Red Tide: The Flavel House Horror / Vampires of the Morgue (The Ian McDermott, Ph.D., Paranormal Investigator Series Book 2)

by David Reuben Aslin

  Clayton continued, “Though she’s young, twenty-seven, she’s as smart as they come. But well, let’s just say she’s been around the block and back a few times if you know what I mean. She speaks her mind, I can tell you that. A real no-holds-barred free spirit, that one. Regardless, if willing, I think she could be of some real help to you. Anyway, she’s got the look. Like I said, she’s a hairstylist. Well that, and she’s a massage therapist as well. You know the look. Nearly anorexic with arms covered with Asian-stylized tattoos. Multiple piercings. Short, jet-black, cropped, red-streaked hair. Say, Ian, while I’m thinking of it, you should probably stop using your real name. Being a writer, might I suggest you stay with your first name and only change your last? How about Ian McBride? Most of the time, people only mention first names. You won’t be apt to screw that up. And the last name McBride is also believable. It keeps with your ancestral roots and facial bone structure.”

  Ian smiled and nodded his head in agreement, then replied, “You of course have my permission to contact your niece on my behalf. And the name … McBride … I like it. Tell her that’s my name. Tell her … Tell her that I’m an ex-cop turned private investigator or something like that, and that I was hired by the family of one of the missing persons regarding what’s been going on over in Astoria. I’m sure she’s heard about it. Go ahead if you want and tell her I’m interested in checking out Salizzar and his nightclub. That too should come as little surprise. That’s all close enough to the truth. I appreciate you being so helpful and informative.”

  “Ian, I am happy to help you all that I can, but understand I do this not totally unselfishly. I suspect this is not your first rodeo when it comes to this sort of thing. I also expect there is a great book in all this. I’m hopeful that you will graciously allow me to write it. Of course, names and locations will be changed to protect the living.” Ian noticed a sly, impish grin on Clayton’s face. Ian then grinned himself as he nodded his agreement.

  Ian’s head was swimming as he tried to digest all that Clayton had told him. But for the moment, all that he could think of without further deliberation had been said, asked, and answered. This had been a very successful first meeting. Ian stood up, leaned over slightly, and shook hands with his host. “Clayton, I can’t thank you enough for all your insights. And I’d be honored for you to use … to base some of your works on my exploits, for lack of a better word, as catalysts for your tales of fiction.” Ian found it even more noticeable than before that Clayton had an unusually cold, clammy grip.

  Clayton remained seated. He began to stare blankly out the front window, off towards the horizon and the surf beyond.

  “Well, Clayton, you’ve got my business card with my cell phone number. You or your niece Zoey can call or text me any time. The sooner the better. Um, well, I’ll just see myself out. Thanks again.”

  As Ian began to leave, Clayton continued staring out the window, not saying anything further. But just before Ian opened the front door, Clayton blurted out, “Take great caution, Ian, of whom you accept invitation to enter of your own free will.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Alliance (II)

  Ian drove straight back to Oscar’s on the Ocean. When he opened the door to his trailer, Scout was as glad to see him as he was to see Scout. “Hiya boy, miss me?” Scout’s tail was wagging wildly as he barked three times.

  Ian kicked off his shoes as he glanced over at his travel clock on the shelf. It was 4:37 p.m. He sat down in his small, swivel recliner chair that was bolted to the floor. It was one of the few aftermarket additions he’d purchased and had installed around a year ago from an RV dealership in Coos Bay, Oregon. Ian put his feet up onto the small, built-in dining table. He then slipped on his reading glasses, opened his recently-autographed book, and began to read the prologue.

  Not ten minutes into his reading, Ian’s cell phone began chiming. He retrieved his phone from his shirt pocket. “Hello. Yes, I recognize your voice. Mention no names, no specifics. Okay. Right, I understand. Yeah, I’ve been doing some groundwork. Yeah, it’s progressing.” Ian paused to catch his breath and to hear more before replying, “Yeah, okay. Right, tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. will work. See you th—” Ned had already hung up his phone before Ian could finish his sentence.

  Ian wondered for a moment why Ned needed to see him again so soon. But he quickly let it go and began once again reading his book. After twenty pages, Ian began to get bleary-eyed. Moments later, he was snoring.

