Reading Group of Terror

 Tom Jurgen’s investigation into a small-town reading group turns up a dangerous threat.

Reading Group of Terror, Part One

The house was set back from the dark road. Its gravel driveway was long enough for eight cars to park, one after another around the long loop. More cars were parked on the grass. Light glowed from the big window next to a wide porch.

            The car I was following was in back, near the road. I watched my subject, Bryan Furier, walk up to the porch and ring a bell. The front door opened and Furier went in.

            I waited at the end of the driveway, with the back of my Prius sticking out into the road. Once the door closed behind Furier, I turned off the motor and headed up to the porch, moving as quickly and silently as I could. 

            The porch was 20 feet long, and extended to half of the front window. I made my way on light feet down the planks of the porch and leaned over cautiously, peering inside through a half-inch gap in the burgundy-colored drapes. 

            A group of people sat in a circle of chairs. Some held glasses of wine or bottles of beer. All of them, 15 or more, had something in their laps or on the floor at their feet. A book. I couldn’t make out the title, but it was definitely the same book for everyone.

            I decided I couldn’t stay up here any longer before someone noticed me, and pretending I was lost probably wouldn’t go over very well. I hurried back to my car and pulled out before anyone could spot me. I drove a hundred feet further along the road and pulled over on the narrow shoulder. This stretch of the road was deserted—no houses, no traffic, just dark trees and a moonless sky.

            Now what? It didn’t look like Furier was having an affair. More like he’d joined a book group without telling his wife. Maybe the discussion was the prelude to a swingers’ party? That didn’t seem likely, but I’ve never been to an orgy, so I wouldn’t know.

My client, Jayne Furier, suspected her husband of cheating on her. “Every Tuesday, for the last four weeks he says he has a late patient,” she’d told me when we met in a coffee shop near my apartment. “He’s a dentist, some people have to come late, fine. But every Tuesday? He hasn’t been himself lately. Something’s wrong.”

            Cheating spouses pay for a big chunk of every P.I.’s cable bill, so I took the job.

            Parked on the side of the road, I used my phone to search the real estate records for the town of Hartwell, Illinois, about 30 miles west of Chicago. Warren Hartwell Inc. was listed at the house’s owner. Interesting. It was a printing company, mostly small runs of textbooks, training manuals, family histories and memoirs, and some small collections of poetry. 

            I was just checking out some titles when a blue light flashed in my mirror. The police. Uh-oh.

            The cop who knocked on my window was tall and beefy. “Everything okay, sir? Lost?”

            “I think I got turned around.” I kept my hands on the steering wheel. “Which way is Bensenville?”

            He chuckled. “You passed it Can I see your license and registration?”

            I handed them over. “Tom Jurgen. Chicago. Visiting friends in Bensenville?”

            “Possible client. The GPS on my phone sometimes channels another part of the multiverse.”

            The cop chuckled and passed my documents back. “Turn around, go back to 19 about three miles back, going east. Look for York Road. Have a nice night! Drive safe!” He slapped the hood of my car as he walked back to his vehicle. 

            At least he hadn’t made my walk a straight line or recite the alphabet backward, neither of which I can do sober anyway. On the other hand, he didn’t pull out right away. He waited until I started up, turned, and headed back up the road. 

            I stopped at a gas station to text Rachel I was on my way home. She texted back almost right away: Bring ice cream and maybe we’ll have sex later. I started a search for Baskin Robbins. 

 

Rachel was getting ready to leave the next morning as I came into the kitchen. She’s my wife—we’re still newlyweds, technically, although we lived together for years—and she works three days a week as a therapist at a mental health clinic. Today she was dressed in her professional slacks and a blue blouse.

            “I made coffee.” She set her Supergirl mug in the sink. “I think I left some for you. What’s up for today?”

            “Call my client, tell her it doesn’t look like her husband’s having an affair, send the invoice.” I got out a bowl for my cereal. “You home at the regular time?”

            “Yeah, sixish.” She kissed me. “See you. Good sex last night.”

            “Good ice cream, too.” Pralines and cream is her favorite. I watched her go, heard the locks click on the door, and poured myself some coffee.

            At 9:30 I called my client—Jayne Furier was a VP at an insurance firm downtown—and told her what I’d seen last night. “It does not look like he’s having an affair,” I finished, “but I can’t tell you what’s really going on. It looked more like a social or literary salon than anything.”      “I don’t know.” She sounded confused, understandably. “He’s sick today. Canceled his patients. He’s sleeping now. Nothing went on out there? You’re sure?”

            “Well, like I said, I couldn’t stay and watch very long. Something might have happened later, but it didn’t have that vibe, from what I could tell. What time did he get home?”

            “Nine or so. Nine thirty.”

            I’d been there at seven. “I suppose there would have been time for—something. But I don’t know. What’s interesting is that the house is owned by a company the town is named for, Hartwell. Does that name sound familiar?”

            “No, I don’t think so. What kind of company?”

            “Publishing. I could look into the company and the town a little, if you want. Although I have to say, at this point it would probably be more cost-effective for you to simply talk to him.”

            “Yeah, maybe.” She thought about it a moment, then said, “Just a second” to someone else. “Can I let you know? I have to go into a meeting. I’ll call you back later today, if that’s all right.”

            “That’s fine. Whenever’s convenient.”  You have to give clients time to process information and make decisions about it. And so far this had been a simple case, like most cheating spouse jobs. No vampires or witches. I get too many of those.

            I spent the rest of the day trying to track down employees at a plant that had burned down in a suspicious fire which was part of a lawsuit over negligence. Nothing supernatural there, either. Just after lunch my phone buzzed. Jayne Furier. “He’s—Bryan’s in the hospital.”

            I frowned. “What happened?”

            “He just—he called me, and he couldn’t talk, he was just growling and swearing and spitting. I called my sister to go check on him, and he was unconscious, but still making strange noises, and kind of crawling round on the floor. She sent me a video, hang on—”

            A moment later an email popped up. I saw Bryan Furier wearing pajama bottoms, sprawled on the floor, sweating all over his body, his face red and twisted. “Rrr . . . ahh . . . gah!” he groaned, spitting up at the phone. “Arr . . . rarrr . . . gahh!” He pounded a fist on the floor and kicked out at the air as a woman’s voice tried to calm him with his name and promises to get him help.

