Back From Hell (Revenant Files Book 1)

by D'Artagnan Rey

“Unlike anything you know? In a good or bad way?” Valerie asked.

  The shaman took a moment to compose herself. “I cannot say for certain but it is powerful. I only wanted to look into it. I have seen the many powers and spirits of the Veil and this is beyond anything like that. I could feel it reaching for my spirit—my ghost, as it were—as if trying to pull it from me before it was my time.”

  “In any other situation, that would be creepy,” Johnny remarked. “But it sounds like something that could be very useful soon.”

  Annie stepped forward. “So you have a plan to find him?”

  “Eh…not quite,” Vic admitted. “I’ve considered some ideas but nothing that’s guaranteed. For now, he seems to be focused on getting power by consuming spirits. Whoever he’s working for is getting impatient or needs the phantasma to sustain himself. At least it’s a diversion so we probably don’t have to worry about him coming after you for now while he busies himself with that.”

  She nodded and drew a deep breath. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about. I think I know how we can flush him out.”

  Johnny looked quizzically at her. “Hey, I’m open to all suggestions unless they are insane—which is admittedly a very high bar to clear.”

  The young woman glanced at Marco. “Then it will probably need an explanation but let me make the offer first.” She gazed at all of them and tried to take a moment to look each one in the eyes before she asked, “What if we gave him what he wants?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A mansion loomed atop a hill outside New Orleans. Originally a French-inspired theater created by one of the town’s former wealthy socialites, it stood as a testimony to where the originally humble town was headed—a glamourous future led by the many artists and trendsetters who both came from and were moving to the growing city. Then, like so many other seemingly promising starts, it was stopped dead by a recurring theme in the city that many forgot—tragedy.

  The residents, with a trace of gallows humor, called it The Creep’s Manor. It was a reference both to the building’s original owner, Alexander Kreps, and his history as a womanizer in his youth and shut-in later in life. This was caused by a downswing in both his fortunes and personal life, which lead to only occasional sightings of him before the end of his life, which was taken by his hand at the age of forty-seven.

  The shadow of death loomed over the city it looked down on, both metaphorically and quite literally as one observer noted. A figure stood on the balcony of the mansion and contemplated the outlandish mass only ten or so miles from him. From his perch, he could see flickers of light in the clouds that appeared and disappeared in bright flashes. Yet, despite a phenomenon that should have caused the streets to erupt in surprise and maybe panic, no one screamed. There were no hysterics and nothing to indicate that the abyss had quite literally appeared and now loomed above. That was because few could truly see it.

  It was a great source of amusement to him. The mental hoops people would jump through to retain their sense of normalcy as the world changed around them were almost as admirable as they were idiotic. Those were merely symptoms, however, minor effects of the vortex they could simply shrug off. It was another thing entirely to see it and so few could. Even those who could see into the realm of the dead—those with the eyes of a specter or even the ghosts themselves—didn’t have his eyes.

  After a while, the figure withdrew into the mansion and walked the halls dilapidated and worn with the years of neglect. After the owner’s suicide, no one was willing to buy a property with a morbid history and it faded into memory, another shining star snuffed out and left to the creeping dark. He found that to be a shame. It was quite comfortable to him.

  He entered what was once the main theater dimly lit by candles and lights hooked up to generators. A large stage stood vacant and only half the seats remained. He walked onto the stage past large stacks of books, notes, and old maps that had been strewn about.

  With a sigh, he sat on a repurposed theater chair and opened a leather-bound book that leaned against its leg. It was a journal with pages upon pages filled with personal anecdotes and records. He opened it to an empty page, placed a hand on an ink well, and as white phantasma coated it, began to speak.

  “May 25th. The woman’s name was Mia. She wore a flowing white dress and had her long blonde hair tied back.” As he spoke, his words were not written into the journal by any hand or pen. Blobs of ink flew from the well and landed on the page to form the sentences. “She seemed the gentle sort, sweet to others and particularly her elders—the kind to offer a hand in aid with no expectation of reward. I have no doubt that she could have gone to Heaven in the instant of her last breath if she remained such a kind soul to the end.”

  His chair groaned with age as he leaned back and rested his chin upon his palm. He closed his eyes and recalled the memory. “It’s a pity. She would have made a fantastic bride for the right man or woman. However, I was born a new, unstable something that had not yet walked this Earth and I needed the phantasma. It was always said that such kind souls destined for Paradise had stronger souls than the others. I needed that soul to test the theory if nothing else.”

  He heard a door open at the front of the mansion and the light pitter-patter of rain from a growing storm begin to fall. “I intended to give her a quick death. I had simply come to gather the girl’s phantasma and move on but I could not seem to stop myself from…playing with such a unique toy. The moment I will always recall until my new dream begins is the moment where she returned to lucidity—that brief time while I drained her life from her and the light in her eyes was not yet extinguished.”

  Footsteps echoed down the hall, approaching the theater. He straightened and closed the tome slowly as he finished. “I would have to say that she was something unique, to be sure. While the rest of the souls have grown quiet, I can still feel her trying to cry out.”

