The horse finished drinking, and he set off on it heading east. The moon was high, lighting the way.
Murmur of Evil
Preface
WHEN I WAS a young boy, few things captured my imagination more than the ridiculously short-lived television series, Kolchak: The Night Stalker. It was like bottled magic those late nights, served in a chilled glass through the tiny screen of my TV set. I loved the character, I loved the monsters, I loved the thrilling sense of discovery and exploration as Darren McGavin pursued his stories into dark alleys and through the shadows of myths and legends. The fact it only lasted one season ranks as one of the most glaring examples of entertainment injustice the annals of television has ever seen. TV being what it was in the 70s, it was cheesy and goofy and schlocky and nothing short of pure genius. From the first time I saw it, I was and forever would be a Kolchak fan.
I wrote A Murmur of Evil some years ago. Too long for the anthology I had in mind – whose editor wanted something much shorter – it sat patiently, waiting for this opportunity. When I was putting together stories for this collection, I knew I wanted to include it. I also knew I would need the permission of Jeff Rice, the author whose brilliant and original take on the vampire story inspired the TV movie, The Night Stalker, its sequel, The Night Strangler, and the subsequent TV series all featured the intrepid Carl Kolchak as the hardest working loser in journalism who happened to have a nose for the supernatural.
Alas, just as I began the process of securing permission to publish this story based on Kolchak and his universe, Mr Rice passed away. I learned of this, quite literally, while my check to him was in the mail. I was quite saddened by the news, more saddened, still, upon realizing how little attention his passing received. But I did not give up. Working with Mark Dawidziak, an author and Kolchak expert who was a long-time friend and associate of Mr Rice, I managed to secure permission through Mr Rice’s son, heir to the Kolchak literary rights. And so, here we are.
I want to express my most sincere gratitude to James Rice for his courtesy and cooperation in allowing me to use this story and allowing me to honor his father this way, as well as to Mark Dawidziak, for his invaluable assistance in setting that up. Without either of those gentlemen’s cooperation, this story would not be part of this collection.
For fans out there who would like to read more Kolchak fiction, I would be remiss in not mentioning that Moonstone Books has for years been publishing a fine line of Kolchak comic books as well as occasional prose anthologies and similar material. They have been doing as much as anyone in keeping Carl Kolchak from retiring into the night.
Finally, I would like to express my heartfelt thanks and appreciation to Jeff Rice, wherever he may be. The hours of wonder and joy Kolchak gave me as a boy guaranteed that part of me would never forget why I love to read and write the things I do. Without your creation, there would be no X-Files, no Buffy, no Supernatural, and who knows what else. Hats off to you, sir. One of them cheap-looking, made of vented straw, with a red and black band.
Murmur of Evil
THE POLICE REPORT would state that Karen Humphrey had suffered a massive brain hemorrhage of an undetermined nature. It would cite the autopsy for this, though the copy of the results normally attached to the report would be missing, never having made it to the file. The absence of her eyeballs would be attributed to ‘post-mortem opportunistic predation’. The report would reflect that a canvass of the area produced two potential witnesses. One, an undocumented Mexican landscaper who spoke little English, advised he heard a scream so chilling it caused him to genuflect, but was unable to tell where it came from. Another, a woman walking her dog, described a similar scream, relating that her dog began whimpering shortly before that, screwing its body around in anxious circles. A footnote in the report would conclude that what these witnesses heard was unrelated to the incident under investigation.
The report would not mention that Ms Humphrey had just completed an abysmal audition as a flautist. It would not discuss the fact that her father, Constantine Humphrey, had been a celebrated pianist, or that she was proof that talent often skips a generation. It would contain no reference to the strings family members had to pull to get her an unscheduled audition with famed Pacific Coast Philharmonic maestro Lars Skadden, who despite his busy schedule hastily arranged an opportunity for her to demonstrate her abilities so that he could determine if a more formal try-out in front of the auditions committee was warranted. Nor would it mention that Ms Humphrey left, flute case in hand, having been told in no uncertain terms that she did not display the talent necessary to be a member of Mr Skadden’s symphony orchestra. The report would certainly not opine that had her father not been who he was, she would have been told she did not have any talent at all. Also omitted would be any mention of the skin and tissue found clumped beneath her fingernails.
