Blessed by Fire

by P W Hillard

  “Supers?” asked Aasif, crossing Mark.

  “Supernatural creatures. Supers. They’re like humans. Lots of conflicting religions and beliefs, who knows what’s true? A demon might threaten you with the pits of hell, but a Wight might scream about Valhalla. Some of the weirder stuff doesn’t line up with any religion. Look at this room, these symbols are proof of how mixed up things are.” Mark pointed at a glyph on the wall, “That’s Greek,” he pointed at another, “that’s Japanese, that one is Aramaic.” Mark pointed at the single marking on the ceiling, “That’s Norse. They all work. Who’s to say any of them is wrong.”

  “What is with all the wards anyway?” asked Jess.

  “Oh right, yeah, we’ve been so wrapped up in the other thing. Yeah, so I promised myself to an onryo,” Mark said.

  “Promised yourself? And to a what?” Aasif said, intrigued.

  “I think we’re betrothed, maybe? It’s a kind of ghost, really angry, really dangerous. Generally, ghosts are harmless, this one can be pretty deadly, big claws.” Mark mimed a clawing motion. “It’s up at the old house outside town.”

  “The Davies house. A Maids ghost,” declared Aasif.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Mark narrowed his eyes.

  “It’s a local legend, kind of a rite of passage around here.”

  The three of them moved closer as Aasif told his tale. Spinning his story like they were around a campfire. “Legend says the house was owned by Merfyn Davies, a terrible man. He ran a coal mine, shipping great loads of it through Pontypridd. The story goes that he was an arrogant man, thought himself the Lord of the town. He had a maid who followed him everywhere, a girl who loved him. He had a reputation around the town as a ladies man but this girl was blind.” He leant in closer. “When you go to the house, you’re supposed to knock three times on the cellar door at the back. It’s said that the mine hit hard times and he crossed some people he shouldn’t, so they killed him and his maid and put the bodies in the cellar. If you know, you’re supposed to hear them knocking back. Every teenage boy goes there at some point, normally to impress some girl who couldn’t care less. Lots of people claim they have seen a ghostly maid staring at them through a window.”

  “Actually, makes sense, the ghost claimed she had died in the cellar,” Mark said, leaning back.

  “It spoke to you?” Jess asked.

  “Yeah, it was remarkably chatty. Makes sense the way it acted. It pushed that girl out the window because it was jealous, and it latched on to me because it’s replacing this Davies with any man I guess?” Mark grabbed his phone from the small table next to the bed. “So, question is why now? Seems like she was harmless enough up until recently?”

  “Six bodies!” screamed Florence. “Six!” Jess winced, holding the phone away from her ear from the noise. “Do you know how hard it is to spin one supernatural death as something normal for the media? And you’ve got six! At least tell me you have leads.”

  Jess leant back in the hotel room chair. She was alone, Mark and Aasif had left to work on the onryo problem, leaving Jess to report back in with the office. “Yes Ma’am,” she replied. “The girl is definitely possessed. She was much too coherent for it to be a spirit, and it was using magic to control the girl’s father. At least we managed to save him.”

  “The man is in a coma from what I gather, hardly saved is he?” said Florence her voice thick with disappointment.

  “Better than dead Ma’am. He was a lot luckier than his wife. We’ve circulated the girl’s description around the local police, they have strict instructions not to approach. Ma’am I think we might need to tap our sources on this one.” Jess held her breath, knowing what she was asking for was considered extremely dangerous.

  “Agreed.” Jess let herself breath. “I’ll send D.S Singh and D.S Cooper. What about this ghost thing?” asked Florence.

  “An onryo Ma’am, very dangerous kind of spirit. Curren is on his way to the house currently. It came to his hotel room, so it’s not bound to the location, but it seems content enough to stay there unless provoked.” Jess carefully left Aasif unmentioned. Any mention of him and he would quickly find himself transferred to London. Jess wasn’t sure she could drag another person into the kind of life she led.

  “Knock it on the head for now then. If it’s localised it’s much less important than the possession. Try and wrap this up quickly, we can’t afford any more deaths and the local brass are already spooked. We do not want any locals trying to take this into their own hands. That never ends well,” said Florence, a sternness in her voice telling Jess that this wasn’t a suggestion.

