Urban Occult

by Various

  Muted sobs were the only reply. It was a sound that brought forth an instinctual primitive urge deep in his gut; that of a woman suffering. He tilted his head trying to locate the center of the sound and wondered if it was truly safe for him the leave the circle; knowing from painful experience that monsters will always try to use his heart against him. Heller couldn’t help but reflectively pull his leather gloves tighter around his wounded hands. The flesh on his hands would never scar or heal. The burns from the infernal flames never completely consume its target by design. That way it could last forever; or until he finally died.

  “If you will talk to me, I promise to try to help you.” Heller stretched his back a bit. His body was getting too old, too quickly. How could he have gotten so tired so early in his life? “I’m a detective. I help people. I used to work for the police.”

  He waited for several seconds for an answer and just when he was about to give up a voice croaked. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Where are you?” He stood and tried to locate the source. “Can you show yourself?”

  This time her voice was a little louder, bolstered by pain. “It’s cold.”

  Heller tilted his head, scratched his beard unconsciously, and followed the sobs down the stairs to a lowered concrete basement level filled with old crates, boxes, and a bright-white washing machine. “Are you here?”

  Crates rattled against the concrete. He pulled them apart to see a pale, delicate hand reach through the ground. A shimmering light he could see only out of the corner of his eye flashed. The ghost didn’t seem to have the ability to fully manifest, which wasn’t always a good sign. Spirits tended to manifest their powers during a time of duress and reminding a spirit of why she died always was a risky venture. “Is that you? How can I help you?” The weeping returned, drawing forth a primal feeling in his chest. He hated to hear a woman cry. “Can you communicate with me?”

  “Can’t breathe.” The voice was so low that he had to strain to hear it. “No matter how hard I try.”

  “I don’t know rightly how to say this.” Heller scratched his beard. He had given all manner of bad news to clients, but nothing like this. “You died. Not sure how long ago. At least more than five years ago.”

  The temperature of the air dropped so quickly that his eyes hurt from the exposure. It was silent as the grave. He was too afraid to speak, least he rile her anger. The detective tried not to move, hoping that the spirit might simply leave, until she spoke suddenly with hushed tones with an unnerving closeness as though she was lover pulling him close for a kiss. “I remember. Fingers across my throat. Hot breath that smelled of onions and tobacco. And then a cold knife in my belly. I was with child.” She sobbed once more. Somehow she was no longer just a spirit to him. Light shimmered at the corners of his vision, just out of sight, difficult to focus upon. “Why? I sinned, but I was a good woman. Why did I desire to die? Where is heaven?”

  “I don’t have answers for you, but maybe I can help you.” He tried to keep track of the light without making at sudden movements that might frighten it away. “Can you appear to me? I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk.”

  A form of shimmering bright light that straddled the distance between woman and girl appeared to him. She wore a tattered black and white dress; servants’ attire, stained with blood. He tried to guess the decade of the fashion, but shook his head. She touched her stomach, gingerly exploring the wound that had killed her. When she spoke, it was a voice uncomfortable with English with an unusual accent. Maybe eastern European? “Why?”

  “The important question is who?”

  She shook her head and then opened her mouth as though to speak. The spirit paused, confused; lost in a maze of broken memories and sorrow. “I never saw him. He attacked from behind.”

  “What was the first thing you remember?” He no longer cared about the case or even paying rent. She was simply another soul lost in pain and he needed to help her. He reached over to touch her; to let her know that though the world was broken, there was someone that cared. Her form shimmered for a moment; it felt like touching cold mercury. He flinched and withdrew his hand. “Sorry.”

  “How did you do that?” She blinked innocently as though she was waking from a deep slumber. “I thought none could touch me here in the darkness?”

  He wondered what it might be like for her. Was the world mere shadow to her? Heller looked at his gloved hands. Was that the key here? Any good cop knows that the key to getting through to a witness is to empathize and to show the witness that they have something in common. “I was hurt around a year ago. There was a boy burning. A demon was trapped inside of his body and tried to burn his way out.” He rarely talked about that day. It was a dark cross between failure and traumatic tragedy. “I didn’t know what to do to help him. I didn’t believe. I tried to stamp out the fire.”

  She nodded. “Did it hurt?”

  Heller slipped off the gloves; one by one. Underneath, he wore lubricated thin plastic medical gloves. The scars were fresh and even, though the wound had occurred more than a year ago. “Infernal fires leave wounds that never heal; otherwise the flames of Hell would consume. Sometimes they itch. Like the fire is still there slowly burning them. The muscles twitch and it’s like the weight of the world is crushing them.”

  She touched the burned flesh. A wash of relief spread from the tips of his fingers to his knuckles and then finally all the way to his wrists. “The dead feel nothing of the flesh; strange that I should envy you.”

  It was the first time in nearly a year that the pain had died. It was a distant tremor, but still fresh in his mind. “Do you remember your name?”

  “Marya.” The fog disappeared in her white eyes. It was though the act of remembering was bringing her closer to life. “Momma called me Masha. We came to America for a new life.” She cupped her belly and leaned back as though to present it to Heller. “Would I have made a good Momma? Is my baby in heaven?”

