Shadow People

by James Swain

  “The elders of the Order are sending one of their disciples to New York in the hopes that he will attract more converts to their cause. Only one thing stands in their way. You.”

  “Who said I wanted to get involved?”

  “I’m afraid you do not have a choice.”

  Peter shook his head at these words. His life was becoming a dark, uncharted journey where he had no say in the matter. The wicked one rose from his throne and stepped toward him. “Give me your hand, and I will give you the strength to do battle with Surtr.”

  “I don’t want your fingers digging into my flesh,” Peter told him.

  “Do it. Before he kills you.”

  Peter saw himself jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge and emerging from the waters a changed person. Perhaps if he died at Surtr’s hand, the same thing might happen.

  “What if I say no?”

  “Have it your way.”

  The wicked one clicked his fingers. Peter’s body went stiff and his left arm rose on its own accord. The wicked one grabbed his wrist as his fingers turned into venomous snakes whose fangs tore into Peter’s flesh and sent their poison coursing through his bloodstream. Peter bit his lip and tried not to scream. He could feel himself growing stronger, but at what cost?

  “I’ll be watching,” the wicked one said.

  * * *

  Like a switch being thrown, Peter returned to the living room of Munns’s house. The room had been wrecked by their battle, and Surtr still had his hands around Peter’s throat, and was choking the last breath of life from his body. Nothing had changed.

  Except, of course, him. He had been infused with an evil that had wreaked havoc upon mankind since the beginning of time, an evil that came straight from the source. Breaking free of Surtr’s grasp, he clutched the thing’s head and twisted it violently to the left, then violently to the right, hearing the bones in his neck crack like so many empty peanut shells.

  “Uhhh,” the thing from hell groaned.

  Surtr released him, and staggered around the room with its arms flailing, mortally wounded. Peter rose from the floor. He should have stopped right then. But he was no longer himself, and wondered if he ever would be again.

  He crossed the living room and gave Surtr’s head another series of violent twists, and felt its neck grow looser. He found himself thinking about the three elders of the Order of Astrum, whom he felt certain were watching. It was time to send them a message.

  He spun Surtr’s head clear around its body like it was attached by a string. Then he released his enemy. Surtr’s broken body hit the floor with a resounding thud. In the blink of an eye, he reverted back to being Doc Munns, whose head was now turned in the wrong direction.

  “Peter, are you all right?” Garrison shouted from the front lawn.

  Peter didn’t know if he was all right or not. He certainly didn’t feel the same. A piece of him had been stripped away during his journey, another layer of his soul lost.

  An antique mirror hung over the fireplace. In its reflection, he saw what he had become.

  He nearly cried.

  He no longer looked human. His face was narrow as a wolf’s, his nostrils flared, his mouth set in a permanent snarl. The pupils of his eyes were tinged a savage red, and darted wickedly from side to side.

  Covering his face, he begged the evil thing he’d become to go away.

  * * *

  Garrison started banging on the front door. Finally, he’d had enough, and took the door down with his shoulder, and came inside. He looked at Munns lying dead on the floor.

  “For the love of Christ, you nearly tore his head off.”

  “Guess I don’t know my own strength,” Peter whispered.

  “That’s brutal, man. Did he hurt you?”

  “No. How’s Rachael?”

  “She’s fine. The woman’s amazing.”

  “You still need to take her to a hospital.”

  “I plan to. And you as well. Now stand aside for a minute. I need to record this.” Garrison memorialized the crime scene through photos snapped on his cell phone.

  Lowering his hands, Peter took another look in the mirror. He had become his old self again.

  “I need to get some fresh air,” he said.

  “Be my guest. I’ll be done in a minute,” Garrison replied.

  Outside, Peter stood in the gravel driveway and sucked down the chilly night air. Rachael was gone, and so were the pair of wounded officers, the ambulance’s siren carrying across the hills as they were taken to the local hospital.

