We Are Legion (van Helsing Diaries Book 2)

by Peter Cawdron

  With a slice of pizza in hand, I turn on my laptop and open my email. There are 867 unread emails, and I spend ten minutes checking boxes and deleting most of it without bothering to open it. If there’s anything important in there, someone will call, I hope.

  One email in particular catches my eye.

  YourCloud—95% Warning: Your cloud storage is at...

  Both of our phones are set to backup automatically to our internet cloud provider whenever they’re connected to a Wi-Fi network. Jane’s phone must have uploaded a large file, as last I remember, we were around the 60% mark and had plenty of space to spare. As our phones sync with my computer, I can see exactly which file has been uploaded.

  soundbite.wav audio backup. Length 60:00

  Although I’m curious about the file, it’s an hour long so I figure I’ll listen to it later. There’s another email that strikes me as out of the ordinary.

  American Phone Company—Global Roaming Activated: Your request to…

  Jane has activated the international travel plan for our cell phones.

  I open an application called Find My Phone, and watch as a virtual globe of the world rotates before me, shifting the point of view from somewhere high above the USA to Eastern Europe. A red flag sticks out of a lush green mountain range a couple of hundred miles above Greece, with the Black Sea immediately to the east. As a tiled map appears, the name of the country becomes apparent. Romania.

  A small pop up message beside the flag reads: Last known location. 3 days ago.

  Either her battery’s flat, or she no longer has a use for a phone and has switched it off, or she’s switched to a new phone. But why run to Europe?

  I zoom in on the rugged mountains, watching as various towns and villages appear in the satellite imagery. The nearest major city is Sibiu, but dozens of small villages dot the landscape. From what I can tell, there’s a single freeway winding through a vast, sprawling mountain region. Valcea County. As I zoom closer a name appears that causes my blood to run cold.

  Transylvania.

  “NO!”

  And I slam the lid shut, pushing the laptop away from me as though it were cursed.

  My heart races. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of the noises around me. The howl of the wind outside. The hum of central heating coming from the floor vents. The creaks and groans of the apartment fighting off the cold of the coming night. Footsteps tread lightly on the carpet behind me, the soft rustle of clothing and the gentle pad of bare feet causes the hair on the back of my arms to stand on end. Sweat breaks out on my brow. My heart pounds like a drum. I turn, but there’s no one there.

  “I’m going mad,” I mumble to myself. “This is crazy. This is insane.”

  Curiosity demands I continue looking into Jane's disappearance. I open the laptop and retrieve the audio file, pressing play as I talk to myself.

  “This cannot be happening. This is fiction. Make-believe.”

  My eyes settle on the worn novel lying on the table beside the laptop, and the temperature within the apartment seems to plummet. I grab a pad of paper and a pen, hurriedly making notes as the recording starts.

  “What were you doing?” I ask Jane, listening to the audio file as it replays on my laptop. There’s a muffled sound. Fabric flexes as she moves. Then a knock on a door. I feel as though I’m blind, desperately wanting to see what Jane saw, wanting some kind of commentary from her. The creak of a door opening is followed by the soft, kind voice of a woman.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Jasmine Halter?”

  I jump at the sound of Jane’s voice, and instantly, I know. This is my Jane. I don’t know who I made love to the other night, but it wasn’t her. This is my wife.

  I jot down the name Jasmine Halter along with the timestamp so I can easily refer to it later if needed. Being methodical has to have some benefits beyond being borderline obsessive-compulsive.

  “My name is Jane Langford. I’m working with the police, investigating the death of your neighbor.”

  “I thought it was suicide,” the other woman says, sounding distinctly insincere to my ear.

  “Oh, it was,” Jane replies, and I catch a pause so characteristic of her as she scrambles for a response. “Tragic. And yet even in heartbreaking circumstances like these, there’s a standard process we follow, gathering background information from associates for statistical purposes in the hope we can recognize trigger events and prevent future tragedies.”

