Fade (Paxton Locke Book 1)

by Daniel Humphreys

  It took me a moment to determine how many bodies were in there, because someone — or something — had dismembered them, then scattered the pieces across the floor in crooked angles. A loop of something that looked like intestine hung from one blade of the ceiling fan and they’d stacked three heads, pyramid-fashion, on the mantle. The entire room had been finger-painted in blood and filth. As I looked at the unholy tableau, I couldn’t understand why it didn’t reek more than it did. The tackiness of the blood staining the floor and the time frame of my encounter with Bobby’s shade said this must have occurred several days ago. That still left a huge gap of time since their original disappearance, but the time since the orgy of destruction was evident.

  I didn’t make that guess idly, as this wasn’t my first crime scene. Ray, the serial killer with the house full of ghosts and the basement full of corpses, had kept things as neat as he could, but even dried and desiccated, I saw evidence of insects and other vermin down there. The rotting flesh attracted plenty of creepy crawlies, worming their way inside to feast. As far as how I got into, and out of, Ray the serial killer’s basement, that’s a story best left for another day. Much like all sorts of difficult situations, it would have been far more easily borne with the shotgun I now carried.

  As far as my own home’s lack of critters, the house was tight, but not that tight. I would have expected flies in here if nothing else. It was as though the scene before me was so perfectly evil in its absolute unholiness that nothing living dared venture inside. I certainly felt that way as I hovered on the threshold. The reasoned part of me insisted that I could certainly walk into that room if I needed to, but the gibbering part that still feared the dark on uncertain nights was firmly set on nope.

  As I stepped back from the threshold, a titanic force slammed into my back and drove me into the door jamb. In the shock, I lost the flashlight. It landed in the living room with the light pointing off to one side, in a not-very-helpful direction.

  The weight on my back withdrew. I tried to spin around, but my feet tangled up in each other and I fell. I landed on top of the Mossberg. The impact drove the wind from me.

  Move, move, move!

  I rolled over and scrabbled at the shotgun to try and bring it up. A pair of huge hands grabbed the barrel of the weapon and locked over my shooting hand before I could put my finger on the trigger. A vise-like grip clamped down and I cried out, despite myself, at the sudden agony of the bones in my hand grinding together. Amazingly, the owner of the hands lifted, bringing me up off of the floor so that the tips of my toes dangled over the edge of the carpet. Backlit by the flashlight in the other room, I recognized my attacker as the hulk I’d taken down outside.

  “How the hell did you get out of . . .” I started, but the Tasing must have left him grumpy and in no mood for conversation. He pivoted and slammed me into the wall next to the door jamb. Glass shattered as I slammed into several family photos and I heard the crunch of breaking drywall. I realized, suddenly, that I still had a free hand, but as I reached to pull the Taser from my pocket, he slammed me into the wall again. This time, the back of my head hit a stud with such force that my chin rebounded off of my chest. I saw stars then everything went black.

  Chapter 9

  As good times go, I have to say that getting knocked out was not in any way an enjoyable experience. As I slowly returned to consciousness, the painful throbbing of my head competed with a tugging sensation on each wrist to see who could win the contest of pain. For the moment, the head was leading, but my wrists were beginning to complain more urgently.

  Blinking, I raised my head off of my chest and tried to bring a hand back to rub the knot on my head. When I couldn’t, I glanced to either side and realized why my wrists were hurting.

  An unknown someone had zip-tied my wrists to the natural gas supply pipe that ran along the upper foundation of what I quickly recognized as the basement of my house. The cinder blocks of the wall were cool against my back, but whoever had secured my wrists to the pipe had spread my arms at such a great angle that my feet just scraped the floor. I strained to raise myself up on tiptoe to relieve some of the pressure, if only for a moment. It helped, but my fingers were already starting to tingle with the lack of circulation. I eased back down to a flat-footed stance and winced as the tension returned to my wrists. The color of the zip-ties made me fairly certain that they were the ones I’d brought with me and used outside.

  What goes around comes around, eh? “Asshole,” I muttered. Someone giggled in response.

