Darker Than Noir

by Riley, R. Thomas; Zoot, Campbell; Chandler, Randy; Kauwe, Faith

  Blount knelt down and pulled his knife. He quickly etched arcane sigils into the wood. It wouldn’t stop them if they followed, but it would slow them down.

  Jensen started firing. The children screamed as the hail of bullets impacted their decayed bodies, but they didn’t fall. The click of the hammer filled the entryway. Blount reached into his coat and pulled out a fistful of ammunition. He offered it to Jensen. She had already pulled a fresh mag from her belt, but he shook his head.

  “Your ammo will only piss them off,” he said. “Here, these are blessed. They will have a more desirable effect.”

  “But they're the wrong cali . . .”

  “Trust me, they'll fit.”

  Jensen thumbed her useless bullets from the mag and shakily loaded the fresh rounds. Blount smiled and helped Jensen to her feet. “Glad to have you back.”

  Jensen shot him a withering glance and brushed herself off. She spied the sigils on the floor and fixed Blount with a questioning look.

  “Stay here,” Blount ordered. “I’m going after Elea. The sigils should hold them off. If they get any closer blow their little heads off.”

  Blount waved off her protests and headed deeper into the house.

  ***

  The children just stood there, gazes fixed on something she couldn’t see. The air shimmered around the children as if something passed around them, like a boat creating a wake. Jensen found their gazes unsettling. Still, they weren’t attacking and she took some small comfort from that. Whatever the children saw, she was glad she couldn’t. If it scared them, she’d be paralyzed.

  Blount had been gone for an eternity. The house was silent, unwilling to give up its secrets. The air felt heavy and Jensen found it difficult to suck in a satisfying breath. The children hadn’t moved since the first attack. They weren’t even breathing.

  Of course not, they’re dead, idiot! Jensen blinked sweat from her eyes. She had the feeling if she looked away, for even a second, the children would move closer. She wanted to call out to Blount, but feared her voice would trigger the children somehow. She suddenly felt very tired. All she wanted to do was lie down on the floor and close her eyes. Her old life felt like a distant memory. The bowl of soggy corn flakes she’d choked down this morning felt years away. Jensen stiffened as she heard an anguished cry from deep within the house.

  Despite the terror paralyzing her, Jensen couldn’t ignore the sounds of distress. She was an officer, and those instincts spurred her to action. She turned her back on the children and rushed to the staircase.

  ***

  Blount followed his senses as he raced up the staircase. Faint traces of Elea hung in the wake of her passing. He paused at the top of the stairs and peered down the dark hallway, wary of a trap. This was all too easy. Elea never retreated before. She’d always preferred to meet him head on. Why was she running now? Was she vulnerable, or only feigning weakness?

  When he couldn’t sense a trap, visible or psychic, he started forward. The first room was on his right. The door was open and he saw the room was bare. He continued forward. The next three rooms were as equally bare. He paused at the end of the hall. A massive oak door barred his path. He reached forward and placed a hand against the ancient wood. The door thrummed beneath his touch. Great power was just on the other side. He felt it reach out hungrily for him.

  Blount took a breath and pushed through the door. He gasped as he surveyed the room. Unblemished and still, the two children rested upon an altar. The door slammed behind him. He could feel Elea’s breath at his neck.

  “I’ve searched for so long,” Elea sighed. “I’ve traversed the worlds, the multiverses, for the secrets they concealed. At long last, they will live again and I will have what was taken from me. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. You’ve been their salvation all along, Blount, you who walk between the worlds. I searched the worlds over for another like us, but we are the only ones. I didn’t want it this way . . .”

  Blount tried to turn and found he could not. He willed his arm to raise the gun, but his body was no longer his own.

  “Release it. Now.”

  His hand rebelled his mind and opened. The pistol clattered to the floor. Elea came around to face him. She smiled sadly as Blount struggled vainly against the containing spell.

  Blount focused all his energies and fought, but the spell was strong. Blood seeped from his nose from the strain. He glanced upwards and grimaced as he spied the bloodied sigils on the ceiling. Elea touched his shoulder and shook her head.