  “Understood Ma’am.”

  Mark and Aasif stood at the back of the decrepit house. It was early afternoon but darker than Mark expected, thick grey clouds blotting out the sun. Thankfully it wasn’t raining, a first from Marks experience of South Wales so far. In front of them was a set of cellar doors, heavy wooden things, surprisingly intact despite their age. Mark bent down to grab a small metal handle on the left-hand door and pulled. It didn’t move. He tugged on the right handle one and again it didn’t budge. He put both hands on the two doors and heaved, losing his grip and falling backwards onto the ground. Sitting on the ground he brushed he hands on his coat and looked up. Above him in the top window was a pale figure, it waved its talon like nails in an oddly friendly manner.

  “Holy shit did you see that?” Asked Aasif.

  “Yeah, don’t worry, I think you’re safe. She seems to have latched onto me and she kind of runs on jealousy. If I had brought Jess think it might have been a different story,” said Mark, pulling himself to his feet. There was a clatter and the cellar doors burst open, untouched by either man. A faint cold breeze wafted from inside. “Think she’s inviting us in.”

  The inside of the cellar stank of damp and mould. The stone walls coated in thick black. Here and there were handprints from adventurous teenagers. Mark reached into his pocket, pulling out the small blue crystal he had used earlier.

  “What’s that?” enquired Aasif.

  “The crystal reacts to a ghost’s energy. The ghost itself, the places it haunts, the things it touched all have a sort of aura.” Mark dangled the crystal on its string, it began to move, circling around in larger and larger circles. “The closer you are to one of those auras the bigger the reaction. See?”

  “So, it’s like one of those electromagnetic things they use on ghost hunting shows?” Aasif asked.

  “Except this one works. Those things are junk. If ghosts gave off electromagnetic radiation how would you know? Everything electronic gives it off. Hell, in our society it would be like looking for, well, not so much a needle in a haystack but a specific strand of hay in a haystack. Forest through the tree’s kind of thing.” Mark stepped forward a little, then back, trying to judge the twirling of the crystal. “Problem with this thing is it doesn’t tell you which way to go, just need to try different directions and see how it reacts. Like playing hot and cold as a kid.” He took one step to the side, and then stepped back to his original position. He repeated the motion the other direction.

  “You look ridiculous,” chuckled Aasif.

  “It’s not a glamorous job,” shrugged Mark in agreement. He turned, and seemingly sure of where he needed to go, strode onwards, crystal spinning as he went. “Here,” he said. “The black on the walls seem to be scorch marks, this looks like the start of it, look how the floor is darker here.”

  “So, what do we do? How’s this help us?” Aasif said.

  “It doesn’t. Best way to get rid of a ghost is to resolve its unfinished business. That’s a lot harder than it sounds. Hoped maybe we would find the bodies or something, was a shot in the dark really. Looks like the stone walls contained the fire, but it would have gotten real hot. Guess everything was destroyed.” Mark pocketed the crystal. “At least we know now she was telling the truth.”

  Claire sat in the empty living room of the home she had invaded. The legs of the homes previous owner ha
d been placed onto a large recliner in the corner of the room. Claire had taken the time to bend them as though they were sitting. She was leaning back in the centre of a three-seater sofa, arms stretched across the top, red dress trailing on the floor. She had found a supply of makeup and had tried, poorly, to cover the large burn on left side of her face with makeup. Claire drummed her fingers impatiently. She stood up, began to pace across the room, hands behind her back. She cleared the room twice, then stopped, spotting a tablet on the black flat pack coffee table under the window. She grabbed it, slid it open and brought up the internet browser. Slowly, using one finger, she typed into the search bar. She opened her search, revealing a map of the town.