“They took him to Northwestern. I’m here now, and he’s—they don’t know what’s causing it. They gave him something and now he’s in a coma.”

            I’d seen this kind of thing before—the growling, the spitting. But I didn’t want to freak Jayne Furier out. Yet. There were probably any number of legitimate medical reasons aside from the one I was worried about.

            “Is it about last night?” she asked, breathless. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I w3ant to know what happened out there. This isn’t Bryan, something isn’t right, something’s not . . .” She stopped, gasping.

            “All right,” I said in as reassuring a tone as I could manage. “Let me look into it. If I have to, I’ll go out there and knock on the door. Is that okay?”

            “Yes, fine. I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m sorry.”

            “That’s all right, I understand.” I’ve had to deal with lots of worried spouses and family members. Sometimes their stories don’t have happy endings. “I’ll be in touch.”

            I spent a few minutes looking up Hartwell, Illinois on the internet. According to its website, the town had been founded in 1894 as Whitman, but changed its name in 1946 several years after Warren Hartwell started up his first printing press in a warehouse and founded his publishing business, bringing jobs and money to the town. Hartwell died in 1962, and business shrank over the years, but the printing business was still going, expanded and profitable. The original warehouse had been torn down years ago, but the site was home to a town historical society. Open until six.

            I usually get better information by talking to people than roaming the internet. So I texted Rachel to let her know where I was going and headed for the car.

 

The Hartwell Historical Society was a small brick building next to the town’s post office and across the street from a grocery store. A bell rang as I walked inside, and a young man stood up from a reception desk beneath a large painting of an old white man, with the name “Warren Hartwell” on a plaque beneath. The society charged $10 per person for admissions, according to a sign next to the painting.

            “Hi! Welcome to the Historical Society!” In his 20s, the guy wore a green blazer with a big red WHW monogram on the left side, underneath a name tag that identified him as Hal.

            “Hi.” I picked up a brochure. “I’m interested in that house outside of town? The one that’s owned by the Hartwell company?”

            “The Hartwell House? Right. Let me see . . .” He started tapping at a laptop next to the cash register. 

            “Does anyone live there now?” I asked. “Is it still in the family?”

            “You can find out everything about the Hartwell family in gallery two.” He pointed. 

            I really wanted to talk to someone, not look at old pictures, but it seemed more polite to at least start there. So I paid my $10 and followed his finger to gallery two.

            The exhibit turned out to be more informative than I expected. They had the first small printing press Warren Hartwell had owned and operated in his basement, along with some of the first fliers he’d printed for the local church. There was a photo of his first wife, Evelyn, and their newborn child in front of a stack of freshly printed textbooks.

            The company struggled at first, then suddenly expanded, taking over into an old warehouse and churning out more textbooks, church pamphlets, and the occasional self-published autobiography or novel. I couldn’t figure out what Hartwell had done to turn his company into a success overnight, and nothing in the exhibit’s photos and artifacts addressed the abrupt change in fortune. Warren Hartwell lived to be 84 years old, and in his later years he spent a lot on money on the town, funding its library, hospital, one of two elementary schools and a high school, and an assisted living facility for senior citizens. 

The exhibit was straightforward about his three marriages: His first wife divorced him, and his second wife was much younger. They married within weeks of divorce No. 1, and his second son was born six months later, although you had to take a close look at the dates to find the truth. Hartwell divorced wife No. 2 seven years and one more son later. One photo showed her getting into a car, and the caption noticed that she later married a former manager at Hartwell’s publishing company.

             His third wife didn’t have any more children with Hartwell, but they stayed married for 30 years until she suffered from a vague, undefined “illness.”. Some Googling on my phone uncovered the fact that she spent the last seven years of her life in an insane asylum.

            Hartwell sold his publishing company shortly before his death in 1962, but in the early 2000s, with print publishing already on the downslide, two of his grandsons acquired it from its owners, and one of their sons, Sam Hartwell, became the CEO after his brother died.       

            Several photos of the big house hung in one corner. The captions noted that Hartwell House was available for meetings and family gatherings, with a cook and grounds crew. A floor plan let me see the room I’d peeked into last night. There was a phone number, an email address, and a QR code for people interested in renting it. 

            “Did you find everything you want?” Hal asked me back at the front desk.

            “Pretty much. Do people see Sam Hartwell in town very much?”

            “He comes to the town meetings. He eats at the Bistro. I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s pretty nice.”

            “Does he have a family?” The exhibit hadn’t mentioned a wife or kids.

            “No. I mean, I don’t think he’s gay. But I’ve never heard of him dating or anything. Not that I’d really know.”

            I’d found out all I needed from him, so I said, “Thanks,” and left.

            After checking in with Rachel, I started the car. Sometimes the only way to get answers is to just go to the source and start asking questions. So I drove back to the Hartwell house.

            The long gravel drive was empty, but I saw two cars in a garage to the side. I parked in front, walked across the porch, and rang the bell.

            The door opened 10 seconds later. “Yes?” 

            I recognized him from pictures at the Historical Society. Sam Hartwell—30ish, with blonde hair cut shot, bright blue eyes, wearing a dress shirt with a loose necktie. I was surprised to find him at home, but if he ran the company, he could probably wherever he wanted. He looked me over, puzzled but not suspicious.

            “Mr. Hartwell? I’m Tom Jurgen, from Chicago.”  I handed him a card. “It’s about Bryan Furier. I believe he was here at your house last night?”

            He looked over my card, then looked up quickly.  “Is something wrong?”

            “He’s sick. In the hospital.”

            “Is it serious?” Hartwell shoved my card in his pocket. 

            “He’s unconscious, in a coma. He was acting like he was having some sort of seizure. Do you know of anyone else whom was here who’s having problems?”

            He glanced over his shoulder into the house. “You’d better come in.”

            Hartwell led me into the front room where I’d watched Furier and the other last night. Nice carpeting, big chairs and long sofas, and many bookcases, but they seemed filled with multiple copies of the same books. Hartwell Publishing titles? I couldn’t make out any of the titles.

