The Haunting Lessons: 1, 2, 3, 4, I Declare a Demon War (The Ghosts & Demons Series)

by Robert Chazz Chute

  The monster knocked Vlad to my right before my bodyguard could swing his weapon again. It pulled back its double-headed battle ax. If not for the small space, I might have been killed. The ax blade bit deep into the wood of a low hanging rafter and held fast there a moment.

  The demon roared, planted its feet wide and pulled its weapon free. It was too late to run. I dove forward between the monster’s legs. Holding my short blade with one hand, I thrust the tip straight up, screaming and crying as I sat up, twisting the serrated blade.

  The demon was a boy.

  Then he was not. When a bad guy gets his junk cut off, I like to think it gives him pause to reevaluate his life choices.

  Lesson 59: A demon’s scream sounds like fingernails on chalkboard combined with a wolf howl. No matter what dimension you’re from, the principle of pain is universal. No realm we know of escapes pain.

  29

  Vlad lunged and thrust the tip of his sword under the creature’s armpit and into its chest, searching for the heart (if the monster had a heart where humans keep theirs, anyway). But it was Manhattan’s blade that made the decisive cut. She jumped on the demon’s back, yanked its head back by its horns and sliced his throat open.

  Black blood showered me like hot rain. Spitting, I crawled out of the way just in time, before I could be crushed under the thing’s weight. The demon sank to his knees and tumbled backward.

  Vlad bent to hold my hair out of the way as I threw up. I continued to vomit until there was nothing more left to give. It was the second time I’d puked that night. At least this time I didn’t splash anything inside a dead woman’s casket.

  “Rory,” Vlad said. “Please relay to St. Charles that we need a cleanup crew now.”

  The ghost nodded. “The monks are already on their way.”

  I stayed on my hands and knees, panting. “Cleanup?”

  “When the police find Brooks,” Vlad said, “there will be no trace of us or the supernatural. The PTB pays a lot of attention to murder scenes, but they won’t find a giant demon when they investigate.”

  “The cleaners are very good, indeed,” Rory said. “They are among the most secretive of the Choir’s sects. If humans knew their magic spells for making dead bodies disappear, the world would be a much more dangerous place than it already is.”

  When I was ready, Vlad helped me to my feet.

  “You fared well, Iowa,” Rory said.

  “I don’t think it went so well,” Manhattan said. She was on her knees, staring at Bronx’s head and crying.

  Bronx had been a handsome young man and now, with one stroke of incredible violence, he was gone.

  I didn’t think of Brad then. That might have been the first moment since his death that Brad was far from my thoughts. I thought a lot about my beautiful farm boy boyfriend afterward, though.

  It seemed to me Bronx’s death was an easier end. He didn’t have time to contemplate what might come next. If he felt anything, it must have been surprise more than pain. Brad had to kick down his door, take a pencil in his mouth and try to make phone calls while his blood spilled everywhere. Bronx died a warrior. Brad died a victim. It might have been that moment that I decided to join the Choir Invisible. I vowed then to embrace the edict that I leave something behind that would last. Something good.

  Or, in truth, maybe I decided to join when I realized it was in my self-interest to join the war against the demons.

  “This was no happenstance,” Rory said. “They killed the girl’s father and now they hoped to kill her.”

  “Me?”

  “You,” Vlad said.

  “Why?”

  “Strategy,” Manhattan said, never taking her eyes off Bronx’s head. “By making it personal, they hope to bring down our morale and weaken our mission. If the Choir knows it’s personal, we might even lose some singers.”

  “Ra sent a battle demon in full armor,” Rory said. “They don’t usually make it through the barrier. The last time was Peter Smythe’s killer. And this demon hooked up with the serial killer. It wouldn’t surprise me if Dr. Brooks murdered Ada Adams somehow, poison maybe. He was a doctor. He’d know how. Then they chose the funeral home carefully — ”

  “Hold on,” I said, “…you’re saying demons and humans worked together to kill me?”

  “This was a trap,” Vlad said. “When Rory couldn’t identify the other person with Brooks, we suspected this might be the case.”