But I can fill in much of what the report left out. When Karen Humphrey, undoubtedly dejected and heavy with the burden of failure, left the music hall that early fall morning, the nearby parking garage was relatively empty. The echo of her shoes would have clacked off the concrete walls as she made her way toward the white Toyota Camry she drove. A small bird, maybe two or three, would have fluttered past, startling her. An uneasy feeling probably crept into her gut as the chirping seemed to multiply, and a surge surely passed through her heart when a throng of like birds came swooping toward her, overwhelming her in a tidal wave of slapping feathers.
She lost a shoe running toward her car. The stings of beaks against her scalp would have caused her to scream, and she ran faster, desperate to escape. She dropped her keys and staggered blindly to a stop. The birds had finished their swarming around that time, had pulled away from her, alighting in crevices, on exposed pipes, on the roofs of the few other cars in the all-but empty lot. When Ms Humphrey lifted her head from her hands, tentatively glancing around, a palpable sense of relief is certain to have washed over her.
But as she turned to take those final steps, the horror she found blocking her path would be the last she ever saw. She made doubly sure of that.
Karen Humphrey. Age: 26. Hair: light brown. Height: 55 inches. Weight: 142 lbs.
Karen Humphrey: dead. Cause of death: undetermined.
Eyes: missing.
* * *
By nine am that same morning, I had been served with a summons, scalded with my own coffee, and was preparing myself to be subjected to blistering criticism conveyed in the inimitable, stentorian tones of my editor, Antonio Vincenzo.
In other words, it was a typical Monday.
“I still can’t believe it, Carl! How? How, exactly, does one turn a simple fluff piece about the dedication of a philanthropic organization into a story about witchcraft? How?”
I patted a napkin at the dark blotch on my shirt. The pregnant pause that followed Vincenzo’s voice caused me to lift my head, and I caught his glare full force.
“Oh, did you want me to answer that?”
“Yes, Carl. I want you to answer that.”
“Come on, Tony… it’s hardly mentioned. Just two, three little paragraphs at the most. I thought it would add, you know, color. Besides, it’s not like I made it up. That’s why the family is starting the foundation. To neutralize the curse. At least, they hope it will.”
“Yeah? Well, those six little paragraphs already got me a call from the Collingsworth’s attorney…” Vincenzo held up a hand and counted off his fingers one at a time. “From the Mayor’s office, the Times, and from the owners of this little corner of the fourth estate.”
“My sources are family members. It’s news, Tony. News.”
“Oh, really, Carl? It wouldn’t so happen that your ‘sources’ are, in actuality, one Francine Collingsworth?”
I shrugged, tugging at my collar a bit.
“And during your discussions with her, did Ms Collingsworth by chance mention that little stint she did upstate in a mental ward a few years back?”
“I… she… may have
referenced some discord in the family that got somewhat nasty. I don’t recall the specifics.”
“Don’t recall the specifics. Carl, Van Seavers – as in, our publisher, Van Seavers – golfs with Hampton Collingsworth. They’re both on the board of the University Club. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“Okay. All right. I get it. Everybody’s mad. You killed the story, so the furor will die down. Another fine example of yellow-bellied journalism assuring everybody ends up happy. What’s the big deal?”
Vincenzo rubbed his face with his palms and sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils. He tossed me a copy of the morning Observer (The News Behind The News!) and leaned back into his chair. Below the fold was a story with my by-line. Cursed Family Tries To Buy Peace Through Charity, read the headline. Catchy. An inset photo of the newly dedicated Collingsworth Memorial Foundation appeared just beneath it, along with the photos of several prominent family members.
I scratched my head. “I don’t get it. Why’d you run it if it was going to cause such a big stink?”