            “Bryan was here for a, a reading group I hold in my home.” Hartwell sat down, and pointed to a chair for me. “There are about 20 of us. We read from some of the works my company puts out—Hartwell Publishing?”

            “I’ve heard of you.” 

            He took out his phone. “Let me get you something to drink. Coffee? Soda?”

            “Some water would be fine.” I looked around the room. “Are these your books?”

            “Some of them. It’s a pet project of mine, a line of inspirational books. Quotations, stories, poems, that sort of thing.” He finished texting. “We meet once a week. Bryan’s been joining us for about a month. We read and discuss one of the books here.” He lifted a hand, gesturing toward the bookcase behind him.

            “Sounds nice. Did you notice Bryan feeling bad when he was here last night?”

            “No.” Hartwell shook his head. “He seemed perfectly fine. And as far as I know, no one else is sick. Is it COVID or something?”

            “I don’t think the doctors know yet.” A young woman in a short skirt walked in just then, carrying a cup of coffee for Hartwell and a bottle of water for me. I thanked her, and Hartwell smiled. “My assistant, Laurie. We’re done for the day, Laurie, you can go home now.”

            “Sure thing, Sam.” She smiled at me and left.

            “How did Bryan get involved with your group?” I asked after sipping the water. Ice cold.

            “One of his friends, Randy. Randall Jarvis. I started the group about six months ago. Randall lives here in Hartwell. He invited Bryan one night, and I guess Bryan liked what we were reading.”

            “What do you read?”

            Hartwell hopped up with a smile, eager to share. “We’ve been reading from this.” He snatched a book from the shelf, one of 25 identical titles, and handed it to me. 

            UNLEASH THE POWER BENEATH. The title stared up at me in black capital letters. “A Guide to Creating the World That Was Meant to Be.” The author, or editor, or whatever, was Nicholas Newman. I flipped it open. Pages of quotations, advice, meditation prompts, reflections, and occasional drawings of sunsets and cliffs.

            “You can take that,” Hartwell said. 

            “Thanks.” I stood up. “Well, thanks for your time. I think I’m done. Sorry to bother you.”

            “No bother at all. I hope Bryan gets better.” We shook hands, and he led me to the door.

            In my car I saw a white Ford Explorer backing out of the garage. Laurie, the assistant. I waited for her to turn around toward the driveway, but she stopped and opened her door. “Everything okay?” she called.

            I lowered my window. “Fine, thanks.”

            Then she slipped down out of the truck and walked toward me. I tried not to stare at her legs. “I hope Mr. Furier’s okay,” she said, leaning down and resting her arms across my open window. “Oh, he gave you the book.” She pointed to it on the seat.

            “Yeah, I read this kind of stuff.” I was lying, but she was cute and Rachel was nowhere around to punch me. “I can always use a little more positive thinking in my day.” That was true enough.

            She frowned. “It’s a—weird book. Be careful.”

            “Weird how?” 

            Laurie shook her head. “It—changes people. I don’t know. I read it once, and it gave me dreams for a week. Not great ones.” She backed away. “Sorry. Have a good one!”        

            I watched her walk back to her truck, then looked down at the book. Then I headed down the driveway to the street.

Reading Group of Terror, Part Two

I had vegetarian burritos ready to bake when Rachel got home at 6:15. She came into our office to drop off her laptop, kick off her shoes, unbuttoned her blouse and kiss me, in that order. “Crack any cases, Sherlock?” 

            “Not yet. Did you cure anyone’s neuroses?” 

            “Had a few good sessions. What’s that?” She pointed a finger.

            I had the book from Hartwell on the corner of my desk. “That’s the book they were reading last night. A bunch of quotes and stories and—what?” Rachel was staring at the cover. 

            “I don’t know.” Rachel’s psychic. She can pick up magic and supernatural whispers. She leaned over and placed her fingers on the cover, her head cocked, as if listening for something far away.

            Then the book erupted into flame.

            Rachel jerked her fingers away with a yelp. Orange fire leaped up from the book, stabbing at the air. I stared for a moment, confused, then kicked my garbage can over to the corner of the desk and shoved the burning book into it. The heat burned my arm as I grabbed the beer I’d opened just a few minutes before and poured it over the flames. Then I reached for the water bottle Laurie had given me at Hartwell’s house and started dumping what was left of that into the can as Rachel ran for the kitchen.

            I nudged the can away from my desk as Rachel came back with the fire extinguisher in the kitchen. “How does this work again?” she muttered, but she managed to pull out the pin and then blast at the flames until they drowned in the white spray.  

I took a deep breath. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” She put the extinguisher down. The office smelled like stale beer, chemicals, and smoke. I opened a window. “What the hell was that?”

            She looked down into the garbage can and sighed. “I don’t know. There was something there, in that book—something that didn’t want me looking at it, or seeing into it. But I didn’t get a chance to figure it out. It just went whoosh.”

            I bit my lip. “This was supposed to be a simple cheating spouse case. Damn it. I should have been an accountant.”

            “Then you’d probably have demons haunting your spreadsheets.” She picked up the extinguisher. “When’s dinner?”

            “Fifteen minutes.” I bent down to search the can for the book, and pulled out what was left of it—scorched cover, burnt pages, dripping with a combination of smells. “I’ll dump this down the chute.”

            Rachel backed away. “Maybe keep it. In something safe. I’m going to change.”

            I put the wet pages in three plastic bags and stashed it in a plastic sandwich container. After dinner I went into my office. It still smelled, so I pulled a small desk fan out of a drawer to blow away what was left of the stench. Then I checked some notes.

            Last year I met a woman named Sydney Josondra at a library called the Bibliotheca Davonia north of the city. The library specialized in the occult, and I thought she might have some insight onto the kind of inspirational book that would burst into flame spontaneously. I found her number, left a message, and went to go watch Resident Alien with Rachel. 

            Halfway through the second episode my phone buzzed. Sydney. “Sorry.” I got up as Rachel paused the show, irritated. “This shouldn’t take long. —Hello, Sydney, thanks for calling me back so soon.” I headed into the office. 