  It was 5:45 p.m. and very dark out when Ian’s cell phone began chiming once again, waking him from deep sleep.

  Ian answered his phone. “Yeah, this is Ian. Um, hi, Clayton.” He was fighting back yawning and desperately trying to clear his head as he listened.

  “Ian, I hate to ask you to drive all the way back here, but my niece is gonna be here in a little over an hour. She gets off work at 6:00 p.m. I’d like to have a little more face-time with you before she arrives. I haven’t told her anything other than I’m going to order pizza. She’s coming for dinner. Ian, what kind of pizza do you like? Assuming you like pizza.”

  Ian replied, “Uh, yeah . Pizza sounds good!”

  “What kind to you prefer?”

  Ian, still a little groggy, cleared his head before answering. “Um, what kind? I pretty much like any kind. But since you asked, how about something with sausage and mushrooms and some olives and pepperoni?”

  Clayton fired back, “Perfect! ‘The Combination’. That’s our favorite. I’ll order a couple of them. I invite her over to visit in the evening now and again. I’m not much of a cook, so usually we either go out for dinner or order pizza or Chinese take-out to be delivered. I think she takes me up on it mainly because she appreciates a free meal more than my company.” Clayton laughed just a little.

  Ian interjected, “Clayton, I’ll get cleaned up a bit and come over as soon as … I can be there in around a half hour. Thanks.” After the call was concluded, Ian set his phone down on the table that had previously held his feet.

  Ian looked over at Scout, “How about that, boy? Things are beginning to move fast now. Hopefully not too fast.”

  Still feeling a tiny bit hazy from his interrupted nap, Ian left Scout in the trailer and walked over to the shower house. The park was more than adequately lit by a handful of well–positioned, pole-mounted flood lights, eliminating the need to carry a flashlight. As Ian stood at the sink washing his hands, he began to splash a little water on his face. As he looked up from the sink, Ian began staring into the mirror, which somehow sparked an unconscious mental metaphor, triggering his mind into reflection. He began running back over what he’d discussed just hours ago with Clayton, closely examining point by point the details of their conversation, trying to concisely formulate what questions he still might have for Clayton and which ones he’d already asked, but felt were not fully expounded upon.

  Now somewhat refreshed and certainly more awake, Ian walked briskly back to his trailer.

  “Scout, I’ve got a feeling you’re not gonna like this, but I’ve got to leave you here one more time. I’m going back to see Clayton and to meet his niece. She might be able to help with …” Ian began laughing at himself. He just noticed that he talked to Scout as if he were more human than dog. Ian further mused to himself on the subject as he gazed affectionately into the eyes of his best friend. You do understand, don’t ya, fella? At that very instant, Scout barked once and began wagging his tail.

  Suddenly surprised by the timing of Scout’s barks, Ian thought to himself, Jesus. Bark once for yes and twice for no, won’t ya? Ha.

  Ian changed into a nearly clean pair of jeans and an equally almost clean blue flannel shirt. The fresh socks and underwear he’d put on were the last ones he had.

  “Scout, we’re gonna have to seek out a Laundromat, and I mean soon.”

  Ian then put on his fleece-lined denim jacket and grabbed his wallet and car keys. Before exiting the trailer, he checked to see that Scout still had plenty of dog food and w
ater.

  Just as Ian was getting into his Jeep, his phone began buzzing. Not the sound of an incoming call but that of an incoming text message. Ian looked at his phone and scrolled to new messages.

  CAUTION!!! Regardless of bodies in river eaten by sharks or no – F.B.I. suspects black market ring – blood products/organ trafficking (drugs 2 likely). Bodies exsanguinated + missing organs: heart, liver, kidneys = sophisticated organization.

  After reading Ned’s text, Ian thought to himself, Holy shit. I’m so in over my head. I wish Charlie was here. I’m gonna need help.

  Ian made the drive north up the peninsula in good time, but arrived a little later than he’d planned. Clayton was standing on the front porch with his cane in his left hand and a lit cigarette in his right as Ian pulled his Jeep into the driveway and turned his ignition and headlights off. Ian climbed out of his Jeep and walked up to Clayton, who flicked the remains of his cigarette into a small, sand-filled bucket adjacent to his front door. Both men smiled at each other and cordially shook hands.