  Liar. I know my wife well enough to recognize when she's nervous and covering her insecurities with too many words.

  I hurriedly scrawl a note on the pad—Did Jasmine know at this point? Had she already seen through Jane’s bluff?

  I’m confused. Jane killed Jasmine. And it strikes me that what I’m listening to is evidence that needs to be surrendered to the police, and yet what does it prove? Nothing beyond what is already known. The sheriff already knows precisely what happened. Jasmine killed her family at some point before Jane confronted her and shot her dead.

  Jane says, “Paperwork and procedure—they’re tedious, but that’s police work for you.”

  “So young,” Jasmine says in reply, and I hear a chain being removed from a door lock followed by boots on wooden floorboards. “And with such a young family.”

  A door closes.

  “Yes,” Jane replies, and I find myself walking inside a nondescript suburban home in my mind, mentally retracing her steps. I wonder about Jasmine. What drives someone to murder their entire family? I know it’s a stereotype, but it seems out of character for a mother and a wife to kill both her husband and her kids. I wonder, what could have driven Jasmine to such extremes?

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” Jane says. Her voice is soft, almost apologetic. “So, what are you and your family doing on this chilly Saturday afternoon?”

  “Oh,” Jasmine says. “Bill and the kids are at the mall shopping for Christmas presents... Coffee?”

  “Sure,” Jane replies. The conversation is calm and civil, and yet Jane knew something was up or she wouldn’t have thought to record the discussion beforehand.

  The sound muffles slightly, and I get the impression Jane’s putting her hands in her jacket pockets. There’s a soft but sharp click, one that occurs close to the microphone. I’ve heard that noise before, but it takes me a second to realize it’s a safety switch being depressed on the side of a handgun.

  “Well,” Jasmine says in a polite, considerate tone of voice. “This isn’t standard police procedure, now is it?”

  “These aren’t your everyday murders,” Jane says and I pause the playback.

  I’m frustrated, but I note the time of the comment and the exact wording used, desperately trying to understand what’s happening. There’s something at work beyond what I’m hearing superficially, that much is clear.

  “How did you know?” I ask her rhetorically. “Jane, you’ve got to give me more to work with. How did you figure this out?”

  I wish she was here. I know Jane could explain herself with just a few simple words, but the explanation of what’s happening escapes me. I press play again, ready to pause the audio file as needed. I don’t want to miss any details.

  “And how are you going to explain this?” Jasmine asks. “Are you willing to go to jail for twenty years for killing me in cold blood?”

  Pause.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask Jane, desperately trying to piece together this jigsaw puzzle. They both know precisely what’s happening. “Come on, Jane. Talk to me, not to her. Remember, honey. Remember you’ve got a phone in your pocket recording all of this.”

  Play.

  Jane says, “I’m counting on there being bodies in the upstairs bedroom.”

  And a shiver runs down my spine. How did she know? What tipped her off?

  Jasmine laughs, she doesn’t even try to deny what’s happened.

  “Who are you?” Jane asks, and I pause the audio, mumbling to myself as I jot down another note.


  “But she knows who she is—she’s Jasmine Halter, a suburban housewife.”

  My index finger clicks the play button and I hold my breath, waiting for the reply.

  “Who am I?” Jasmine Halter says. “My name is legion, for we are many.”

  And I pause the playback again, stunned by what I’m hearing. I’m not sure if Jane realizes this, but I recognize those words. They’re from the Gospels. I get up and grab a Bible from the bookshelf. In the back of the Bible, there’s an index. I scan through it until I find the reference I’m looking for: The insane man dwelling among the tombs. Mark 5:2-12.

  I read through this section of scripture twice, highlighting two phrases with my pen.

  And when Jesus was come out of the boat, straightway there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit, who had his dwelling in the tombs: and no man could any more bind him, no, not with a chain…

  And always, night and day, in the tombs and in the mountains, he was crying out, and cutting himself with stones.

