life. While it was ironic that another had to end to accomplish that, he saw the humor in it, at least.
He remembered the first time and the supposed accident at his friend's home and wondered if it had truly been inadvertent. The truth was that he hadn’t intended to get into an argument about a girl or for the blade to pierce the man’s stomach. Not only that but the rapid blood flow had shocked him and he’d simply gaped as the guy’s eyes closed for the last time. With that said, however, he also hadn’t intended to feel such intense pleasure from it.
The joyous chills had been unexpected in a room that moments before had been filled with insults and bile-laden accusations. They were followed by the rapturous, gurgling sound his buddy made as he collapsed, his eyes wide in astonishment in a face crinkled in pain.
Thinking back, he decided it was odd that the man didn't scream. They usually screamed in the movies and the girl he killed o
n a marvelous night a week later had shrieked absolute hell. His friend had not. All he’d uttered was a sharp gasp and a throaty gurgle before wondrous, absolute silence descended.
While he hadn't meant to do that, maybe it was fate. After he’d simply drifted through life with no direction and tried to fill the emptiness with seemingly all of humanity's vices, he had forgotten the oldest one of all. Finally, he felt he knew what he could do to give his life some meaning.
It had already begun. News traveled quickly in this town and grisly murders were already happening around the city. Bodies were found in shriveled conditions and the attacks were reportedly preceded by some kind of sizzling noise according to one survivor. He couldn’t bring himself to feel regret that the man’s second chance at life was all too brief.
New Orleans was uncharacteristically used to the darker nature of reality if history was anything to go by, but even the most hardened of individuals could be frightened when the scene was macabre enough, the horrors grotesque enough, and the creator unknown. With all that going on, he might as well join the fun, right?
He hadn't intended to have a calling card but after his first intentional kill, he knew what was effective. Insert a sharp object into another person's sternum and pull to the left. It was quick and dirty but efficient, and it happened to leave a crescent-shaped mark on the body like one of the city’s nicknames.
Almost nothing had been written or spoken about the first killing, but after the second incident, then a third, people began to put everything together. Well, except the bodies. Only this morning, he had seen a blog that discussed the killings and bequeathed him the title The Blood Moon Slasher. While a little fancy for his taste, it confirmed that he would be rewarded for his new passion and tonight, he would dot the Is and cross the Ts on his name in the history books.
Shuffled steps on gravel caught his attention and pulled him from his reminiscing. He narrowed his gaze on a man who approached the lakeside. It was fairly dark but his hiding place was in close proximity and he could make out a few features.
The man was maybe in his mid to late thirties and wore a brown jacket and dark trousers. He gazed at the lake and the faint moonlight illuminated his face and revealed dark-rimmed glasses and slicked-back brown hair that reached his shoulders. Dark-gloved hands disappeared into his jacket as he took a minute to admire the lake in the stillness of the night. He was probably a late-night hiker and the Slasher couldn’t help but smile. It seemed he would get a two-for-one special tonight.
He slid his hood up and unfastened the strap that held his blade. The knife was one he’d inherited from his father—a memento of his fishing days and appropriately, it had been used for gutting. He didn't remove it yet. After the last time, he realized that he enjoyed the shock of the moment when he unveiled it, but he cocked the sheat to the side for easy access under his jacket, left his hiding place behind the trees, and approached the stranger.
“You know, I watched you for a while.” The Slasher stopped when the man spoke. Surprisingly, he did not turn and simply stood with his back to him and stared at the water as he continued. “There would have been a time where I admired your patience. It’s becoming so rare in your kind nowadays.”
The killer looked at him in bewilderment, not sure what he was talking about. He regained his composure quickly, however, and smiled.
“So you know who I am, do you?” The stranger nodded. “Well then, I have to give you your due. You've got balls.” He chuckled as he took a few steps to close the distance between them but leave himself enough room to maneuver in case this was a sting.
“Who are you? Some new detective trying to prove himself and put away the latest killer on the block? Or merely some punk looking to get justice for someone I had a little fun with?”
The man turned slightly toward him. His features were hidden in the dark, but an odd light flickered from him—perhaps reflections of the moonlight on the water. “I suppose I was a little vague there. I should have said our kind.”
He grimaced before his eyes widened and he began to laugh. “Oh, I get it! You're one of the freaky fans of people like me—like the Manson family. Are you looking to join the club?” He chuckled and finished his excited statement with a whistle. “You know, I gotta say that I am impressed—with myself, of course. I’ve only done this a few times and got me a devoted hanger-on so I must have made an impression.” He drew the knife and twirled it in his hand. “I wonder if they are talking about me in Limbo too. That might be an awkward run-in one day.” Reluctantly, he sheathed the knife again. He rather liked the novelty of having discovered a real fan.