  “Ian, so good of you to return on such short notice. I just decided to step outside for a smoke. I deplore the smell in my house. All information points to the seemingly undeniable fact that those things will eventually kill me. I keep asking myself ... when?” Clayton and Ian both laughed.

  Clayton continued, “The young man who delivers for the pizza parlor said he’d be here, well, by now.” He glanced at his watch and frowned slightly as he spoke. “I thought I’d meet that delivery boy out here on the porch on his terms rather than invite him in on mine. Good delivery boys are so hard to replace nowadays.” Clayton suddenly laughed as though what he’d just said was very funny. Ian also laughed in response but thought to himself, I don’t get it.

  It was a particularly chilly evening, and it had begun to rain a little. “Well, let’s go inside Ian, before you catch your … death.” Clayton said as he glanced up at the sky. Without further hesitation, he headed towards his front door as he exclaimed, “That pizza boy’s not going to receive much of a gratuity if he doesn’t happen along shortly.”

  Once seated inside the house, Clayton in his usual chair and Ian back on the couch, Clayton took a deep breath then let out the air from his lungs with equal enthusiasm before he spoke. “Ian, I did a little more Googling regarding your background. Seems you are somewhat re-defining your previous vocation of cryptozoologist.” Ian smiled and nodded his head once.

  Clayton slapped, then rubbed his knees once with his hands as he spoke, “That’s good. A man needs to change with the times. I’ve tried changing many times. I hear that now more than perhaps ever in the last century, a man needs to reinvent himself, evolve as it were ... often time and again, lest we lose our edge, our very relevance. I often fear that my commitment to not sell-out, some would say, is fruitlessly stubborn. And by some, I mean my literary agent and numerous publishing houses. Anyway, my quite possibly self-destructive commitment to preserve the darker side of horror fiction could ultimately make me as obsolete as the video cassette recorder that was left in the wake of always-evolving video technologies.”

  Ian smiled as he nodded slowly in total understanding. He had often worried about much the same thing. He understood too well the dreaded fear of becoming hopelessly irrelevant, inconsequential, obsolete.

  “Well, Ian, that’s a worry you need not share with the likes of me. And perhaps mine is not founded either? That is, beyond the current, hopefully short-lived literary fad of sparkly-vampire fodder. The world may think it wants to read about sexy pseudo-monsters, ones we need not fear much more than perhaps catching a cold or a venereal disease. The truth is, I believe that most humans have an inherent need to have the hell scared right out of them. A nice thought, anyway. Such basic fear of the unknown lets many, I understand, feel truly alive. That they’re not just going through the motions of living out their bleak, tasteless existence. It’s a good thing humans have an inherent fear of the dark, Ian. It’s good to fear what may be lurking in the closet or under one’s bed, for darkness abides when the lights go out.”

  Clayton took a deep breath, then continued, “Parents are wrong, Ian. When they tell their children there’s no reason to fear the dark. It’s that basic, instinctual fear that keeps most humans alive. There is much darkness in the world, Ian. Great and terrible darkness. Dark forces more cunning and malevolent than all of the depraved lunatics akin to the likes of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, or Charles Manson combined. Darkness far beyond the scope of any fiction writer’s feeble attempts to depict ... including myself of course.”

  Ian was beginning to get a little uncomfortable. Clayton was starting to get a bit …way out there.

  “Ian, your recent vocational paradigm shift, so to speak, couldn’t be more necessary or timely. Given the obvious constraints of traditional law enforcement, the world will always need its Van Helsings. Its monster hunters.” Clayton said with a sly grin on his face.

  Ian decided to change the subject to hopefully reel Clayton back in to the topic at hand. “Clayton, if you don’t mind, I have some more questions I’d like to ask before your niece gets here.”

  Ian wondered for a brief moment if he should go on. But he decided to throw caution to the wind. “Clayton, not long ago, I personally experienced something … something that, to the best of my understanding, could only be explained by what you described this afternoon as being caused, or created, by some form of demonic phenomena. I’m not at liberty to discuss what I’m referring to any further at this time. But suffice it to say that I’m predisposed to accept much more than most at face value unless proven otherwise.” Clayton gave Ian a look that Ian regarded as one of genuine intrigue.

