by Glenn Porzig
Alexander Drake had been waiting for this. An opportunity to get his hands on Nichols' rare book collection. As Brother Jamie, James had witnessed an exorcism, from that moment on he had been a recluse. With his wealth and free time he had gathered artifacts and studied the occult. His collection had grown impressive over the last thirteen years.
That was what Drake had been doing in earnest the last six months, and he had finally exhausted all of the occult books that he could find. Nichols' collection of rare and esoteric books would be a treasure trove of information... if he could manage to win the auction.
Drake felt a little out of his element. Everyone was wearing expensive clothes. This event obviously brought in collectors from out of town. Since Nichols was a best selling author who died a horrific death, his estate sale obviously caught the attention of a wide range of buyers.
Some were probably morbid collectors here only because of the way he died. Others may have been fans of his books, wanting to own a piece of him. The only ones Drake was concerned with were the true collectors of rare and esoteric books. He hoped he had enough money to outbid them.
He took a spot towards the back so he could keep an eye on the people coming and going. Right as the auction was about to begin a woman caught his eye. She confidently strolled in at the last minute and made her way to the front. She wore a tight fitting royal blue dress that hugged the curves of her slender body. The dress wasn't revealing, but the material and its perfect fit left little to the imagination.
He wasn't the only one who was watching her. Everyone had their eyes on the beautiful stranger. She found a chair and sat, flipping her sleek raven hair back over her shoulders. He had never seen her before, but the way she dressed and carried herself made him suspect that she came here with plenty of money to spend.
A hush grew across the room as the auctioneer stepped to the podium. Many of the audience pulled open their catalogs and waited for the lot number they were interested in bidding on to be announced.
The auctioneer droned on and on. Drake grew bored from watching the antique furniture and assorted trinkets being auctioned off. Some he recognized from his time spent at Nichols' home. His anticipation kept growing as he sat silently listening for the lot of books to come up for bid.
"Up next we have lot 236, a collection of rare and antique books from the author's private collection. This lot includes rare first edition printings from famous horror authors, including Nichols' own books. It also contains his research books on cults, witchcraft, and ancient belief systems."
The auctioneer pointed to a stack of books representing only a fraction of the collection.
"Interested parties were able to request a complete listing of the titles included in this rare, and highly coveted collection. We begin with a suggested opening bid of ten thousand dollars."
A hand went up. Drake strained to see who it belonged to. It was a pale Gothic looking fellow, tall and slim, he looked to be wearing eyeliner. He didn't seem to like the attention and sheepishly lowed his hand. Drake was encouraged to see there was someone even more uncomfortable to be there than him.
"We have ten thousand, do I hear fifteen?" asked the auctioneer.
"Fifteen," came a voice from the far side of the hall. Things were getting out of Drake's price range quickly. He had some funds set aside; his IRA in addition to his police pension plan. Now would be a suitable occasion to raid the bank.
"Twenty." The words came out of his mouth, but it was surreal, like he was watching someone else say it. Spending all of that money at once, that was usually reserved for buying a car, or a down-payment on a house. He started to second guess himself and his resolve to own the books.
He didn't have much time to consider the ramifications of parting with such a large sum because, from the front of the room came another bid. A woman's voice. "Forty thousand."
"Forty thousand," repeated the auctioneer. "Do I hear forty five?"
There was murmuring as some hopefuls in the audience looked at their catalogs one last time before the bid was final.
"Sold to the lady in the front row for forty thousand dollars!"
She stood and glanced back at Drake before turning to walk out. Her piercing blue eyes burning into his memory.
He was crestfallen at losing the opportunity to learn from the rare books in the collection, but now something else had his attention. Who was this beautiful woman, and what did she want with these books?
Drake went out to his El Camino to leave, but before he could start the car he suddenly became light headed. He braced himself against the dash with one hand, the other went to his temple. He rapidly squinted his eyes in an attempt to get them to focus. His heart pumped faster—blood rushed though him—heartbeat pounding like drums in his ears. Suddenly everything went black. He had passed out in the driver's seat.
***
"Sister, thanks for meeting with me. I'm sorry to trouble you with this." Drake shut the convent door behind him, and looked up and down the hall to make sure they were alone.
"Oh, don't be silly, it's no trouble at all. What's bothering you dear?" Sister Mary Francis gave him a comforting smile.
"I had some sort of vision. I don't know what else to call it. I'd like to think I'm not seeing things but..."
"Tell me about it," she said softly as she reached up and took his trembling hand and encircled it in her frail hands.
Drake took a moment to compose himself. He thought back, recreating the ominous visions in his head. He wiped his face with his free hand and began to speak.
"I was alone in a field, and the sky filled with terrible dark storm clouds. They started to get darker and move faster. The sky turned red and lit up like flames. Thunder shook the ground as I walked.
"In the distance I saw a woman. A nun. She was praying. I approached her and she turned slowly towards me..."
"Go on."
"It was Sister Marian—but her eyes—her eyes were all white, glossed over like when she was possessed. She spoke to me."
