The Ghost's Story: A Morgan Rook Investigation

by Kit Hallows

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. Slowly her brows un-knitted and a semblance of peace passed across her face. Moments later she slumped over, fast asleep.

  I switched my phone on to find two messages, the first a reminder I'd set months ago.

  "Happy Birthday" I mumbled to myself.

  In reality there was only a one in three hundred and sixty five chance it actually was my birthday. Because in truth, I had no idea where or when I'd been born, beyond waking up in an abandoned asylum, aged ten.

  A couple of years back I'd told this to Willow, the only woman I've ever loved. It was one of the only times I'd ever seen her taken by surprise. She'd given me a long loving look, then drunkenly declared that today would be my birthday. But she was gone now, leaving me to mark the occasion with a girl that looked like a wizened meth head, and the dead vampire at my feet.

  The other message was spam from a Gothic dating site that had somehow got my details, which was uncanny given my penchant for wearing black and listening to Nick Cave and The Cure.

  I flicked through my address book, which didn't take long, and dialed.

  The call was answered mid-ring.

  "Dauple," said a wheezy, cracked voice.

  "Morgan Rook."

  "Morgan Rook!" He repeated, his voice as excitable as a nine year old child on Christmas morning. "You've got something for me?"

  “Vampires, two of 'em. Bring bags and a saw. One transformed, so his wings need removing. The only troubling thing about the other one is a seriously bad complexion and a hipster mustache. I'm on Bury Street. How long will it take you to get here?"

  Dauple gave a high, manic laugh. "I'm already here. Is it safe to come up?"

  I shivered. How the hell did he know where I was? "Yeah, it's clear."

  The door downstairs slammed, making enough noise to wake the dead. The girl on the sofa stirred. A trace of youth and color had returned to her face but her eyes still had the wild look of a lamb being led to the slaughter.

  "You're going to be okay," I kept my voice low and even and it seemed to reassure her. Until Dauple burst into the room, drenched in cheap aftershave that inspired a nightmarish flashback to the eighties.

  Dauple looked just as strange and macabre as one might expect from a man that specialized in such a morbid gallows trade. He personified a kid's cartoon sketch of an undertaker, with black shadow-ringed eyes, a long hooked nose and thin curling lips. His drawn face almost glowed white in the gloom as he ran a slow hand through his short thin, coppery hair.

  "All dead and broken," he said in a hoarse whisper as he dropped a large metal tool box with a clattering bang.

  I did my best not to shudder at the relish in his eyes and the rasp of his long hands as he rubbed them together. "I need you to pack him up and get him and the other one over to the Organization tonight. Okay?"

  Dauple nodded, but a distracted gleam lit his eyes. His tongue darted out and slicked his upper lip, then he nodded toward the girl on the sofa. "She's seen better days..." he raised a hand towards her. I slapped it down. "Don't think she's got long," he continued. "Perhaps I should get another bag-"

  "Don't touch her." I holstered my gun, then picked up the casings from the floor and slipped them into my pocket. It was doubtful the police would ever visit this squalid place, but I always considered it better to be safe than sorry.

  "If you're sure." Dauple sounded disappointed as he began to lay out a long black rubberized body bag. He hummed an off-key tune while he rifled through his case and pulled out a hacksaw.

  I watched him and weighed up whether or not I really wanted to engage in further conversation. Then my curiosity got the better of me. "How did you know I was here?"

  "I followed you."

  "You know where I live?"

  Dauple shook his head. "No. Not yet."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "I..." He looked like a child caught stealing a cookie. "I just like to know where the agents live. All the movers, shakers and friends of the crows."

  "Why?"

  "So I can get to the scene before the retirements happen. "I like to watch things die." He held up a hand and added, "bad things, of course. Not nice things or nice people." Dauple grinned, revealing teeth I didn't want to see.

  "Where did you follow me from?"

  "The office. I saw you leaving."

  He seemed to be telling the truth, but the thought of him tailing me or finding out where I lived made my flesh crawl. "Don't do it again, Dauple. If I find you anywhere near my house, you'll regret it. Do you understand me?"

  "Loud and clear."

  I looked away as he began to saw through the sinewy joint where Tudor's ragged wings had sprung from his back.

  The girl gaped at the spectacle, her face split with horror. I reached into my bag, pulled out a vial of dust, tapped a dose out onto my thumbnail and held it out to her. She took my wrist without a word, put a finger on the side of her nose, pursed her quivering lips, and took a quick short sniff. It was a small dose, just enough to help her forget this night, my face and most of what happened. A little zombification never hurt anyone. At least in moderation.

  Dauple began to whistle as he pulled a wing free and laid it down beside Tudor. "I'll need a ride to the hospital when you're done," I told him.

  "Rightio!"