            “Oh, I was just finishing up some work here and thought I’d call you before going home.” She’s an older woman, in a wheelchair, sharp and knowledgeable about all kinds of volumes of forgotten and potentially dangerous lore.

            “I appreciate it. It’s about a book I had that suddenly burst into flames.”

            She laughed. “That’s never happened here, but I have heard of incidents like that. What book?”

            “Unleash the Power Beneath, by , uh, Nicholas Newman,” I told her. “Published by Hartwell Publishing. It’s a sort of inspirational book, with quotes and poems and stuff.”

            “And how did it happen to explode?”

            “My wife was touching it. She’s psychic. It just went, well, exploded on us. We put it out fast.”

            “That’s good. Let me see . . . Yes. Here’s someone. Milan Powell. They collect books of magic and spells. Some spells aren’t obvious, you know. They’re hidden inside other words. Here’s their number. They, uh, go by ‘they’, just so you know.”

            I took it down. “Thanks, Sydney. How’s everything at the library?” 

            She laughed. “Books never die. I’ll always be here. Good night, Tom.”

            “Good night.” We hung up. I went back out to the living room, hoping I hadn’t missed anything important on the show. Rachel hates bringing me up to speed. 

 

Jayne Furier called me the next morning as I was turning on my computer. “He’s about the same, maybe a little worse,” she told me, her voice raspy as if she hadn’t gotten much sleep. “He came out of it for a few minutes last night, but he didn’t say anything that made sense. It sounded like, like, ‘Rylah,” or ‘Reelya’ or something, and then he just went back into the coma.” She sniffled. “Did you find out anything?”

            I told her about driving out to Hartwell and meeting Sam. “Do you know a man named Randy Jarvis? He said that’s who got your husband involved in the group.”

            “Randy . . . yeah. He was a dentist, too. Then he started selling real estate. I haven’t heard from him in years, it’s kind of surprising. He never mentioned hearing from him.”

            “Do you have his number, or his email?”

            “I think so, just a minute—yeah, here it is.” She read me a phone number. “I think it‘s his personal cell number. He’s divorced, and we fell out of touch. At least I thought we did.”  

            “I’ll call him, if that’s all right. I should also tell you about something strange that happened after I met with Hartwell.” I told her about the fiery book.

            “Oh my God. What does it mean? Is it—did he plant a bomb or something?”

            “I don’t think so.” I hesitated. How to put this? I’m a magnet for the paranormal? “I think this may have a supernatural cause. There was something about that book that wasn’t quite right.”

            “Supernatural . . .” Her voice faded. I waited for her to ask if I was crazy. Finally she said, “That makes as much sense as anything, I guess. Honestly, in that video, it looks like he’s possessed, doesn’t he?”

            “That’s what I’m afraid of. Look, I’m going to talk to someone who might know more about the book. I’ll let you know what I find out. Let me know if anything changes.”

            Rachel came into the office as we hung up, carrying her coffee in her Wonder Woman mug. When’s at home she does paperwork and a little graphic design for some of the clients she had before becoming a therapist. “Anything explode yet?”

            “The day is young. We’ll see.” I found Milan Powell’s number.

            They sounded young and energetic. “Yes! I love to talk about books! Can you bring out what’s left of it?”

            “Uh. I think so. When can I see you?”

            “Any time, I’m free until three or so. Then I see my shrink.” They gave me an Oak Park address.

            I agreed to see her in two hours. When I hung up Rachel was staring at me. “Who was that?”

            “Milan Powell. Occult book expert, supposedly. I’m going to ask them about the book from Hartwell.”    

            “Them? He has a friend?”

            “Non-binary, I guess. I’ll have to watch my pronouns.”

She turned to her computer. “Good luck.” 

            I checked out Randy Jarvis. He had an office in Hartwell, and I added his address into my GPS. Then I did some paperwork of my own for an hour, then left to drive out to Oak Park.

 

Milan Powell was in their 30s, with short blond hair and an angular face, in shorts and a fuzzy pink sweater, barefoot. “Hi, Tom!” They held out both arms as if expecting a hug. We shook hands, and they led me inside.

            Milan brought me coffee, and we sat in a small living room without a TV but with bookcases on every wall, from carpet to ceiling, and thick vines dangling like snakes from three pots hanging from hooks overhead. 

            I opened the plastic box and showed her what was left of the book. Milan squinted through the plastic. “What was it called?”

            “Unleash the Power Beneath,” I told her. “Nicholas Newman.”

            “Ah, Nicholas Newman.” They turned to a bookcase and, without looking for more than three seconds, pulled out a thick leatherbound volume.  “Let me see, let me see . . .” Milan flipped through the pages. “Nikolai Nemtsev. Russian mystic. Died in 1899. Published six books of poetry and related material under different names. Let’s see.”

            They walked up and down the bookcases for a lot longer this time, finally stopping and sliding one slim volume out from between two heavier books. “This is one of his.”

            Arise from the Depths, was the title. “Find the Strength to Burst from your Chains,” came beneath. The author was Nick Nemours.

            “Who was this guy?” I didn’t touch the book.

            “He called himself a philosopher and a poet. He was also an alcoholic and drug addict who spent years in prison in Russia, then went to England for a while and ended up dying of liver cancer.” They shrugged. “That’s the official story. He was in an insane asylum when he died, raving about demons and the antichrist. And his books—well . . .”

            They opened it to the first page and read the quote:

            

Begin with the beginning. Seek what is fine. Discard the rest.

 

            Milan tightened their lips. “What that really means, is ‘The world began in darkness. Live in the darkness. Destroy the light.’”

            “How do you see that?” I peered at the page.

            “It’s a message underneath the words. Look at it once and it’s silent. You have to keep going back to it, time after time, to bring it out. Or you have to know how to spot it, like I do.” They grinned. “Years of reading this stuff. I have to be careful now.”

            Milan turned the page. This one had a short tale:

 

A young man went to a wise old monk seeking wisdom. “Master, what must I do to become as wise as you?”

The monk said, “Find the tallest tree in the forest. Climb to the top. Come back and tell me what you see.”

So the young man walked in the forest for days until he found the tallest tree. Climbing it was difficult, but he finally made it to the top.