"What did she say, dear?"
"She said 'There is a storm coming,' and then it started to rain blood. I woke up with my eyes bleeding."
"Oh, my. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just concerned—I don't know what this means—or why it's happening to me."
"Be strong dear. Visions happened to many people in the Bible, I think it just means you've been chosen. There is a great tribulation looming, and it would appear both you and Sister Marian will have a part to play in it."
THE END
Darkness Unbound:
Shadow of Death
"Officer down!" The words came screaming across his radio sending a jolt through him. Detective Alexander Drake was enjoying a coffee break when the call came through. He recognized the voice. It was Officer De La Rosa. Drake knew the officer had been dealing with the Mayor's youth crimes initiative, another bureaucratic program attempting to cut down on the ever worsening flow of drugs spreading through the community. Drugs spread mainly by the recently expanding Hispanic gangs.
"Officer needs assistance at Lakewood drive!" Drake knew the address; he'd seen it on a half-dozen homicide reports, none of them solved. It was a rough neighborhood, and it was close. He tossed his coffee in the trash and ran for his car, not taking the time to buckle up before switching on his lights and siren. The heavy old El Camino lurched as its massive four hundred and fifty horsepower engine roared to life. He tore across the street like a madman. The siren pierced the night air and sent the traffic ahead scattering to make room for him to race past.
He'd known Hector De La Rosa since back when they both worked the beat. He wasn't about to let him be killed in the line of duty—not if he had anything to say about it. Another few moments and he would be there. He braced himself for the worst. His Super Sport skidded around a corner and he saw the street ahead lit up by flashing colored lights. There on the ground next the cruiser was Drake's fellow officer, clutching his side—precious blood p
ouring from his wound.
Drake slammed on his brakes and whipped the car sideways. His door was open before the car had even come to a complete stop. He thrust the gearshift into park and slid out of the seat. The car's door would offer some cover, he crouched down behind it and pulled his .45 Automatic from his shoulder holster.
"Hector, you okay?" he yelled out as he peered through the window and made a quick assessment of the situation. The fallen officer only moaned in response. "You hang in there—help's on the way."
There was movement out in front of the police cruiser. Figures ducked in and out from doorways, briefly illuminated by the bright red and blue lights. The shooter was one of them—but which one? He could be dealing with multiple armed assailants. With De La Rosa incapacitated there was no way to tell.
The officer had been out here alone doing community outreach, and to show an increased police presence. He was trying to appeal to the sense of community of the drug dealers. It was a recipe for disaster. The only thing more selfish than a drug dealer was a drug user.
Drake believed what his mentor, O'Bannon, had taught him. That only swift punishment would send a message that the criminals on the street would understand. And his experience in the field had borne that out. Too many officers across the country were being shot by criminal thugs emboldened by a lifetime of being slapped on the wrist for their actions, ensuring that the severity of their crimes would only escalate.
"Throw down your guns and step out into the headlights where I can see you! Backup will be here shortly—you have no place to run!"
The shadowy figures were obscured by doorways and signage. One of them abruptly stepped out into the light. He was wearing a plaid shirt with the collar buttoned all the way up, in his hand was a 9mm pistol. "Screw you, ese! We're gettin' outta here!" The pistol, held sideways, barked loudly and punched two holes in Drake's shiny black car door. As quick as he had appeared the gang banger had melded back into the shadows.
Well, that one is armed, thought Drake as he looked for any sign that the others would follow suit. There was an uneasy silence. Maybe there's only one gunman. It was wishful thinking—another shot rang out, the muzzle flash briefly lighting up the night. Drake hunkered down behind the door making himself a smaller target, ready for another shot that didn't come.
"Last warning! Throw down your weapons if you want to live!" Drake heard sirens in the distance. If these punks were going to do something, they had better do it soon.
As if on cue, the first punk stepped out again, his pistol held high. "Go! Go! Go!" he shouted as he started firing at the detective.
A stray shot sent a spiderweb across the windshield of Drake's Super Sport. A second round punched through the window of the car door he was taking shelter behind.
Tired of them shooting up his car, and knowing that an officer's life was hanging in the balance, Drake dove out from behind cover and returned fire. The night air cracked with lightning and thunder as the .45 ACP sent hot lead through the air and into the yielding flesh of the first gunman.
Both shots found their target, the impact sending the gang banger spinning around and tumbling to the ground. The sight sent the other two punks into a panic. They bolted from cover in an attempt to evade the detective and disappear into the night. One of them pulled his piece and started wildly shooting behind him as he ran.
Drake stood his ground. He didn't have a death wish, far from it. He had died before—and come back. He knew what waited for him on the other side. He had come to terms with it.
The detective got a bead on the moving target who was firing at him and took a deep breath before calmly squeezing the trigger. There was a spray of blood in the headlights as the runner went down hard. His body made a sickening wet sound as it hit the pavement and rolled to a stop.
"You want a ride to the morgue with your friends?" Drake called out as he trained his gun on the third punk.
