by Lily Luchesi
The Shimsakers had haunted my reality and then my nightmares for long enough. It wasn’t fair that they’d keep doing this, keep invading my mind like they belonged there. Staring out into the water, I could easily see and hear and feel and smell everything that happened the day they first tried to get a Shimsaker to kill me.
Snap. My rib was cracked as it was kicked in by Anton Burger, who chuckled at my silence.
“Aren’t you a quiet one? I wonder what it will take to break you?” he asked, walking around me as I was chained up in a dingy doctor’s office. “Dr. Clauberg is very angry with you. I don’t come when called just to torture anyone. You must have really pissed him off.”
“Maybe. Smells like someone really pissed in here,” I replied, earning me a punch to the jaw. “Ever think of investing in a maid?” I spat blood onto the floor.
He glared at me, blue eyes bright even in this semi-darkness. “We don’t have time to play with you. You, you filthy pig masquerading as an American, are a fly we cannot afford to let into our ointment. As much as I’d like to take my time with you, I am afraid I must dispose of you quickly.”
I closed my eyes and prayed that he wouldn’t behead me. Sirens can’t die by being beheaded—our magic can reattach any limb, including the head—but only by having our tongues and/or voice boxes cut out and destroyed by fire. But if he beheaded me while I was chained up, reattaching the head would be a serious problem. Thankfully, the most popular form of execution outside of concentration camps was a bullet to the skull. That was child’s play for me.
When I heard naught but an eerie shuffling sound, I opened my eyes and saw the Shimsaker, the first one I’d seen close up since Devon and I spied on Houska Castle. It was hideous, and up close it stank like death. Rotten. I tried to breathe through my mouth or else I’d get sick all over myself.
Burger smiled, but even he was uneasy at the Shimsaker’s presence in the room. “Essen,” he said to it, gesturing to me.
It advanced, all seven feet of it, and I saw its maw extend. It had no teeth, per se. They were attached to its lips, dripping saliva that, when it hit the ground before me, made the stone burn and smoke. It’s black, sunken eyes with the single white pupil bore into me, striking me dumb with fear. I’d never seen anything so ugly and frightening in my life.
It grabbed me with one large, clawed hand, broke the chains that held me, and lifted me into the air. It opened its maw again and I felt a rush in my body, like all my breath was taken as it began to suck it from my lungs. I watched in mute horror as something like white smoke began to come out of my mouth, even though I could feel and taste nothing in my mouth.
The moment the white stuff touched its face, the Shimsaker screeched so loudly I prayed my eardrums weren’t busted open. Burger was doubled over, clutching his head from the sound. The thing dropped me and, still screeching, receded back into the shadowy room it had come from. Forgetting any fear or confusion I was feeling, I hit Burger on the back of the neck, knocking him out so I could get my weapons and get the Hell out.
Coming back to the present, I found that, in my flashback, I had somehow managed to get my adrenaline up and made my anxiety fade into the background. I stood, my ass protesting as it got out of the cold metal, and realized it was getting late. The lake had a dark orange cast and I did not want to be out after dark. I went to my bike and rode home as fast as I could, hoping that I’d be able to sleep that night.
***
The next day I was feeling much better, figuring that the hallucination was just a result of grief and was an isolated incident.
Upon waking, I showered and made myself some coffee before getting the paper. The headline was some political bullshit I skipped over, not ready for that level of stupidity until I had had my proper caffeine intake. The second page headline read, “Couple deceased on the shores of Lake Michigan.”
My blood felt chilled as I read the story. Doctor and Missus Howard were killed last night, not long after I had left the lake. Cause of death was unknown, both bodies had been dropped on the rocks at Montrose Harbor so they suffered from many broken bones, most deduced to be posthumous. The authorities weren’t ruling out homicide or murder-suicide, because no one could figure out just how they died, only that they looked fearful.
