Earthbound and Down ebook 20170826

by Shaun Meeks

  He nods and gives me a smile. “So what are you going to do now?”

  All I can do at first is shake my head, because other than him, I’m not sure who else I can turn to that might know anything. Yet that thought brings me to something—close to it at least.

  When she was on the phone, about to be killed by this unknown asshole, Sara said I needed to call the other one…you know, but I don’t. What other one is there for me to get a hold of? She was the only person I really dealt with at the museum…

  Oh damn!

  I think I have it, but I can’t be sure. If it is, that would make sense why she didn’t want to say it on the phone, in front of the asshole killing her. Why give him another person to go after when I could just figure it out myself. I wish it hadn’t taken me so long, but this has to be whom she was talking about.

  “I think I need to go,” I tell Ted, and try not to smile as the idea continues to brew and make sense. “Thanks for the water and the pills. My heads feeling a bit better.”

  “Did you think of something?” he asks, and stands with me.

  “Or someone?” Peel asks, from his spot in the corner.

  “Not really,” I say, and I know I’m being vague, but I’d rather not pull Father Ted into this. And there might be a small part of me that doesn’t fully trust the little monster in the corner. Even if I’m letting him stay here doesn’t mean we’re butt buddies. “I need to go try and find some way to end this. I don’t want to put you out, or in any danger, Father. Thanks again.” I head for the door.

  “Would you like me to come?” he asks, and as nice as it would be to have someone tag along, I’d rather do this alone. The last thing I need is to see this man, a true innocent person, killed in front of me because of a need for company.

  “I think I got it from here. When this is all done though I’ll stop by and we’ll have a chat. I’ll even bring something along for your little buddy there.” I laugh and wink at the Quilly who only sneers back at me. I guess he still doesn’t care for me. Must be the whole monster hunter thing.

  I leave the church and head to the subway a few blocks away. As I go I start to think more and more about it. Sara said I needed to see the ‘other one’, but there shouldn’t be anyone else since there was nobody else at the museum I ever spoke to. But, the only thing I can guess is that she means her foster sister, Meg, who lives in St. Jamestown.

  I have never met her foster sister or spoken to her, but Sara told me about her enough and told the woman about me too. She even tried to set the two of us up long before I met Rouge, but in the end that never worked out. Our schedules never meshed. One thing I do remember about her is that Meg is a professor of religion over at the University of Toronto and she very well could know something about the sceptre. And if the shadowy man and his monsters don’t know about her, she’s my best shot at gaining an advantage.

  Or so I hope.

  The woman answers the door and she’s in tears. This has to be her, no doubt having learned of her sister’s death. I wish I could’ve come here on better terms, but there was no time to let her have the grief she needs.

  The house was easy to find, especially in this area. St. Jamestown is a strange place and has the nickname Cabbagetown. The place is sprinkled with old homes that go for one to two million dollars and high rises owned by government housing. It is densely populated with lawyers, crackheads, doctors, deadbeat dads, meth heads, bankers, and everything in between. In the daytime it looks a little haggard, but still decent. The night here, well, there’s an old song from the 80’s about it being when the freaks come out. In this case it’s true.

  When I spoke to Sara about her foster sister, she said her sister’s house was one of the nicest on the street. I remembered the name, Winchester, because of the gun and seeing as the streets aren’t terribly long, it was easy to spot. To make doubly sure, I opened the mailbox on the porch, pulled out a letter and saw her name on it: Meghan Beauchamp. I knocked and she answers and right away I knew she has already heard.

  “Ms. Beauchamp?” I ask, and she nods. “I very sorry to hear about your loss. My name’s Dillon and I was a friend of your sisters.”

  “The monster guy?” she asks, and wipes some of the tears away, though more flow right away.

  “Yeah. I was wondering if you have a minute. I know it’s a bad time—”

  “Do you know something about this?” she asks, cutting me off and already seems angry. Even through the flowing tears I see her eyes clear up a bit as something close to rage takes the place of sadness. “Is it you? Were you the one that got her killed?”

  “No…please…I had nothing to do with this, not really. I only want to help get the those responsible for it.”

  “How are you…going…to…help?” she asks, and her tears return, turning quickly into deep sobs. “Can…you bring h-h-her back? No? Then why don’t…you just…fuck off!”

  “She told me to come and see you,” I say, and the door is slammed in my face, but I won’t stop. I lean in close and keep talking. “She told me you might know what the sceptre of the third Pharaoh is.”

  Nothing.

  “I was on the phone with her when she died and she told me to come see you. Please. I just want to help.”

  I stand there on the porch with the sun on my back and hope she’ll answer, that she has something to offer in this. I count to thirty and say it again, but there’s nothing from inside. I guess this is a dead end too. I’m really starting to lose my cool here. How many doors can get shut on me before I realize I’m out of my depth with all of this? Maybe I should just throw in the towel and hand over the book to the shadowy bastard and his Colossus and take what’s coming to me. What else can I do?

  I turn to walk away and as I do, the door opens and I turn to face it. Meg is there again and pulls her front door open wide. She’s wiping her face with a tissue and looks at me in a way that is totally heartbreaking. I feel this is my fault. If it hadn’t been for me, the shadowy man wouldn’t have had a reason to go after her. Even though he did it, how can I not take some of the credit?