  “You loved that baby,” Heller observed. “That alone convinces me that you would have been a great mother.”

  “Did she go to heaven?” Marya asked.

  “I can’t believe in a universe where babies don’t go to heaven.”

  The spirit nodded, a little unsure of the answer, but willing to take any sort of assurance. “Why am I still here? Surely, I’ve paid for my sins in Purgatory.”

  “What sins?”

  Marya patted her belly. If she were alive, her stomach would have just started to show the baby-bump. “I knew he was married. I tried to resist, but I needed the job. The house paid too much to give up.”

  “It was the family that lived here, wasn’t it?” Heller asked, putting two and two together. “You got pregnant and he couldn’t let it happen.”

  “Mr. Hobart wouldn’t let that happen.” The crates rattled once more. Pipes creaked from the pressure until they burst spraying the entire basement with arctic blasts of foul copper-colored water. Trembling pain returned to his hands. “He said he loved me.”

  He watched her melt into the concrete disappearing into the shadows, dark water, and the old rusted drain. Heller whispered his reply to the empty room. “They always do.”

  Jacob Heller waited on the front stoop until dawn, sipping coffee until the client returned. He had listened to Marya’s story three times before the spirit had hit the limitations of the wall of memory, and couldn’t bear to hear it once more.

  A spirit had a very limited ability to remember events that occurred after death. He imagined it was a little like being a goldfish. Each time Marya tried to recall the details of the murder, she relived every detail of the entire experience; fat fingers grapping around her throat, the flash of cold steel against the small of her back, and the agony of waiting to die along in the dark. Worse, the experience became her entire universe. She had never stepped into the sun, laughed with friends, or experienced joy. Once she remembered the murder, she had always been stabbed.

  Heller watched the client eager
ly rub his thick sausage-finger hands together and snort with delight. “Did you find it, Mr. Heller? Is my house haunted?”

  The detective resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Weston. There is a spirit trapped in your basement. I spoke with her. Her name is Marya.”

  Weston pulled off his rectangular glasses; his eyes were wide with excitement. “Do you have proof? Are you willing to provide a certificate of authentication?”

  “I don’t do certificates. Most of my job is in the shadows and it’s best to keep it that way.” He figured out a possible way to maybe make everyone happy and provide a bit of peace for a lost soul. “That said, I can prove that there was a murder at least sixty years ago.”

  “A murder? Even better! That’ll make an awesome story! We might even be able to use in the new game we’re designing.” Weston nattered for a few minutes and Heller did his best to tune him out. The client wasn’t a bad guy, just lucky enough that he didn’t understand the universe when others weren’t so blessed. How could he understand the spirit’s suffering? Eventually, the client stopped and asked an important question. “How can you prove it after such a long time?”

  “I think she’s trapped in the basement. More specifically, I think her body is buried in the concrete anchoring her here. I think if you excavate under the floor near the drain, you’ll find her.” Heller let that sink into the client’s mind a bit before continuing. “Imagine the story you would be able to tell you friends then?”

  “And you’re sure that there’s something there? That could be very expensive for just a hunch,” Weston grumbled. “What if there’s nothing there and I get stuck with the bill?”

  “I know a couple of guys that are discreet and quick. And, they’re a lot cheaper than you’d expect,” Heller said, hoping the client wouldn’t ask too many questions about what his guys did for a living. “I’ll bet my bonus you’ll find plenty evidence of a murder!”

  The client shrugged his shoulders. “Alright, you just did. If I don’t find a body or something that proves this story, then you’re out of luck.”

  Later that afternoon, Heller watched as a small squadron of workers emptied the basement of crates, collectibles, and unused gym equipment, and then hammered at the concrete with tools of metal. He was quite glad that the crew left their colors and cuts behind. The detective was fairly certain the client would have kittens if he realized that members of the notorious Thanes biker gang were in his basement. Of course, if he knew, he’d be a lot less dismissive and rude to them.

  The foreman, a large man covered with tattoos, proudly ran his massive fingers through his wicked pompadour and laughed. “Thanks for throwing the extra cash our way, Heller. This almost clears our debt. Sarah brought an extra vat of the ointment.”

  Heller gladly accepted the plastic container that a normal might thing was a small sandwich box. He was able to breathe a little easier knowing that he had medicine for his hands to last out the summer. “McCreedy, your wife is an angel. I don’t know what kind of deal you made with Hell to score someone like her, but trust me: it was worth it.”

  The biker shrugged his shoulders and popped a stogie in his mouth. “She likes a challenge. And if nothing else, it helps her karma.”

  Heller shook his head. “You can’t smoke in here. The client has asthma.”

  McCreedy laughed and help up his hands. “Fair enough! I wasn’t gonna light it! I just needed to taste it. Besides, this is light work for the pay. We can use the business. Especially anything legit we can put on our tax forms.”

  “He wanted it done right away. And the cold spots freaked out the first crew.” It was amazing how much convenience money could arrange. The noise hurt his ears and he could only watch a couple of minutes at a time. “How much longer is this going to take?”

