Paranormal Nonsense

by steve higgs

  There was a pause at the other end of the phone and the small sound of someone breathing before their voice came onto the line. ‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice, soft, perhaps pensionable age.

  ‘Hello. This is Tempest Michaels of the Blue Moon Investigation Agency. How may I be of assistance?

  ‘I really don’t know if you can help.’ The voice was wavering and unsteady as if frightened or unsure of itself.

  I moved to the kitchen counter and grabbed up a pen and paper in case I need to take notes.

  ‘Can I ask your name?’ I enquired, wanting to make a connection. I kept my voice soft and even hoping I would impart a soothing effect.

  ‘It’s just I don’t know who else to turn to.’ No name given. No real information at all.

  ‘I pride myself on being completely confidential madam. Whatever you tell me will not go any further. If it helps I have an office where we can meet.’ I offered. The lady making the call might be a complete nutjob or a genuine client or even a witness to something that would be of interest to me. I had no way of knowing unless I pressed her for more information.

  There was little sound from the other end of the line, just the quiet sound of breathing and another noise which might have been a lip being chewed in deliberation. To me it seemed as if the lady was trying to make a decision. Do I prompt her before she chickens out? Or do I stay quiet and let her get there by herself?

  ‘I think my grandson might be a vampire.’ she said all at once as if the words had been welling up and had finally forced their way out in one go. Grandson meant I was probably right about her age.

  ‘You most certainly called the right person then, Mrs…’

  ‘Cambridge, Vera Cambridge. My Grandson is Jim Butterworth, although he calls himself Demedicus Solomon now. Can you come? It is really quite urgent.’

  ‘What makes you think your Grandson is a vampire Mrs Cambridge?’

  I listened then as Mrs Cambridge launched into a long-winded summation of her grandson’s increasingly odd behaviour with several claims that he used to be such a lovely boy. He wore dark clothing, he slept all day and stayed out at night, his curtains were never open and when she had insisted on drawing them open he had bought paint and painted the window so that it was opaque. The list of typical sad fan boy wannabe vampire behaviour droned on until I was suddenly snapped back to reality.

  ‘Say that part again please’

  ‘I found blood on his clothes. It doesn’t show up all that well because his clothes are all black, but it turned the washing machine water red once a week ago and so I looked for it since then and when I took his clothes out of the laundry basket this morning there was blood again.’

  My mind was spinning at high RPM now. This could be the guy. Just like that I could have solved the Vampire murders case. I might not be getting paid for it, but this was a case I could not turn down. Okay Tempest, calm yourself a little. What are the chances that this is the same maniac out committing murder? Slim of course, but blood on the clothes is fairly damning evidence. Whose blood is it? If she found bloody clothes last night they could be from the latest victim. How much blood does it take to colour the water in a washing machine? Quite a bit was my guess.

  ‘Where are you now, Mrs Cambridge?’

  ‘I am at home’ she replied, her voice still unsettled, but at least forming answers to my questions.

  Now for the more important question ‘Mrs Cambridge, where is your grandson?’

  ‘Well, its daylight so he is asleep. All vampires have to sleep during the day. Even I know that.’

  ‘Quite correct, Mrs Cambridge, but specifically where is he asleep?’

  ‘He took to sleeping in my basement months ago when he became a vampire so that is where he is now.’ Bingo.

  ‘Mrs Cambridge, I need to point out that I am a private investigator that specialises in paranormal cases. My clients usually engage me to investigate circumstances that they believe are of supernatural or occult origin.’ I wanted to see if the poor old dear did actually have a crazed murderer in her house, but it was far more likely that I was going to find a spotty teenager in love with Kirsten Stewart or with a Goth fixation and therefore getting paid seemed attractive. ‘I think I need to establish what it is you would like me to do.’ Please don’t say drive a stake through his heart, please don’t say drive a stake through his heart – I repeated in my head like a mantra.

  ‘Can you do some tests to prove that he is a vampire?’