  I led the girl down the stairs to Dauple's hearse with its fake logo and name for a fictitious undertakers painted on the door. The windows were blacked out and there was no partition between the front and the back so the whole thing reeked of chemicals and things I didn't want to think about. Thankfully the girl didn't notice. I helped her into the back, where she rested on a pile of thick black bags, oblivious to their intended purpose.

  I gently closed the door and lay back on the hood of the car while I waited for Dauple to finish up.

  The moon hung red and full and its sickly light shone off the windows as a cool breeze stirred the weeds in the gardens. I closed my eyes and did my best to put the evening's events from my mind. I was glad Tudor had been dealt with, but frustrated too because I’d been certain he'd have information on Elsbeth Wyght. He was exactly the kind of creature that evil bitch would associate with. Now anything he might have been able to tell me was taken to the grave, and I was back to square one.

  I looked up as Dauple finally exited the house, and got up to help him stow the bodies in the hearse before climbing into the passenger seat.

  The drive to the hospital was mercifully quiet, aside from the excitable tap of Dauple's finger on the steering wheel. It was that odd time of year when the last fiery throes of summer were tempered by the imminent arrival of fall. A time of shadows and winds that seemed to hail from somewhere else entirely.

  Dauple pulled into the bay outside the emergency room. A tired-looking security guard knocked on his window. I climbed out and gave him the look. A you're wishing you were somewhere else and your gonna forget you ever saw me look. It took a few seconds to sink in. Most human minds are shockingly easy to manipulate. I suppose it's because we're all so desperate to live in blissful unawareness, especially when it comes to the nightmares that shift and stalk around us. Given the choice, we'll cling to business as usual, whatever the hell that is.

  I unlocked the passenger door and helped the girl out. She looked less fatigued now but the black bags under her eyes were still prominent. As were the welts and scratches where she'd attacked the imaginary itch that plagued her wrists.

  The hospital receptionist's attractive brown eyes flitted from me to the girl, then back to me with a flicker of disgust. Clearly she thought I was responsible for the girl's state and as I glanced into the large mirror behind her, I saw why.

  I looked like shit, my dark clothes ragged and frayed, spatters of blood on my sweater. I pulled my trench coat around me and secured two of the buttons, but it was too late. My throat and face were a map of purple bruises and I looked far older than my thirty something years. I smoothed my dark hair back b
ut the pomade just looked like filthy grease beneath all that overhead lighting.

  "What happened to her?" the receptionist asked. The nurse beside her glanced at me, his brow furrowing. He walked towards another security guard and this one seemed more attentive than the one posted outside.

  "Someone spiked her drink," I said. I hoped it would stop the conversation, but knew it wouldn't. "You need to get her help."

  "I need to get some details-"

  I picked up a pen from the clipboard on the top of the desk and reached out for the magic brimming through the hospital. Most of it was weak, but I found enough to charge the pen with a simple spell before passing it to the receptionist. Her pupils dilated, her mouth softened and she gazed up at me, awaiting instructions. "The lady’s drink was spiked," I repeated. "She needs urgent attention. You don't need any more details."

  The receptionist nodded and called for the nurse. He came over and took the girl's shaking hand. I waited until he led her down the corridor, then I turned on my heels so fast my shoes squeaked on the polished floor. I had to get away from the harsh buzzing lights and the swell of nausea, anguish and pain surging along the corridors.

  Dauple was gone by the time I emerged. That suited me. I didn't want the crazy bastard knowing where I was going.

  I hailed a cab and slumped in the back. The city passed by in a blur of dark towers and garish lights, and above everything that red swollen moon casting its devilish gleam.

  "Happy birthday," I mumbled. There was a bottle of bourbon waiting at the apartment, and sleep wouldn't be too far behind.

  Or so I hoped.

  ________________________________

  To read the rest of Dark City click here

  Author Note

  Thank you so much for reading The Ghost’s Story. I really hope you enjoyed this taster of the dark world of Morgan Rook. If you enjoyed the story please leave a positive review on Amazon and Goodreads because your feedback really matters & it’s the lifeblood for us Indie Authors!

  Kindest wishes,

  Kit Hallows

  Also by Kit Hallows

  The Ghost’s Story

  The Order of Shadows Series:

  How To Kill A Witch (A Free Prequel)

  Dark City

  Midnight Falls

  A Game of Witches

  About the Author

  Kit Hallows was born in London, England and now lives in the United States. Kit spends most his time sitting before a jet-black typewriter (that looks suspiciously like a laptop) dreaming up tales of urban fantasy, occult horror and adventure. Currently Kit is busy writing the Order of Shadows series with Morgan Rook, as well as planning new adventures in darkly magical worlds.

  Join him at kithallows.com and sign up for exclusive reads and further journeys to fantastical worlds and lost, mysterious places.

  For more information

  kithallows.com

  kit@kithallows.com

  The Ghost’s Story

  By Kit Hallows

  Copyright © 2017 by Kit Hallows. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.