  He took out his cell phone to call Liza, and found a text waiting for him. U OK? she asked. THINK SO, he wrote back, then added, SAVED RACHAEL. That got a dozen exclamation points in reply. He found it in him to smile. Something good had come out of this.

  Garrison came out of the house holding a promotional mailer in his hand. He shoved it into Peter’s face and said, “Take a look at this. I found it on the dining room table.”

  Peter held the mailer up to the light coming from the house. It was for a tattoo parlor called the Blue Devil, and featured glossy photos of various tattoos that you could have inked onto your body for a nominal fee. The tattoos were routinely hideous and featured snakes and demons. One tattoo in particular caught his eye: the shimmering symbol of the Order of the Astrum. He flipped the mailer over. On the postage side was a photo of the owner, a biker type with a ponytail. Only his surname was given: Ray.

  “This is the same guy with the hunting rifle who killed Chief Burns, and rammed the police cruiser at the train station,” Peter said. “He’s part of the Order as well.”

  Garrison took the mailer and studied the address. “We need to run this character down before he skips town. Let’s move.”

  “What about Munns?”

  “You afraid of him coming back to life? Trust me, he’s dead.”

  Garrison walked down the hill toward his car. Peter started to follow, then went in the opposite direction, and returned to the house. Munns had not moved from his spot on the living room floor. He looked dead, but looks could be deceiving. Peter wanted a sign, just to be sure.

  “Show me,” he said aloud. “I have a right to know.”

  In the oval mirror over the fireplace appeared a swirling form. Munns falling down an endless black hole as a silent scream came out of his mouth. It was fair punishment for all the terrible things he’d done, and Peter left the house believing there was still justice in the world.

  63

  Peter sat in the backseat with Liza while Garrison drove into town under the guidance of his GPS system. In a voice that was barely a whisper, Liza said, “What happened up there?”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered back.

  “Come on. No secrets.”

  He had taken no pleasure in killing Munns, and wouldn’t sleep for the next few nights because of it. Talking about it would only make how he felt worse.

  “Was it bad?” she asked, refusing to let go.

  “On a scale of one to ten, it was a fifteen.”

  “Ugh. Will you tell me later?”

  He didn’t know if he could. Better to bury the memory and act like it had never happened. Just like all those times he’d killed as child. Just forget about it, and move on. The silence troubled her, and she squeezed his hand. “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “How about, I don’t know?”

  “You aren’t the same. The rage is boiling right below the surface. I can feel it.”

  She was right. The rage had not gone away like it had the other times. The demon was lurking in the shadows of his soul, ready to rise up and kill again. He needed to get his emotions under in check, and he said, “I just killed somebody, okay?”

  She fell back in her seat. Looked out her window at the two-story shingle houses that lined the road at the bottom of the hill. “You’ve changed. I can see it in your face and hear it in your voice. You look scary.”

  “Do you want to get away from me?”


  “No. Not yet, anyway.”

  “But you might.”

  “I will if I don’t get some answers.”

  Garrison was doing a fine job of chauffeuring, and Peter guessed the FBI agent had overheard every word they’d said. Placing his mouth against Liza’s ear, he said, “I’ll tell you everything that happened, just not here.”

  She mouthed the word “When?”

  “Later tonight. At home.” And nearly added, “Lying in bed in the darkness.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Come on, say it.”

  “It’s a promise.”

  His answer seemed to satisfy her. They held each other and kissed, and it all felt good again. His whole life, he’d been holding back his innermost feelings. Not since he’d lost his parents had he truly confided in anyone. That had changed when he’d fallen in love with Liza. Yet even with her, he’d held back certain things. Somehow, that was going to have to change.

  “I also want to hear about your friend Holly,” Liza said. “She sounds like someone I should get to know.”

  The words hit him like an invisible punch and he winced in the darkness.

  “She actually kind of dull,” he said.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied.