  Claire wandered around the house, collecting the things that she needed. Dirt from the garden, a collection of salt and herbs from the kitchen, a pair of old tights from a bedroom upstairs. Taking her ingredients back into the living room he placed the dirt and herbs into a small plastic bowl, a cartoon builder beaming back at her from inside it. Claire turned to the dismembered legs and with a horrible wet tearing ripped free a chunk of its thigh. She squeezed the wobbling flesh, filling the bowl with blood. Taking the old tights, she tore out a rough square. Pouring the mixture of blood and dirt into the tights she squeezed. The blood trickled through the material, splattering onto the tablet and its open map. At first the blood splattered randomly, but within moments it began to stretch out across the map, the droplets pooling into distinct points. Seven distinct locations each marked by a splash of gore. Taking a photo of the tablet with her phone, Claire stood up, walked to the front door and out into the street. She smiled, a plan forming in her mind.

  Chapter 9

  In the Soho part of London, hidden down an alleyway squeezed tight between two buildings are a small set of stairs. On the wall above them are a set of neon letters, glowing bright pink illuminating the alleyway. “Lucille’s” it says. Behind the letters a devil sits in a martini glass, its neon legs flashing back and forth in a kicking motion. In front of the stairs stand two detectives, their faces flashing pink in time with kicking legs.

  “I hate this place,” said Dale Cooper, dropping a cigarette to the floor and stubbing it out with his foot. He turned to Rajan. “You think they made it as dodgy as possible on purpose?”

  “Almost without question,” said Rajan. “You ready to head in?”

  “Guess so?” replied Dale. “We sure this is necessary?”

  “Boss thinks so,” Rajan answered. “Right, let’s go in.”

  The small metal door swung open with a creak. Inside was the riotous sound of laughter. People stood around drinking craft beers from bottles. The jukebox blared Weezer’s Buddy Holly. A man in a flannel shirt with a bun brushed passed the detectives. A ratty bar sat at one side of the room, worn metal stools at its edge, strange bottles neither detective had heard of stacked slapdash behind it. A woman was wiping down the bars dark wooden top. She wore a white blouse tucked into black denim jeans ripped at the knees. Her hair was tied up with a red and white spotted handkerchief. Her lipstick a vibrant red.

  “Evening Lucille,” said Rajan stepping over to the bar. “Got a minute?”

  “All I have are minutes. All day every day, tending this bar. Just this and nothing else. Certainly not done anything recently that would warrant a visit,” said Lucille. She smiled sarcastically. “Oh, and D.S Cooper is with you?” She grinned, authentically this time. “Can I get you a drink honey?”

  “Uh, no thanks, I’m good.” Dale nodded nervously as he spoke.

  “We need some info, for a case.” Rajan pulled up one of the stools, making a horrible screeching noise as it dragged across the hard tile floor. He sat on it.

  “It’s always for a case. You know,” Lucille reached across the bar and touched Dale on his arm, “you can always come by anytime, you’re always welcome.” She smiled and stepped back, picking up a glass that she began to wipe with a cloth. “You know, you can’t just,” she glanced at the bar to check she wasn’t being listened too, and then leant forward anyway, “you can’t keep coming around asking questions. This is supposed to be you know, incognito.”

  Dale shrugged. “You know the terms of your agreement, you’re on taps for info when we need it.”

  “Well, if it’s for you.” She batted her eyes at Dale in an over exaggerated manner. “You can tap me anytime.” Dale blushed profusely.

  “Yes well, is there anywhere we can talk more privately?” asked Rajan

  “Not even going to get a drink first? Support a small local business?” replied Lucille. The look on Rajan’s face answered for him. “Fine,” she said. “Hey Abbie!” Lucille called out across the dingy bar, waving at a woman wearing a short black shiny dress, thick heavy spiked boots and dark eyeliner. She was carrying empty glasses on a flat black plastic tray. The woman nodded in reply. “Cover the bar for me for a min? Need to take care of something.” Abbie’s face was a dour sullen sulk. She shrugged. “That’s a yes, come on follow me.” Lucille beckoned to the two detectives.

  Lucille led them through the crowd, across the dingy bar. Out from behind the bar the men could see she her jeans were three quarter length. She wore plan black ankle boots, revealing a tattoo of what appeared to be an apple with a bite taken out. She pushed easily though the crowd without effort, people subconsciously moving just enough to avoid her. They did not do the same for the two detectives, who crashed their way through the crowd, bouncing from shoulder to shoulder. Lucille stepped through a line of women waiting to use the bathroom, the line silently opening for a moment. Not a single woman looked up from their phones as they did.