  I whirled on Vlad. “You suspected but you still brought me down here?”

  “Either, or,” Vlad said, “what would we have done differently?”

  I stared. “You said you were my bodyguard. The cautious thing to do would be to keep me out of it. If your enemy wants you to do something, don’t do it!”

  Manhattan stood. “We’re the Choir, White Bread. We don’t do cautious. We slay evil. You wanna be safe? Slay evil. Or go back to Iowa and wait for the demons to find you there.”

  That’s when it occurred to me that maybe the demons already had found me in Iowa. Maybe Brad’s death wasn’t a stupid accident. Maybe it was a stupid murder. If I wasn’t Peter Smythe’s daughter, a legacy candidate, Brad might still be alive.

  I cried. I cried until dawn crept over New York City. As the dark receded and the grays and shadows pulled back to be replaced with color, I swore I’d stop crying and start doing.

  That’s Lesson 60. Stop crying and start doing.

  Before I shut my door on the world, five things happened in this order:

  A. Vlad handed me his pistol.

  B. Rory promised to stand watch over me, waiting in case any more powerful emanations started coming my way.

  C. Manhattan moved in with me that day. They’d be more likely to come for me outside the walls of the Choir’s fortress and it was time we set our own traps.

  D. Victor gave me a cane and showed me the spring that released its sheath from the blade.

  E. Before he left, Victor looked at my shaking hands and asked if I was going to be okay. I was shaking and part of that was fear. Rage, however, ran far deeper and burned in the marrow of my bones. I looked Victor in the eyes and replied through gritted teeth, “I sing.”

  30

  When Manhattan moved into my little apartment, all she had was a backpack. However, Victor sent gifts with her. The same truck that brought Manhattan also carried four young men. They brought five heavy, antique steamer trunks up the stairs.

  The guys were all dressed in jeans and t-shirts and thick jackets. I could tell they were all part of the Choir Invisible. They were quiet and efficient. None of them flirted with Manhattan and they didn’t hang around looking for a tip.

  Those were clues, but it was their eyes that told me they were warriors. They all carried themselves with a subtle swagger, like cowboys with six guns strapped to their thighs. I didn’t see any guns, but I assumed they were carrying. It was still unseasonably warm and I guessed those long, heavy jackets concealed weapons.

  I’d seen their look before, in fighters’ eyes at competitions. When I was in Mr. Chang’s Hapkido school I met some fighters who were nervous. They tried to hide it by carrying their shoulders high, trying to look bigger than they really were. Others strode out, looking tough and confident in their abilities without a hint of self-consciousness. Either way, it was their energy I recognized.

  Mr. Chang told me to beware of the humble fighters most. The ones who smiled and looked relaxed with nothing to prove had heads that were clearer. “Empty heads are more dangerous,” he said.

  By the time the movers left, Manhattan was already in the little kitchen setting up an espresso machine. “Nice little place, you’ve got here,” she said. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “You’re looking at my entire empire, wall to wall.”

  “Even so, how can you afford this place, Iowa?”

  I noticed she called me by my Choir name now, but I said nothing of it. “The short version is I beat a guy near to death, threatened to sue and collecte
d a settlement.”

  “Ah. The old-fashioned American way to make money.”

  “Well, I — ”

  “No, that’s good. Keep it to the short version.”

  “How long have you been in the Choir, Manhattan?”

  “You may as well call me Manny, if you like. Fewer syllables.”

  “Okay. What a timesaver. Same question.”

  “I’ve served the Choir for five years.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “They found me. I’d just turned fourteen the day my mother died. I was nineteen when Victor recruited me. This is a nice little vacation. I haven’t lived outside the Keep since I joined up.”

  “Most of those boys…maybe most of the Choir…”

  “Yeah, yeah. What?”

  “They…our little army is not tested in battle are they?”

  She frowned as she looked up from reading the instructions to the espresso machine. “Hey, dude, I just want to figure out how to make a latte, okay? Let’s not make it too heavy between us on the first day.”

