by Ryan Attard
But few things I had seen ever came close to this.
From one end to the other, right in the middle of the open street, dead animals were stapled to the wall, blood oozing out like giant downward brushstrokes. There were dozens — hundreds — of them: cats and dogs of all shapes and sizes, lizards and snakes, an entire aviary’s worth of birds; heck, I even spotted a turtle in there.
And painted in blood at the very top of the grotesquery, like a title, were the words YOU’RE NEXT, WIZARD.
The whole scene filled my field of vision and I stood staring at it with horror and awe from across the street, where a small crowd was being shooed away by the cops.
“Erik,” came Roland’s voice. I saw him appear in between a pair of uniformed officers who were controlling the crowd. “Glad you could make it.” He frowned. “Who’s that?”
I looked to my side and caught Amaymon’s eye.
Usually I don’t like bringing a demon with me when I have to deal with humans. He tended to creep out regular vanilla people — humans are naturally wired to identify and fear predators, and a demon like Amaymon quickly set off our instinctual alarms.
But Roland did ask me to bring a witness, and now I knew why.
“Detective March,” I introduced, “meet Ama- Amadeus.”
Amaymon cocked his head at me, while Roland gave Amaymon the once over. I could see him trying to figure out what was wrong with the stocky teen he was looking at, as if what his eyes were telling him was different than what he was feeling in his gut.
And a good cop always trusts his gut.
“He’s a goth,” I quickly added. “You know kids these days.”
Roland seemed to buy that. “And you were with Erik this whole time, Mr. Amadeus?”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Detective,” Amaymon replied with usual smirk. He smiled at me — which immediately made me feel very uncomfortable — and draped an arm around my shoulders. “We were together all day, if you catch my drift.”
Roland’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, um… good for you, Erik,” he said.
I shoved Amaymon away. “He’s joking, Roland,” I said. “I’m not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I’m not gay.”
“But he said-”
“He’s a dick,” I said, as Amaymon snickered. “He’s a great help in some of my cases, but that doesn’t make him any less of a dick.”
“I love you too, honey,” Amaymon said.
“Shut up.”
Roland turned to Amaymon. “So you’re a PI, too?”
The demon shrugged and nodded.
“Good,” Roland continued. “Because this is a major clusterfuck.” He motioned for us to get closer towards the wall.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of the sign — I was the only known wizard in this town, the only one with enough balls to let people know that terrible shit went down in the dark and I was there to take care of it. Not that anyone ever thanked me for it, but at least they stopped throwing crap at my front porch.
I could feel people’s eyes on me, including the cops, and struggled to concentrate.
“Who did this?” I asked.
“If we knew that we’d be having a different conversation,” Roland said. “But I can read the word wizard and I know only one guy who fits the bill.”
“Harry Potter?”
“Quit joking, Erik,” Roland warned. He glanced behind him. “Look, no one’s happy you’re here, and a lot of these guys were ready to slap handcuffs on you the moment we got the call about this.”
“But why would I say I’m next?” I asked. “Why would I threaten myself? It makes no sense.”
“I know that, and you know that,” Roland said, “and every single cop on the force knows that. But you’re not the most popular guy around here and this…” He waved at the wall. “This is the stuff of nightmares.”
I sighed. “Okay,” I said. “First off, thank you for having my back.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” he interjected.
“Second,” I continued. “Do you guys have any leads? Are there any CCTV cameras around this place?”
“There’s one on the other end of the street,” Roland said, pointing to the right. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath. The angle’s bad and no one saw anything. It was as if this thing just appeared.”
“And the animals?” I asked. “Where did they come from?”
The detective shrugged. “Lost pets, mostly. We got a couple of calls about stolen animals — snakes, turtles, more than a few cats — but this took precedence. Guess we don’t need to investigate the missing pets anymore,” he said grimly.
I took another long look at the wall of dead animals.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “I may have to run to the office and get a few supplies.”
“I can keep the PD off your ass for a day or two, but I’m gonna need answers quick,” Roland said. He looked past me. “Hey, where’s your friend at?”
I snapped my head back, suddenly aware that Amaymon had disappeared.
I knew it was too quiet, I thought.
I scanned the area and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little black tail disappear around the corner. My magical senses also told me that Amaymon was roughly in that location and I let out a small sigh.
I was this close to losing a demon in the middle of a crime scene.
“I think he went round to ask a few questions,” I told Roland. “He won’t bother anyone, I swear.”
Roland waved his hand and began walking away. “Get to work, Erik,” he spat before disappearing.
I waited for him to get some distance between us before I bolted after Amaymon. Sure enough, I found him just around the corner in his cat form, staring at an empty street.
“Where the hell did you go?” I asked.
“I found a lead,” he calmly said.
“What lead?” I looked around but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “And don’t go transforming where people can see you.”
Amaymon flicked his tail, usually a sign of impatience. “Look ahead, Erik. What do you see?”
“All I see is a wizard talking to a cat,” I remarked. “Which sadly is the least weird thing about my life.”