I shivered tossing the entire paper in the garbage can. It’s nothing, I thought. Absolutely nothing but your brain associating some poor couple’s demise with the horrors of your past. They probably owed drug money. You know these rich fucks are always high as kites.
I downed the coffee and grabbed some leftovers from the fridge, not really feeling up to eating anything too substantial just yet. I walked to one of the three bedrooms in the apartment. I converted one into a workout room, slept in one, and made the third into a soundproofed rehearsal room. I might not have had a band at the moment, and maybe never would again, but I wanted a place to create new things and to be able to work on my voice. Not having any prey to ensnare, I felt like I wasn’t myself, so singing, even alone and for no one, made me feel better.
I went through my usual warm up of snippets to various songs to test my range: “Walk” by Pantera, “Sanitarium” by Metallica, “Living After Midnight” by Judas Priest, “Silent Lucidity” by Queensryche, and (surprisingly to many) “Stay With Me” by Faces. I know, what the Hell is a metal musician doing listening to that drivel? Well, I listen to a lot more than just the obvious. No good musician worth his or her salt has a one-genre playlist.
I then started to sing one of my own, written about my friend Devon who sacrificed herself back in Germany.
“The stench of death is so sickly sweet/But if Hell doesn’t exist/And Heaven’s just a place about which they preach/Darlin’, where will I find you/Now that you’re so fucking far out of reach?” I wound up having to leave the set when we filmed that particular music video. It was too hard for me. Figures that’s the one we won our Grammy for. Pain is the best fuel for creating art of any kind.
My phone began to ring just as I was finishing the song. It was the PID. What the Hell did the PID want with me?
“Hello?”
“Sean, this is Danny Mancini.”
I bit back a frustrated groan. When Angelica died, I handled all of her legal matters, which included bequeathing the PID and her husband Danny parts of her estate. I had hoped it was the last time I’d ever have to see or hear from the little prick again. Since we met, I made it clear that I didn’t like him and he didn't like me, either. I found him unworthy of Angelica’s affections, among other things. The fact that he is also the only living descendant of the vampire Emperor Augustus Caesar doesn’t sit well with me, either. At least he has no intention of turning and taking up his birthright.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Pleasant as always, aren’t you?” he asked. “I actually need your help. I tried finding other people, but there’s no one with the experiences necessary. How soon can you come into the office?”
My experiences? I decided I’d rather not ask what he meant over the phone. “I can come now. I’ll be there in less than half an hour.”
He sighed, and I did not imagine his relief. “Great. Thanks.”
The PID looked the same on the outside as it always did, encompassing the top ten floors, plus the basement and secret sub-basement of a famous building here in Chicago, masquerading as...well, I don’t really know. No one does except the employees. They had a morgue and incinerator in the basement, a gateway to Hell in the sub-basement, and also an armory on the ground floor. All of which was kept pretty secret, except for the gateway, which the Church Of Satan still coveted access to.
I rode the elevator to the top floor, wondering what Danny needed from me. I had limited experiences that could be of use to the PID, so it was either the war, or something to do with my species.
I knocked and entered Danny’s office when he called to enter. It was Angelica’s old office at the PID, the director.
“You’re running th
is place?” I asked as I closed the door behind me. “Boy, the PID was in really deep shit if they needed you to fill in.”
Danny smiled thinly. He looked awful. His hair was greying at the temples and in his beard, his eyes had hollowed, as had his cheeks. He was no longer arrogant and at the top of his game like he had been when we first met. Amazing what grief does to a person.
“Not for long.” He gestured for me to sit. “When Angelica died, I was a mess. You know, you were with me helping me with all that legalese. The PID was Angelica’s life’s work, and it needed to be put back together piece by piece with both her and Harriet gone. I was the only one fully qualified.”
I nodded. “I get it, and yeah, you probably were the best man for the job.” As much as I hate to admit that.