The man turned fully but with his head lowered. “In Limbo? I would not worry about that. In such a place, you will barely be recognizable. You’ll be lucky if you’ll be noted in the history of the living. I can speak from experience.”
The Slasher's blood boiled in an instant and he yanked his blade from the holster with such speed and aggression that it sliced his jacket and shirt. “Listen, you fucking prick! Do you think that because I've only begun my career that I'm some hick who got lucky a few times? Fuck you! I will be remembered and feared for centuries by the time I'm done—a bloody rock-star. All you will be is one of my mutilated building blocks.
“You know, I might have let you live with only a few wounds or some missing fingers so you could spread my name around and jump-start my legacy. Now, I will eviscerate your skinny ass and leave your corpse with so many tears and holes that they will have to stitch you together to try and identify you. They will—gahk!"
The Slasher's words jumbled in his throat and he tasted a metallic liquid. When he raised his hand to his mouth to see what was wrong and why he couldn't seem to speak, his eyes widened. Sweat appeared on his face and trickled to his neck and he realized that his throat had been cut. He looked up but the man was gone.
As he spat the blood out, a clanging noise next to him made him look at the ground. His knife had fallen beside him and more blood trickled onto it from above.
Shaking, he raised the arm that had held it and gaped. His hand was gone, a bloody stump all that remained like it had been severed cleanly by a razor. A moment later, he collapsed and landed hard chest-down but flipped quickly to see both legs gone, amputated above the knee.
He was now in a full-blown panic and used his one remaining arm to drag himself along the shore as a trail of life force seeped from his lost legs. His horrified senses registered something behind him and he looked at the man, who held a razor blade. The terror he felt increased because his attacker’s face was visible now and he was no man.
“It seems I was wrong. Silence only makes you even more pathetic,” the monster murmured and kicked him. The Slasher recovered and tried to crawl away again. He didn't know what was happening, only that this being was the reason, and he had never feared anyone or anything like this before.
His attacker walked beside him for a while and simply observed him before he drove his boot into his hand and stopped him. He shrieked a garbled cry, caught his breath, and looked slowly at the dread being. After a long moment, the killer removed his foot from his hand, knelt beside him, and gave him a devilish smile. His face was skeletal and black and a white light wrapped around his head like fire.
“You would never be anything worthwhile and it wasn’t worth the trouble to recruit you. He’s getting impatient and hungry.” He extended a dark, scarred hand and grasped his victim’s throat. “Look at you. The moment things don’t go as planned, you reveal who you truly are—a pitiful babe with a megalomaniac complex.” Light emitted from his hand and the Slasher’s body was wracked by pain worse than he could have ever imagined as the light filled his eyes.
“Perhaps those you killed were even more useless than you, but that doesn't automatically make you better. Most people are utterly pointless. They strive for things like stardom, financial riches, or political greatness. It is all worth nothing, whether achieved or not. Why? Because you can’t take it with y
ou. We live two lives. I know that now but you will not.”
The Slasher's eyes fluttered and the light was all around him. He began to feel cold and empty and everything was fading.
His killer held his hand up and the last thing his victim saw was his porcelain-white hand with dark marks crisscrossed upon it like a dark web that seemed to pulse under the skin.
“Anything we achieve will only matter once this cycle is broken.” With a vicious smile, he lowered his hand. “At least now you can now truly be what you always were—nothing.”
Many strange places and historic landmarks exist in New Orleans, but a new one was added on this night. On the shore of Valentine Lake, a gruesome event appeared to have taken place. Bloodstains on the shore and a knife confirmed this, but only one body was found in the trees nearby. The victim couldn’t have been killed there, however, and was reported missing miles away. The body only had two deep wounds in the neck, so who and where was the second body?
Chapter Thirty-One
Johnny opened his eyes to fireworks or at least the ghostly approximation of them. Orbs of light in different colors—red, green, purple, and even black, oddly enough—burst in the sky to display images of stars, cultural symbols, and pictures of humans dancing in full movement. These were certainly more dynamic than typical fireworks.
“What’s going on?” he asked as Vic placed a hand on his shoulder. “Is this some kind of parade?”
His partner watched the lights with amusement. “More like a festival.” He scratched the side of his head for a moment before he snapped his fingers. “Oh, right! Today is the Veil Festival.”
The young detective looked around and when he realized that they were in the middle of an alley, he moved quickly toward one of the exits. “Veil Festival? That’s the one where they celebrate the day the dead returned to Earth right?”
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