When he returned to the old monk, he said, “Master, I saw past the borders of our land, and over the clouds, and beyond the edge of the world. I saw that I am just a speck in the vastness of the universe, no bigger and no smaller than anyone else.”

The monk smiled. “You have seen much. Go and seek more, and never stop. That is the path to wisdom.”

 

            Milan sipped some tea from a cup on the edge of the table. “What that’s saying is, ‘There was a young man, he climbed a tree, and saw that his life was meaningless, nothing. He fell from the tree, and as he was dying there, the monk found him and said, ‘There is no knowledge, there is no hope. You have lived for nothing. Only Hell remains.’ And he spits on the kid before he dies.”

            “Wow.” I looked at the words on the page. “That’s pretty bleak.”

            “Everyone sees a slightly different version, but that’s the main point.” They skipped a few pages. “Here’s where it gets good—or bad.”

            

Seek only to serve. Look for what the universe wills for you, and follow it gladly.

 

            Milan sighed. “That means, ‘You shall suffer until the end of time, and welcome the agony that comes eternally.”

            “Yikes.” I rubbed my forehead. “The whole book is like that?”

            “Yeah.” They turned pages rapidly until she got to the end. 

 

Embrace the power you have and use it to bring others into the circle.

 

            “I won’t read that out loud.” They closed the book. “It could—conceivably—summon a demon. It’s basically, ‘Come worship me and help me bring enslave the world in my power.’”

            “So he hoped people would read this and become possessed?” I sipped my coffee. Hazelnut. It tasted good.

            “Reading it out loud, over and over, is supposed to help the demon come and find you. Following your voice from Hell, or wherever.” They went back to the first big book and scanned the page. “It says here he wrote at least 20 of them and tried to sell them or give them away to libraries, churches, whatever. Most of them have been destroyed, so the rest are hard to find. I’m lucky.” Milan smirked, tapping the book with a finger. “The one you said, Unleash the Power Beneath? That’s the hardest to find.”

            “So if one person reading that book could summon a demon—” I thought back to the other night. “What would happen if, say, 20 people were reading the book together? 

            Their eyes sharpened, as if they heard something threatening from far away. “Is that—is someone doing that?”

            I nodded. “I think so.”

            Milan shook their head. “That would be—bad.”

            I was afraid of that. I took one last look at the ruined book I’d brought. “I guess I’d better get rid of that.”

            “You should burn it. I mean, I’m against burning books in general, but—” They shrugged. “Some need fire.”

            “Yeah.” I stood up. “Thanks for your time. Should I—” I reached into my pants for my wallet, but they shook their head.

            “No, that’s fine. I love to talk about my books.” We shook hands again. “Call me if you need anything else.”

            “I will.”

Reading Group of Terror, Part Three

I texted Rachel, and then I drove back to Hartwell. I found Jarvis’s real estate office, a storefront not far from the historical society, and took a look at the listings posted on the window: homes starting from $350,000 up to $2 million were available, along with condos and townhouses. Behind the postings I saw an office with six cubicles, three of them inhabited.

I went inside. A woman in a sharp business suit was on the phone. A man in slacks and a vest looked up from, his computer, sizing me up: Was I here for a McMansion or a one-bedroom condo? But I spotted a nameplate with “Randall Jarvis” just behind him and walked forward.

Jarvis was in his late 50s, balding, in a jacket and necktie. “Hello?” His chair swiveled around as he jumped up and extended his hand. “I’m Randy. You are—?”

“Tom Jurgen.” We shook hands. “I don’t actually want to buy a house.” I handed him my card. “It’s about Bryan Furier.”

Jarvis gave me a puzzled look. “What about him?”

“He’s in the book group with you. The one at Hartwell House? He’s in the hospital now.”

Jarvis blinked. He glanced past me, at the two other real estate agents. They weren’t paying attention to us. “Let’s go somewhere.” 

I followed him outside to a coffee shop two doors down. We took a table without buying anything. 

Jarvis leaned forward, arms on the tabletop. “What about Bryan?”

“He’s in the hospital. It happened the day after your last book club. Do you know anything about it?”

“What would I know about it? Look, we’re friends, but we’re not best buddies or anything. Sam was looking for new people, so I reached out to Bryan. That’s it.”

“What’s the group about? He gave me a copy of your latest book.” I paused. “Unfortunately, it caught fire.”

“Huh?” He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“The book. It’s not just a feel-good book of quotes, is it? Your friend Bryan isn’t just sick. He’s been possessed by a demon.”

Jarvis’s reaction surprised me. Not disbelief or shock. He looked almost envious. “Really? Are you sure?” 

“Pretty sure. What’s the deal?”

He jerked up from his chair, almost tipping it over. “I can’t—I can’t tell you. I have to go.” He rushed for the door.

My instinct was to follow, but I held off. I couldn’t exactly interrogate him on the street or in his office. Plus, I’ve never been that good at the third degree. And the barista behind the counter was glaring at me.

I went up and bought a cup of coffee to show her my good intentions. Then I went back to my car.

I waited for 10 minutes until I saw Jarvis leave his office. He walked up the street half a block, then got into a Mazda parked at a meter. I started up and managed to pull a U-turn without getting into any trouble, and tailed him down the street and out of town.

He drove slowly, and I had to stay back so he wouldn’t spot me, but he drove only a few miles. I recognized his destination as he flipped his turn signal: Hartwell House. He pulled up the drive, and I parked on the side of the road just past. 

I waited, my eyes on the rearview mirror in case the sheriff showed up again. I texted Rachel. She texted back: Don’t get stuck in a cornfield. I’m making nachos for dinner.

Jarvis left 20 minutes later. I was following him back to town when my phone buzzed. I let it go to voice mail, since I was driving, and waited until Jarvis had parked again near his office to check the message.

“Mr. Jurgen? This is Sam Hartwell. I know you’re in town. Could you stop by my house before heading back to Chicago? We need to talk.”

            Uh-oh. I sat in my car, trying not to panic. I did not want to go to Hartwell House, not alone. Not knowing what I knew, or at least suspected. But I’d need to talk to Hartwell directly to find out what I wanted. After a moment I called back.