“And now the PID is doing well, so I’ll be leaving soon. Full retirement. I made a promise to Angie, and I intend to keep it. She wanted me to have a normal life, and I’m going to do my best to figure out what that is.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Normal? Who the Hell wants to be normal?”
He smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “I do. For once, I do.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “Have you seen the Tribune this morning?”
“Yeah. Politicians being their usual idiot selves,” I said. My hands were starting to shake, so I crossed my arms to hide it. There was no hiding the cold sweat that appeared on my brow, however.
Danny rolled his eyes. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about. The couple who died at Lake Michigan.”
“What about them?” I asked.
“There was something weird about their deaths. We confiscated their bodies right after the paper came out. Our docs are autopsying them right now. It was two things that alerted us: the fear in their eyes and the fact that they both were dead before being pushed onto the rocks. I’ve been at the Harbor, seen what it can do to a human body. If they were both dead, then who pushed them? And why were they so terrified as they died? Finally, how did they die?” Danny pushed some photographs across the table for me to see.
‘Fear’ was not the word to describe the expressions they had on their faces. Abject terror was more like it, and a type of terror I had seen one too many times during the war. I flipped through the photos, looking at mangled bones, broken skin, and more angles of their terrified visages. Another thing I noticed: the mouths were open in what looked like eternal screams.
“I looked into what causes that kind of expression on a dead person, and I came across just one thing,” Danny said, turning his computer monitor so that I could see it. “A conspiracy site that linked to a paranormal investigation site.”
The website was badly done with flashing red and white swastikas and other symbols I generally associated with total cunts. The headline was also flashing and giving me a headache. It read: “DID THE NAZIS HAVE AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE?”
My head began to swim and my eyesight went a bit blurry at the edges. I gripped the table hard and tried to ground myself as the hard wood dug into my palms. I hadn’t had a serious flashback or panic attack since joining Lycancore. I’d been free of them for years after meeting Angelica. It was like her death had brought about a regression I couldn’t control.
“Hey, Sean, are you okay?”
I could hear Danny’s voice, but felt far too sick to respond. I was afraid that, if I opened my mouth, everything I’d eaten since birth would be regurgitated. And anyway, how could I speak when I couldn’t catch my breath?
“Oh man.” I heard Danny’s chair squeak and he came around my side. “I called our medical staff. They’re bringing something for you.”
I didn't hear him. I heard moans and cries from those imprisoned in concentration camps. I heard the pleas from those about to be eaten by the Shimsakers, I smelled the gunpowder and human waste. I saw nothing but the filth of the trenches and bloody, blown-apart bodies.
It could have been a minute or an hour later when the door opened and I had a glass vial shoved in front of my lips. Before I could protest, the contents were thrust into my mouth and my first thought was that it was a truth serum from the Germans. However, it was down my throat so fast I didn’t have time to spit it out.
In seconds, my mind cleared and I felt better. I felt present. I also felt exhausted. I looked up to see Danny staring at me with a worried look on his face. I wanted to punch that look right off of him. I hated being pitied for my condition. I’d gotten it because of heroic actions, damn it, and I did not need any pity.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea you had PTSD. I would have warned you had I known,” Danny apologized.
“The fuck did you give me?” I asked, wiping sweat from my brow.
“A quick relaxation elixir from the Coven.”
I smirked. “I think I want to buy a few gallons of that. And it’s fine: I haven’t had any symptoms for years till yesterday.” I clasped my hands together in front of me, feeling so weak I could sleep for a month or two.
“What happened yesterday?” Danny asked.
Well, this was going to be unpleasant. “Yesterday I was at Montrose Harbor. Before the couple was killed. A fan stopped me for a picture and when she was holding the camera up I saw...I saw something in its reflection.”
“What did you see?” He leaned heavily on his desk, interest shining in his eyes.
I gestured to his computer monitor. “I saw something I thought I eradicated back in World War Two. I thought it was my imagination, because when I turned around, it was gone. And when I saw the story in the paper this morning I tried to brush it off as paranoia.”