  I glanced up and realized that I had an audience. Back in the day, dad had finished the opposite half of the basement with linoleum and some built-in shelves. A throw rug and old sofa sat on the flooring, though my audience had reversed the couch to face in my direction rather than at the television.

  I’d spent a lot of time in the basement playing Xbox back in the day, but I assumed that the people who occupied it now weren’t liable to be there for that sort of entertainment. I shook my head, worried that I was seeing double, but I shouldn’t have concerned myself — the guy that I had Tased outside sat on one end of the couch. A twin in a slightly different outfit bookended him on the opposite side. They both glowered at me, but the young lady sitting primly between them nodded in polite greeting.

  She rose to her feet with a broad smile. “Paxton, I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I blinked as recognition and understanding dawned.

  You know, you hear ‘evil’, you think of something dark and Gothy. The last thing I expected was a mash-up of Legally Blonde and Pleasantville in a turtleneck sweater, plaid skirt, and sensible shoes.

  Hey, sue me. I like Reese Witherspoon.

  This, unfortunately, wasn’t Reese. It was Bobby’s sister. A knot formed in my stomach. Unless I missed my guess, her presence here meant that she was a member in good standing of the Professor Locke fan club. Which told me that the scene upstairs was her doing.

  Random murder was one thing — but sacrificing your own family?

  The synchronicity of the situation wasn’t lost on me, either. Was the scene upstairs what Mother had been trying to do with dad and me? A ceremony built around betrayal and death, stopped only by my last, desperate act?

  As she stepped aside, I blinked again as another hulking figure entered the basement. Were the twins triplets? The cutesy blond smirked at the confused expression on my face. “Say hi to Mr. Locke, boys.”

  Two of the three dutifully chorused a hello; the one I’d Tased just glowered and rubbed at his wrists. Cutesy waved a hand. “Meet Uno, Dos, and Trace. He’s the original. Maybe the first two are offensive but I couldn’t resist, considering my boyfriend’s name. And sometimes a girl needs an extra set of hands.”

  The pain in my head was slowing me down, but her words rattled around until I saw the oddness in them. “Wait, what?”

  Cutesy moved toward me, trailed closely by the triplet who’d just come down the stairs — Dos? I entertained a temptation to lever up and plant a kick in her face, but I suspected that endeavor would not end well for me.

  “Oh, Paxton. I’m saddened that you haven’t taken the opportunity to further your studies. I dreamed of what was possible, ever since I read the stories about your Mother. The fact that dear old daddy used to work with her made things even better. You can’t imagine how excited I was when I found out he’d taken some things from her office! Well, I’m getting ahead of myself. The soul is infinite, of course, but intellect is not so . . . durable, shall we say? Pity, really. Trace was so bright before. But I have to say this, splitting him up three ways has made him so much more loyal and malleable.” She reached out and stroked Dos’ cheek. He grunted something. I realized in dawning horror that it was an attempt at speech.

  What’s the average human IQ, 100? Let’s kick him up twenty points, since she said Trace was bright. Divided by three, now we’re down to 40. That’s far below what I’d even call functional levels.

>   “You magically Xeroxed your boyfriend and turned him into a moron?” Dos growled at me and I glanced in his direction. “No offense, man, it’s not your fault. Your girlfriend is nuttier than a squirrel with hoarding issues.” His growl raised in pitch. He stepped forward and slammed a fist the size of a canned ham into my gut. The impact blasted the air from my lungs and I was instantly grateful that I’d already lost my dinner upstairs because otherwise, I’d have spewed it out all over myself. Wheezing, I tried to draw up into a ball to ease the pain in my stomach, but the tension on my wrists was too much. I dropped back down to my tiptoes.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Melanie,” she said as she unbuttoned her sweater, folded it, and handed it to Dos. “But I’ve got someone else I need you to meet.” She was wearing a crisp, white button-down blouse under the sweater. She rolled up her left sleeve to reveal an incongruous, stylish tattoo like barbed wire wrapped around her forearm.

  “Hey, listen, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. If we’re going to start sharing tats, I’m going to need my hands free, sweetheart.”

