POSSESSION IS NINE-TENTHS OF THE LAW
a Black Lands story
Ian Rogers
ChiZine Publications
Toronto
PRAISE FOR IAN ROGERS AND THE FELIX RENN STORIES
“Ian Rogers’ stories are old-fashioned in the very best sense: classic chillers in the spirit of Shirley Jackson and Richard Matheson. Every House Is Haunted is full of well-crafted, satisfying twists, a fine companion for any reader of literate horror.”
—Andrew Pyper, author of The Demonologist, Lost Girls, The Killing Circle, and The Guardians
“No mere pastiche, this is crime noir where the noir is something richly black and thrilling, where demonic madness lingers on the fringes of stories cut from the cloth of Chandler.”
—Robert Shearman, World Fantasy Award-winner and author of They Do the Same Things Different There
“Wry and stylishly bizarre . . . Felix Renn has entered the weird and wild urban fantasy front; I hope he’s on the job for years to come.”
—Laird Barron, author of The Croning and Occultation
“. . . an evocation of the classic, hardboiled detective that skirts the edge of parody without ever falling into it.”
—John Langan, author of House of Windows
“. . . a fast-paced entertaining story that gleefully mashes up all things supernatural with his hardboiled PI.”
—Paul Tremblay, author of Swallowing a Donkey’s Eye
“. . . there’s a lot of shading to Renn—the humour, the regrets, the resourcefulness . . . the chilly isolation of the human soul is felt throughout. . . . Truly, this is one of the most chilling horror stories I’ve read in years. Make that, that I’ve read period.”
—Jeffrey Thomas, author of Punktown
“[Rogers] understands the rat-a-tat-tat language of the best noir, and uses it to explore the interpersonal relationships of his characters. . . . Felix Renn has a lot of life in him, and a lot of distance to travel.”
—Simon Strantzas, author of Nightingale Songs
“. . . an imaginative and original writer with the skill to fully execute his plots.”
—Publishers Weekly
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Praise for Ian Rogers and the Felix Renn Stories
Possession Is Nine-Tenths of the Law
About the Author
Other Titles by Ian Rogers
Copyright
POSSESSION IS NINE-TENTHS OF THE LAW
The woman asked Jerry if he knew a good exorcist.
Jerry said, “Who is this again?”
“Bonnie Page,” she said. “You sold us the house in Caledon? On Dewhurst Road? The haunted house?”
“Right,” Jerry said. He remembered her now. Not because of the house—all of the properties he sold were haunted—but because of her name.
She had come to his office a year ago, maybe a year and a half, and when she introduced herself, Jerry had responded, Oh, like Bettie Page, which had made her blush and giggle, despite the fact she looked nothing like the pin-up queen.
Her husband didn’t blush, nor did he giggle. As Jerry recalled, the man had looked mad enough to chew nails and shit tacks. Oh well. Some guys expected you to flirt a bit with their wives, as if it were part of the house-buying dance. Others, like Bonnie’s husband, acted like you had besmirched their wives’ honour if you paid them even the smallest compliment.
Jerry couldn’t remember the guy’s name, which was a problem for a real estate agent, but he couldn’t help it. His brain worked best when he could make a connection that led back to sex. He didn’t consider this a problem—he wasn’t a sex addict like that guy on Californication. It was just the way his brain worked. He was like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind. Except in his case it was more like A Dirty Mind.
“Mr. Baldwin? Are you still there?”
“Oh, sorry,” Jerry said, holding the phone closer. “My mind was elsewhere.” He chuckled. Yep, lost in the clouds. Somewhere in the pornosphere.
“We have a problem,” Bonnie said. “A very serious problem.”
“With the house?”
“No, the house is fine. It’s . . . haunted, but it’s fine. It’s our daughter.”
Jerry closed his eyes, thinking back. He pictured a fifteen-year-old girl in a Hello Kitty shirt and those skinny jeans all the kids were wearing these days. Strictly jailbait, but she had looked older, so Jerry had looked longer, and yes, it was coming back to him now, that was the reason the husband had wanted to pound his ass into oatmeal.
“Your daughter,” Jerry said. “Jessica?”
“That’s right,” Bonnie said, managing to sound pleased in spite of her general tone of concern. “She just turned sixteen last week. She got her first job, teaching swimming lessons at the rec centre.”
Jerry nodded to himself. It was all coming back to him now. The house he had sold to the Pages was located at 47 Dewhurst Road, in Caledon. Did it have a pool? No, but it had something. A hot tub? He couldn’t remember. There were some woods out back with a creek running through them. A nice place out in the country, as long as you didn’t care that it was haunted. Jerry couldn’t remember the specific details. He’d been doing this for a long time, and after a while all the paranormal nuances started to blend together.
“So do you know one?” Bonnie asked.
“One what?” Jerry said.
“An exorcist,” Bonnie said. “For our daughter?”
“Oh, sure,” Jerry said. “I can hook you up. Not a problem. We’ll have that thing out of her in no time. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baldwin,” Bonnie said, sighing with relief. “I knew we could count on you.”