  Easy, since obviously he was not a vampire at all. ‘Yes Madam, I have a number of simple methods to determine if he is a vampire or not.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ she said, seeming quite relieved ‘Then you can drive a stake through his heart, yes?’

  Bugger.

  ‘We shall have to see, Mrs Cambridge. We do need to discuss my fee I’m afraid.’ I explained my daily rate and that I was willing to waive it given that I had no actual investigation to conduct. We agreed on a fixed call-out charge much like one might pay to a plumber. I got her address, assured her that I would be there within the hour and got off the phone.

  Time to calmly consider what to do? Let’s suppose that the grandson in question is in fact The Vampire. Would that make him dangerous?

  Probably.

  In which case, do I want to alert the authorities? Not a good option I surmise because of two very good reasons: If I am wrong and it is just some tit in a costume and the myopic grandmother is finding ketchup I will look like a royal knob. If I am right and it is him I will get no credit at all as the police make the arrest and pose for the national news claiming their detective work led them to the quick apprehension etcetera.

  So, what is my next move?

  Make a cup of tea.

  Outside the Cottage of Mrs Cambridge. Saturday September 25th 0825hrs

  Mrs Cambridge lived in a small cottage in nearby Aylesford so the journey took no more than a few minutes and I pulled up well inside the hour I had allotted for thinking, preparing and collecting Big Ben. Her address placed her in the old part of town, the original village where the buildings were probably all several centuries old.

  It was necessary to park around the corner as the houses had not been built with cars in mind and parking was at an absolute premium. Her house was a small cottage, perhaps two bedrooms and a bath upstairs, galley kitchen, small lounge and dining room downstairs, small basement underneath. It was certainly pretty and the postage stamp front yard was well kept giving the cottage the appearance of the quintessential English village dwelling.

  ‘Is there a plan?’ asked Big Ben as we got out of the car. I had explained what we were doing on the drive over once I had roused him from sleep, forced him to get dressed and bundled him into the car.

  ‘These are old buildings with only an internal access point to the cellar, so if he is in there he will have to come past us to escape. Once inside we can quiz the old lady and get her out of the way. With her gone, we head into the basement looking mean and drag Mr vampire-wannabe out of his crypt. If he looks likely to be the killer we subdue him and call the fuzz.’

  ‘What am I getting paid again?’

  ‘Nothing. You are doing this because you love me and because you still owe me a hot blonde from about six years ago.’

  Big Ben and I were both dressed in hard wearing gear: Cargo trousers, the sort made from rip-stop material with plenty of utility pockets, ass kicking, black combat boots, t-shirts and Kevlar vests.

  I learned quite early on that clients expect a certain nod to the supernatural in both my appearance and my actions. They believe wholeheartedly that the supernatural world exists, otherwise why would they contact me to solve their supernatural problems. My early mistakes included explaining to people that the supernatural did not exist and dressing like a professional office worker for meetings.

  The unfortunate side of my work was that I now had to dress like a bit of a tit quite regularly. I protected myself as well as I could from this by not growing long
hair and refusing to wear dark eye makeup, but I felt it necessary to have a wardrobe that contains mostly black clothing and I carried ancient texts and artefacts around with me. Vials labelled as holy water, crucifixes, silver, pentangles etcetera were all necessary tools of the trade. Turn up without them and you just look like some bloke off the street and clearly you were not a professional paranormal investigator at all.

  Basically, people are stupid is what I had learned.

  ‘Okay, vampire beating kit.’ I said mostly to myself as I rummaged. ‘Holy water: check. Stake: check.’ Big Ben appeared next to me at the boot and filled his pockets with the same accessories, sniggering to himself as he did so. Big Ben was happy to come along on my busts because it gave him cool lines to use on the ladies, but he wasn’t buying into the whole paranormal thing any more than I did. He wore the clothes because they actually look kinda cool and it meant he wouldn’t ruin anything of his.