“So, the Nazis were in with the Devil?” Danny asked.
I scrubbed my hand over my face. If this was what I was going to be talking about and dealing with, I would have liked some fucking time to prepare! “I don’t know if these things came from Hell or not. There’s something in the Houska Castle, however, and the Nazis wanted to control it. They’re these...creatures. The people in the concentration camps called them Shimsakers.”
“They called them what?” Danny asked.
“Shimsaker. A play on the Yiddish translation of ‘soul sucker’,” I explained. “That’s what they do, they eat souls. And despite what TV and film say, a person can’t live without a soul. So the Nazis tortured and starved people in concentration camps, and when they were ready for death they decided to force another indignity on them by not letting their souls pass on, but having them devoured by the Shimsakers.”
Danny looked incredulous, and I can’t say I blame him. “So...you’re telling me the Nazis called these things up from the fabled pit in Houska Castle and made them eat souls?”
I nodded.
“To what purpose?”
“To keep us Jews from crossing over,” I replied. “To keep us, technically, from their Heaven. ...If you Catholics are right and Hell is an eternal pit of fire, I hope they’re all getting their asses roasted extra crispy.”
Danny laughed. “I’ve been to Hell and don’t worry: they probably are.”
He’d been to Hell? Not just outside the portal, but to the actual place it led to? I was going to ask questions, but decided that we needed to focus on the matter at hand. The Shimsakers were from Hell, and right then that was what I needed to deal with.
“Why do you think one was here?” Danny asked me.
“Fuck do I know?” I replied. “I told you, I thought I killed them all back in 1945. If one escaped, chances are it’s here for me.”
“Where do they hide and how do we kill them? Providing it is just one rogue...Shimsaker, we could get it tonight and you’ll be good.” Danny took out a notepad and pen to take notes.
“You kill them by shoving a golden blade dipped in oil and blessed by a rabbi though their throats. No need to decapitate them, just one straight stab does it,” I explained. “They went back to the Castle when I was in Germany, so I’m not sure where they’d hide here. You don’t have any in your sub-basement, do you?”
Danny rolled
his eyes. “All right, I’ll contact one of the rabbis Angie worked with—right under the Catholic priests and Wiccan priestesses on speed dial—and get this thing taken care of. Sorry I had to call you in and bring up all the old shit.”
He stood up and I did as well. We didn’t shake hands, because I was in no position to guard my mind and didn’t want him to have to get a vision of the war.
“It’s no problem, man,” I said. “Just get this shit done so I can go back to pretending I’m just your everyday rock star.”
Author’s Note
Well. Here we are again. Last Rites and Right To Silence were written back-to-back in a feverish four month period in the summer and early autumn of twenty-sixteen, a means of escape from a world I felt was going partially insane, and also a demand from Angelica and Danny to get this story out there. Angie cried and bitched and cursed at me and begged for death, as you just read. As you also just read, I defied her for the first time since I created her. Writing this had me in tears many times, had me almost wanting to quit, and had me staying up till the most insane hours, David Draiman screaming in my ears, and my fingers feeling like they were falling off. And it was worth it, every single second.
Is this the end of the Paranormal Detectives Series? No. You will have Sean Wireman’s spin-off, Never Again, at the end of twenty-seventeen, that’s certain. As I write this note, I am currently writing his story simultaneously, and you have just read an excerpt from it. You’ll be getting two more PDS books from me, but the “FIN” at the end of this story just marked the end of an era and nothing more.
Thanks so much for being with me on this journey that started in October of twenty-fourteen, when I opened an email from Sarah Davis Brandon, informing me that my entire series now had a home at Vamptasy. Creating this series has been a dream come true, a stepping stone, and a learning opportunity. I discovered more about myself as I discovered more about Danny, Angie, and their friends and enemies. Of course, I couldn’t and didn’t do this alone.