Jerry said, “I’ll be in touch soon, okay?”
Bonnie thanked him and hung up.
Jerry turned around in his swivel chair and stared at the Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar hanging on the wall. This month, October, showed a tanned, full-breasted blonde in a tiger-striped two-piece frolicking on the beach. He used to have an aquarium in his office, but staring at the fish only made him sleepy. He didn’t know what it was, but something about women in bikinis helped him to focus. Perhaps it was because he spent so much of his day thinking about women in various states of undress that having half-naked pictures of them right in front of him freed up space in his overtaxed and oversexed mind.
Possession wasn’t common, but it wasn’t exactly rare, either. It was just another of the many side effects of living in a world next door to a supernatural dimension. Ever since the portals started popping up, all kinds of critters came over from the Black Lands, some of them annoying, some of them dangerous. Possessors could be one or the other.
Jerry wasn’t concerned. For every problem the Black Lands had thrown at them, humanity had come up with a solution. Well, mostly. If you had a vampire, you drove a wooden stake through its heart. If you had a werewolf, you shot it with a silver bullet. And if you had a possessor, you got an exorcism.
Jerry thought he could probably even do it himself. Demonic possession was like the clogged drain of paranormal problems. Sure, you could call a plumber, but if you had a plunger, and a little muscle, you could do the job yourself. Possession was probably a bit more involved than a clogged drain, but really . . . how hard could it be?
Jerry picked up his phone and dialled a number.
“Felix!” he said. “How’d you like to make fifty bucks?”
So why would someone buy a haunted house?
There were lots of reasons, actually, and over the years he’d been working in the business, Jerry had heard them all.
The rich people were the easiest to figure out, if only because they never actually lived in the houses they purchased. They bought haunted properties for the same reason other rich people bought rare stamps or old bottles of wine. It was a hobby. Something to show off to their friends. You simply must come and see the Dutch Colonial we bought last week. It has the most darling gambrel roof, a big country kitchen, and a dumbwaiter that spews black blood.
Some haunted houses sat empty because they were too dangerous for human occupancy (the Paranormal Intelligence Agency didn’t allow such places to be sold), or because the market for them was so small and specific. It was like buying a house with a swimming pool. A haunting wasn’t something that necessarily turned off potential buyers, but you had to find someone willing to take on the responsibility.
But for those with an open mind and an adventurous spirit—Jerry’s slogan was Put a little “super” into your “natural” life!—there was nothing else like it.
Jerry couldn’t tell if Felix was upset about the offer or the money.
“What’s the matter, Goose? You sound off.”
“Don’t ‘Goose’ me, Jer,” Felix said. “It’s too early in the morning to be your wingman.”
“I would never dream of Goosing you, Felix,” Jerry said. “And I’m not talking about hitting the bars. It’s nine-thirty in the morning. I just need your help.” He cleared his throat, trying to sound offhand. “With an exorcism.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Felix said, “Fifty bucks? That’s it?”
“I’m the one doing the exorcism,” Jerry said. “I just need you to assist.”
“Assist? Like, what? Fetch your holy water for you?”
“Sure,” Jerry said. “Mop my brow, make me a sandwich if I get hungry.”
“I’m hanging up, Jerry.”
“Wait! I was kidding. You’re always so serious. You got to relax a bit, man.”
“I was out all night on a stakeout. I’m too tired to relax. All I want right now is sleep.”
“This is better.”
“You’re serious. You’re going to do an exorcism. You.”
“How hard can it be?” Jerry said. “You read from the Bible, spritz some holy water, and voila.”
“You know it doesn’t always work.” Felix sighed. “Is the family even religious?”
“Of course they are,” Jerry said. “They’re asking for an exorcism, aren’t they?”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Felix said. “People get desperate enough they’ll try anything, even if they don’t believe in God.”
“Listen, Felix, I could really use your help on this.”
“I thought you knew a priest who did exorcisms.”
“Yeah, Father Bennenwatti,” Jerry said with a dry chuckle. “We’re kinda on the outs right now.”
“What did you do?”
“Me? Why do you assume I did something?”
“What did you do, Jerry?”
“Nothing!” Jerry said. “We had a disagreement, is all.”
“About what?”
“It was nothing.” Jerry was silent for a moment. “It was over a movie.”
“What?”
“We were having coffee at Starbucks and got to talking about which movie was the better depiction of Jesus’s life, The Passion of the Christ or The Last Temptation of Christ. Father Bennie said it was Passion, I said it was Temptation, and things got a little . . . heated.”
“You got in a fight with a priest,” Felix said. “Over a movie.”
“Father Bennie is a very passionate man,” Jerry said.
“Passionate about God?” Felix said. “Or about movies?”
“Both,” Jerry said. “That’s what makes him such a good exorcist. Most people, all they know about exorcism is what they’ve seen in the movies. Father Bennie takes their expectations and uses a bit of theatricality to help bridge the gap between Hollywood and reality.”