  * * *

  The Blue Devil was located in a half-ugly strip mall on the outskirts of Pelham. In the parlor’s front window was a blue neon sign of a smiling devil wielding a pitchfork. Beneath it, a second blue neon sign said CLOSED. A pair of police cruisers had taken the parking spaces in front of the store. Garrison said, “Stay put,” and hopped out of the car.

  Staring at the neon devil in the window, Peter had an unpleasant thought. Ray, the store’s owner, had sent a mailer to people in town, shopping for clients. Each of the tattoos in the mailer had a demonic theme, and would attract a certain type of clientele. Munns had taken the bait, paid Ray a visit, and gotten an Order of Astrum tattoo stamped on his neck and become their slave. That meant Ray was a recruiter for the Order, and knew how things worked. Perhaps Ray could lead him to the elders, and he could pay them back for murdering his parents. Just thinking about it ignited a hot wire in his blood, and he threw open his door.

  “Didn’t you hear what Garrison just said?” Liza asked. “He meant it this time.”

  “Was he talking to me?”

  “You’re not funny. Please stay here.”

  “I need to talk to the man who owns this place. He knows things.”

  “You have that look in your eye again.”

  “You mean the suave and debonair look?”

  “No, the evil one. No more bloodshed. I mean it, Peter.”

  Her voice had a finality that he could not ignore.

  “Okay,” he said.

  * * *

  Inside the Blue Devil, he felt a drop in temperature that chilled him to the bone. The reception area had a pair of cheap folding chairs and a counter with brochures strewn across it, the walls covered in posters of naked men and women whose bodies were tattoo canvases. A beaded curtain led to a cluttered back room with a low ceiling and jet-black walls. A barber chair sat in the room’s center. It was here that customers got their tattoos inked onto their bodies while listening to music coming out of a boom box on the floor. Ray, the owner, sat in the barber chair, his wrist handcuffed to the arm. He reeked of smoke and was covered in bandages. There was no doubt this was the person who’d been shooting at them with the hunting rifle.

  Garrison and the local cops stood nearby, exchanging information. Garrison’s back was turned, and Peter drew up next to Ray, who shrank in his chair.

  “Something the matter?” Peter asked.

  “You’re the guy that Doc Munns was supposed to kill,” the tattoo artist said.

  “Didn’t work out that way.”

  “Is Munns dead?”

  “Yes. I killed him.”

  “But he was possessed by Surtr.”

  “I still killed him.” Peter let the words sink in and dropped his voice. “I want you to tell me what you know about the elders of the Order of Astrum.”

  Ray shook his head fearfully. “I do that, they’ll snuff me for sure.”

  “You need to cooperate with the police. It’s the only chance you’ve got.”

  “Right,” Ray said.

  One of the cops said, “Son of a bitch was going to pour kerosene on the walls right when we came into the store, probably planning to burn the place down, destroy evidence.”

  “What did you find in the van?” Garrison asked.

  “We found a hunting rifle with a telescopic scope lying on the backseat, along with a box of ammo,” the same cop said. “We think it’s the same rifle that killed Chief Burns.”

  “Then let’s charge him. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  Once the cops charged Ray, they’d take him to the station to be processed, and Peter would lose his chance to question him. He drew closer to the barber chair, and Ray cowered like a frightened dog. “You had to know you’d get caught,” Peter told him. “What did the elders do? Make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

  “You know about the elders?” Ray squeaked.

  “We’re old friends. Now what did they offer you?”

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  “Tell me, damn it.”

  Ray clamped his mouth shut. Peter was not planning to leave empty-handed, and he stole a look inside Ray’s mind. It was filled with troubling images, but one in particular stood out. A sinister figure wearing dark flowing robes covered in astrological signs commanded a stage not unlike the one in his own theater. His spiked hair and dark fright makeup were pure Gothic. Plucking a succession of black silks out of the air, he bunched them together, and made a half dozen screaming vultures magically appear. With a mad explosion of feathers, the carnivorous creatures flew into the theater to pluck at the faces of the unlucky patrons sitting in the first row.