  The holy water and stakes were just props of course. I had no intention of using them and the holy water was just tap water from home with a label on the vial that read ‘holy water’. It would make us look the part though and should the target have actually convinced themselves that they are a vampire then the sight and presence of a stake might be enough to convince them to behave.

  ‘Right mate, this guy might actually have killed three people, so we need to cover each other and take this seriously.’ We were paused outside the house next door to Mrs Cambridge dealing with equipment and formulating a brief series of planned responses to certain scenarios. Big Ben had grudgingly accepted the holy water and stakes and was currently hanging a silver cross around his neck.

  ‘The chances this is actually the guy are slim, right?’ asked Big Ben as he slipped the cross down between his shirt and the Kevlar.

  ‘Instinct says that I am not that lucky and that this is going to turn out to be a spotty teenage scrotum that has watched too many twilight movies. However, the lady was convinced that she had found blood on his clothes so we proceed with caution.’

  ‘How about plan number one is that we ask where he is, drag him out and thump him?’ Big Ben was totally serious. ‘Or, better yet a swift knee to the ‘taters. Vampire or not he will drop just like anyone else.’ Big Ben had a firm grasp of biology.

  ‘Not the best plan.’ I explained in the most neutral tone I could manage. Big Ben’s exuberance could be a problem at times. ‘If he is innocent that would be considered as ABH or worse. With luck, he will be willing to talk and I can get the clothes from the old lady and test for blood simply enough as I have a kit in the car.’

  I felt that we had been standing in the street for long enough and would begin to attract attention if we stayed out here much longer. The outfits did not exactly blend in.

  Big Ben followed me through the gate and down the short path. Near out-of-control wisteria covered one side of the house and looped over the frame of the door hanging down low enough in places that we both had to duck.

  Mrs Cambridge opened the door before I could knock. She was stooped and probably closer to eighty than seventy. She had tightly curled silver hair and wore a granny dress. I have no idea what the correct term for the outfit is but I see old ladies wearing them all the time. Anyway, she was run of the mill old lady with a face like leather and a troubled expression.

  ‘Come in boys.’ she beckoned, turning back into the house herself.

  Normally I would have introduced myself on the door step and shown a business card but she seemed happy that we were the vampire hunters she had called.

  Following behind her I felt a need to speak anyway ‘Mrs Cambridge, good morning. My name is Tempest Michaels, this is my associate, Ben Winter. Thank you for calling us.’

  Inside the Cottage of Mrs Cambridge. Saturday September 25th 0832hrs

  Mrs Cambridge took very little time is getting to the task. In her hands she held a plastic carrier bag from a National supermarket in which she had placed the blood-stained clothes she had found this morning. I pulled them out to inspect them using a tool rather than my hands to avoid putting my DNA on them.

  There was a black shirt and a pair of dress trousers like one might find with a Dinner Jacket. It was hard to make out but the fabric of the shirt was definitely stained with something. I licked my latex glove covered finger and rubbed at the fabric just a little. It came away with a distinctive pink tinge. It was sufficient to convince me it was blood. I placed the bag on the floor by the front door to collect on our way back out and asked Mrs Cambridge to show us to her Grandson. She showed us the stairs down to the cellar and invited us to proceed.

  I crept down the cellar stairs, not because I was concerned about going into the dark of course, but because I wanted to find Jim asleep or at least catch him by surprise. If he was down there he was being very quiet and all the lights were off. Big Ben waited at the top of the stairs to turn on the lights on my signal.

  I reached the last step. There was enough light coming from the stairwell to see the basic lay out of the room, but little more than that. Mrs Cambridge said his coffin, because of course he slept in a coffin, was against the far wall adjacent to the small window that should be letting natural light into the basement.

  I clicked my fingers and Big Ben hit the switch to bathe the room in light. The room was a gothic temple to all things vampire. Jim clearly had little imagination and an account with Vampires R Us because there were candles, black and red velvet and occult looking silver artefacts adorning every surface. The floor was covered in rugs and furs, there was a large mahogany looking sideboard / alter looking thing with dusty tomes arranged. There were also Buffy the Vampire Slayer comics though, so perhaps he wasn’t completely committed to the crypt look after all.