  “Manny? If we’re going to live together and get through this, maybe you should climb down off my ass and answer my questions. I’ll irritate you less in the long run if I’m up to speed.”

  What she gave me wasn’t a smile, exactly, but she didn’t roll her eyes or flip me off, either.

  “You’re right,” she said, finally. “Here’s the deal. Anyone in the Choir can see ghosts, but they haven’t all fought yet. The demons don’t come through in numbers. If they did, everybody would know about Armageddon. It would be here. Mr. Fuentes chooses well most of the time, though, so don’t judge those guys just because they were on delivery duty. They’re just…untested, as you put it. Just like you.”

  “Not like me,” I said. “I castrated a monster this morning, remember?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for the assist. Next time, go for the killing blow. Then it will count.” She opened the old refrigerator. “You got cream?”

  “Yeah. I keep it at the bodega down the street.”

  She looked around. “You need a few homey touches, farm girl.” She pulled out her phone. “St. Charles? We’ve got some needs. Can you hook me up?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “We’re gonna need two beds, sheets and pillows. Send up something with a high thread count. I’m on vacation. Work on that now and I’ll text you a list of groceries.” She handed me the phone. “Make a list. You like soup? All I know how to make is vegetable soup. I presume all you eat is potatoes.”

  “That’s Idaho,” I said, “not Iowa.”

  I wasn’t sure, but before she turned back to fiddling with her espresso machine, she might have let a half-smile slip out.

  “Hey, girl. Christmas came early this year.” She pointed to the steamer trunks. “Let’s see what Mr. Fuentes sent us.”

  It seemed at first that all the first trunk contained was packing material. We had to dig through bubble wrap and styrofoam peanuts before we got to the trunk’s contents. It was an orange lamp. It wasn’t plugged in — there was no cord, in fact — but it was already glowing.

  “I know what this is!” I said. “It’s a salt lamp. It’s supposed to kick out negative ions or positive ions. I forget which. It’s supposed to be healthy.”

  “Nice try, rookie.” Manhattan reached in and took one side of the lamp and motioned for me to help her.

  I was surprised by its weight. “My god! Is it made of lead?” Between the two of us, we could hardly budge it.

  “Lift with your legs or die,” Manhattan said. When we lowered the lamp carefully to the floor, it sounded like we’d dropped a bowling ball.

  As I stood, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Manny caught it, too and we were both ready for action. She pulled her gun from the holster in her waistband in one fluid motion.

  I went into cat stance, ready to fight. Mr. Chang would have been proud. Manny laughed at me.

  Before us in a recessed alcove, an old woman in a long dress walked back and forth. The apparition wore a hairnet. She was short and stout and waddled rather than walked. I had to squint to see her. She was almost transparent, but not quite.

  Manhattan lowered her weapon. “Is that a smock or a frock? I always forget which is which, but I could rock a frock.”

  “What?”

  “Relax, Iowa. Does that look like a demon to you?”

  “I’ve only seen one. I don’t know what they all look like.”

  “It’s just a fade. We call them echoes, too. Look at her. She’s barely there at all.”

  “Is she like Rory?”

  “No. Rory’s a ghost. That’s an echo.”

  “An echo of what?”

  “An old lady who used to live here. She’s so faint, she’s more like an after-image, isn’t she? Relax.”

  “The old woman who lived here died just before I moved in.”

  “Nah. When they are that faded, that’s not a ghost. That’s an echo of someone who lived here long before we were born. Look at the way she’s dressed. That’s an echo of old New York. I’ve never seen anyone wear a hairnet outside of a fast food joint, have you?”

  I studied the woman as she walked back and forth. She repeated the same movements, like a loop of damaged black and white film.

  “That,” Manhattan said, “is anguish. See how she touches her face over and over? When humans comfort themselves, they touch their faces a lot. Just like that.”

  “Where’d you pick that up?”

  “Grief counseling. Dead mother at fourteen, remember? Dad insisted I was crazy from grief when I said I could see her in the driver’s seat every time the Volvo was parked in the garage. Every time the garage door came down, there was Mom, killing herself again.”