He hissed. “Look beyond that.”
I closed my eyes and focused my magic. When I opened them I could see the natural layer of magic and energy overlaying our reality, like little shadows in the corner of your eye.
And that’s when I saw the ghost of a young boy sitting by the wall and crying into his knees.
“That’s our lead,” Amaymon said.
“How?”
“Dunno. Let’s go ask him.”
Amaymon padded towards the ghost, who stopped sobbing and reached out to pet the cat.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Are you okay?”
Dumb question, I know, but what the hell are you supposed to say to a crying ghost?
The kid looked up. “Can you see me, mister?”
“Yeah,” I said, squatting down. “My name’s Erik and I’m a wizard. That’s how I can see you. And that right there is my cat, Amaymon.”
“This kitty is weird,” the kid said.
“I’ve heard worse,” Amaymon said.
The kid snatched his hand back and looked at me. “Your cat just talked, mister.”
“I know,” I said. “The problem is he won’t shut up.”
The ghost child looked at Amaymon again. He gingerly reached out to pet him again and smiled.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“Arnold,” he replied.
“Nice to meet you, Arnold,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
I’m not good with kids. I know why: it’s because I can’t go down to their level. Baby talk actively nauseates me and I tend to interact with children the same way I do with adults.
Not the healthiest of views, but then again, I wasn’t planning on being a father anytime soon, so who cares?
Arnold gave me a blank look, whi
ch was no easy feat for a ghost.
Then he burst out crying.
“He made me,” he said in between sobs. “The bad man made me do it.”
“Made you do what, Arnold?” I pressed.
“He made me hurt all those animals,” Arnold said. “I love animals, they are so cute and fluffy. But he made me.”
“Who’s he?”
Arnold’s eyes widened in horror. “The man who lives in my house.”
I cocked my head. “Arnold, you’re a ghost.”
“I know that, silly,” he said. “I’m not stupid. But I used to have a house and now the bad man lives in it.”
It was my turn to stare blankly at the kid as I tried to digest this new information.
“Arnold,” I began. “What’s your last name?”
“Bentley,” he said. “We used to live on the other-”
“On the other side of town,” I finished as I stood up and sighed.
Amaymon looked at me. “What is it? Do you know the place?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know the place. Everyone knows the place. It’s the Bentley Murder house.” I looked at Arnold who had gone back to sobbing into his knees. “And I think we just found one of its victims.”
Chapter 3
The Bentley house was on the other side of town, just far enough so that everyone would have an excuse not to build anything next to it. It was once a modest mansion which could house around twenty people.
Now, decades after the infamous murder, the house was abandoned, a shadow of its former self. Windows and doors were torn open, the walls were deeply cracked, and there was not a single inch of drywall that wasn’t molded or covered with signs of infestation.
The Bentley Murder was one of the world’s greatest cold cases, although no one mentioned it anymore. Almost fifty years ago, a super rich family lived there. Sure, they had relatively nothing compared to our Trumps and Kardashians, but they were still rich enough to afford some nice stuff and a big house — which was impressive for those days.
Then, one fine October evening, a maid went berserk. There were many suppositions as to why she had gone crazy: a history of mental illness, reports of Mr. Bentley bumping uglies with her, the staff not being paid enough.
What we do know is that this maid went ape-shit with a pair of garden shears and one of those old carving knives that can easily double as a fencing sword. In one night, she proceeded to hack up everyone in the house, before taking a dive off the roof. They found what remained of her body dangling on the spiked metal fence.
The cops never found out why she did it but if I were to chime in with my two cents, I’d say the moral of the story is: pay your maids and keep it in your pants.
It was later that day when Amaymon and I walked up to the Bentley house, accompanied by none other than Arnold the ghost boy. He wordlessly led us through the front door of the house and into the foyer.
The floor was cracked and unstable, with giant holes strewn about for good measure. The walls were just a series of cracks. A wide staircase loomed at the far end. As I walked through I stirred up a cloud of air and dust so thick I was momentarily blinded. Graffiti canvassed random parts of the house and the floor was littered with empty spray paint cans, soda bottles and cigarette butts.
“Charming,” I muttered.
Amaymon crunched a piece of glass under his boot. He grunted and kicked the shards away. I could feel him about to say something when I heard Arnold belt out a scream.
Amaymon and I ran towards the sound, through a corridor and past the staircase until we came up to a living room.
Which had now been turned into a horror scene.
Everywhere in sight were dead bodies, whole or in pieces, some burnt beyond recognition. The corpses looked anywhere between decades to a few seconds old, which would have raised all sorts of questions, were it not for the sheer shock of seeing a small pile of dead people only a few feet away from me.
“What the actual fuck?” I heard myself say.
Amaymon was standing next to me but he was less affected by the death and horror. To a demon this stuff was second nature. I saw his eyes scan the room and I followed his gaze.
Blood covered the walls. I recognized symbols and sigils from various spells drawn all over. One of them in particular caught my eye and I struggled to place it.