“I didn’t, Carl. I sank it. I don’t know how it got in. Nobody does. Same way no one knows how it made lead story on our homepage. Drudge linked it before anyone knew it was online.”
“Tony! You don’t think—”
“No, Carl. I know you would much rather stick around to torment me another day than pull something like this. The problem is, I don’t know what happened. So until I sort this out, you need to lay low.”
“Lay low? What, you want me to take a few days off?”
“No. The lawyers say we should stick by the story. For now. We mustn’t do anything that looks like an admission of guilt. The Collingsworth family is in the public eye, so unless they can show malice, we’re probably okay. Legally.”
I nodded, waiting for the thud of the other shoe. Tony Vincenzo wore big, fat Italian shoes.
“I said, ‘legally’, Carl. But Seavers is not happy. And neither am I. So you need to stay out of trouble. Can you do that, for a change?”
“Sure, Tony. Sure. Sure.” Something was wrong. The LA Observer was a vanity imprint for its plutocratic owner and perennially on the financial world’s chopping block as a case study in how such an investment can turn the sole heir of a multi-billionaire into a multi-millionaire. The shellacking from Seaver and his army of legal throat-slitters on that conference call must have caused the NSA to offer counseling to all traumatized personnel. But Vincenzo was not erupting like a pasta-fed Mount Vesuvius, his face was not turning lava red, and he had not pounded the desk once.
“Good. Now, Carl… I have a nice, safe story for you to cover.”
Great, I thought. Here it comes. “And what story would that be, Tony?”
“The London Symphony is visiting, hosted by the Pacific Coast Philharmonic,” he said. He handed me a manila folder. “Just go out, interview the promoters and conductors. Review the symphony…”
“Aww, Tony! You know how I hate classical music! They have to have some guy crash cymbals every few seconds just to keep the audience awake. Why don’t you let Updyke do it? He loves that kind of stuff.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Vincenzo dropped his head, mumbling something as he looked away.
“What was that, Tony?”
“I said, because he’s got a restraining order entered against him, that’s why! He can’t go within five hundred feet of the philharmonic.”
I glanced back over my shoulder through the blinds of the interior window of Vincenzo’s office and into the Observer bullpen. Updyke was at his desk, listening to something Miss Emily was telling him as he took a sip of coffee. The undersized cup in his hand was white with gold trim and sported a handle that came to a delicate point, like an elf’s ear. It was poised over a matching saucer he held slightly below it. The little finger of his sipping hand extended demurely outward as he tilted it back.
I jerked my thumb in his direction as I turned back to face Vincenzo. “Ron Updyke?”
“Yes, Carl,” Vincenzo said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ron Updyke. And Carl, don’t say anything to him about it. He’s very sensitive on the subject. Besides, he’s not available. He’s already doing a piece on that new Vows-of-Marriage program everybody’s signing up for now.”
As much as I wanted to, I willed myself not to ask the question. It helped that another, more pressing one came to mind.
“Okay, Tony. What’s the catch?”
“Huh? What catch?”
I waved my finger in front of my face as I shook my head, then began poking the air with it. “Don’t you huh me. You’re going way too easy on me. Sure, I may hate the symphony, but my hating an assignment has never deterred you before. Never. So, I’ll ask again. What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch, Carl. I’m hurt you would think such a thing.” He swiveled his chair to the side and smiled. “But since you brought it up, there is a small, personal favor I need to ask of you…”
“Ah hah!”
“Oh, come on, Carl. It’s just a favor.”
“Right. The last ‘small personal favor’ weighed three hundred pounds, ate like a horse and kept running her hoof up my pants leg under the dinner table. And she still sends me propositioning emails.” I waved him off, reaching for door. I opened it halfway, stood at the threshold for a moment tapping my foot, then closed it and leaned back against the glass panel. “So, what is it? Get it over with.”
“An autograph.”
“An autograph? That’s it? Whose autograph?”
“Dietrich Von Mueller.”