  “I’m sorry, Manny.”

  She shrugged. “She doesn’t do it anymore. After I joined the choir, I went back with a blessed blade and WIC allowed her to move on to the next level.”

  “WIC?”

  “Whoever’s in Charge.”

  “You mean God?”

  “We don’t use that term. It’s…imprecise and causes arguments. The Choir incorporates many religious faiths in the struggle against evil. There’s more harmony among the Choir sections if we’re as non-denominational as possible.”

  “Um…okay. Let’s leave that for now. I’m more concerned the heavy salt lamp that looks like it came from Pier 1 Imports is showing me a grief-stricken woman in my apartment.”

  Manny smiled. “The echo shows the strength of her emotional pain when she was mortal. The emotional pain was so great, she left an energy imprint in that spot.”

  “Does it have to be anguish that leaves a mark?”

  “No. Rory tells me that birthing rooms in hospitals are filled with imprints of joy…mostly.”

  Manhattan began putting the packing material back in the lamp’s steamer trunk.

  “What exactly is the difference between an echo and a ghost?”I asked.

  “Ghosts, you’ve seen. They’re us, but dead and not gone. Echoes are…I dunno. Echoes. There’s no sentience to an echo.”

  I stared at her and quirked an eyebrow.

  She tried again. “Victor says that we all leave skin cells behind. You plant a couch in front of a TV for twenty years, there’s a lot of you in that couch, right? Same with energy. We leave behind energy signatures, like an echo in a cavern, except this one goes on for a long time before it fades out. That chick went on to heaven or wherever a long time ago. The lamp of Tighloon is an amplifier. Her energy is so weak that, without the lamp, not even Rory would have seen her there. Echoes are everywhere.”

  “Rory didn’t see the demon last night,” I said.

  “The thing was cloaked. Some enchantment Ra has been experimenting with. It’s not perfect, but it spells trouble. I want the Darkness Visible to stay visible. Still, it wouldn’t have made a difference if Rory had seen exactly what was coming. No matter where I go, I expect the humans to be packing Howitzers and I anticipate a demon ho
rde pouring out of every bathroom, armed to the fangs. Paranoia works. I don’t care who it is. If a station wagon full of nuns stops and asks for directions, suspect suicide vests and Uzis first.”

  (That’s Lesson 61, kids!)

  “Aside from kind of freaking me out, what does the lamp do?”

  “Early warning system. If the light begins to get brighter, you’ve got demons coming to dinner. Rory’s going to stick close to you. If he’s needed elsewhere, the lamp is a failsafe. You’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re here, so what could possibly go wrong except I might get beheaded like Bronx?”

  We watched the echo of a woman long dead walk back and forth. After a while, Manhattan dug a canteen out of her gear and splashed what looked like water on the floor where the woman walked.

  In a blink, the echo was gone and the lamp of Tighloon faded to a low ebb, no brighter than a dim nightlight.

  “What is that stuff?” I asked.

  Manhattan poured some liquid out of the canteen into the palm of her hand and splashed her face and neck with it.

  “Agh! Holy water! It burns! It burns!” she screamed, then collapsed into giggles.

  31

  When I stopped laughing, I asked Manhattan a serious question. “The lamp didn’t go out. Shouldn’t the lamp go out? Why didn’t the lamp go out?”

  “Dude! Evil’s never that far away. I’ve never seen a lamp of Tighloon go out completely. It’s not just for demons. It detects really bad humans, too.”

  “Well. There’s one to grow on. The WIC thing…we don’t have to talk God — ”

  “I’d rather not,” she said.

  “Okay, but where do you think we go when we die? Do you believe in heaven? Or hell, or, at least…I dunno…having a rest?”

  Manhattan shrugged. “I believe in next. Dead or alive, there’s a next, I think. I don’t know what it will be. Victor says we travel the multiverse in all its infinite possibilities. You might become a silkworm on a planet run by reptiles who only allow Ironman versus Godzilla movies.”

  “If it’s run by reptiles, Godzilla would always win.”

  “Well,” Manhattan fluttered her hands, “random!”