Scarsdale Crematorium (The Haunted Book 4)

by Patrick Logan

All told, Michael downed half the bottle before screwing the cap back on and putting it in the fridge with the others. A quick glance at his Rolex revealed that it was almost seven, which meant he was right on schedule.

  He was halfway to the front door of his condo when a muted voice drifted up to him.

  Michael frowned; the lower level was supposed to be soundproof—had been soundproof, until a few moments ago.

  “Please…” the female voice whimpered. “Please let me go…I’ll—I’ll do anything.”

  It was difficult for him to make out the exact words as they filtered up through the furnace vent, or however they managed to find him, but he knew what they were nonetheless.

  The women always said the same thing.

  Michael rolled his eyes, and his hand slipped away from the doorknob. After short pause, he swiveled and briskly walked to the door beside the kitchen. He had had it covered in a thin veneer and painted to look exactly the same as the other doors in the house, but there was something about it that was just a little off. It was a consequence of being manufactured from three-inches of solid steel, he supposed.

  A necessary evil, as it were.

  With a sigh, Michael placed his thumb on the fingerprint reader off to the right, and then waited as the lock disengaged. When he opened the door, his nose crinkled at the smell of must and rot.

  Unlike the pristine upper floor to his condo, the lower half—the one that had cost him a pretty penny to have constructed, given that they had to essentially build a basement from scratch, turning his twelve foot ceilings into nine—was unfinished, unkempt, and downright filthy.

  Just the way he liked it.

  Michael had to duck under the beams that made up the ceiling, and he used his hand to swipe away the myriad of cobwebs that blocked his path. The worn wooden steps groaned under his weight, and he stepped carefully, making sure not to scuff his loafers. Only six short steps later and he found himself on the concrete floor.

  The lower level was more like a dungeon than the basement of a luxurious condo. This was his place, while the upstairs was just the shell’s place—MGY’s place, a place that he kept solely in order to keep up appearances.

  He crouched on his haunches as he moved deeper into the darkness; at six foot two and with ceilings just a hair over five feet, Michael couldn’t even come close to standing.

  “Please…anything,” the woman whispered again, this time her voice crystal clear. Michael followed her voice and made his way toward the east corner of the basement. As soon as he crossed the invisible sensor, a red light overhead clicked on, chasing the darkness with its pervasive glow. Out of habit, his eyes flicked up to the camera that was affixed to the corner of the room.

  The record light had automatically turned on.

  “Please…”

  Only after he was satisfied that everything was working as intended did Michael turn his attention to the three-by-three-foot iron cube before him. It too had cost a pretty penny to make, and had cost him even more for the welder that had built it to keep quiet.

  Inside, however, was the real prize. Inside, a blonde-haired woman in her mid-thirties sat huddled, her knees pressed tightly to her narrow chest. Her hair was damp and hung over her face, the visible parts of which were glistening from tears and sweat.

  “I’ll do anything,” she whispered, raising her eyes to look at him. She was pretty, a businesswoman whom he had picked up two nights ago at a dive bar, probably out trying to get over a recent breakup. Her beige skirt and matching jacket, then immaculate and probably designer, had seemed so out of place in the grungy atmosphere filled with the odor of sour beer.

  And that was it; all he’d had to do was spot that skirt and Michael had known that she would be an easy target.

  But now, the dress, like the rest of her, was a soiled mess.

  “Please,” she pleaded desperately. Michael felt a pang of hunger in his stomach, despite the sparkling water he had consumed upstairs only a few short moments prior.

  He didn’t say anything; he rarely spoke to his victims. Instead, he observed. For a long while, Michael was content in simply holding her gaze.

  Slowly, when it was clear that just staring at him was not going to affect the way she perhaps hoped it would, the woman tried another tactic.

  She pulled her hands from her shins and held them out to him, palms up.

  Michael’s hunger pangs increased in intensity.

  The skin from all ten of her fingers had been chewed off, revealing a horrible mess of coagulated blood speckled with patches of gleaming bone and grisly sinew.

  Michael smiled, before reaching up and manually switching off the red light. It was only then that he noticed the plastic vent cover had come loose and was hanging.

  And that explains why I could hear her upstairs.

  He made a mental note to repair it more formally later, but for now he reached up and pushed it back into place. Finally, he returned his attention to the sobbing woman in the cage.

  “Sorry, sweetie, not hungry enough yet. Soon, though, soon. I promise.”

  The woman didn’t scream, but as he made his way in his awkward half-squat half-standing walk back to the stairs, he heard her begin to sob again.

  No, Michael Grant Young was not like everyone else. And he was dead set on letting the world know it.

  Eventually.

  Just not today. Today he had other work to do.

  Chapter 5

  “Fuck!” Cal screamed as the man’s thin, cold hands wrapped around his throat. He bucked his hips, and thankfully it appeared as if the quiddity had expended most of his horrible ghost energy sprinting like a madman.

  The man literally flew off of him, grunting as he landed in a heap. Cal immediately scrambled to his feet, and began patting his chest, arms, legs, everything on his body to make sure it was all still there. As the quiddity groaned on the grass, Cal looked around desperately for his friends, who were rushing toward him.

