Scarsdale Crematorium (The Haunted Book 4)

by Patrick Logan

  “Yes,” the neck exclaimed, before breaking into a long, slow laugh. “Yes, Jonah, yes.”

  Jonah’s vision started to darken, the bright orange and yellow flames seeming to dim despite him being closer now. And then, when he was within two feet of the oven, the heat so powerful that he felt his lips start to blister, Jonah did the unthinkable.

  He reached out and put both of his hands on the scalding ledge of the oven. Even through the heavy gloves, there was an immediate hiss of his flesh searing, but he took no notice.

  All Jonah wanted to do was to crawl inside the oven—to cuddle up next to Mrs. Kyra, to give her tit one final squeeze.

  And he would have. There was no doubt in his twisted mind that that was exactly what he would have done.

  But a voice, another voice, drew him back.

  “Get over here, Jonah.”

  Jonah turned his head around, and this broke whatever spell the corpse had on him.

  There was a man in the shadows, a tall, thin man that was but a silhouette in the darkness. Jonah tried to pull away, intending on grabbing the shovel, but his gloves had bonded to the hot ceramic.

  “Vinny?” he asked, pain starting to shoot up his arms. “Vinny, is that you? I need—I need help, please, Mrs. Kyra—Mrs. Kyra, she—”

  The silhouette shook his head.

  “It’s not Vinny—but I’ve seen what you’ve done here.”

  Jonah suddenly gritted his teeth. He was immediately transported back to the time when Johnny Parker had peered over the top of the stall and had caught him masturbating in the ninth grade. That single act had set his life careening into a downward spiral of torment and self-loathing. That was why he liked his job so much—the dead never complained. The dead never mocked or teased him.

  “You’ve seen nothing! I was doing nothing! Just my job, that’s all!” he yelled.

  The man in the shadows laughed, and Jonah’s fury grew. With newfound strength, he managed to peel his hands away from the ceramic oven, leaving two rubber handprints and several layers of bubbling skin behind.

  Still, he barely acknowledged the horrible pain that shot up his arms.

  “You laugh at me?” he hissed. “You dare laugh at Jonah Silvers? Do you know who I am? Do you know what I’ve done?”

  Jonah’s eyes darted to the shovel that he had dropped earlier. He didn’t know if he would be able to grip it with his mangled hands, but he was determined to try.

  “You saw nothing!” he screamed. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

  But the man’s laughter only increased in pitch.

  “Oh, Jonah, you couldn’t kill me. You can’t do anything to me. In fact, you’re just a little fucking pervert, aren’t you? Diddling dead bodies—that’s your thing, isn’t it? It’s not killing.”

  Jonah’s rage abated, as it had that day more than twenty years ago. It fled him because the man was right. He was no killer. He never was. He was just a weak, pathetic pervert.

  “You know what I like about you, Jonah? I like that you’re loyal, and that’s what I need right now. Someone who is loyal.”

  “What—what do you need me for?” Jonah asked, his voice meek now.

  “I’m building an army.”

  “An army? What—?”

  But then the man stepped forward, and for the first time since he had appeared, seemingly out of midair, he stepped into the light from the fire.

  A gasp escaped Jonah as the man laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “Carson? Is that you? How—?”

  But then the man started laughing again, cutting off his words.

  Chapter 2

  “You have the camera set up?”

  Allan double-checked the lens, making sure that it was screwed on tight.

  “Yes?” Cal asked.

  “Yep, we’re good,” he replied, trying to keep the trepidation he felt in his chest from leaking into his voice.

  “You sure?”

  Allan shrugged, his confidence eking out of him with every subsequent query.

  “Think so, think so.”

  Shelly threw up her arms.

  “This is fucking stupid. Really? Using the cameras to, what, capture the quiddity?”

  Cal pulled his eye away from the camera and stared at Shelly over the smattering of tombstones.

  “What, Shelly? What do you want us to say? What could we possibly say that would make you happy? Huh?”

  Shelly stared back at him for a moment, then she crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips.

  “Well?”

  “Never mind.”

  She took a step backward, as if conceding her contribution to the half-cocked experiment.

  But Cal wasn’t done—not yet. Ever since Robert had forced Sean to lower the helicopter in an empty field, of all places, and had gotten out despite his, Shelly’s, and Sean’s pleas, she had been acting off.

  And that was three months ago.

  Fuck her. Like Rob, it isn’t always about you, Shelly. Get over yourself.

  “He’s not coming back, Shel. Just accept that, move on. I have. He’s a selfish prick, left us here to deal with this mess all by ourselves.”

  Shelly’s face scrunched, and for a brief moment, he thought he had pushed her beyond the breaking point.

  Tough love—she needs tough love.

  But then, to his surprise, her expression relaxed.

  “You’re right, Cal. I’m sorry.”

  The response was so foreign that it floored him, and he immediately changed his tone.

  “Guys? I think we should pay attention. I mean, I get that—”

  “Shel? You okay? You want to—?”

  “Guys!”

  The fear in Allan’s voice drew Cal’s gaze away from Shelly’s downcast eyes.

  “What, Allan? What is it?”