  She met my gaze and smiled, but the expression didn’t touch her own eyes. Something told me somebody was home, but her crazy train was a few cars short.

  “Now, now,” Melanie whispered, as the tattoo on her arm rippled. The ink flowed, as though still liquid, under the surface of her skin toward her hand. It split into a pair of streams and looped around her wrist, where it began to collect in her palm. She directed the palm toward me and said, in a husky voice, “Meet my newest and dearest friend.”

  The ink on her palm swirled into something that looked not unlike an open eye. A chill went through me as something both more and less than human studied me.

  Hello, dear boy, said the voice. I felt it in my bones more than I heard it with my ears. You’ve grown so much, these past years.

  It was an otherwise ordinary night a few weeks before my sixteenth birthday when I woke to the sound of guttural chanting at the foot of my bed. The image has persisted in my dreams — well, nightmares — in all the years since. Thankfully, the passage of time has blessed me with the dulling of the memory’s intensity. I used to have the nightmare several times a week, but it now only comes upon me every few months.

  With a sudden shock at the sight of the impossibility on Melanie’s palm, I am transported back to that night. Where my mind painted the scene in blurred dreamscapes for as long as I can remember, it’s now rendered in high-definition clarity. It’s more real than the night actually was for me, given that I was still half-asleep when I raised my head from the pillow and peered into the shadows.

  My lack of control over my own body and the hyper-reality of the scene told me that this is a hallucination, a vision, or something worse. Despite the darkness, Mother is visible. She reads easily from the grimoire in the shadows.

  I tried to assure myself that this wasn’t real, which generally works to jerk me out of sleep, but nothing happens this time. I’m stuck here.

  At once the clarity of the scene makes me realize what I missed, all those years ago. My Mother is chanting, yes. But she’s providing no more than half of the dialogue. This is an arcane conversation. Each time Mother pauses to take a breath another voice, like nails on a chalkboard, answers in reply.

  I snapped back into the present and recoiled from Melanie’s grasping hand. The eye swirled on her palm, tracking my movement, and the unheard voice sets my teeth on edge.

  Good, you do remember me, don’t you? I thought I had lost my opportunity until someone finally appeared who could hear me.

  “Edie,” I managed through gritted teeth. “Long time no see, pothead.” All I can remember is the night in my room. I must know more, but memory is elusive despite my best attempts to recall. Failing recall, I figure derisive snark is the best way to go. No need to meekly go into impending death.

  It laughed. I jerked as though the noise had shoved needles of ice into my ears. It certainly felt that way.

  Such a marvelous defense mechanism, your sarcasm. It so vexed your mother. That is not my name though I would know who gave it to you.

  I made myself look up to force eye contact with Melanie. “I got it from what was left of Bobby. That’s your kid brother, right, missy? The one you tore apart upstairs.”

  The look she gave me in return was tranquil and unconcerned. Whatever affection she ever felt for her family — whatever guilt she might feel regarding their fate — is as gone as it would be if burned away. It’s so like Mother that it’s uncanny. But which came first — the chicken or the egg? Do you have to be a sociopath to hear the voice, or does it make you that way?

  It doesn’t matter either way, but at least if some external source has made them this way, they’re worthy of pity.

  Ah, the little one’s shade. It seems he has fulfilled my desires. I consumed the shades of his parents and took just enough of him that he willingly agreed to seek you out at a place and time of our choosing.

  Melanie tittered laughter. “A lady named Shirley Jackson, with a haunted house on a hill? That was incredible in its lack of subtlety. There was some debate as to whether you’d pick up on the joke. I suppose that I win.”

  I didn’t have the fuzziest idea what she’s laughing about but score one for me. It was a set-up all along. I knew it and I still walked into their trap.

  This hasn’t been my best week.

  Melanie opened her mouth to say something else, but a canned version of an insipid pop song interrupted her. She pursed her lips and turned away. I’d missed the small handbag sitting on the couch. Melanie retrieved the phone inside and answered it on the third iteration of the chorus.