  The coffin was exactly where Mrs Cambridge has said it would be and there was a figure in it. I took all this in during the first second or so, by which time I was moving across the room and Jim was coming awake.

  ‘Bwwwah?’ said Jim, his hands gripping over the sides of the coffin and his feet beginning to flail.

  The coffin was set a couple of feet off the floor on top of a structure sheathed in black velvet. The coffin looked high end to me, not that I had much experience when it came to coffins, but it was made from a shiny black material and looked expensive.

  Jim was getting up, which is not what I wanted. I wanted him incapacitated or immobile while I asked him a few questions. I crossed the room in two paces raising my hands to my sides to show they were empty ‘Take it easy, big fella. I am a private investigator here at your Grandmother’s request. I just want to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘You dare to disturb me from my slumber?’ He certainly got into character pretty quick. His voice was pitched somewhere between angry and disbelieving. ‘You will perish, foolish mortal. Be gone while you still can.’ he was half sat in the coffin now with his hands gripping the sides. What I noticed though was that he didn’t seem to actually want to get out and deal with me. I crossed my arms and gave him my stoniest look.

  ‘Jim tell me, do you really think you are a vampire? Or are you just being a twat?’ Above me I heard Big Ben snigger.

  Jim was not tall, perhaps five feet eight inches or a little more. It was hard to tell with him in a coffin. He was also skinny, as if the diet of blood was not very filling. I reminded myself that he was potentially guilty of several murders, but it was hard to imagine the brutal murders being carried out by the gimp in front of me. He was wearing black drain-pipe jeans, no socks, a black silk shirt open to the waist nearly, heavy eyeliner and black nail varnish on his fingers and toes. He also wore an abundance of silver jewellery.

  ‘Not exactly Robert Pattinson, are you?’ I was goading him unnecessarily.

  ‘I will suck your soul out!’ he screamed, rising from the coffin. I placed a firm hand on his chest and pushed him back down.

  He swatted at me and then ducked his head to bite my fore arm. I pulled my arm away, no telling what he might actually do and b
ites are painful. ‘Behave now, Jim.’

  ‘My name is Demedicus Solomon.’ he interrupted me, his voice an angry growl. ‘Jim Butterworth was my useless, pathetic human form before I was transformed into a vampire.’ He looked quite pissed off but he didn’t attempt to get up.

  My time in the Army provided plenty of opportunity to learn when a person was going to fight and when they were not. A lot of chaps wanted to sound tough and would threaten and make a lot of noise, their nervous energy would manifest as general agitation causing the would-be protagonist to stay in motion, hands clenching, body vibrating. One soon learned that they posed very little threat though. The ones to watch were the calm ones, the ones that said very little, choosing to observe instead. My analogy was that of a sword being drawn. Drawing a sword makes very little noise, but means it is going to be used, the noisy man was just rattling the sword in its scabbard and thus had no intention of drawing it at all. Jim / Demedicus was just rattling his sword. Looking at his seventy kilogram frame I was not sure he even had a sword.

  I’m not much of a fighter myself, I tried a lot of boxing and martial arts but found I did not have the temperament required to have people hitting me. Constant effort at the gym plus years of fight training meant that I looked the part though and I use this to my advantage when I need to.

  ‘You are a vampire hunter? Come to destroy me in my crypt? I see the stake sticking out of your belt. You will not find me easy to kill mortal.’

  ‘Jim, I have no intention of causing you any harm and will be gone as soon as I can confirm that you are a true vampire,’ his eyebrows lifted ‘and get a couple of answers regarding your supply of blood.’ Jim seemed caught between anger at my intrusion, excitement that I believed he may actually be a vampire and indecision about what to do next.

  ‘Do you want to get out of the coffin and do this over a cup of tea?’ Tea makes for a relaxing atmosphere, probably because it is such a normal activity, but my hope was that I could prove he was neither a vampire, nor the crazed murderer and get out of there.