Stirring Embers: An urban fantasy action adventure (The Light and the Void Book 1)

by Willem Killian

  “Cool,” Charlene answered, wondering if she should talk to Eleanor.

  The feeling she had had in the passage just before sunrise the day before, had dissipated but it still lingered. She couldn't shake the feeling that something had been there. That something had been watching her. It hadn't been the same foreboding feeling as in the train, but eerie enough. And now she was hearing voices as well.

  She couldn't talk to RW about this - she wouldn't understand. But someone who had experienced something similar might. Charlene made up her mind to talk to Eleanor. Perhaps she would have some idea of what was happening.

  CHAPTER 22

  As far as monster-hunting was concerned, the morning had been a bust thus far. Eleanor did manage to find a munitions manufacturer on the internet who made silver bullets for her .38 caliber. They called it, tongue in cheek she was sure, the Werewolf Defense Line. Apart from a dozen 99.99% pure silver bullets, she also decided to order bullets of other varieties, just in case. This included six rounds each of pure copper and iron.

  She also decided to get a shotgun, and have those shells loaded with pure rock salt. This however, she couldn't buy online and have delivered. She would have to go see someone and try out the different long guns that were available. Would the gunsmith be able to manufacture a few shotgun rounds with silver? Some with iron? She would have to find that out in person.

  And so she found herself on the eastern edge of town. Standing in front of Jenkins' Hunting Emporium, Eleanor took a deep breath.

  She chose the Hunting Emporium because she had never met James Q. Jenkins, the proprietor before. According to the business website, he was very knowledgeable and a certified gunsmith that could make ammunition.

  Eleanor wanted to stay as anonymous as possible. Havensford had a population of over eighteen thousand, and that guaranteed that word got around about everyone and everything. She didn't want too many people to brand her as the crazy lady hunting monsters. She still had a reputation to uphold, even if she herself felt that she was going around the bend.

  After she had woken up, she had tried doing work for Stephen Delaigne before calling it quits after two hours. Her thoughts constantly strayed back to the Thing and what it was, if she would ever see it again, and what she would do if she did. The last question started worrying her. Would her trusty .38 be enough to stop an invisible monster? Did it have enough stopping power? Did she have the right ammunition?

  These questions led her to the door of the Jenkins' Hunting Emporium in search of a shotgun.

  She opened the door and walked past the displays of hunting and fishing gear, and straight to the gun counter at the back of the store. She already had her Eligibility Certificate to Purchase Long Guns and ID in hand.

  “Hello, Miss,” a large bearded man said.

  If he had worn a Hickory shirt, he would have looked at home in a log cabin with an axe by the door and a rabbit stewing in a pot. Or more likely roasting on a spit.

  Eleanor bemoaned her newfound overactive imagination. A week ago, she would never have had such flights of fancy. Then again, she didn't have the need for a shotgun a week ago.

  “Welcome to the Hunting Emporium. I'm James Q. Jenkins,” He continued amiably and extended a large hand, covered in coarse dark hair. The thick, black hair extended all the way up his beefy arms and made an appearance again through the open V of the golf shirt he was wearing.

  “Hello, Mr. Jenkins,” she answered shaking his hand. “I'm Eleanor,”

  He glanced at the Eligibility card she had placed on the glass counter.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Never thought I would have a celebrity grace my humble establishment.”

  “Celebrity?” Eleanor asked.

  “You're the reporter, aren't you? I recognize your face.”

  So much for being anonymous.

  “Yes,” she stammered. “I used to be a reporter.”

  “That's right!” James exclaimed, clearly excited. “You came back to write a book or something, right? Retired already. Such a pity.”

  The confusion must have been evident on her face.

  “A pity that you're no longer a reporter,” he explained. “You might have ended up ridding the world of a few more scumbag killers.”

  “Right,” Eleanor smiled. “No thanks. That life was far too hectic for me.”

  “So, how's the book going?” He leaned forward, interest showing in his dark brown eyes.