  I tried to hold back a hysterical laugh. The evil witch has a Katy Perry ringtone.

  Despite her departure, the brute squad stood and glowered at me, just in case I decided to breathe funny. I wondered if I should try and engage them some in witty banter, but decided that silence was my best bet. They not only looked like big dumb jocks, they actually were big dumb jocks. My stomach still hurt from the last thumping.

  Melanie’s voice hit a rising note across the room. “Oh, awesome! Yes, I have him here right now. He’s just hanging out.” She giggled at her own joke. “Of course!”

  She turned on a heel and resumed her position between the two duplicates. Melanie pressed a button on her phone and held it out to me. “I’ve got you on speaker.”

  “Hello, Paxton, dear.” The voice was scratchy but recognizable. My blood went cold.

  Mother.

  “Hey, there, mom,” I managed. “They give you a little extra phone time?”

  Mother replied with a full-throated laugh. Melanie joined the chorus a beat later. “No, Paxton, I’m afraid that I’m breathing the free air again. Miss Gennaro and her associates have been a great help to me.” Melanie’s cheeks dimpled in pleasure at the compliment. She waved the phone in airy celebration. “A few of her companions made quite the mess at the prison this evening, but they were so helpful to me. I’m wearing clothes fit for a human being, I’m riding in luxury, and I’m headed your way, dear. Why, if they did their job right, I do believe I’ve even got my push back as well. So, you just sit tight for a few hours and I’ll be right along. Toodles!”

  Melanie took the phone off speaker and listened for a moment. She smiled again. “Yes, ma’am, absolutely. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  She hung up the phone and winked at me. “Oh, poor guy. You didn’t think I was a solo artist, did you?” She gave me a mock pout. “It’s sad that my girls and I are the only ones out here for your mother. You’ve not been a good son to her at all, you know.”

  That’s of no concern, the Edie grated. Once Helen arrives she can dispense with him as she sees fit. Until then I’m more interested to know just how much he’s been able to glean.

  “I’m starting to think this is a damn Greek tragedy, that’s what I’m gleaning.” The group in front of me ignored the joke, though Melanie did stretch
her hand out toward me so that the tattoo-eye could scan me up and down.

  As for my name, young one, I am one who has been since your kind was scratching in the dirt for grubs. I am the Edimmu, and . . .

  The floor above my head squeaked as someone stepped onto it. A moment later, the wall vibrated as the front door shut.

  Someone else was in the house.

  Chapter 10

  I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but Melanie snapped her arm forward and clamped it over my mouth. It was her right arm, thankfully. I think I would have screamed like a little girl if she’d grabbed me with the talking eyeball hand. She jerked her head around to look over her shoulder and hissed, “Upstairs, now. Get whoever it is down here. Don’t let them scream or make any phone calls.”

  Despite their brutish carriage, the triplets, when so ordered, were swift and silent. They pivoted as one, birdlike, and shot toward the staircase. The sudden thunder of their feet on the steps was so close together that I didn’t know if it would be recognizable without visual context.

  With my hands in the air, my only recourse was to jerk my head from side to side to try and get out of Melanie’s grasp. I did so, prepared to scream out a warning, but she brought her lips close to my ear and whispered. “Shut up, or I’ll have my boys chase down whoever it is like a dog. We’ll gut them down here in front of you and make pretty designs on the floor with their juices.”

  She made a compelling argument for silence. I shut.

  The commotion upstairs ended as soon as it started. The floor squeaked above as the newest member of the party stepped forward, but heavier footsteps converged on the hallway. The visitor’s surprised cry cut off in mid-yelp. The heavier steps stomped back toward the basement stairs, albeit much slower.

  I’d been expecting Mike Hatcher until the truncated cry, which had sounded feminine. To my surprise, as one of the triplets led the way back into the basement — Uno, I think — the other two carried in a squirming young woman. She was a short-haired blonde in faded jeans, a Breaking Benjamin concert shirt, and a brown leather jacket. One of the triplets had his hand clamped over her mouth, but I could still see her look of confusion as she saw Melanie and me from across the room.