  “Struggle not so, my love,” she whispered.

  She walked over to the altar, picking up a jeweled dagger. She leaned down and gently kissed each of the children’s foreheads, brushing the stray locks from their faces. She motioned for Blount to come forward. He struggled, but had no choice. His legs obeyed her bidding.

  Blount racked his brain, searching the far reaches for any counter to this powerful magic. His body came to a stop just before the altar. Distantly, he felt his shins brush the black stone. Elea made another precise gesture and his left arm shot out before him. She ran the dagger down the length of his arm. He watched as his blood welled from the gash and dripped to the stone. The stone thrummed greedily as his blood seeped into its black embrace.

  He cried out in agony as his life force drained from his body, forced to flow even faster as the stone gulped its fill. His blood gathered around the boy and he began to move.

  Elea whirled towards the door as it burst open. Jensen took in the horrific scene in an instant. She leveled her gun on the witch and fired. Elea screamed as the consecrated bullets ripped through her outstretched hands and into her chest and body.

  “Nooooo!”

  The child began to convulse and writhe on the stone. Hansel’s eyes sprang open. He reached out and grasped his sister’s hand and unleashed a mournful yowl. His head swiveled to the side and he saw his mother stumbling against the side of the altar, breathing heavily. Blount was covered in her blood. He blinked the gore from his eyes, finding he could move once again.

  He staggered back from the altar and struggled to stop the room from spinning. Jensen rushed to his side, catching him as he collapsed to the floor. A small vial slipped from his coat. In her haste to prop up Blount, Jensen sent the vial careening across the floor with her foot.

  “Grab the vial!” Blount gasped. “It’s the only way . . .”

  Jensen lowered him to the floor and went scrambling after the vial. Hansel leapt from the altar, landing squarely on her back. Jensen cried out as the boy’s weight sent her crashing to the floor; her chin connecting soundly with the unyielding floor and stars darted across her vision.

  Blount grabbed the side of the altar, hauling himself to his feet. The blood was slowly making its way towards Gretel. He lunged forward, shoving the body off the altar just before the blood reached her. He stumbled across the room in pursuit of the vial.

  Hansel entwined his little fingers in Jensen’s hair and began to bang her head against the floor. There was a glow in his eyes. Blount knew this was not the small innocent boy he’d buried so long ago. Ghede had come back and taken the boy’s place.

  He reached the vial and clutched it in his fist. Blount reached down and grabbed the boy by the hair, wrenching his head back. The boy snapped at him with savage teeth. Blount timed his move and shoved the vial in the boy’s mouth, forcing it closed. The vial broke and white-hot light exploded from the boy’s eyes, noses, and mouth as the liquid flooded his being.

  As quickly as it had all started, the boy went limp. Ghede screamed with frustration as he was forced back to his own existence. Blount grabbed the child and flung the body as far as he could. The boy exploded against the far wall spraying blood, gristle, and bone. Blount collapsed next to Jensen and gently lifted her head. He brushed the hair from her face. “Jensen! Jensen! Are you with me?”

  A few moments later, he tenderly lowered her head back to the floor.

  Damn.

  She w
as gone. He gained his feet wearily and shuffled over to his gun. He bent down, groaning like a man of ninety. His pistol retrieved, he looked over the room, shuddering as fresh tears streamed down his face. He should’ve protected Jensen. He felt her loss deeply. So many had died in his wake. He glanced out the window and wept as he saw the shells of the slain children. They were no longer animated, merely hollow husks of damnation, shards of the broken. He closed his eyes and whispered a few ancient words over their souls. Hopefully, he could provide them with some small semblance of peace.

  The cost had been great, but Elea had been stopped once more. He wasn’t surprised to see her body missing. She’d return and they’d do this dance all over again.

  And he would be ready to do his duty.

  As always.

  THE THIEF OF SOULS

  by Vincent L. Scarsella

  What has been so far done by electricity is

  nothing as compared with what the future has in store.