  It seemed that James didn’t know her entire story. Instead of correcting him, Eleanor thought of using it to her advantage.

  “That's actually why I'm here,” She winked and glanced around conspiratorially. “I need a Mossberg and some specially-made ammo. I want to run a few experiments and do some research.”

  “Well,” he said proudly. “You came to the right place!” He pointed at a framed certificate behind him.

  A quick glance informed Eleanor that the store was a Class 2 NFA Dealer and Manufacturer. She nodded as if she knew what that meant.

  “I can handle just about any gun repair and modifications on most any brand. From barrel threading to Custom 1911 work. You just tell me what you need. Ammo is also not a problem. If I can't do it, which I doubt,” he winked, “then I can have it custom-made and delivered by some of the bigger guys in Bridgeport or New Haven. So, what do you need?”

  “Well,” Eleanor said, leaning closer to the gunsmith. “My character is a female. She needs something with great stopping power for indoors or close quarters. Something that's also easy to obtain, which is why I thought of a shotgun,”

  “Good choice,” James said, reaching behind him and selecting a black shotgun from the wall. “If you want power though, I'd go with a 20 gauge, not the 12 gauge. It's bulkier and has more kick, but I think you'd be able to handle it. Question is, how old is your heroine and in what shape is she?”

  “She's in her mid-twenties, an outdoorsy type, likes to camp. She hunted with her dad when she was younger, owns a revolver. And she's pretty fit. She's also blond and pretty,” Eleanor added, thinking that she had already described herself too succinctly. The blond and pretty quip might cement the illusion of a fictional character.

  “What does she need the shotgun for? Is it for sporting, hunting, law enforcement, military, or home and personal defense?”

  “Definitely home and personal defense.”

  James looked around again, as if they were two spies exchanging top secret information. “She have a mean bad guy after her? Big guy perhaps? Or a psycho? Someone pumped up on drugs? Point I'm trying to make is this: does she need something bigger because a pistol or revolver might not cut it?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Eleanor nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Then this will do,” he handed the 20 gauge over and Eleanor was surprised by the weight.

  She would have to practice shooting it a lot before she would consider herself adept with it.

  “Too heavy?” James asked.

  “No, no.” Eleanor said, lifting it to her shoulder. “I just need to get used to the feel of it.”

  James nodded, satisfied. “What firearm do you have?”

  “.38 Chief's Special.”

  He gave another approving nod. “An oldie but a goody,” he said. “If you know how to use it properly, you can't go wrong. Same with the Mossberg here.”

  Eleanor nodded and did a few quick jerks to her shoulder, getting an idea of the weapon's weight.

  “We'll go practice a few shells in the back,” James said. “We have an indoor shooting range. But first, tell me about the ammo you need.”

  Eleanor pretended to think about it for a second.

  “Some with rock salt, some iron pellets, some with silver,” she let the last one trail off into obscurity, hoping it didn't sound as strange to his ears as it had out loud to her.

  “Silver hey?” he said, eyes almost slits. “She expecting a werewolf?”

  Eleanor laughed and James joined in. He had a surprisingly h
igh-pitched laugh that didn't suit his big frame. Eleanor liked it though. It seemed genuine.

  “No, no. Not a werewolf,” she said. “She actually doesn't know what it is. But she thinks it's a monster. Something supernatural is hunting her,” she whispered, their noses almost touching. “And she wants to be prepared.”

  Eleanor leaned back, the secret shared, and big James Q. Jenkins did the same. He nodded his head thoughtfully, his double chin accentuating the motion.

  “She has a friend,” Eleanor added as an afterthought, hoping this would close the deal. “Who is ex-military and knows how to make ammunition. She manages to convince him to make her all these different types of ammunition to test. I was hoping to find someone similar,” She offered her most radiant smile.

  To her surprise, James seemed to buy into her story. “I'll have them ready for you in a few days. Two days tops,” he smiled. “In the meantime, I can help you with good old fashioned rock salt and a few other shells with great stopping power. We can test the 12 gauge as well, which is a favorite for home defense. After you've fired both, you can tell me if your damsel in distress would still want the bigger of the two.”