  “Clayton, unless I grossly misread you, you really believe what you were telling me earlier today. I mean, you really believe beyond it being just the genre that you write about in your stories.” Clayton raised his eyebrows but didn’t say a word. Ian continued, “Well, again, unless I’m way off the mark. Under that assumption, in your opinion, what are the typical characteristics, or ‘powers’, for lack of a better term, that they – your vampire type fours – possess? I mean, aside from what we’ve all seen in movies or read in books.” Clayton once again lifted his eyebrows and started to speak, but he was instantly interrupted by Ian. “And besides powers and such, exactly what in your opinion would it take to destroy such a creature, supposing for a moment that they actually exist?”

  A huge smile suddenly engulfed Clayton’s face. Ian immediately surmised that Clayton was about to open up and speak of things that most people would automatically discount as utterly ridiculous. And that he was deeply pleased by the opportunity –perhaps due to a conscious or unconscious need to really open up without the threat of men in white jackets showing up at his doorstep wanting to fit him with a straight jacket and feed him applesauce from a tiny white Dixie cup, clandestinely containing a double dose of Thorazine.

  “Like minds sharing the same madness. Folie à deux, Ian. Folie à deux.”

  Upon hearing Clayton speak that phrase, Ian immediately experienced an intense episode of déjà vu. He couldn’t remember who’d spoken that phrase the last time he’d heard it, as it referred to a shared psychosis or delusion. It might have been Charlie Redtail, or it could have even been uttered by himself as a descriptive phrase regarding the situation he and Charlie had found themselves in. An attempt to colorfully reference the large French population that lived in and around Harmony Falls. Either way, Ian knew this much for certain. If that was where he’d last heard that phrase, it just showed how crazy he and Charlie had been to attempt to understand and ultimately deal with exactly who, or rather what, Jean-Chastel Gevaudan was.

  “Okay, Ian. I’m going to tell you something I probably wouldn’t tell another living soul, but I think you of all people just might believe, at least in part. I say ‘part’ because much of what I’m going to tell you is based on research, interviews, and a lot of my own conjecture, connecting the dots as it wer
e, which can be very subjective. Subject to each person’s interpretations of what are pseudo-facts at best.”

  Clayton was right about Ian. When it came to any sermon regarding the supposed supernatural, Clayton was preaching to an experienced choir boy.

  “Ian, we probably don’t have much time before Zoey gets here. So I’m going to cut right to the chase. When it comes to the very small percentage of what I’ve called class or type four vampires, the real deal as you so aptly put it, this is what I’ve surmised from many years of study on the subject.”

  Clayton adjusted himself in his chair. He leaned forward just a bit as he took a deep breath in preparation for his forthcoming verbal dissertation. To just about anyone other than Ian, it would prove itself as a thesis more than adequately deserving of achieving an advanced degree from the likes of the prestigious New York Institution commonly known as Bellevue.

  “Ian, most of my research and subsequent fiction writing has been centered around villainous vampires. That much you know. I have dabbled with lycanthropic creature characters in some of my stories as well. But for now, let’s stay on the topic of blood suckers of the fourth kind.” Ian smiled and nodded in agreement. He was ready to hear that up is down and black is white.

  “Okay, Ian. Here goes. I believe, and again, I’m not talking about the thousands of Gothic life-style or vampiric role players. I believe that there is a relatively small sub-culture of true sanguinarians that comprise various covens around the world. Most don’t look like you’d expect them to. Not like Salizzar and his followers, who dress very stereotypically. Many real vampires, ancients anyway, are captains of industry, CEOs of major corporations, and so forth. You would never guess them to be vampires. They keep that aspect a very closely-guarded secret. They can of course live for a very long time. And in doing so, many have amassed vast fortunes. Salizzar is the rare exception. He chooses to live flamboyantly as a stereotypical gothic vampire club owner. Nobody would ever believe that he actually is what he wants everyone to think he is merely portraying. So he effectively hides in plain sight and rubs our collective noses in it.”