  “Who is he?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the tattoo artist said.

  “The man on the stage with spiked hair and the vultures. I want to know who he is.”

  Ray gulped. “You know about Dante?”

  “Is that his name? Dante?”

  Peter felt a hand come down on his arm, and he spun around. Garrison pulled him away from the barber chair to the other side of the room.

  “I told you to stay in the car,” Garrison said angrily.

  “Just give me another minute with him,” Peter pleaded.

  “That’s out of the question. We have an investigation to finish. Now go outside, or you’ll end up getting in trouble.”

  “There’s something else going on here, and this guy knows what it is.”

  “You heard me. Leave. Right now.”

  Peter bit the words about to come out of his mouth. The expression “devil got your tongue” took on a whole new meaning. He pointed an accusing finger at Ray. “You’ve got to make him talk.”

  “We’ll do that. Now vamoose.”

  He started to leave and heard an odd popping sound. The noise reminded him of a soda can being punctured and the air escaping. Against the wall, the five-gallon kerosene tanks that Ray had intended to torch his studio with had mysteriously punctured themselves. The smelly liquid was pouring out, and racing across the concrete floor, where it puddled at the base of the barber chair, and climbed up its sides. Ray was talking to one of the cops, not having a clue.

  “Get away from the chair,” Peter said.

  The Pelham cops looked at him, not understanding.

  “Why should we?” Garrison asked.

  “Because it’s going to explode.”

  “Is he serious?” one of the cops asked.

  The rules of physics did not hold in the psychic world. An ashtray with a dead cigarette sat on the table where Ray kept his tattoo needles. The cigarette sparked to life, rolled out of the ashtray, and landed on the floor in a stream of ker
osene. The stream caught flame, and did a mad dash toward the barber chair. In a split second, the chair was engulfed in flames along with the man chained to the arm. It was like watching a bomb go off.

  Ray screamed.

  The cops ran for the door.

  Peter rushed toward Garrison. The arm of Garrison’s sports jacket had caught fire, and he pulled the FBI agent out of the building, found a patch of grass, and rolled him around until the flames were extinguished. The cops stood in the parking lot coughing and hacking but otherwise no worse for wear. The elders had spared them. It was Ray they wanted silenced.

  The Blue Devil burned like a tinderbox, the flames licking the sky by the time the fire trucks and ambulance pulled in. As the building’s walls started to crumble, Ray’s final screams could be heard above the wailing sirens. The elders had kept him alive so they could torture him. It was the price you paid for striking a deal with the Devil.

  Peter drew closer to the burning building and strained to hear Ray’s last words. He was trying to say something before he died, his voice rising above the din.

  “Dante … will … kill you all…”

  Peter still had no idea who Dante was. Only Ray knew the answer to that question, and as the fiery building collapsed, he guessed the secret would follow the tattoo artist to his grave.

  64

  “You can go upstairs, Ms. Adams,” the uniformed guard said.

  Holly crossed the lobby and punched the elevator button. She had been coming to the Dakota for so many years that security knew her by name, yet the guards still called her aunt before allowing her to go upstairs.

  She rode the elevator wishing she’d heeded her aunt’s warning. Milly had told her not to scry on Peter any longer, that she would end up getting hurt if she did. There were rules to being a psychic, and she’d broken every one of them. What an awful mistake she’d made.

  The elevator doors parted and she walked down a hallway to Milly’s apartment. She wiped away her tears before pressing the buzzer. The image of Peter twisting the head of the serial killer from side to side would not go away. He had not seemed human.

  She raised her hand to knock on the door. Before she could, it opened wide, revealing her aunt in the foyer along with Max, Lester, and Homer. Their collective faces were filled with sorrow. Had they continued to scry on her while she scryed on Peter? Something told her that they had. She entered the apartment, and the door was shut behind her.