  …and crying out with a loud voice, he saith, What have I to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of the Most High God? I adjure thee by God, torment me not.

  …And Jesus asked him, What is thy name? And he saith unto him, My name is Legion; for we are many…

  Now there was on the mountain side a great herd of swine feeding…

  And the unclean spirits came out, and entered into the swine: and the herd rushed down the steep into the sea, in number about two thousand; and they were drowned in the sea.

  “What the hell is going on, Jane?” I ask, sitting down at the table again and noting the scripture reference and the time on my paper pad.

  Play.

  “Stay back,” Jane cries aloud, but her voice wavers. She’s nervous. “Put it down.”

  “What?” I cry, pleading with her as though she could somehow respond. “Put what down?”

  “This?” Jasmine replies in a voice so calm my skin crawls. “Don’t worry about this. I’m not going to kill you with a knife. No, that would be too easy. I think I’ll use that gun you’re holding instead.”

  Jasmine’s tormenting her, threatening her, but I already know how this ends. Did Jasmine want to die?

  “This is just a little insurance. Evidence.”

  “It’s over,” Jane says. “Take one more step and I’ll fire.”

  “Oh, I’m counting on you pulling that trigger,” Jasmine replies. “You didn’t really think a mere handgun would kill me, did you?”

  And gunfire erupts. Although the shots are rapid, they’re staggered, coming in waves of two, three or four shots at a time, and I quickly lose track of how many shots have been fired. I’m stunned. One shot is enough to kill someone, especially at close range. Emptying an entire magazine into a woman at point blank is massive overkill.

  The firing stops and the silence is eerie. I scrawl notes on my pad, capturing the time and the final comments of Jasmine Halter.

  Jasmine’s dead, I understand that, and yet somehow it feels as though I lost Jane in that violent exchange. Sirens sound on the recording, coming from outside the house.

  “Jane?” someone says, breaking down the front door. “Are you okay?”

  I’m expecting Jane to respond, but the voice that speaks has a slight quiver, and it takes a few words before I recognize the reply.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Liz.”

  That’s Jane’s voice, but the pacing is wrong. There’s a slight inflection that sounds unusual, almost as though someone’s mimicking her accent. It’s subtle, and I suspect I would have missed this if I’d seen this incident unfold live, but being limited to only one sense, and having heard the conversation before the gunfire, the difference is magnified. This isn't my wife. But that’s crazy. Impossible. And I dismiss the thought, although in the back of my mind I’m aware I was struck by the same impression when I arrived home to find Jane drinking wine in the kitchen.

  I let the recording run and I can hear cops moving through the house, radios squawk and there’s more conversation with Jane, but everything beyond this point seems redundant. I stop the recording, trying to absorb what I’ve heard.

  Tomorrow, I’ll listen to the rest of the audio file, but as the recording is exactly an hour long, I suspect it simply runs on until it reaches the maximum file size. It’s almost as though Jane doesn’t realize she recorded herself, which is confusing.

  Chapter 2:03 — Transylvania

  “Hey, Joe,” I say, talking into my cell phone.

  “Alan,” he replies, and I can hear he’s half asleep. I look at the time on the bottom right hand corner of my laptop—1:22AM. “What’s up?”

  “Listen,” I say, still on edge after hours of trawling the internet trying to make sense of what’s happened here in lazy Boise, Idaho. “Remember you said you’d do anything to help.”

  “Anything,” is the groggy reply.

  “I’ve found Jane.”

  “Hey, that’s great news,” Joe says.

  “I need you to come with me to get her.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Have you got a passport?” I ask.

  Joe replies, “I know I’m going to regret admitting this, but yes.”

  “She’s in Europe.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Romania,” I say.

  “You want to go to Europe?” Joe asks, looking for confirmation and probably thinking I’m a little crazy.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, man. I’ve got to say. When I said, I’d do anything to help, I was kinda thinking anything within the Continental US of A.”

