by N. P. Martin
“Okay, Snoopy, you stay here and look for your story,” Zee said as she brushed past me and headed down the hallway. “I’m going downstairs to drink coffee and mourn the loss of my finger.”
“It’ll grow back,” I said over my shoulder.
“Screw you.”
Despite the cloying stench of blood that had now permeated the entire apartment, I hung around after Zee had left so I could look for evidence that might point me toward the dead woman’s killer. I went to the bathroom first to get the blood off my face, checking the medicine cabinet while I was there. In the cabinet I came across pill bottles with the woman’s name printed on the label: Angela Smith. At least now I had a name to go with the body. The pills were anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication. I knew because I took the same pills in the past myself.
In the living room, I found Angela Smith’s laptop, which wasn’t password protected. Checking her browser history, I saw she had visited a contact website called Intimate Connections numerous times over the last few days.
Interesting. Maybe that’s where she met the man who killed her?
Assuming I could get access to her data, I thought I might be able to get the details of the men she conversed with on the website. I decided I would contact the website owners directly and ask them for help. If they refused, well, I had other means of accessing private data that didn’t involve asking for permission.
Closing the laptop, I stood up and had another look around the apartment, but found nothing untoward. It was likely the incubus had left behind some forensic evidence somewhere, especially in the bedroom, but that would be up to the FPD crime techs to find. Not that I thought any forensic evidence would lead anywhere. Sure as shit, the demonic incubus wouldn’t be on any system. In the meantime, I went to Angela Smith’s landline phone and used it to call Detective Murtagh’s cell number.
“Murtagh,” the detective grunted when he answered, sounding like he was still half asleep.
“Murtagh, it’s Damion Deadson,” I said.
“God,” he groaned. “Yours is not the voice I want to hear at this time of the morning before I’ve even had coffee, Deadson. What do you want?”
“I thought you might like to know there’s been a murder in my apartment building.”
“Who’d you kill?”
“Me? No one, obviously. But someone killed a woman who lived two floors above me. Her name is Angela Smith. I’m calling from her landline.”
“Jesus,” Murtagh said before coughing, sounding like he’d just lit his first cigarette of the day. Lucky bastard. “You’re at the crime scene?”
“Of course. How else do you think I found out about it?”
“You better not be tampering with evidence again, Deadson. I know what you’re like.”
“I’m not. But I’m just warning you, this is no ordinary murder.”
“Whatta you mean? Is this another weird one?”
“Weird? Yeah, you could say that. I’d advise you to come alone first and check it out before you call in the cavalry.”
Murtagh sighed audibly down the phone. “I can’t believe you’re bringing me this before I’ve even had coffee.”
“Sorry to inconvenience you. It’s apartment three-one-two. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Yeah. See you soon.”
Murtagh hung up the phone, leaving me to shake my head at his grumpiness. The detective hated the “weird” cases because he never knew what to do with them. He was well aware of the supernatural powers behind them, but he couldn’t very well mention that in his reports, which meant he always had to come up with more mundane reasons for the crime. Usually, with murders, Murtagh would say the killings were the work of some madman or serial killer, which would account for the often bizarre and messed-up circumstances of the crime. I knew when he saw Angela Smith suspended in her bedroom, half her insides lying underneath her on the floor, that he would attribute her bad luck to having been the victim of a crazy person. A human crazy person.
While I waited on Murtagh to arrive, I sat in the living room of the apartment and tried to get a sense of how things went down the night before between Angela Smith and her killer. It was probable that Angela Smith had come across the killer on the Intimate Connections website and had met him at her apartment. Not a very sensible thing to do, meeting strangers in your own apartment. Most people who meet strangers for sex do so at seedy motels. Though going by the medication in the bathroom, Angela Smith’s depression and anxiety may have prevented her from going out much. She may have felt safer meeting people in her own home, which is fair enough…until you invite the wrong one in.
I found it interesting that the incubus went to the trouble of pretending he was interested in his victim. Like Zee, he may have gotten off on reeling his victims in first, making them feel special, like no one else in the world existed but them. Then, when it came to killing them, the act was all the sweeter. Not that Zee killed many people. Normally she drained her chosen victims of energy, taking just what she needed. Sometimes she filled them with corruption, depending on what kind of person they were, leaving the person to fall into a darkness they could never escape from, which often ended in sudden death for them, anyway. With the incubus, the act of murder was obviously a biological necessity. It was clearly built to breed, and to propagate its genes like a virus. Innocent victims like Angela Smith were nothing more than receptacles for the incubus’ vile, demonic seed.
As I sat on the sofa, my gaze going around the room, I spotted a familiar packet nestled between magazines under the coffee table. Cigarettes. My brand as well.
Godammit.
I sat staring at the packet for a full minute before reaching down and taking the packet from under the table. When I opened the box, which was almost full, I put it under my nose and inhaled deeply, my eyes closing as the sweet smell of tobacco made me want to take one of the cancer sticks out and light it up so I could once again experience that satisfying intake of smoke and calming nicotine hit.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
I almost dropped the cigarette packet as I spun around to see Detective Murtagh standing in the living room doorway. “When did you get here?”