  His faithful servant approached, clad head to foot in black except for a gray-hooded poncho. He reached the foot of the stage, stopped in front, and bowed to the occupant, who stood from his chair, crossed to the left side of the stage, and descended the stairs.

  “Good evening, sir,” the new arrival greeted with a bow. “I saw you went out last night. Did you find anything fruitful?”

  The man sighed and pulled his focus from the book that still clung to his thoughts. “A couple of souls, including one of some punk in the park who thought he was the next Bundy.” He looked at his black, skeletal hand. “Between what I need to continue my work and the supplies for our…benefactor, supply is starting to become a problem.”

  “With the loss of the others, we cannot harvest as effectively,” his henchman noted and straightened from his bow. “Are you sure it was the right decision to drain them?”

  He hissed in irritation. “They weren’t harvesting enough souls and they were gaining more and more attention. You were the only one among them who pulled your weight.” He thumped a hand against the arm of a nearby chair and cracked it. “And even then, that only bought us a limited amount of time. I can feel myself fading—no, worse, I feel like Limbo itself is trying to drag me back. And I have to feed him as well as keep my powers working.” He sighed and looked at his hands again. “We need her, Jack. I need her to put this plan in motion.”

  The retainer slid his hand into his shirt pocket and produced a picture. “She has proved rather wily, as have her protectors. If we could get our hands on her brother in the meantime, that could sustain you for longer.” He handed his boss the picture. “Although I might have found something—or someone—that could aid you.”

  The Axman took the picture and frowned at a faded photo of a man in a grocery store apron. “Who is this? Why does he look so familiar?” Jack motioned for him to turn the photo. Louis Besumer, 1917 was written on the back. The Axman flipped the picture again. “Where did you get this, Jack?”

  “From an apartment on Conti Street. I was following a young man who worked at a grocery
that is still standing since back in the day.”

  “Besumer?” He began to chuckle. “He was my third—him and his mistress. Only the girl died, though, after pointing the blame every which way but at me. Besumer went to jail for a time too.” He laughed and looked at the picture again. “If this kid has a picture of him, he’s probably a descendant, right?”

  His henchman nodded. “That’s what I thought. And if you get your hands on the soul of a descendant, even if it ain’t the one you are looking for—”

  “I’ll have enough to juice me for a while,” the Axman finished. “And truly get the terrors going.”

  “So you’ve found yourselves a little side plan then, hmm?” a voice asked and echoed throughout the chamber. Jack froze and twitched in surprise and worry, even in his larger body. The Axman looked around, not nearly as concerned as his lackey, but the lights in his eyes did glimmer for a brief moment. “You wanna fill me in?” They turned as a large, dark figure appeared and towered over them, at least ten feet tall. He folded his arms and lay casually in the air. “Come on. Share with your good friend, oh dreaded Axman.”

  He bowed deferentially. “It’s merely a way to keep myself in this plane, Baron,” he explained. “I intend to pay a visit to the descendant of an old ‘friend’ and claim his soul. It should provide me with enough phantasma for a long while.”

  “So you can get me what I need as well?” the shadow asked and anger crept into his voice.

  “Of course.” He nodded at Jack and they both extended their hands toward him. “We have collected more for you since you last visited us.” White phantasma poured out of their arms and turned red on contact with the shadow, who now floated upright.

  His form began to take a more notable shape and a dark suit with a blood-red shirt and tie appeared. A top-hat-like shape formed on his head. “Oh, that’s nice. A little paltry but…ah, I feel some familiar souls in here.” He began to laugh and the sound shook the theater. “So, you ‘axed’ some of your toadies, huh?”

  “They weren’t a good use of souls,” the Axman said mildly. “I decided they would be more beneficial for you and I.”

  “Good reasoning.” A cane appeared in the otherworldly figure’s hand and he pointed it at a small television set in the corner. “I wanted to bring something to your attention before you run off again.” The screen flickered on and the Axman and Jack walked closer to it. “Why bother with the small fry in a big lake when the big catch is hanging around in a small pond?”

  “We have made headway with the investigation concerning the odd disappearances and supernatural murders,” a police chief on the screen stated. “We have two witnesses in our protection who survived an attack and are helping us to pinpoint the perpetrator.”

  “Sir, does this have to do with the Maggios?” a reporter asked. “Their home was attacked a few days ago and there were reports of odd incidents. Their neighbors have said they haven’t been back since—”

  “We are getting assistance from the Maggios, yes, but that is all we will say on the matter.”

  “Why would a cop admit that?” Jack demanded. “Can they admit that before a trial?”

  The Axman turned to him. “They are baiting us, I would think.” He grinned. “Do you think they can take us?”

  His retainer shook his head. “Not a chance, boss, especially since we know where she is now. We’ll simply bag her and—”

  “Although I do agree that they wouldn’t normally stand a chance against our collective might, it seems the simple plans haven’t worked.” He picked up an ax that leaned against the chair. “Maybe because I’ve underestimated them or overestimated myself. We’ll need to plan for any…eventualities.”

  The dark figure snorted. “Was that humility there, Axman? I didn’t know you were capable of such a thing.”