  —Nikola Tesla

  When Nancy Lane entered my office that Tuesday afternoon, the first thing I noticed was her red, swollen eyes. An attractive, slim blonde in her mid-thirties, she had been referred by her divorce lawyer, Tom Bridge, who regularly used my services to spy on cheating spouses.

  “Tom said your divorce became final last week,” I began after Mrs. Lane sat down on the chair facing my desk. “That begs the question why you need my services in the first place.” I gave her a kindly smile. “Perhaps my fee would be better spent on a vacation, a Caribbean cruise perhaps?”

  “I don’t need a vacation, or a cruise,” she said bitterly. “What I need to know is why Paul, my ex-husband, left me.”

  In the next moment, Mrs. Lane was sobbing into her hands. I said nothing, letting her grieve. After a time, she drew in a breath, composed herself.

  “What I need to know,” she continued, sniffling a moment, “is what could make a man be perfectly happy and in love with a woman one day, and then leave her the next?

  Sometimes there was no explanation, no reason, I thought to myself. Sometimes, love just dies. But I saw there was no use talking her out of hiring me, or if not me, someone else. So why not me? I could use the money. And if I didn’t take it, one of my competitors certainly would. According to Tom Bridge, Paul Lane, the ex-husband, had been surprisingly accommodating in the divorce, and had left Mrs. Lane quite financially secure. So now the ex-Mrs. Lane had plenty of money to spend, even for a foolish purpose.

  I accepted the job, quoted my usual rate. She signed a standard retainer and wrote out a check for my initial fee and expenses.

  Afterwards, she filled in some details to help me better understand the case, and I had to admit, the more I heard, the more I understood why something was bothering her. Again she stated her basic premise: The Paul Lane who had come home from work one night two months ago, and brusquely demanded a divorce, was not the same Paul Lane who had left the house that morning. How and why that had happened was what she wanted to know.

  The night before, they had made love, a torrid session in another of their futile attempts to get her pregnant. But this session was not a mere biological act; it was full of passion and delight.

  “He was my soul mate,” she said. “My best friend. And we had never been closer than that last night.” She stopped, drew a breath, again close to tears.

  She told me a few more things, and some of them, if true, were certainly curious. For example, the day after he had left her, Lane had inherited the fortune of an eccentric, reclusive scientist, Desmond Rostow, including Rostow’s locally-celebrated mansion, a sprawling Georgian monstrosity on Old Lake Shore Road along the edge of Lake Erie.

  I asked her about Mister Lane’s connection to Rostow that would cause the old man to leave him his fortune. She had no idea. Paul had not once mentioned the man, or even the Rostow name, in their ten years of marriage

  After Mrs. Lane left my office that afternoon, I sat for a time at my desk thinking about the case. I had to admit that despite my initial reservations, the job intrigued me. The Rostow angle added just the right dash of mystery to get the juices flowing.

  ***

  The first thing I did was stake-out the Rostow mansion. I found a hidden nook along the shoulder of Old Lake Shore Road where I could park my inconspicuous little Ford Focus sedan, giving me a clear, unobstructed view of the long, narrow driveway that wound its way down from the house. My initial thought was to simply watch Lane’s comings and goings for a couple of days to get a sense of the man, what he was about.

  But during those two days and nights of observation, nothing much happened. Lane stayed put for the most part, taking occasional jaunts in a black Mercedes E-Class sedan to a small diner in a nearby village or to a shopping mall a little farther out. The car was driven by a stone-faced, thickly built, twenty-something chauffeur with Lane an impassive backseat passenger.

  Finally, I had enough and decided my time would be better spent back at the office researching the connection between Lane and Rostow. I went straight to the Internet, Googled the name, “Desmond Rostow,” and was instantly rewarded with a long list of web links, including a Wikipedia entry. What I learned surprised and intrigued me. They could have made a movie out the guy.

  Though certainly not a household name, Rostow had an interesting and mysterious career. It had even started off quite extraordinary. In the early 1940’s, after marrying a pretty young thing named Judith, Rostow had been mentored by none other than Nikola Tesla toward the end of that famously eccentric inventor’s career. During this phase, Tesla had spent his time on bizarre inventions such as the Hyperdimensional Oscillator, the Teleforce Weapon, also known as the Death Ray, and the Wireless Brainwave Magnifying Transmitter.