  “Come in then. If she sent you, I guess I can help.”

  She looks so lost, defeated, and I feel bad. I wish I could’ve waited, even a few days to come, but there’s no time to lose on this. I need to do what I can and get this done.

  I walk into her house and it’s as nice inside as it is out. The air is cool and the scent of roses and musk hang in the air. It’s well lit and decorated the way a house would in the late 1890s with ornate tables and chairs, patterned wall paper and a plush couch. She takes me into the living room and offers some water or lemonade, but I decline both. I don’t want to take up too much of her time. Not at the moment.

  “You were on the phone with her when she died? Why?” she asks, before I can even say anything to her.

  “She wanted to talk to me about something at the museum. She thought there might be more weird things there,” I lie, because it’s easier than telling her I was on the phone when the sonofabitch was killing her because he wanted to get to me. If I say that, the conversation will be over.

  “Have you told the police?”

  “I did speak to a Detective Garcia,” I say quickly, and that seems to be the right thing to say. I will tell him too, once I’m finished with all this and have a chance to call him. “I’m so sorry for you loss. Your sister was a kind and gentle person.”

  “Thank you. I hear people tell horror stories all the time, about growing up as an adopted kid, but my life with Sara and the Beauchamps was amazing. I wouldn’t have given it up for the world. Sara wasn’t my sister by blood, but she…she was my sister.” I give her a second as she lets out more tears and wait to go on.

  “I know her…knew her for quite a while. She helped me out so many times before. I don’t even know who would do this, but I know whoever did will get what’s coming to them.�
�

  “I hope so.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. It’s a little awkward, but to be expected. The woman’s grieving—or at least trying to—and here I am in her living room, a stranger, about to ask her for something that got her sister killed. I will of course leave that part out.

  “What did you say you were looking for?” she asks, when she has gathered herself up enough.

  “It’s called the sceptre of the third Pharaoh,” I say again, and a look crosses her face. It’s as though she’s confused.

  “And Sara said to come to me about it?”

  “In a roundabout way, yeah. Do you know what it is?”

  “Yeah. I know what it is, but I don’t know what good it’ll do you.” She gets up and grabs a book off her shelf and brings it over to me. She sits next to me on the couch and opens it. She zips through the pages and gets to what she’s looking for. It’s not what I expected. “Shortly after the death of Christ a man who claimed to be a child of Egypt moved north and came to a place in Ireland which was the home of a Druid priest. The priest found the dark skinned man intriguing and after hearing tales of Egypt, the Pharaohs, pyramids and the shrines of the dead, the leader called the Egyptian a prophet and adapted their own belief system to incorporate much of what he said. They began to mummify their dead and worship the Gods of Old as well as the great Elders of the forests and Earth. As each leader died, they named the next Pharaoh as their leader and were passed on a symbol of power. This is the item passed to the third Pharaoh, known as the third sceptre.”

  On the page is a gnarled branch. It’s a dark, twisted thing that looks more like a root than anything else. There are things carved into the top of it, the thickest part of it, and to me they look like Runes. This can’t be it though. I was expecting something grand, made of gold and jewels. Not this thing.

  “Is this the only thing it could be?” I ask, and hope she’s going to say she has something else.

  “If it’s the sceptre of the third Pharaoh, this is the only one it can be. It’s said to be a holy relic, as are all other gifts given to the other ten Pharaohs who ruled that sect of the Druids, before the wild men wiped them out.”

  “Well, that’s unexpected,” I say, and sound as defeated as I feel.

  “Were you hoping for something else?”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter what it looks like, but I can only assume something like that probably hasn’t lasted the test of time. I mean, how long can a wooden stick stay before it just disintegrates?”

  “There are stories that pieces of the ark and the cross Jesus was crucified on are still around,” she tells me.

  “Yeah, there will always be stories like that, but I need something tangible. I actually need to find this thing and without a place to start I have to assume it’s gone.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she says, and points to her bookcase. I don’t see what she’s pointing at. “Not the bookcase. Beside it.”

  And there it is, right in front of me the whole time. Beside the bookcase is a glass display that stands as tall as the other, but not as wide. Inside is an array of goodies and as I walk over I know what some of them are. One looks to be an ancient nail, no doubt used in crucifixions during the time of Christ. Another is of vial of water with Spanish writing on it, and if I’m right it’s from the mythical fountain of youth. Beside that is a book bound in flesh, but it’s the top shelf that pulls my attention.

  “Is that really it?” I ask.

  “It is. Over time the wood petrified, so it’s actually stone now, but this is the same sceptre that you’re talking about.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “I used to do work in the UK and in Europe, helped a few professors at just the right time and this was given to me as a gift. Since the Druids are not nearly as respected or revered as other religions, most museums pass on items like this. Especially when they have to explain how someone from Egypt came and changed a small sect in the larger group. Easier to just forget about it.”

  “Well someone thought enough about it to put it in that book,” I say, and point to it.