“He lies to them.”
“He doesn’t lie,” Jerry said. “He puts on a bit of a show. His exorcisms are one hundred percent legit. But you know and I know that legitimacy isn’t the issue. When a possessor takes over someone who’s religious, a real holy roller, it’s their power of belief that ends up doing most of the job. Belief is an exorcist’s most powerful weapon. Of course, it’s a double-edged sword. After all, it’s the host’s belief that allows the possessor to take control in the first place.”
“Jerry, you’re an atheist. If you try to perform an exorcism, you’re only going to make things worse.”
“I may not believe in God, but I believe in the power of exorcism. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. This girl who’s possessed, as long as she believes that I believe, it’ll work.”
“You watch too many movies.”
“It will work,” Jerry said emphatically.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Felix said. He sounded infinitely tired.
“So you’ll come?”
After a long moment of hesitation, Felix said, “Okay.”
“Great,” Jerry said. “After we’re done, we’ll go get waffles. My treat.”
Jerry might forget a name or a face, or where he parked his car most days, but he never forgot a house.
The Pages’ big brick Georgian looked exactly as he remembered it. The fieldstone path, the sash windows, the fanlight over the front door. He even remembered the fiery red-haired PIA agent who’d given him the listing after the place was cleared for habitation. He’d tried to flirt with her a bit—Hey, you’re an agent, I’m an agent, too, a real estate agent, so why don’t we get a drink and talk about it?—and she had given him a radioactive look that immediately shut him up (which was a first for Jerry).
The house was nice if you didn’t mind living out in the sticks. Jerry was a city boy, born and bred, but he admired those whom were able to escape the city and make a life for themselves in out of the way places like this. He especially admired the commissions he made selling out of the way places like this.
As they started up the path to the front door, Felix said, “You think it was the house that did it?”
“Not likely,” Jerry said. “If there was a history of possessors or anything else threatening, the PIA wouldn’t have let me sell it.”
“Maybe the house attracted something.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Jerry said. He was also thinking about whether or not the Pages had any legal ground on which to sue him. He didn’t think so. When a haunted property was sold, the buyer had to sign a waiver against all kinds of supernatural liability. It was called the “Amityville clause.”
Jerry reached out to knock on the door, but it was pulled open before his hand could make contact. A short, plump woman with curly chestnut hair stood in the open entryway staring out at them.
“Hi, Mrs. Page. It’s nice to see you again. I wish it was under better circumstances.”
Bonnie Page said “Uh-huh” in a hitching voice. She’d been crying. Her eyes were red and her round-cheeked face had a blotchy, scrubbed look. Her mouth twitched into something that tried to be a smile, but didn’t quite make it.
“Please,” she said, a little breathlessly, “come in.”
Jerry and Felix stepped inside.
“Thank you for coming to see us.”
From behind her, a loud male voice said, “Is that him?”
A large, broad-shouldered man came striding toward them, his hands curled into fists.
“You did this, you son of a bitch.”
Jerry took a step back, while Felix moved to get between them. “Hold on a minute.”
Bonnie cried out, “Tom, no!”
“Shut up,” Tom Page said. He ignored Felix
like he wasn’t there and glared at Jerry. “He did this to Jess. He did it.”
Felix raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Cool your jets, okay? Let’s talk about this.”
Tom’s eyes flicked toward Felix, finally registering his presence. His face was hard and angular, like it had been carved from a piece of driftwood. An angry vein pulsed in his forehead.
“It’s not him,” Bonnie said. “It’s the house.”
“Yeah,” Tom barked. “The house he sold us.” He stabbed a finger at Jerry.
“It’s not the house,” Jerry said in a voice that squeaked a bit. He cleared his throat. “Not necessarily. There was nothing about possessors in the case history. The previous owners have to declare stuff like that. It’s the law.”
“Maybe they lied,” Tom said. “Or maybe you lied.”
“I’m a federally licensed broker of haunted properties,” Jerry said. “If I ever lied about any of the listings I represented, I’d not only lose my license, the PIA would throw me in jail.”
“That’s where you belong,” Tom said, but the anger was draining out of his voice.
“I came here to help.”
Tom flung his hand up in a gesture of angry dismissal. “You’re just covering your own ass.”
“You knew what you were getting into when you bought this house,” Jerry said. “I told you that not only was this place haunted, but that sometimes—not always, but sometimes—such places could attract supernatural entities. Did I not tell you that?”
Tom dropped his eyes and said nothing. Behind him, Bonnie stood with her head down and her hands clasped demurely before her.
“So let’s forget about blame, okay? Placing blame doesn’t help your daughter, does it? And that’s why I’m here. To help you.”
Tom jerked his chin at Felix. “Who’s he?”
“My assistant,” Jerry said.
Felix glared at him, but said nothing.
“Now,” Jerry said, “why don’t you take us to see your daughter?”
Jerry expected to see Jessica Page tied to her bed Linda Blair–style, but she wasn’t.
Possession Is Nine-Tenths of the Law Page 1