  After his apprenticeship ended with Tesla’s death in 1943, there was a long period of nothing regarding Rostow. But in 1960, he resurfaced. Several patents for ingenious inventions, each related to the wireless transmission of electrical energy, were filed in his name, some of which gained top secret, and still unpublicized, military application. Of course, all of this made Rostow filthy rich.

  Then, in 1971, just as suddenly as he had emerged, Rostow returned to obscurity. Quite literally, he was never heard from again in academic or scientific circles. He became a recluse, a mad scientist cliché. Thirty years later, what he had been working on all these years, or whether he was even working at all, was still the subject of speculation among obscure journalists and conspiracy theorists. Between his self-exile from the world of science and the public eye in 1971, until his sudden death in 2009, at the age of 86, not one patent had been filed in his name.

  All this was nice to know, and added a measure of further intrigue to the case, but after finishing my research that night and going to bed bleary-eyed for the effort, I was no closer to understanding why Rostow had left his fortune to Paul Lane, seemingly a perfect stranger. And I was no closer to understanding what my client needed to know – why Lane had suddenly and mysteriously left her.

  The next morning, I headed downtown to the record room of the county surrogate’s court, and after an intolerable wait, a grumpy clerk told me there was no file for Rostow’s Estate. The clerk glared at me when I told her she must be mistaken and with a shrug, sent me on my way.

  I walked to another old building next door, rode up an ancient, rickety elevator to the third floor, and found the musty index room listing all property transactions in the county dating back to the 1790s. There, after a much shorter wait, and for a ten dollar fee, I obtained a copy of the deed to the Rostow mansion which indicated, to my surprise, that Rostow had signed the property over to Lane on the very day he died.

  When I got back to the office, I called Tom Bridge. After telling him that the Rostow mansion had passed to Lane directly by deed, and not, as I had expected, through Rostow’s will—that, in fact, Rostow hadn’t even had a Will—I asked him to explain, first of all, was that legal, and second, why it had been done that way.

 
“Sure, it’s legal,” Tom told me. “My best guess is that it was done that way to avoid probate. Saves a ton of money in estate fees and taxes. And, second, the transfer is instantaneous. Probating an estate takes months.”

  “So a person can transfer everything he owns to another person before he dies—real estate, bank accounts, stocks and bonds—without a will?”

  “Sure,” Tom said. “Only problem, once the property, bank account, or stock certificate is transferred, it ceases to be the property of the transferor. So he’d have to trust the transferee immensely. Or, know that he was going to die in fairly short order.”

  “Well, that appears to be exactly what happened here. Rostow signed over his fortune to Paul Lane the same day he died.”

  After speaking with Bridge, I called Mrs. Lane to give her an update.

  “It’s all very curious,” I said, “but, unfortunately, provides no answers.”

  “So what’s next?” she asked.

  “I stake out the mansion again. Maybe that will lead to something.”

  ***

  I sprawled out on the narrow cot in my office and slept for a couple hours before heading back to the nook along the road across from the Rostow mansion. Nothing much happened until nine p.m., when out came the Mercedes sedan. Like before, Lane wasn’t driving, but was a dark figure in the back seat, with the same chauffeur.

  The Mercedes took a left turn onto Old Lake Shore Road and I hunkered down as it went directly past the nook. I waited a moment before starting the engine, then quickly made a u-turn and headed after them.

  They took a fifteen minute drive toward the city, until finally pulling into the lot of a diner in a suburb immediately south of it not far from an expressway interchange. The chauffeur waited in the car while Lane went into the restaurant. I pulled into a parking space, which was empty at that time of night. I strolled into the restaurant. A dour hostess led me to a booth a couple down where Lane was sitting. With him was a lovely, long-haired, shapely blonde who looked to be in her mid to late twenties. They were speaking casually, smiling, laughing now and then.