  He hadn’t intended for the words to come out with such vehemence, but the truth was that he shared some of Shelly’s apprehension about the whole setup.

  It was Allan who had proposed the idea, which came as no surprise, as he was the only one of the three who had any savvy when it came to computers or technology. He said he had been working on an idea, an idea that the cameras that he had fashioned that could see the quiddity might also be able to capture them.

  It sounded farfetched, but what was he supposed to do? Cal didn’t even consider doing what Robert had back in Seaforth: demanding the quiddity to stop. He had no fucking clue how Robbo had done that—none of them did—or even exactly what he had done, but it was clear to them that it was something that was unique to him.

  “Guys? There’s someone here.”

  Cal snapped out of his head and looked up from the one of three cameras that they had set up to triangulate the quiddity.

  A tall, thin man with thick gray hair stepped into the clearing. Cal gaped and stared at the man, who seemed, at least for the moment, oblivious to their presence.

  Well, no matter how farfetched, we are going to put it to the test sooner rather than later.

  The man’s eyesight must have been poor; he moved cautiously through the tall grass at a snail’s pace. Cal had had a blind aunt once, and she’d walked the same way, the soles of her feet always staying in contact with the ground to ensure that there were no surprise stairs or cliffs looming.

  Cal looked to Shelly, who was staring bug-eyed at the man, who he realized was dressed in some sort of naval regalia. She must have sensed his gaze, because she slowly turned her head to face him. Cal shrugged, then indicated the camera mounted on a tripod a few feet from her.

  Shelly slid toward the camera.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” the man suddenly shouted, lifting his head. Cal turned to Allan next, mouthing the words, ‘What the fuck do we do now?’

  Allan used his finger to indicate the area in the grass that they had aimed the only light at, where they planned to lure the quiddity into in order to test the boy’s insane theory.

  How the fuck am I supposed to get him to wal
k through there?

  The man with the gray hair suddenly turned his nose skyward and appeared to be sniffing the air.

  “I know you bastards are here,” he spat. “What have you done with my wife?”

  Cal shook his head.

  His wife?

  The man’s confused demeanor reminded him of the guard at Seaforth, and before that, Jacky Harlop, desperately cleaning the floor of the Harlop Estate.

  ‘Go!’ Allan mouthed. ‘Go!’

  Cal took another look at the blind man sniffing the air, and decided what the hell. Being blind, or nearly blind, there was no way that the man would be able to catch him if things went wrong.

  And maybe it was a good time to test his new energy and physique.

  Cal made up his mind and stepped forward into the clearing between the whitewashed tombstones.

  “Hey!” he shouted, giving a shrug to Shelly when she narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I knew it,” the man sneered. “Where is she?”

  Cal took another step, making sure that the clearing was directly between himself and the old man.

  “Yeah, we have your wife…why don’t you come and get her?”

  The man paused, still sniffing the air.

  And then his old bones seemed to defrost, and he suddenly bolted, sprinting at an alarming speed toward Cal.

  “Shit!” Cal yelled, his eyes bulging. He swiveled and started to run in the opposite direction as the old man quickly closed the twenty or so feet between them. His first instinct was to flee into the woods, to get the fuck away from the crazed navy officer who seemed to be channeling his inner Usain Bolt, but Allan’s shout directed him elsewhere.

  “Cal! The camera! Get to the camera!”

  He took a hard right, skidding on the dewy grass. Breathing heavily, he righted himself behind the camera just as the man sped into the triangulated area.

  “Now!” Allan shouted. “Take the picture now!”

  Cal, red-faced, his legs burning, didn’t even bother to look through the viewfinder. Instead, he just jammed the shutter button on top furiously.

  But the man just kept coming.

  “Allan?” he shouted.

  But it was too late; the quiddity in the navy regalia crashed directly into his tripod.

  And then he fell on top of Cal.

  Chapter 3

  “And the rift is closed?”

  Sean Sommers nodded.

  “Closed,” he confirmed. The figure sitting across from him was draped in a heavy cloak, blanketing his features in shadows. When he spoke, his words were constricted and androgynous.

  “Did you do it?”

  Sean shook his head.

  “No? Who, then?”

  “Robert,” he said. “Robert took out the keeper of the book, closed the rift. Leland was still trapped inside.”

  The man in the cloak tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating Sean’s words, and the hood shifted, revealing a pasty white chin. His hands, which were smaller than Sean might have thought given the man’s raspy voice, quickly moved to pull it tight again.

  “What about the book? Did you locate the book?”

  Sean shook his head.

  “Negative. Had some men check out the church, but they couldn’t locate it. But…but I think you should know that we aren’t the only ones looking for it.”

  Again, the head tilt.

  “No?” the man asked, surprise on his tongue. “You did say that Carson died in the explosion—we went to great lengths to cover that up, Sean. It wasn’t easy convincing the media that the explosion off the shore of New Jersey was from a gas bubble, unearthed by recent seismic activity. But those that knew of the prison…they were more difficult to persuade.”

  Sean again shook his head.

  “No, Carson’s dead.”

  There was a short pause.

  “You’re sure?”

  Sean looked down at his hands when he answered.