            Laurie answered, and I asked for her boss. A moment later Hartwell came on the line. “Mr. Jurgen.” He sounded like a school principal trying to make up his mind what to do with a troublesome third grader. “I think we need to talk.”

            “Sounds good,” I said. “There’s a coffee shop here on Second Street. Do you want to meet me there?”    

            He clearly didn’t, but he decided not to argue. “Half an hour.” He hung up. 

            I set the phone on the seat next to me, trying to think. Hartwell wouldn’t try to kill me in a coffee shop, would he? Probably not. On the other hand, his family had practically founded the town. Maybe they’d let him get away with anything he wanted? Maybe I was an idiot for meeting him? But at least I wasn’t letting him lure me into his house.

            I texted Rachel. She called me back almost immediately. “Are you crazy?”

            “You’re the shrink, you tell me.”

            “I don’t have the power to have you committed yet, but when I do . . .” I could feel her impulse to jab me with her elbow.

            “I’ll be careful. It’s in public. I’ll have my Taser.” I checked the glove compartment. “It’s right here.”

            “I guess I can’t stop you.” She groaned. “Remember, nachos. Don’t make me eat them late. They’re no good when you have to heat them up again.”

            Now I was hungry and nervous. “Got it. Love you.”

            “Whatever.” She hung up. 

            I checked the Taser, locked the car, and walked over to the coffee shop. Maybe they had sandwiches.

 

I was finishing up a turkey and Swiss cheese croissant when Sam Hartwell walked in. The barista greeted him with a smile as he looked around for me, and she brought him an espresso as he sat down at my table. 

            “Thank you,” he told the barista. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked me, barely hiding his annoyance. 

            “Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing. I just didn’t want to do it at your house if you’re summoning demons there.”

            He didn’t flinch when I said “demons.” He just stared at me. “It’s my house. It’s my business. You wouldn’t understand what we do there.”

            “I understand that one member of your group is in the hospital dying. And believe me, I understand a lot about demons.” I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. “Little ones, big ones, the kind that pretend to be your friend until you realize they’re trying to eat your soul. That book almost burned my apartment down. What’s it doing to the people in your little reading club?”

            He sat back, like a professor about to deliver a lecture. “It’s helping them prosper. Become stronger. Find alignment with the power inside everyone. If that book harmed you, you did something wrong.”

            I shook my head. “You’re playing games with something you can’t trust. Is this the secret of your company’s success? How did you end up publishing this book, anyway?”          

            He smiled proudly. “We have a reputation for supporting works out of the mainstream. Nicholas Newman is moistly forgotten today, but he was a respected philosopher in his lifetime, and later. We’ve read that book a dozen times. Each time we learn more. We—become more. I’m making people better. I’m helping them achieve their destiny.”

            I wondered if he ever listened to himself. “Do you hold your reading groups every night? Or just Tuesday?”

            “Do you want to join?” He cupped his hands around his espresso. “Then you could see that there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing. We’re very inclusive, as long as people keep their minds open.”

            Open minds are a good thing, most of the time. Until they invite demons in. I finished my sandwich. “I’ll be in touch.” I stood up.

            He stood and extended a hand. I kept the handshake brief. “Anytime,” Hartwell said.  

 

“No.” Rachel kicked me under the kitchen table. “You are not joining a demon book cult. Uh-uh. No way.” She kicked me again for emphasis.

            “Ow.” I rubbed my ankle, then picked up a nacho chip covered with guac and salsa. “I’m not joining it. I’ll just go once. I’ll take the Taser—”

            “What’s your strategy? Think about it.” She picked up her beer. “Are you going to do a mass exorcism or something? Or burn the place down?”

            I thought about it. I didn’t really have a plan—or clear instructions from my client. “Maybe you’re right. Let me talk to—"

            My phone buzzed. Jayne Furier. The coincidence didn’t feel good. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? It’s Jayne—Jayne Furier. I just wanted to tell you that my husband died this afternoon.”

            Oh damn. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sorry for your loss.” It sounded lame, as usual, but I couldn’t think of anything better.

            “Thank you. Do you—do you know any more about what happened?”

            I frowned. Was this the right time to introduce her to the world of demons? “Maybe we should meet.”

            “All right. Can you come to my house tomorrow? Ten o’clock?”

            “I’ll be there.” We hung up.

            I told Rachel about Furier. She sighed and put a hand on my arm. “You all right?”

            “Yeah. I suppose there’s nothing I could have done for him.” But I kept thinking about the other people in Sam Hartwell’s reading group. Were they in danger? Could I help them? How?

            Rachel yanked her hand away . “I know that look. You want to go demon hunting.”

            “Well, I have to talk to her first. Find out what she wants me to do. If she tells me to forget it . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

            Rachel nodded. “This is what I married into, I guess. Do what you have to do. I’ll come visit you at the hospital. But if you get killed, I’ll marry someone new as fast as I can.”

            “Fine. Just wait a week or two.”

She kicked me again under the table, but then she squeezed my hand. “We’ll see. Maybe I’ll find a nice convent.”  

I snorted. “Right.”

We held hands for a long time. 

            

Jayne Furier lived in Skokie, north of the city. The woman who opened the door wasn’t her. “Tom Jurgen? I’m Jayne’s sister. Pam. C’mon in.”

            Jayne sat at the kitchen table, a laptop in front of her and lot of papers scattered around. In person, she had blonde hair with streaks of gray. Pam, who looked a few years younger and dark lines under her eyes like Jayne, brought me a cup of coffee and sat down next to her.

            “Once again, I’m so sorry for your husband,” I told her. 

            “You should have seen him,” Pam said. “He was—like he had rabies or something. Grunting and groaning and rolling on the floor and—”

            “Pam, for Christ’s sake!” Our coffees shook as Jayne slammed her hand on the table. “I don’t want to go through that today! I’ve got insurance and lawyers and doctors and everything to deal with, and I can’t relive that!” Then she stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

            Pam reached out to take her hand. “It’s okay, Jay-Jay. We’ll get through this.”

            We sat in silence for a moment. Then I asked, “Do you have children?”