  “Sorry ladies, sorry!” apologised Dale as he squeezed through. Just beyond the line was an old wooden fire door, pale green paint flaking off it. It was covered in bright neon posters for bands Dale had never heard of. They were all handmade, the slight fade from photocopying a dead giveaway. Dale had been in a band in his university days, and it brought back memories of sneaking into the library with a stack of multicoloured paper to make band posters without being caught. He pushed the door open. Beyond was a dark stairway leading upwards, dark brown tiles with metal runners at the end of each step. The two men walked the stairs, boots thumping on the tile. At the top of the stairs a door stood open, light pouring out from within.

  “Welcome to my earthly abode!” laughed Lucille. She was stood just beyond the door way, leaning on an old blue sofa, its leather torn and resewn in spots. They were stood in a small bedsit directly above the bar. A tiny thing with a single room. Open plan kitchen moved straight into living room. A thin transparent pink cloth had been tacked to the ceiling to separate the living space into separate sleeping and living areas. Each was dominated by a double bed and sofa respectively. The walls were covered in cheap flat pack shelving to try and maximise space. Above the bed was a large framed poster of Elvis. “Well, it’s something at least. A lot better than my last place. Moved somewhere hot and somehow found the only cold spot somehow. Imagine that!”

  “Yeah, I’m err, imagining it. So, you going to help us?” said Dale.

  “Sure sugar, don’t mind me, always had a flair for the dramatic.” She winked awkwardly.

  “We’ve got some things to show you,” Rajan declared, pulling a tan paper folder from his jacket. “Is there anywhere we can, sit, I guess?”

  “Take a seat boys!” laughed Lucille, swinging her legs over the sofa and sliding down into the middle seat. Awkwardly Dale and Rajan sat down on either side of her. Rajan passed the folder to his right, into the waiting hands of Lucille. “So, what can I do you for?”

  “There’s a possessed girl. It’s not spirit possession, so it must be demonic. You know anything about that?” asked Dale.

  “Not a sausage.” Lucille leant over to Dale, resting her hand on his thigh. “I don’t live that life anymore. I’m a good girl now, well, most of the time.”

  Dale coughed nervously, brushing off her hand. “Well, you are the preeminent expert in them
. You did make them after all.”

  “Did I?” Lucille dragged out the last syllable, her voice turning high pitched. “I mean supposedly, but honestly I don’t remember. There’s a lot of things I apparently did or didn’t do, it’s all a bit fuzzy. Memory does that. Sometimes I forget what I had for lunch the same day, things from that long ago are a bit of a jumble.” She raised her hands in protest. “Besides, that was the old me. You’re asking the new me. New life, new identity. That’s the point of witness protection. That is, if policemen didn’t turn up every other week or so. Answer this Lucille, answer that Lucille. I’m not demonic google.” She grabbed Dales hand and held it with both of hers. “You’re always welcome here of course Dale. You’re ever off the clock and want to just pop down…”

  “Focus Lucille,” said Rajan with the tone of a school teacher. “You going to help us or not.”

  “Sure fine, but because Dale asked, not you.” She opened the folder and thumbed through the pictures inside. She let out a long whistle. “This is a doozy. This is what six different bodies?”

  “There’s a seventh victim currently in a coma. Some kind of mind control magic,” answered Dale.

  “Mind control magic? That’s not terribly common. Is this one stuffed into a fridge?”

  “They were eating that one. In a sandwich apparently,” said Dale. “We actually think that one might have been the second victim, tough to tell with it being kept in the fridge like that.”

  “I guess that’s one way to dispose of a body. Bit Hannibal Lector for my liking, but better than digging an obvious grave I guess. Still, can’t help you. Not a demon.” She slammed the photos back into the folder with more force than she needed and held it out before Rajan.

  “What do you mean not a demon?” he said, he crossed his arms leaving her holding the folder out awkwardly.