  Eleanor nodded, already knowing her answer. She was going to need all the stopping power she could get.

  Half-an-hour and a sore shoulder later, Eleanor decided to do a couple of sweeps of the neighborhood in her car on the way home. She was feeling more confident now, even if she would only get the shotgun after the background check had been completed.

  She hoped to catch a glimpse of the Thing, even if it was just to reaffirm that it was out there. It was only a few days after her trip to New York, and she was already starting to have doubts. Her rational mind had already begun to compartmentalize the incidents in New York and on the train, stowing them in a vault marked “TO FORGET”.

  She was on her last random neighborhood block when she almost caused an accident. She spotted the Thing. Eleanor nearly rolled her little Honda Civic as she rounded the corner and saw the Thing casually plucking an apple from a tree and throwing it into its mouth. She was as surprised at seeing it eat an apple, as she was at seeing the Thing again. The Honda bucked and weaved on the road as she fought for control. Once she managed to reign its rampant horses in, she slammed on the brakes and quickly turned in her seat to look back at the Thing. Her neck craned this way and that, but it was already gone.

  Eleanor opened her door, got out with her handbag, her palm enveloping the handle of her trusty handgun. She didn't want to alarm the people in her neighborhood by running around, waving a firearm at phantoms. The smell of burnt rubber was enough to get her a few sidelong glances, she didn't need to run around like a lunatic with a loaded weapon.

  She walked over to the apple tree. It stood in an open lot, not fenced in, just a few feet from the sidewalk. One of its roots had lifted the tarmac slightly. Apart from that, nothing seemed to be out of place.

  There was an elderly couple out for a late afternoon stroll across the road and farther down the block. They didn't bother to look back at her.

  Another car crossed the road two blocks down.

  There was no other movement.

  She didn't even see a bird in the sky.

  Eleanor cursed aloud.

  Had she imagined the whole thing? She looked up and down the street and finally stood perplexed with her hands on her hips. She could still hear her car idling softly behind her. She wasn't worried though. The little automatic wouldn't be going anywhere. There were also no car jackers in Havensford.

  She looked up into the branches of the apple tree, thinking the Thing might be hiding there, but the tree wasn't big enough. It wouldn't have been able to hide in or behind it. Where else?

  The only obvious option was that the Thing had scaled the neighboring wall and had disappeared into the yard. Eleanor walked closer and peered over. Nothing besides a neat, fenced front yard in typical suburbia.

  If it had scaled the small fence and dropped into the neighbor's yard, it was now long gone.

  Disgusted with herself and the world in general, Eleanor returned to the car in a huff. She was still processing what she had seen, replaying it in her mind. The Thing had been here, of that she was certain. She could almost sense it in the air. She couldn't smell it, nor see it, but she had a feeling that she was being watched.

  She considered calling out to it. Maybe I should try to provoke it? Call it a coward. See if I can get a rise out of it, force it to reveal itself, she thought.

  But what would that accomplish? It would show up, all angry, and then what? She poked the dragon with a stick, and then? What if her gun was completely useless against the Thing? Would it tear her to pieces here in the middle of the road? Or would it simply laugh and walk away?

  She got in and was about to click the seatbelt into its place, when she let out a small scream.

  If there had been any witnesses, they would have thought her crazy. Who screams at something so innocent? The woman is completely wacko, they would say. No one gets a fright from fruit.

  But Eleanor wasn't insane.

  And it was far from innocent. It hadn't been there before. She kept staring at it, waiting for it to change into something else. But it didn't. It was nothing more than a simple apple, lying on a passenger seat, but to Eleanor, it seemed like the forbidden fruit. Illustrated images from her childhood Bible popped into her head. The snake in the tree. The fruit offered to mankind.