  The Axman stepped beside Jack and rested the weapon on his shoulder. “I’ve had a moment to think all this over. That happens when your plans run into some problems. I might not be all that humble but I am clever.” He stood in front of his henchman and smiled. “I’ve sent others out to do my work for too long. It’s time that New Orleans remembers the Axman.”

  Jack nodded and straightened. “Right, boss. When will we go after ’em?”

  He placed his hand on his retainer’s chest. “It seems they are waiting for us Jack. There’s no need to keep them waiting for too long.” Jack gasped and clutched his master’s shoulders as he gaped at a light that came from his chest. “But first, the Axman will need more phantasma.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “I hate this plan.” Johnny scowled from the sidelines as Valerie took the stand to talk to the press.

  “We couldn’t come up with a better one,” Vic reminded him from where he currently hid inside him so as to not alert any of the specters on the police force. “Annie is in the most danger and she offered—”

  “It doesn’t mean any of us were happy about it,” Johnny countered and slouched against the wall. “I thought Marco would have a stroke.”

  The ghost thought of the fiery young man patrolling the door where his sister was while a patient Aiyana supported him. “Yeah, convincing him to go through with it was tougher than convincing the cops to let him walk around with a baseball bat.”

  “No kidding.” The young detective laughed. “All of them are packing but they are constantly worried about the guy with the sports equipment.”

  “Are you talking to yourself there, bounty hunter?” one of the cops asked as he and his buddy chuckled at his expense. “Is that one of the tricks you use to hunt the ghosts?”

  Johnny shrugged. “It’s the only way to find intelligent conversation around here.” Irate glares from the cops replaced their amusement. “What? It’s not like any of you got leads on the guy. If it had been up to you, your two leads would be on the body count instead of helping since you only respond to the distress calls.”

  “What the hell are you on about?” the other cop retorted. “Officer Simone was on the scene and she eliminated one of the killers on her own.”

  “Yeah, she’s the exception that proves the rule.” He placed his hands in his jacket pockets. “And if it weren’t for her, you would simply chalk it up to the one guy and call it done, at least until more bodies piled up and you couldn’t sweep it under the rug anymore.”

  They both grunted and walked away. “What the hell is he here for?”

  “Officer Simone brought him in. I heard he’s been helping with the investigation.”

  “Whatever. I guess the mascot gets special privileges.”

  The young detective looked at Valerie, who was still fielding questions. “Mascot?”

  “Eh, it’s fairly normal in cases like this. Prop up an officer or someone with lower rank to be the face of the investigation— you know, someone to root for,” Vic explained. “It also allows Val to return to active duty rather than keeping her on the bench. I’m holding out hope that she’ll be able to take the lead in more cases after this.”

  A patter on the windows warned them that scattered rain had hit the glass. “Assuming all goes well, yeah, same here.” He looked around the precinct building. “I remember when you asked me if I had any interest in being a cop. Meeting some of these other guys makes me thankful that I never seriously considered it.”

  Johnny’s shoulders lifted briefly as his partner shrugged inside him. “I’m not sure how much I can speak about them today, given that the last case involved dirty cops, but I had a good stable of guys I could rely on in the Chicago Police Department. While I can’t say they were all clean, especially in the fifties, there were diamonds in the rough.”

  “The rain is picking up.” The young detective took the box with the bone bullet out. “I know New Orleans is one of the wetter cities in the states, but this doesn’t help my anxiety.”

  “Given the number of strip clubs in the city, that could be a euphemism and I guess that would help your anxiety,” Vic joked but it merely brought a si
gh in response. “What? You need to loosen up a little. If this guy does come and bring this place to the ground, you have to be loose to keep your head on a swivel during danger.”

  “As I’ve seen what this guy can do, I’m not so sure he can catch me off-guard at this point.” He gazed at the speakers. “Especially with his telltale signs.”

  The ghost clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve wondered about that. You know—the rain and the music starting whenever he or rather one of his cronies approaches.”

  “Is that so?” Johnny asked and scowled as the rain became heavier. “And do you have any theories?”

  “I think they might be a mutation of wraiths,” Vic told him. “In the same way, the Axman might be some offshoot of demons. It makes sense that he might be able to do something weird with his cronies. A normal wraith passively affects the environment around them, which explains the rain and jazz.”

  “True, but for something like the music, he would have to have a strong attachment to it in…” He looked at Valerie, who was wrapping up. “In life. She said that was his thing, right?”

  “Indeed it was. The thing is, we don’t know if it affects him the same way but if it does, we could track those alterations to the weather and music to where he could be hiding out.”

  “Well, that’s something,” the young detective conceded. “We’ll give this a while and if he doesn’t show, I guess you and I can—” His words cut off abruptly when the sounds of piano, trumpets, drumming, saxophone, and jazz began to play through the police precinct speakers. Valerie had stopped talking and looked around with wide eyes. “Please tell me they are simply playing New Orleans classics.”

  Vic floated out of his body. “Maybe, if it wasn’t coming out of the radios as well.” He gestured at a group of cops who were checking their radios. “Get the gun ready, kid.”

  “Everyone needs to leave the building now!” Valerie ordered. The reporters were confused, as were some of the cops, but others rushed around the room and drew their weapons.