“What’s a ‘Dietrich Von Mueller’?”
“He’s the conductor of the London Symphony. It’s for my sister-in-law in Skokie. She’s a big, big fan. She found out he was coming to LA and, well, I promised my wife. Her sister’s birthday is coming up. She can be quite… persistent, if you know what I mean.”
I scratched my cheek. “And that’s it?”
“That’s it. I’m… tied up all week. I can’t get out there, or I’d do it myself.”
“So, I just get this Dieter guy’s autograph, and that’s all?”
“Dietrich. That, and the story. Yes, Carl. That’s all.”
My smile was as broad as it was phony. “Anything for you, Tony.”
“And, Carl. Try to stay out of everyone’s hair, okay? Collingsworth’s attorney threatened some kind of legal process ‘so fast it would make my head swim’, but maybe, if we’re lucky, things’ll quiet down and it’ll all blow over.”
“Uh, that reminds me, Tony.” I reached into my back pocket and retrieved the folded summons. If I hadn’t spilled my coffee as it was handed to me, I might have even read it. Now I didn’t have to. “This arrived earlier.”
I left Vincenzo growling in his office and reaching for the stash of alka-seltzer he keeps in his bottom drawer. I plastered another phony smile on my face and walked over to where Updyke was engaged in a weird round of back-and-forth with Emily Cowles. Miss Emily is a dear, sweet woman of about a hundred and fifty who, through diet and exercise, manages to look at least ten years younger. Emily’s a saint. A wrinkled, arthritic saint.
Updyke is, well, Updyke.
“Hi, Ron,” I said, planting half of my butt on the corner of his desk.
“Just a minute, Kolchak,” Updyke said. He lifted a dilatory hand in my direction. “Swordfish!”
“Flotilla,” Miss Emily responded. A second later, she added: “Owls!”
Updyke fingered his moustache, spreading his thumb and forefinger over it several times. “Parliament?”
“Yes, Ron. Very good. Stare is also acceptable, you know.”
Updyke simpered in self-satisfaction. The egg-sucking grin didn’t look like it was about to leave his face anytime soon when he glanced up. “Yes, Kolchak. What do you want?”
“Did you learn a new word-association game from your shrink, Ron?” I asked.
“Hardly, Kolchak. It turns out Emily a
nd I share a passion for collective nouns.”
“Collective nouns?”
“Yes. Terms used to indicate groups of things. You know, a gaggle of geese, a murder of ravens.”
“Unkindness, Ron,” Miss Emily said, interjecting. “Murder is now applied only to crows. It’s an unkindness of ravens.”
“Thank you, Emily.” He turned back to me. “She is much better at this than I. But you get the idea.”
“Yes, I do. Like, a lunacy of Updykes.”
“Very funny, Kolchak. I see you decided to add some more color to your outfit. A splash of mocha?”
I laughed along with him and slapped my knee. “Maybe lunacy isn’t the right word. How about, a restraint of Updykes. Or maybe an injunction of Updykes.”
Updyke straightened himself in his chair and pulled closer to the desk. He picked up a clutch of paper and tapped the edges into alignment. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t, Ron.” I patted him on the back sharply as I headed toward my desk for my hat and coat. I decided to let him twist in the wind.
“Sure you don’t,” I repeated as I headed out of the office. This time, my smile wasn’t phony.
I got in my car without any intention of starting on the symphony story until the afternoon, at the earliest. I was far more interested in finding out whether Ms Francine Collingsworth had led me down the primrose path to libel. Enough people keep telling me how often I make a fool of myself that I’m pretty sure I don’t need somebody else doing it for me.
Halfway to Francine’s house, the police band squawked out a call for units to assist with traffic in the vicinity of South Grand Avenue. I was experienced enough at deciphering LAPD. codespeak to know that a body had been found in a parking garage. What really caught my attention was when they mentioned the address. I checked my pad, and sure enough, it was the same one. That symphony piece was suddenly looking much more interesting.
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