            “Two girls. They’re with my mother right now.” She ran a hand through her hair. “What can you tell me?”

            I bit my lip. “You should understand that this is going to sound, well, crazy. But I’ve run across a lot of things that seemed crazy in my life, and they turned out to be true.” And terrifying. “Here’s the thing.”

            So I told them about the book, about what Milan Powell had told me, and what Sam Hartwell said in the coffee shop yesterday. When I finished, Pam looked at Jayne, then at me, then at the table.

            Jayne stared off into nowhere. A thousand-yard stare.

            “What do you think, Jay-Jay?” Pam finally asked.

            Jayne blinked, as if coming out of a vision. “I, uh—” She stood up. “I have to show you something.”

            She walked out of the room. Pam and I looked at each other. She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then she looked me over. “Do you run into this kind of thing often? Demons?”

            I nodded. “Sometimes it’s vampires. Once it was carnivorous giant plants.”

            Her mouth opened. “Oh-kay.”

            Jayne returned, her face pale as ivory. She dropped a book on the table between our cups.

            Unleashing the Power Beneath. Nicolas Newman.

            “He brought it home. Is that the same book?” She sank into her chair. “What should I do? Burn it? Take it out there and throw it in his face?” She pulled it to her. “What’s in this thing? What did this to my husband?” She opened it up.

            “Wait—” I reached out to snatch it away, but she pulled it in close.

            “’When you see an obstacle in your path, do not turn from it,’” she read, her voice trembling with anger. “’Reach out to it, embrace it, make it part of you—'”

            The book suddenly rose in the air. Jayne jerked back in her chair, her eyes wide, her arms thrown back, biting her bottom lip hard enough to draw drops of blood. Her eyes flared. Red, like the blood on her chin, then black as the bottom of an empty grave.

            Jayne jumped up, knocking the chair over. “Rrr . . .” she growled, whipping her head back and forth like a wolf seeking prey. “Rahar! Rahar!”

            Jayne lunged at me. I jumped back, arms up to shield my face as her fingers curled like claws to rake at my skin. 

            Pam stood helplessly for a moment, confused and frightened, but then she stumbled forward and grabbed one of her sister’s arms. “Jaye!” she shouted. “Jaye-Jaye!”

            Jayne whirled around and slapped Pam hard enough to send her spinning. She was still shouting gibberish—guttural grunts that repeated the same few sounds: “Rhahar! Rahar!” But she teetered unsteadily on her feet, like a dancer uncertain of her balance. While she was half turned away from me, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her, dragging her to the kitchen floor, trapping her as tightly as I could.

            She struggled, rocking back and forth, but I was heavier and more clearheaded. “Call. 911!” I told Pam, wrestling Jayne to the floor. “Fast!”

            Jayne bit my ear without breaking any skin, and kicked me near some painfully sensitive spots. I gritted my teeth and held her down as best as I could, but as Pam was trying to tell the 911 operator what was going on, Jayne squirmed out from under me and shot to her feet.

            “Rhahar is coming!” Her voice thundered. She pointed a finger at my chest, and I backed away, feeling a flutter beneath my ribs.  “From beneath! It rises! From beneath!”

            I glanced around the room frantically for something that might help. A cross for an exorcism? A rolling pin to knock her out? And maybe give her brain damage? My eyes dropped onto the book lying on the table.

            Jayne rushed me, swiping at my face with her fingernail. I grabbed her arms and staggered back against the sink, fighting to stay upright and protect my eyes. “The book!” I yelled to Pam. “Destroy the book!”

            Pam looked up from her phone. Jayne was still growling about Rhahar. I didn’t want to hit her, or kick her, but she was going to do serious damage if she didn’t run out of energy soon.

            Pam grabbed the book and ran out into the living room. From the corner of my eye as I was grappling with Jayne I saw her pull open a sliding door to the back yard. Then I had to focus on keeping Jayne from clawing out my eyeballs or flattening my testicles with her knee.

            I was holding up, but Jayne was younger than me and I was trying not to hurt her. The demon didn’t care about her pain and kept fighting furiously as I tried to just keep her back. I was wondering in the back of my mind what Rachel was going to say about the scratches and bruises she’d see on my body—or my corpse—when I heard an explosion from beyond the living room. Not a bomb, just a hard burst, and the smell of gas.

            Suddenly Jayne slumped sideways her eyes rolling back in her head. I caught her before she hit the floor, and lowered her as gently as I could, making sure she was still breathing and trying to catch my own breath. Was I bleeding anywhere? I ran a hand over my face, but didn’t find any blood.

            Pam was standing over me. “Is she okay?”

            “She’s breathing.” I checked her pulse. “What did you do?”

            “They have a gas grill on the patio. It took me a minute to get it lit.” She knelt next to her sister. “What the hell was that?”

            “A demon.” I sat back, letting my heart slow down a little. “Named Rhahar.”

Reading Group of Terror, Part Four

 

The paramedics took her away, and Pam went with her. We didn’t tell them about the demon; Jayne seemed calm now, not thrashing about like Bryan. I hoped she was free of Rhahar. I wished I was.

            Back home I ate a sandwich, although I didn’t have much appetite. Rachel called between patients, and I told her about Jayne Furier and the demon.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“I think so. She was unconscious when they took her away, but calm. Not fighting. Her sister will let me know.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

I didn’t want to answer. Mostly because I didn’t know, but also because most of the alternatives were likely to get me in trouble with Rachel. “I need to find out more about Rhahar, if that’s the name of the demon. Then—I don’t know.”

“Liar. I don’t even have to be psychic to know what you’re doing to do.”

My face got hot. “Then tell me, what else should I do? I’d love to hear it.” I don’t usually snap at Rachel, but Jayne’s possession had rattled my nerves.

“Don’t get mad at me, jerk,” she snapped back. “I just want to know if dinner is going to be late tonight. It’s your turn.”

“I don’t know what I’m making.” I hesitated. “Sorry.”

“Try that Milan guy. Maybe they know more about those books.”

“Good idea. I’ll let you know.”

We hung up. Now I felt worse. But I couldn’t solve that right now.