  A shrill whistle stopped all of the banging. It came from a tall man with long greasy hair and thick arms that had so many tattoos on them that they looked like pages from one of Weston’s framed comic books. “What you’d find, Switowski?”

  The giant laughed and brushed back a bit of white concrete dust and muck with his boot. “Think we found what we’re looking for, Boss.”

  Heller stepped over to the hole and looked at a section of rotted carpet with the edges frayed; fancy carpet, especially for sixty years ago. McCreedy scratched the side of his chin and grunted. The stench of death wafted through the basement. “Son of a bitch! The classics never change.”

  The detective fished around in his front pocket and produced a folded check from his shirt pocket. He handed it over to McCreedy. “From the client. I’m gonna have to call the police now.”

  “He’s not gonna come out and meet us?” McCreedy asked with a grin.

  “I think the vomit from the first crew got to him. Besides, do you really want to meet him?” Heller asked.

  McCreedy guffawed. “Nah, I just like making geeks shit their pants.”

  “I think the spirit has that covered.”

  The detective waited until the Thanes had packed up their gear and then called the police. It took an hour, even with contacts amongst his former colleagues, for the police to arrive. Officers in blue arrived first, investigating the basement, and then later men wrapped in plastic with masks slowly examined and exhumed the remains of Marya, yards of carpet and fiber, and a rusted knife. The carpet and the cement combined effectively to slow the decomposition. Since it was clear even with a cursory examination that the body had been dead for decades, the police were quick with their questions for both Heller and Weston.

  Despite the clear lack of guilt, Weston didn’t take kindly to the questions. The mere thought of problems with authority caused a stammering Heller hadn’t thought possible. When they left, Weston threw down his mug, which shattered upon the hard wood floor, and turned to Heller. “Why did you call the police?”

  The detective didn’t take kindly to anyone yelling at him, especially not someone he was reasonably certain he could step on like a cockroach. That was the trick about money; it provided the weak with the power that nature denied them. “Discovering a body and not reporting it is a felony. If you want a story, you need to be able to tell it without getting arrested.”

  “What happens now then?”

  “The police will run prints on the knife and compare it with any open cold case files and old fingerprint records.” Heller pulled at his gloves unconsciously. “We don’t know how long ago Marya died. Could be that the murderer is already dead.”

  “Will the ghost still haunt the house?” Weston asked.

  “A part of her soul will always be here,” the detective explained. “However, I think we could free her now, if I figure out the right ritual.”

  “I think you’re missing the point, Mr. Heller.” Weston removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. “I don’t want the ghost freed. I simply want it contained. I want to feel safe in its presence.”

  “Her name is Marya.”

  Weston shook his head. “You said it yourself; the soul leaves behind the pain. A spirit is just an echo. Not a real person.”

  “I can’t debate the metaphysics of a spirit. I don’t have a frame of reference. Neither of us can. Not yet anyway.” Heller unconsciously tugged at his gloves. His hands throbbed. “We can’t just let her cry out in pain and not do anything.”

  “We aren’t going to do anything, Mr. Heller. My need for your services is at an end.” Weston pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. Heller opened it and almost choked. “I believe that is three times what we agreed upon. The bonus is for your discretion.”

  “What about Marya?”

  “That is no longer your concern.”

  Jacob Heller resolved three cases in as many weeks. He saved a kidnapped pug allegedly of a royal bloodline with a hidden talent for curing cancer, located an animated corpse missing from the loyal family’s tomb, and stopped a demon flesh-dancing between homeless teenagers. Despite it all, he couldn’t get the wails of pain from Marya from h
is mind and sleep came rarely, if at all.

  By Thursday night, Heller only wanted a couple of drinks at Charlie’s and a quiet cab ride home. He forgot that this was also the night the old detective’s squad met afterhours to unwind in the presence of desperate souls eager to forget what they had seen during the daylight hours. Heller unconsciously pulled on his gloves and wondered if he hadn’t done this on purpose.

  They shouted his name like a familiar friend in some bizarre forgotten sitcom entering a favorite bar. “Heller! Come join us and buy a round with your dangerous pug money!”

  It was a surprise that they greeted him so warmly. There had been a number of strange glances when he had been forced off the force due to his hands after the Kent incident. “How tricks?”

  “Another round!” A man almost as tall as Heller laughed ruefully. He had fair skin whereas Heller’s cheeks were ruddy. His name was Richard Lundgren, but the department called him by nickname, ‘The Swede’. “That god-damned Pozagai shot up a freaking Pit-Stop. And of course, there’s the assache of a streaming case you drop in our lap!”

  Heller accepted the cold mug of foaming beer, but neglected to drink it. “Why the assache? Couldn’t be that difficult to sign-off on it. The murderer can’t still be around.”

  The Swede downed his beer and laughed. “Only you would bring me a case with a living killer we can’t arrest, Heller.”

  The detective did the math in his head and couldn’t come to terms with the numbers. “What? How’s that possible?”

  “We weren’t able to identify the body, but using the name Marya, we discovered that a maid named Marya Vilenkin went missing in 1927.”

  He wasn’t a historian or a fashion consultant, so Heller wasn’t surprised that his estimate was off by a couple of decades. “So how did you figure out who killed him?”