“Necromancy,” I said, finally remembering where I’d seen it before. I turned to Amaymon. “This is a Necromancy spell.”
“Yep,” he replied. “And a pretty strong one at that.”
“Question is, what is it for?”
“Mommy.”
I snapped my head towards Arnold, who was floating above one of the dead bodies that looked like it had been there for decades. He reached downward and his hand passed through the body’s skull.
“Mommy,” he cried again.
“Erik,” Amaymon said. “Something’s off.”
I reached behind my coat and wrapped my fingers around the hilt of Djinn, my magic short sword. I drew out the weapon and held it by my side.
“I know, I feel it too.” I craned my head towards Arnold. “Hey, kid. Get back here.”
Arnold looked at me and sniffed. “My mommy. I found my mommy.”
Magic flared all over the room and I felt my ears pop. The symbols around the room came to life, blood oozing out of the etchings.
A scream erupted while the pile of bodies rose and fell, as if there was something underneath slithering upwards. Arnold’s mother exploded into chunks as a second ghost — this one more solid — burst through and swiped at the kid with a pair of sharp claws.
I lunged forwards, Djinn glowing blue with magic, and intercepted the strike. At the same time, Amaymon stomped the ground and a spike of rock jutted out. But whatever this ghost was, it was smart enough to avoid Amaymon’s earth elemental attack and disappear.
“What the hell?” I began when I felt something grab my leg.
One of the corpses came to life — an honest-to-god zombie — and was using my leg as a crutch to reach towards me. I swiped my sword at him, shearing his arm off, and stabbed the zombie in the head.
Moaning filled the room as one by one, some of the corpses rose to life, swaying drunkenly from side to side.
Rock spikes shot beneath them, impaling the zombies, but they kept on moving.
“Tough little fuckers,” Amaymon remarked. He nonchalantly grabbed one zombie by the head and crushed it to the size of a tangerine. “Guess we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”
I swung again, lopping off another zombie’s head, but there was no end to them. From the other end of the hall I heard Arnold scream again. He was running — or in his case, floating — away from the angry monster ghost, which was chasing him with a lot of snarling and claw-raking.
I charged magic into Djinn and let loose a streak of azure energy that blasted at the monster ghost. It tumbled into a wall and disappeared into it.
“Thank you, mister,” Arnold said.
“Get over here,” I yelled, as I kicked away a zombie. “Stay close.”
“Yes, mister.”
The ghost boy began floating towards me, when suddenly the monster ghost popped out from beneath the ground and smashed into him. The two ghosts were sent tumbling through the air all the way into the foyer and I ran after them, swapping my weapons as I did.
I extracted my gun, a modified flintlock gun with a semi-automatic mechanism, and aimed the weapon at the monster ghost. A blast of lead and magic burned through the ghost, causing it to shriek and release Arnold from its grip.
The kid came running behind me as I fired again and again into that damn ghost monster that finally, after the fifth bullet, disappeared into a cloud of dust and ash.
“What the hell was that thing?”
The answer smacked me in the face — literally — as two monster ghosts emerged.
“Erik!” I heard Amaymon yell. “They’re Geists, not ghosts.”
I shook my head
and began blasting off. One of them lunged at me while the other attacked their real target: Arnold. I rolled into the Geist, firing a shot into its gut and snapped my gun towards the second Geist, releasing Arnold from its grip.
At the same time, I felt a knife of cold plunge into my back as the first Geist stuck its meat-hook-like claws in my back. I felt its weight on me and it took all of my strength to work my gun towards its head and fire. The gun went off, giving me a few seconds of reprieve, and then clicked empty. The otherworldly coldness returned and I felt ever closer to actual death.
This is gonna hurt, I thought.
I focused my magic into my body and felt a different kind of agony — unnatural, yet familiar, as if reopening an old wound.
My family curse trapped all of my magic inside my body, meaning that, while I had regenerative powers that would put Wolverine to shame, I could not fire off spells like regular wizards, and instead had to rely on my channels.
But it was either this or death by Geist — and call me crazy but dying was not on my checklist for the day.
My vast magical powers, raw and untamed, flared from my body. Even through the crippling pain, I felt the Geist release me and run away, but the blast got him. I sucked in a deep breath, forcing my body to work, and deftly swapped magazine clips for the gun.
The second Geist was already on me when I thrust the barrel of the gun into his ugly head and fired off round after round, each time digging the barrel deeper and deeper inside his ectoplasmic body.
I took out my gun, switched hands and unsheathed Djinn once again. The blue blade glowed as I jumped and brought it smashing down on the first Geist, which was still lying prone on the ground.
Both Geists disappeared into a puff of smoke.
“Erik, one,” I muttered through the pain. “Ugly-ass ghosts, zero.”
“Mister, look out.”
The ground rumbled as the Necromantic spell took effect again, and to my horror I saw five Geists emerge, rising from the spot where their ugly cousins had disappeared.