  “Yes. Did it myself,” he lied. “Robert took out the priest, I took out Carson.”

  “And what of Robert now? Robert and his gang? Are they ready for their next task?”

  Sean’s fingers tensed on the hard wooden table.

  “No, that’s the thing…it’s Robert who’s looking for the book. He knows of the prophecy.”

  For a long time, the man across from him said nothing. Eventually, when the silence dragged on for so long that Sean started to feel as if time had slowed, as it had back at the prison, he raised his gaze.

  “Sir? Is—?”

  “How many Guardians are left, Sean?”

  Sean did some mental math.

  “Three,” he said firmly.

  “And the rift can only be opened using one of them—that’s what the prophecy says, correct? A Guardian or the Keeper of the Book?”

  Sean nodded.

  “Yes—three, now that the Keeper is gone. Only a Guardian trapped between worlds can open the rift, and only the girl can hold it open long enough for the souls to come back.”

  The man in the cloak made a sucking sound with his teeth.

  “Let me ask you something, Sean: what good are the Guardians if they can’t guard anything? If their very existence threatens the solemnity of the Marrow?”

  Sean bit his lip, knowing what was coming next.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier just to eliminate every one of them?”

  Sean didn’t answer. The cloaked man knew, of course, that Sean himself was one of the remaining three.

  “For now, let’s just keep it simple. Find the book, Sean—we wouldn’t want it landing in the wrong hands. That’s your priority. Are the others at the Harlop Estate still of use?”

  Sean contemplated this for a moment. There was Shelly, of course, but the other two…

  “Maybe,” he said at last.

  “Maybe,” the man repeated. “Your ambivalence in this situation is alarming. After all, this is your mess—it was you who revealed yourself to Robert and brought him into the fold, which started this whole chain of events. You are aware of this, aren’t you? I specifically recommended that you keep him out of this.”

  Again, Sean remained silent.

  The man sighed.

  “What are the chances that Robert finds the book?”

  “Low—minimal. If my men couldn’t find it, then I doubt he can. But, I feel compelled to tell you that the man’s power is growing. He singlehandedly—”

  The man waved his hand dismissively.

  “You need to find the book. That is your priority. Even though the rift is closed for now, I still sense a disturbance. There are more dead hanging around than there should be. If the Harlop Trio are still of use, send them to vanquish some of the more aggressive ones. But find the book.”

  Sean nodded and started to stand, his hand sneaking into his pocket and fondling the worn package of cigarettes therein.

  “But this time, Sean, be discreet about it. There will be no more accidents.”

  Sean swallowed hard and nodded briskly before leaving the room.

  Once outside the apartment complex, he lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  There will be no more accidents.

  Obtuse, vague.

  Unfortunately, Sean was well aware of what would happen to him if he slipped up again.

  Chapter 4

  Michael Grant Young turned off the shower and stepped onto the heated slate tiles. As the steam billowed around him, he grabbed one of several plush cotton towels with the initials MGY on the trim and wrapped it around his waist. Deliberately, but without haste, he walked to the mirror next, allowing time for the fog to clear.

  As he continued to wait, Michael set up his shaving utensils: he laid the Silvertip Badger hair shaving brush on the Cesar stone countertop, then gently put the container of bespoke shaving cream, which had been specifically designed for his skin, beside it. The straight razor came next, but with this item Michael took an additional moment to confirm that it was still sharp, holding it up and
angling it in the natural lighting. Satisfied, he placed that alongside the other accoutrements. When he raised his eyes, the fog had cleared.

  In the mirror was the reflection of a well-groomed man in his late thirties, with short, jet-black hair, a strong jaw, perfectly straight nose, and eyes that matched his hair in intensity and color.

  Handsome, by any standard.

  But that was only his reflection; the real Michael Grant Young was buried deep inside, so deep that it would take much more than a mirror to reveal his true nature. And the true Michael Young was something far, far uglier. The image in the mirror was only the empty shell that housed his self, his uniqueness, his essence, which was far greater than the sum of meat and bones and organic matter.

  And real; that Michael Young was the real Michael Young, the one that few got to see and lived to talk about it.

  He smiled and picked up the brush, gently dipping the soft hair into the cream. He was about to bring it to his cheek when he noticed several streaks of blood just beneath his jaw line.

  Smirking, he dampened a white washcloth, also monogrammed, and wiped the blood away. Then he set about lathering his face and completed the same shaving ritual he had performed for the last five years.

  After shaving, Michael dressed in a bespoke navy suit, complete with a tie three shades lighter than the jacket. Using the long brass shoehorn hanging on the inside of his walk-in closet, Michael slid his tan loafers on.

  Then he headed downstairs to the chef’s kitchen.

  He opened the stainless steel fridge door, and a coy smile crept onto his face as he surveyed the interior. It was nearly empty, a consequence of the intermittent fasting that he had been partaking in for years now. There were, however, several bottles of sparkling water lining the door, and he grabbed one. After closing the fridge, he leaned up against it, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. He swished the liquid around in his mouth and then swallowed.

  The effervescent bubbles tickled his throat as they went down, and he waited for the sensation to hit his stomach before taking another big sip.