  The Ginger Gold had been left there to taunt her. She knew it would be sweet, tangy, and juicy, even in July, but the thought of just touching it gave rise to bile in her throat.

  She knew exactly who or what had left the apple there, and it filled her with fear.

  Not only was the Thing inhumanly fast, but it also had a twisted playful side to it. It made her think of David ICK. They both shared a love for games that heckled and taunted. Not only did they do it for the sick entertainment value of it for themselves, but also with the aim to illicit fear in the victim.

  Eleanor didn't want to admit it, but the simple apple ploy had worked. She was terrified.

  CHAPTER 23

  As the day wore on, Charlene became more and more convinced that something was calling her. The call wasn't a permanent wailing cry, like that of an air raid siren from the Second World War. Yes, she knew what those sounded like, she had seen enough movies in her time. Even boring old World War movies that her dear old departed grandfather had so loved. The call wasn't insistent, it was as if it came and went, borne on a summer breeze she could not feel. It was a soft murmur, almost pleasing to the ear.

  She heard it at its strongest when in Rosewater's room, and it always emanated from the ceiling. There was no doubt in her mind where it was coming from.

  As soon as Rosewater announced that she was going to take a shower in preparation for the great barbecue at Anon's house, Charlene saw her chance. She knew Rosewater would be a few minutes in the shower and she wouldn't be needed until RW needed a hand or advice with her hair.

  Charlene slipped out of the room as the latest summer hit blasted from the ceiling speakers. Good, she thought. Rosewater won't be able to hear me, even if she cut her shower short.

  Charl walked into the corridor, got a brief shiver as she thought back to the previous morning's pre-dawn chill that had pervaded her soul, boldly took the attic trapdoor pole and pulled down the wooden stairs. They came down without a creak and rested with a dull thud on the thick carpet. Charl quickly made her way upwards. Once in the attic, she glanced around.

  There was a stack of cardboard boxes, three rows in total, piled four boxes high in the corner, directly above Rosewater's room. Charlene headed towards it immediately and a short burst of whispering reached her ears. It was like a burst of static. She was sure that she heard voices, but she couldn't decipher what they were saying. The burst only served to spur her on.

  The top row of the boxes almost reached her chin. Before jumping in nilly willy and going through every single b
ox, Charlene decided to poke around first. She didn't like the idea of opening a box and being met with a family of rats, so she walked around and kicked at the boxes, hoping not to hear any scurrying sounds. While she was doing this, she also inspected the boxes for holes, rat droppings and other signs of possible vermin infestation. The last thing she wanted was to get bitten and need a rabies shot. She hated shots of any kind and was even against vaccines because of her Trypanophobia.

  You're a real basket case, Charlene, she chided herself.

  This strengthened her resolve and she dug further, wanting to prove to herself that she wasn't a scaredy-cat. Nothing scurried around. Nothing jumped out at her, and she didn't see any droppings. She was about to start unpacking boxes, when her foot bumped something behind the row of boxes in the very corner of the attic. Whatever it was, was sent skidding for a few inches.

  It's not a box like the others, Charlene thought as she knelt down. It didn't sound or feel the same as the rest. It had felt smaller and lighter.

  Intrigued, she peered behind the stack of boxes, but it was too dark for her to make anything out. She wasn't about to stick her hand in there, so she got out her phone, turned on the torch and was surprised to find a small wooden box, about the size of a shoe box.

  It was intricately carved in symbols she had never seen before. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

  And then it whispered to her.

  CHAPTER 24

  Rosewater came out of the bathroom and was disappointed to see the room empty. She was hoping that Charlene would help her pick out an outfit. She wasn't going steady with anyone and wanted to make an impression on Anon Shandrie's best friend, Gary Feigl. Gary was one of those rare guys who excelled at all sports. He played baseball, football, soccer, and even played water polo for the school's senior teams. And he was ripped. He looked like a Herculean Greek god. Was Hercules Greek or Roman, was the thought going through RW's head when she walked out of the bathroom. She was about to ask Charl when she saw the room empty.