  “What the fuck happened, Allan?! What happened?!” he nearly shrieked. When the old man started to get to his feet, Cal aimed a finger at his chest. “Stay there! Stay down!” Then, to Allan, he added, “What a fucking stupid plan!”

  The boy’s face fell, but he kept walking toward him nonetheless.

  Shelly got to him first.

  “What happened, Cal? Did he—did he—?”

  “Yes, he fucking touched me—what the hell!”

  Shelly made a face, and she took a small step backward.

  Cal didn’t blame her.

  “He didn’t show up,” Allan whispered. They were standing side by side now, staring down at the man who had finally managed to get to one knee.

  “What?”

  “The guy—this guy—he didn’t show up.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Allan? What do you mean he didn’t show up?”

  Shelly grabbed Cal’s arm, and the touch of another person made him jump.

  “He means that the man isn’t dead.”

  Cal blinked hard.

  Not dead? This old man in the navy regalia wandering through the cemetery at midnight isn’t dead?

  “You,” he said. The old man groaned and then collapsed into a seated position. “Hey, you!” Cal repeated.

  “Me?” he said, looking up at him with a heavily-lined face.

  “Yeah, you—you alive?”

  The man looked confused, but then his expression hardened.

  “Where is my wife?” he demanded.

  Allan reached down and picked up the camera on the tripod that had fallen when the man had attacked Cal.

  “Give me the fucking camera,” Cal ordered, snatching it from Allan’s grasp. It was awkward to hold with the now bent tripod still attached, but when he brought the lens to his eye, it still seemed to work.

  Allan was right; the man wasn’t glowing. Cal could make out the grass and the tree, even the tombstone off to the old man’s left. But the man himself was just a dark silhouette.


  He pulled the camera away from his face for a quick inspection, before bringing it back to his eyes.

  The result was the same.

  “You sure it’s not broken? Does this little trick of yours always work?”

  “Always,” Allan said.

  “Then you are alive,” Cal said quietly, as if trying to convince himself.

  “Of course I’m alive, you jackass,” the man said, trying and this time succeeding in standing. “Now tell me where my wife is.”

  Shelly stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  “Listen, bud, we don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, and we certainly haven’t seen your wife, but you can’t be here right now.”

  The man’s response was immediate.

  “The fuck I can’t.”

  Then he turned his head skyward.

  “Lorraine! Lorraine! Where are you, Lorraine?”

  “Keep it down!” Shelly insisted. While it was unlikely that the shitty cemetery that they had chosen at the outskirts of Hainsey County had any security—in fact, this was the primary reason why they had chosen it—it was probably still best not to draw attention to themselves.

  Nothing good could come out of being caught with all sorts of camera equipment in a cemetery at midnight. And given Cal’s past and his problems with the law, well, that wouldn’t help either.

  The man ignored Shelly’s pleas, and instead raised his voice as if to spite her.

  “Lorraine! Lorraine Smith! Are you out here?”

  “Shut the—”

  But Cal stopped speaking when Allan grabbed his arm. He turned to face the man, and was surprised to see that his eyes were bulging from behind his circular spectacles.

  “What?” Cal asked, shaking free of the man’s grip. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Lorraine,” he whispered.

  “So what?”

  Allan extended a finger and pointed to a tombstone just outside the clearing where their three cameras were aimed.

  “Lorraine,” he repeated.

  And then Cal realized what he meant.

  “No shit,” he whispered.

  “No shit,” Allan confirmed. Shelly, still unsure of what was going on, quickly moved to the tombstone that Allan was indicating, all the while keeping her eyes locked on the strange man in the navy regalia.

  Cal watched her out of the corner of his eye. She swept away some of the dead leaves that hung from the tombstone, then whipped out her cell phone to use the flashlight. After moving her fingers over the engravings to clean out the dirt, she suddenly froze.

  And Cal knew.

  He didn’t need Shelly to verbally confirm his suspicions, the expression on her face was sufficient.

  The tombstone was of one Lorraine Smith.

  “Um, mister?”

  “Lorraine,” the man shouted again. “Lorraine, where are you? I heard your voice!”

  “Mister!”

  Finally, the man’s wrinkled face turned to Shelly.

  “What? Do you know where she is?”

  “Yeah,” Shelly said quietly. “I know where she is. And I think we need to talk.”

  Chapter 6

  “Hey there, sunshine,” Carson said, leering at the man in the business suit. He was standing on the steps outside a massive glass skyscraper, the oversized aviator shades only just sufficient to block out the bright midday sun.

  The man in the suit looked down at him, as he likely did with most everyone he met, and his handsome face twisted into a frown.

  “Quit begging; I’m not giving you anything.”

  Carson could feel Jonah creeping up behind him, his breathing coming more rapidly, but he used his hand to keep the man at bay.

  “Come on,” he said, the smile still on his face. “Let’s take a walk, Michael.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and his expression changed, transitioning from firm and disgusted to something akin to nervousness. There were several other people in suits milling about like little well-dressed ants following some pheromones or other secretions by an unseen queen, but while they all looked like Michael, they weren’t like him.