“Just now,” he said as he smoked on his own cigarette. “What’s all the blood in the hallway outside?”
“That would be the spawn of the incubus who killed the victim,” I said as I tossed the cigarette packet on the coffee table and stood up. “It left a trail as it escaped.”
Murtagh just stared at me. “Are you kidding? It’s too early in the morning to be dealing with weird shit. I also have a hangover.”
“Out last night?”
“Yeah. I had a date with my couch and the TV. It was awesome. I recommend it.”
Murtagh looked disheveled as always, wearing a dark gray wool overcoat over a black shirt and a black waistcoat. When I met him about ten years prior, he was built like a gladiator, heavily muscled and strong as an ox. About two years ago, he got divorced and his wife took custody of their two kids. Ever since, Murtagh—in his late forties—had shed much of his muscular weight, leaving him looking gaunt and lean. He wore his hair longer these days as well, at least the parts he hadn’t shaved close to his head. As a man, he was a shadow of his former self, but as a detective, he still had what it took to close cases. And with no family anymore—his wife had moved to Florida with the kids—work was all he had.
“The body is in the bedroom,” I told him as I moved past him to the bedroom door, which I had closed earlier to contain the smell. “Prepare yourself.”
“No need,” he said. “I’ve seen it all, kid.”
“I doubt that. And stop calling me kid. You’re barely a decade older than me.”
“I can’t help it. You have a young face. Do you even shave yet?”
“As often as you shave your sagging ball sack.”
Murtagh chuckled. “Almost never then.”
When I opened the bedroom door, the smell hit me like a
sledgehammer, and I recoiled, almost choking as I tried not to vomit.
“Jesus Christ,” Murtagh breathed as he peered through the doorway at the suspended body of Angela Smith, and the pile of guts lying on the floor beneath her.
“Told you,” I said.
“What the hell did that?”
“Our best guess is an incubus.”
“Our best guess? You mean your scary succubus girlfriend was up here to?”
“Zee is not really my girlfriend, and she’s not that scary either.”
Murtagh gave me a dismissive nod. “Whatever you say. So you two have basically contaminated this whole crime scene? Nice going.”
“We did our best not to.”
“That means a lot. I’ll be sure to let the crime techs know you did your best.” Murtagh squinted at the victim’s body as if trying to take in the sheer horror of it. “How’d you even discover this?”
“The victim’s cat led me here.”
“The cat that’s lying in pieces out in the hallway, you mean?”
“Yeah, that cat. The incubus spawn did that.”
“Christ. You mean to tell me that some demonic spawn is running around out there somewhere?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
Murtagh sighed and shook his head before putting his cigarette out in the palm of one calloused hand and dropping the extinguished butt into his coat pocket. “This is some mess. How the hell am I supposed to explain this in my report?”
“That’s up to you,” I said. “Are you going to call it in?”
“I guess I’ll have to. Why’s she hanging there like that?”
“I’m not sure. Zee reckons the incubus does it to protect the spawn from any predators. You know, until it…emerges from the body.”
Taking out his phone, Murtagh said, “My life was easier before I knew about all this supernatural shit.”
“Where’s your partner?” I asked him. “Shouldn’t he be here with you? He always seems more open to this stuff than you do.”
“Vinci’s probably getting the coffee and donuts. He knows I hate it when they aren’t sitting there as soon I get in.”
I shook my head at him. “Good to hear you’re putting your partner’s detective skills to good use then.”
Murtagh ignored me as he walked into the bedroom and examined the body of Angela Smith more closely. “This is a fucking mess,” he said, staring down at the woman’s insides spilled all over the floor.
“Zee tried to kill the spawn before it was born,” I said. “It didn’t go so well.”
“Why’s there a finger on the floor here?”
“Oh. That belongs to Zee. She must’ve forgotten to pick up.” Murtagh turned and gave me a look. “The spawn bit it off,” I added, as if that explained everything. “I’ll take that.” I picked up the finger and put in my pocket like it was a dropped piece of litter.
Puffing his cheeks out, Murtagh shook his head like he wished he had never gotten out of bed. “I really didn’t need this on a Monday morning.”
“Neither did I. But it is what it is, and now we both have to do our jobs.”
“And what’s your job going to be? Posting all the juicy details on your sleazy website?”
“Fuck you, Murtagh. I intend to investigate this. You know me well enough by now that I won’t sit idly by. Naturally, I’ll pass on whatever I find out. How are you going to pitch this one, anyway? Serial killer? Madman?”
“One of the two. Can we lower the body to the bed, at least? That way, I won’t have to explain to Captain Routman why the body was hovering by itself off the damn floor.”
I helped Murtagh lower the body of Angela Smith onto the bed. When her body touched the bloody sheets, the blood that had been previously floating in the air suddenly fell and slapped on to the floor, some of it falling on us as well.
“Godammit,” Murtagh said. “It’s all over my damn coat now.”