  “That’s because it was written by me. Guess you missed that, huh?”

  I guess I did, I think, but don’t say out loud. It’s smaller than it appeared in the picture, but just looking at it I can feel its power. Now I need to convince her to give it to me. This might not be easy.

  “When will you bring it back?” she asks, before I can even say a word. I turn to her and wonder if I look as surprised as I feel. “It’s obvious you came here for it. I know what you do, Dillon. Sara told me, remember? So why else would you be here asking about it if you didn’t need it for something? Just tell me this: are you going to use it to go after the fucker who killed her?”

  “It’s the only way to get them,” I say, and nod. “The person who killed her has something with him, monsters from this world and the only way to stop them is to use that and a few other items.”

  “But you said her death doesn’t have anything to do with you and yet you say monsters are involved. How is that possible?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” I tell her, but then figure I have nothing pressing to get to, so I give her the whole story as far as I know it. She listens, tears up now and again, but by the end of it, she can see that I’m only a piece of the big picture, not the one painting it. That space belongs to the shadowy man. I do my best to show her there was no way I could’ve known what was going to happen to Sara, that it wasn’t my fault, despite the guilt I feel eating away at me. All I can do is hope I get through to her.

  For a few minutes after I stop talking. She says it’s okay, and wipes away the last of her tears.

  “Well, if you need it for that, I don’t even care if I ever see it again. Just do me a favour.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make it hurt!”

  That’s the plan.

  Luckily the sceptre fits in my bag. It’s only the length of my forearm and it’s heavier than I thought it would be. I feel better knowing I have the hardest of three things I need to put an end to the Colossus so I’ll be able to then face the shadowy man one-on-one. I figure the next stop should be an easy one. I’ve decided to head over to Rouge’s house since it’s not that far from here so I can grab the bit of her hair before I get the tattoo. That should mean that by this time tomorrow I can actually start to hunt them down; do what I do best.

  As soon I step out of her house though, I feel nervous, as though the shadowy man might have eyes on me. He knew I’d gotten the book from Godfrey, and knew how to seek out Sara, so who’s to say he isn’t following me around the city, or paying someone else to. If he gets me now, with only one piece of the puzzle in tow, I’m doomed. I need to hurry and get everything I can before the bastard, or anyone he’s hired, gets to me. The last thing I need is to come face to face with one of the Colossus right now.

  I hit the sidewalk and I really do feel as though I’m being watched. It’s a strange sensation, but I can’t let that slow me down.

  I take the bus since it seems the easier way to get to Rouge’s, and rest my head against the window as we go. I take the time to relax and come up with a plan. When I start to hunt them tomorrow or the next day, I have to have an idea of where to start. I doubt they’ll be back in the sewers, as I already dealt with them there and the shadowy man will know it’d be my first stop. I doubt he is that stupid. He’s already proven himself to be a sneaky one, so I figure he’s moved on to somewhere new.

  Yet I also know the Colossus don’t do things during the daylight hours and I assume that would mean moving about to a new location as well. So that means they’ll need somewhere dark to hide, a place out of sight where the beasts can come and go in the night and they can sleep during the day. The city is full of places like that, so that’ll make my job harder. Better to worry about the small details tomorrow wh
en I have the tattoo, the hair, and the sceptre together. I will also have to try and figure out how to use them once I have them all so I can beat these things. The book wasn’t very clear on that end of it.

  As the bus approaches the stop closest to her house, I heft the bag up on my shoulders and groan at the weight. Who knew a petrified stick could weigh so damn much? The strain of it makes my headache return, something I thought had receded after leaving Meg’s house. Great, that’s just what I need. At least I know there’s Advil at Rouge’s house, so that’ll be that. I’m a little perplexed by how insistent it is, and how just when I think it’s gone away it comes back with a vengeance. I don’t think I’ve ever been hurt like this before, and I’ve had a hand dangling by tendons before.

  I just have to hope it’ll go away sooner than later.

  I pull my keys out and get her door. Damn, the house smells just like her and it makes me miss her. I remember the first time I came in, expecting something so different than what I found. I was there for a job, though, not her or to admire her place. She had some unwelcome guests in her basement and it turned out to be the best job I’d ever taken. If those creatures in their false bodies hadn’t shown up, who knows if I would’ve ever met Rouge. It makes me feel as though fate really does exist.

  I walk to her bathroom and I see it’s a little dishevelled. Clearly she’d been in a rush to grab the things she thought she’d need the most and in doing so, wasn’t very neat and tidy about it. I won’t judge her. I know I did the same thing, though my house tends to always have a junk shop look to it. I live in a perpetual state of disorganization. No time to think about that. For now, I want to grab the hair, maybe smell her pillow, and get the hell out of there. For all I know the shadowy man is watching this place.

  It takes a few minutes of rooting around makeup, hairclips and digging in her caboodle before I find some. A small ball of red hair in a bag with rollers, clips and other things for her styling I’m guessing. I tuck the wad into my pocket and head to her bedroom. I know this might be creepy to some, but if I can’t have her here right now, the least I can do is get a little reminder of how her hair and skin smells when I hug her. At least I’m not hunting down used panties. Yet.