The last runner had managed to put a fair distance between him and the detective. His gait faltered as he looked back. Drake imagined what was going through his head. He figured he was weighing his options; a pistol shot would be more difficult at this distance, but he had seen what had happened to his friends. The punk cursed under his breath, tossed his gun to the ground, and slowed to a stop.
"Wise move," Drake said as he began walking towards the remaining gang member. "You'd better hope the cop lives, or I wouldn't want to be in your shoes." He took his left hand from its supporting position under his gun and reached back to his belt to pull out his cuffs. Just then, a cruiser pulled up and two officers jumped out. Momentarily distracted, Drake failed to notice the punk had pulled out a knife. When he turned back the punk was lunging—blade piercing the air, aimed for his throat.
Instinct kicked in and the Colt 1911 roared in his hand, hitting the assailant center mass and throwing him back. The knife went flying from the punk's hand as he struck the ground. Drake stepped over him, pistol aimed at the punk's head as he watched the life fade from his eyes.
"All good here," he called out. "Check on De La Rosa!"
***
"The ceremony is complete!" the blond smiled. "We have officially moved in!"
"That's all of it? You have every box unpacked?" asked Christopher Clarke, her husband. It had been weeks since they began the arduous process of moving in. "I'm impressed!"
Jessica Clarke flung her self down on the couch and kicked her feet up on the coffee table. "That's it. I'm never moving again!" she laughed as she leaned back and rested her head against her interlaced fingers.
"I thought you said no feet on the coffee table?"
"Special occasions require special exceptions, wouldn't you agree? Speaking of that… pop open some wine while you're up?" She wiggled her butt down deeper into the comfy couch. It felt good against her back after a long day of lifting and moving.
"Um, I hate to be a party pooper, but you do remember you start your new job tonight?" he asked hesitantly, wary of ruining her good mood.
"Oh, fine. Be that way. You always were the practical one. But maybe just one glass?"
"Of course!" Chris made his way into the kitchen.
She watched him walk away. He was still as fit and handsome as the day she met him.
Jessica was trying to be supportive, but she hadn't been a big fan of the move. This place was a step down from the house that they lived in before, but their mortgage had been upside down. The new house was okay, but it needed a lot of renovation. It had been foreclosed by the bank and they got a really good deal on it.
They had been struggling ever since Chris had lost his job at the architectural firm. It had been his idea to move. His plan was to renovate and flip the house while he looked for more work. Luckily, with her nursing degree it was a lot easier for her to move and still find work.
Jessica heard the cork pop off in the next room.
Chris was on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, he took losing his job hard. They had met in college and were married less than a year later. She had only been twenty. That was five years ago. He was just glad that their marriage was strong enough that she was willing to give up everything and move with him. He was scared of what the future held for them, but he was being proactive. Renovating and flipping houses may not have been his first choice, but it was something that he could do to keep food on the table until something more stable came along. If it ever did in this economy.
He returned with two wineglasses, each filled nearly to the brim. He walked slowly, watching the wine test the limits of the rim of the glass, careful not to splash any on the carpet.
"My hero!" Jessica beamed as she saw him struggling to bring her wine without spilling a drop.
"I know I said only one glass… so I thought I'd make it count," he smiled as he carefully handed her the overfull glass.
"A toast," Chris said as he carefully tilted his glass towards hers. "To the both of us. To starting over."
She leaned in and clinked her glass into his
, spilling wine on the coffee table. "To getting off the overnight shift as soon as possible!"
They each took a big sip of their wine and then passionately kissed.
***
"Three? Seriously? You shot three people this time?" Chief Underwood fumed as he leaned over his desk and got in Detective Drake's face.
"It was justified. An officer was down. Did you expect me to just let Hector bleed out, or let the men that shot him get away?"
"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that Officer De La Rosa is going to pull through. But you know the media in this town—heck, in the whole country. Everyone is screaming about police brutality. They don't care if it's justified!" A vein was standing out on the chief's forehead now.
The Detective tried to remain calm. He didn't take well to being berated and second guessed by his boss.
"You're just lucky we're still short staffed or I'd have you on the sidelines again. Some of the other officers have been saying that you gunned these perps down for the paid vacation so you can catch up on your reading!"
Drake smiled. He could use some time to catch up on his reading. The crime rate was up. It was getting more and more dangerous to be on the streets, especially in uniform, and any officers that could retire had done so. What with injuries, sick leave, and maternity leave, the department was barely keeping up with the increased caseload. The homicide department was particularly busy. He didn't like the pace at which the cold case file was growing.
Being chief of police was taking its toll on Underwood, he was looking noticeably older this last year, getting more gray in his hair. But not like Drake. Not quite thirty five and the detective's hair had prematurely gone completely white. Shock white. It can happen when an occurrence is so unsettling that your body responds by turning your hair white. It happened to him when he died and came back to life. They call it an NDE, Near Death Experience. But he knew he had actually died. Not that he could tell anyone about it.