  Not in the least.

  Michael had different…interests.

  “Who are you?” Michael whispered.

  “Just a guy who knows a guy.” Carson waved an arm. “Come on, let’s walk.”

  The man appeared hesitant, but whereas a few moments ago he’d been looking to his fellow suits for support, he was now looking to see if they were staring at him, as if they might overhear.

  Carson’s smile grew.

  Different interests indeed.

  Still, despite his pride at picking the guy out of the crowd, time was of the essence. Every day that Robert was out there was another day that Leland was trapped in the Marrow.

  “Michael? Take a walk—I’m pretty sure it would be best if this video didn’t come out with all of your peers milling about, don’t you?” he asked calmly. The man’s clean-shaven face suddenly dropped at the word videotape.

  “Video? You—” Michael stammered.

  Carson teased one of his hands out of the pocket of his spring coat just far enough to reveal the corner of a digital camera.

  “Come on, now, Michael. Let’s go for a walk.”

  The man in the suit took a hesitant step forward, his eyes wide.

  ***

  “What is this? Extortion? If I don’t do what you say, you’re going to go to the police? Is that it?” Michael asked. The slick, perfect image that he had projected on the stairs of the eighty-story building had shattered. Sweat covered his face and brow, and his hair, perfectly groomed minutes before, was now a mess. He had pulled his tie loose and the top button of his shirt was undone.

  Carson stared at him for a good ten seconds before answering.

  “Do we look like the type of people who would go to the police?” he asked at last.

  Jonah, who was sitting on the other side of Carson on the bench, snickered.

  “What do you want, then? Money?”

  Carson mulled this over for a moment. A normal person would have seen the video of Michael Young pushing the woman into the cage before starting to cut her, and then glance at the man in the suit beside him on the bench, and have said, ‘Nuh-uh, no way, not the same person.’

  But Carson looked into the man’s eyes and he knew.

  Neither of them were normal men.

  “Join us.”

  Michael made a face.

  “Join you? What are you talking about? Who the fuck are you guys?”

  Carson shook his head.

  “There is so much that you don’t know, Mike. So much. And I can help you learn.”

  Michael stood, glancing around nervously. They had been sitting on a bench in a small park located just out of view from the large office buildings that comprised the financial district.

  But the ants were in their hive, doing what they did; the park itself was empty.

  “I don’t know where the fuck you got that video from,” Michael said, pointing at the outline of the camera that Carson had tucked back into his pocket. “And I don’t know who the fuck you two clowns are, or what you wanted to accomplish coming here today, but it ain’t happening.”

  Carson raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s not?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “No, no way. Look at you two guys.” He waved a hand at Carson. “You look like a malnourished convict, and you”—he moved to Jonah next—“fuck, I don’t even know what you look like.”

  Carson shrugged.

  “Pretty close, actually.” His eyes narrowed. “But before you go and say or do something that you will regret, let me ask you one question.”

  Michael opened his mouth to continue his diatribe, but then thought better of it and softened his tone.

  “I’ll buy the tape off you. You guys look like you need money. I have money.”

  Again, Carson shrugged.

  “You’re right, we need mone
y. But, like I said, we need you more than we need your cash. Let me just ask you one question, can you give me that much, at least? Just one question?”

  Michael hesitated, but eventually acquiesced.

  “Shoot.”

  “Good. Well, Michael, when you kill these women, what do you see?”

  Michael grimaced. Clearly, despite the video evidence, he was still unwilling to openly admit to what he had done.

  What he still did.

  “See? What do you mean, see?”

  Michael took a small step backward.

  “Don’t play coy, Michael. What do you see in their eyes when they go? Huh? What is it that you see?”

  Something changed in the man’s face; it hardened, and the mask that he put on every morning suddenly became transparent, offering both Carson and Jonah a glimpse of the horrible demon beneath.

  “Listen, you fucks. I’m going to leave this park now, and if I ever see either of you—”

  Carson bolted to his feet, and Michael stumbled backward.

  “I’m warning you…”

  Jonah also stood. For such a stumpy man, he moved with unexpected dexterity. He silently slid a few steps to Michael’s left. The latter had become so enraged that he didn’t appear to notice.

  Carson stepped toward the man sweating in his suit.

  “I’ll tell you what you see, Michael…I’ll tell you what you see, and then you’re going to join us. I’m going to open your mind to things that are greater than you ever thought possible.”

  Chapter 7

  “What’s your name?” Cal asked the man in the navy regalia, who had quickly gone from furious to terrified after seeing his wife’s grave. Despite being attacked by him earlier, Cal actually felt sorry for the confused and sad old man before him.

  “Walter,” he said softly. “Walter Smith. You mean you haven’t seen her at all? You haven’t seen Lorraine?”

  Cal shook his head and took a step forward. Walter responded by taking an equally large step backward.

  “I—I heard her, I swear I did.”

  Shelly, who was now standing beside Cal, spoke next, her tone soft, soothing. Clearly, she felt compassion for Walter as well.