  I laugh. From the tone of his voice, I know he’s having a bitch and a moan, but he’s not discarding the idea.

  Joe says, “When you asked about a passport, I was thinking Canada.”

  “I know. Madness, huh?” I reply.

  “O’Connor is going to freak out. He’s going to demand I keep with the roster.”

  I say, “Tell him I’m mentally unstable and you’re worried about me.”

  Joe replies, “You are mentally unstable, and I am worried about you.”

  Again, I laugh. If only he knew how wild and crazy my thinking is, and I’m half wondering if I’m delirious from a lack of sleep. In the cold light of a bitter, winter’s day, I doubt I’d be this adventurous, but with the warmth of the central heating dulling my senses, I feel I need to go after Jane. My wife tried to kill me, I think. Why? I have no idea. My parents are deeply religious. If they knew what had happened, they’d say she was possessed, and after reading that section in the Bible, I’m half wondering if there may be some merit to that notion, but no. I have a rational mind. I can’t go there. Something in the confrontation with Jasmine Halter drove Jane over the edge, leading to what I can only describe as a mental breakdown.

  And as for the ragged copy of Dracula and comments about legion? None of that makes any sense. There’s been nothing even remotely similar to the contents of that novel, at least as I remember it, although my thinking is probably skewed by too many poorly made Hollywood movies. And as if on cue, my left earlobe aches, reminding me the lower portion has been ripped off. The vision of Jane towering over me with blood dripping from her mouth is eerily reminiscent of a horror movie, but no. There must be some other explanation.

  “You’re serious?” Joe asks.

  “I just booked tickets, switching us to business class for the leg from Chicago to Berlin.”

  “Oh, now you’re talking.”

  In the background, I can hear Joe’s wife complaining about the noise he’s making talking with me. Joe says something about Europe, and from the sound of it, I think she hit him with a pillow and told him to go back to sleep.

  “Say hi to Helen for me.”

  There’s muffled, muted talking, and Joe replies, “She says, goodnight. Well, at least, that's the polite version.”

  “First leg is an eleven AM flight to Chicago, buddy. Pick me up around eight.”

  �
��Done,” Joe replies and I hang up. Joe always was the more adventurous of the two of us, and talking him into going with me was easier than I thought. I wonder if he'd be so accommodating if I told him we were heading to Transylvania.

  Sitting in the apartment with all the lights on, I can’t help but mentally replay the recording between Jane and Jasmine. The conversation was so calm and yet so wrong, it’s as though they both knew from the start what was really going on, but each was waiting for the other to make a move. As soon as Jane pulled the gun on Jasmine, there was only ever going to be one outcome. Someone was going to die. I want to ask Jane about it, to understand her motives going into what she clearly knew was going to be a lethal confrontation. Why didn’t she wait for the police?

  And I don’t understand how Jasmine could be so dismissive of a gun being pointed at her. She was shot down in a hail of bullets. Perhaps Jane’s reacting to the trauma of inflicting such a brutal, highly personal and fatal act on someone she would normally identify with. Maybe Jane’s bizarre behavior is a reaction to the pressure she was under in those critical few seconds, and she's suffering from post-traumatic stress. But even that doesn’t explain the scratches on my chest where she tore through my skin, or why she ripped off part of my ear with her teeth.

  I close the laptop and curl up on the couch. I can’t sleep in our bedroom. We have a spare bed, but the couch is closer to the door. I’d rather not be trapped at the back of the apartment. I’m being paranoid, and I don’t care. Paranoia is my right. To my mind, having a wolf trash my home justifies a little fear. And looking at the damage, I wonder if it was a lone wolf or a pack of wolves? Such thoughts aren’t helping me relax so I put them out of my mind. I fluff a pillow, leaving the lights on as I drift off to sleep.

  There’s a knock at the door and I roll to one side, sliding off the couch, still very much caught in a deep sleep. Feeling groggy, I wander to the door and peer through the peep hole.

  “Joe,” I say, opening the door.