“The magic must’ve worn off,” I said. “Anyway, at least now it looks like a normal murder.”
“Normal? If you think this here is normal, then you’re more fucked up than I thought you were, Deadson.”
“You know what I mean. I’ll leave you to call in the crime techs. Tell them to check the laptop in the living room. I think the victim may have met her killer online.”
As I turned to walk out of the bedroom, Murtagh said, “Whatever you find out about this, I wanna know about it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll keep you informed. Enjoy your donuts.”
6
Back in the day, I once worked for a tabloid magazine based here in Fairview called the Midnight Inquirer, a purveyor of truth masked by layers of over the top sensationalism. My two-year stint with the rag resulted in my last bout of heroin addiction, which lasted a whole year, and unlike my first bout of addiction, I was also homeless for a year as well. But I don’t really want to talk about that yet. Some things you just want to forget, or at least, not think about unless you have to. So let’s focus on the Midnight Inquirer for now.
I ended up getting a job as a staff writer with the magazine, and one of the things the editor, Miles Johnson, taught me (one of many things, few of which were good outside of tabloid reporting, and even then they were questionable) was: “You only report the truth—as you understand it.” And then he would add with a wink: “And as we all know, truth is a slippery thing. Am I right?”
That was Miles Johnson’s—the Fourth Estate’s greatest peddler of tabloid sensationalism and also unlikely purveyor of truth—first rule of journalism, which he imparted to me about five minutes after he told me I had the job. There were seven other rules that he told to me over the first week of my tenure with the magazine, most of which made me laugh and shake my head. And then, when I realized he was completely serious, I would frown and shake my head again. Coming from an establishment newspaper like the Fairview Gazette, where only the facts were reported, and all facts were checked (mostly anyway), Miles Johnson’s bending of—and often complete disregard for—the rules, was perplexing. I mean, the guy didn’t give a shit. As far as he was concerned, a spoonful of sugar made the medicine go down, where the sugar was the ridiculous but entertainingly embellished “story” and the medicine was the few kernels of truth floating in that sea of sensationalism and made-up guff. In his own way, Miles Johnson told more truth in his tabloid rag than did most of the country’s so-called “respectable” newspapers. He was constantly being sued by everybody because of this, and received death threats daily. Sometimes I didn’t know if he was very brave or just very stupid the way he provoked the monsters and liars of this world, laying bare their transgressions for all to see. Or at least, for the readers of the magazine to see. No one else took him or the magazine seriously, which is probably why he’s still alive. Come to think of it, I was probably still alive for the same reason.
But I digress. Miles Johnston taught me to report the truth—as I understood it. The emphasis being on that last clause. Everything I wrote on the Deadson Confidential website was the truth, as I understood it. The story I wrote on what the cat led me to upstairs was no different:
INCUBUS DEATH SPAWN ON THE LOOSE IN FAIRVIEW!
Readers beware!
The deadly spawn of a rare breed of incubus has escaped and is now on the loose here in Fairview.
Right now, this highly dangerous demonic spawn is likely still in the Bricktown area where it was born from the body of a dead woman who shall remain nameless at this time.
This reporter was led to the scene of a gruesome murder by a trusted source, discovering the body of a woman who had been impregnated by something unknown.
It later transpired the woman had been seduced by an incubus.
After having sexual relations with the woman, the demon killed her, allowing his demonic spawn to grow inside the dead woman’s womb at a rapid rate.
While this reporter was still present at the scene, the incubus’ spawn hatched from the dead woman’s womb b
efore violently escaping.
The spawn is the size of a large new born baby, fully capable of running and doing significant damage with its razor-sharp teeth and claws. It is likely the spawn will change as it grows, becoming more human in appearance.
Readers are urged to stay on the lookout for this abomination, and should you see it, please do not approach it if you value your life. Instead, call the DC Hotline and report any information. The number is below this story.
It is also understood that the incubus may have found his victim via a contacts website called Intimate Connections. If you are a woman and a user of this website, or any other contacts website, it is advisable that you don’t meet up with anybody until this monster is caught.
More on this story as details come in.
GOT INFORMATION? CALL THE DC HOTLINE!
555-2368
And there you have it. The truth, as I understood it. Probably not Detective Murtagh’s truth, or the mainstream media’s truth once they got wind of the story, but it was my truth, and people—my faithful DC readers anyway—trusted me to tell the truth, as I understood it of course.
After writing up the story, I sat with Zee in the living room for a while as we drank coffee and watched morning television, most of which was more salacious and tacky than anything I ever wrote, the stuff I did for the Midnight Inquirer not withstanding.
“Do you miss your finger?” I asked Zee.
She turned her head and stared at me. “What do you think?”
“I dunno. In seven years, I’ve never seen you lose a part of yourself like that.”
“No? What about my free spirit then? My joy of life? My will to live? My soul? What about those things, hmm?”
I turned back to the TV, knowing she wasn’t being serious, but said anyway, “Don’t make out that I stifle you. You do what you want. We don’t have that kind of relationship.”
“I know, thank god,” she said. “I hate how you humans drag each other down.”