So I called Milan Powell. “Rhahar? I don’t know right off the top of my head but I can look some stuff up. Why don’t you come out again?”

I wasn’t going to get any other work done today thinking about this. “Give me an hour.”

A little over an hour later I was back in Oak Park. Milan was wearing sandals today, but otherwise looked the same as yesterday, in shorts and a fuzzy sweater. “Hi!” They waved me inside. “I think I found something.”

In her living room they had a pot of tea, two cups, and a stack of books. One lay open on the sofa next to them as they sat down. “Here.”

I picked it up, sitting in a chair across from her. Rhahar the Destroyer said the black lettering at the top of the page. Beneath the letters was a drawing of—well, it looked like the head of Medusa, with long thick braids coiled across its scalp, and five eyes on the front of a face riddled with bumps and scars, perched on top of a bony lizard with six legs. It towered over a cowering woman, as if the artist had drawn her in for scale.

I looked up at Milan. “What is it?”

They smiled and poured me some tea. “It’s an Indian demon—India, not native American. There are writings about it going back to 700 B.C. Rhahar lives beneath the ocean in some tales, but in other versions it’s sleeping beneath the earth or buried deep inside a mountain overlooking a peaceful village.”

I flipped through the pages. “Does it possess people?”

“There was a cult devoted to it in the 7^th century that believes Rhahar could go inside their head. In its rage to be free it would take over one of its worshippers, and they’d wreak havoc on everything and everyone around it before they died. Historians think they were just doing drugs.”

“Is the cult still around?”

Milan pulled a book toward them. “According to this, it was outlawed in the 7^th century and all its followers were executed. But who knows? They could still be out there.”

I looked at the picture again. “Is this accurate? It’s like something out of Lovecraft.”

“One of the ancient gods, yeah. I don’t know. There are other drawings—” They started opening books. “They’re pretty similar. Whether someone actually saw it, or these are from visions? I don’t know.”

I flashed back to a house I’d visited last year. Some kind of “Old One” had been buried in the subcellar of a house in Indiana, and a local family had been guarding it for generations. We’d blown it up—or tried to. For all I knew, it was still there, sleeping.

“Great.” I sipped some tea. Lemon with honey. Sweeter than I like, but I wasn’t going to gripe. “So how do we stop it? Can we kill it? Knock it out? Make friends with it?”

Milan shrugged. “I don’t really know. Sorry.”

“Okay.” I finished my tea and stood up. “Thanks.” I didn’t know what to do with what they’d told me, but more information is generally better than less.

“Hang on a minute.” Milan stood up and went to one bookshelf, bending down. “Here. I can sense you’re looking for some kind of inner peace. This isn’t about demons or monsters, but it might help.”

I took the book. The Power of Hope. What could Milan sense about me? I already had Rachel watching my aura. And I had drugs from my psychiatrist in case I got depressed or anxious. Or suicidal again. But I tell everyone around me to keep an open mind when things get paranormal, so I guess I had to do the same now. “Thanks.”

Milan walked me to the door. “I’ll see if I can find anything else. Demons aren’t really my expert area, but I’ll try.”

“I have some resources too. Anything would help.” I shook their hand. “Thanks again.”

“Sure thing.” 

I drove home. My phone buzzed before I reached the highway. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voice mail until I could pull into a gas station to listen to the message.

“Hi, it’s Pam. Jayne Furier’s sister, you know. She’s awake and out of it now, but they’re running tests. But she wants to talk to you. Can you come out to the hospital? Let me know.”

I groaned. Driving back to Skokie wasn’t on my list of fun ways to increase my car’s mileage. But this might be important. So I called Pam back and told her I was on my way, then texted Rachel. 

 

Jayne Furier lay in a hospital gown on her bed, breathing shallowly, her eyes closed. Pam was sitting beside her bed.

            The Skokie hospital wasn’t big, but it looked modern and efficient. I had a pass stuck to my shirt, and they’d called the room to make sure I was allowed as a visitor. 

            Pam stood up, rubbing her eyes. “Hi.”

            “Is she all right?” Jayne’s eyes were closed, and her breathing was shallow.

“She said she has to tell you something.” Pam shook her head. “I don’t know. They gave her some sedatives, she goes in and out. Just—try not to let her get upset, all right?” 

            “Pam?” Jayne’s eyelids flickered. “Is that—oh. Hi, Tom.”

            “How are you feeling?” I walked to the bed.

            She leaned her head back to look up at me. “It hurts. Everywhere. What did I do?” For a moment she didn’t seem to remember me. “Never mind, Pam told me. You had to burn the book on the grill? Bryan won’t—oh, shit.” She closed her eyes and started to cry.

            Pam ran around the bed to offer her a box of tissues. I backed away and leaned against the wall, looking out into the hallway as they cried together. Patients rolled past the door in wheelchairs or hospital beds, and nurses checked their tablets and phones as they hurried to their next emergency.

            Jayne blew her nose and tossed a tissue on the table next to her. “All right,” she said. “I’ve got to tell you this. Come here.” She motioned me close to the bed. Pam stood on the other side.

            “There’s—it was—something—inside my head,” she told me, her voice low. “I don’t know what it was. But it hurt. It was like something wanted to rip its way out of me.” She shuddered again. “Everything was black.” She closed her eyes. “There were these eyes—five eyes, just looking at me, in all different colors. And there was this grunting and growling, like a wolf or a tiger. I don’t know how long it was, it felt like I was stuck in there forever, in the dark with this, this thing.”

She opened her eyes and took a breath. “Then it said, it said, ‘Keep the call. Keep the call.’ And then, just, ‘Before the moon. Before the moon.’” She shook her head, trying to wipe the words from her memory. “I don’t know what it means. What does it mean? I don’t care. I just want it gone. I want it out of my head!”

            Pam reached out to clutch her wrist. I asked, “Is it still there? Do you feel it?”

            “No.” She rubbed her forehead as if she had a headache. “It’s gone now. But I can still see it. And hear it. I want it gone. Just—gone.”

            Before the moon. “I’m sure it will stop soon.” I wasn’t sure at all, but I had to say something reassuring. 

            Jayne closed her eyes. “I hope so.” In a moment she was asleep.

            “They gave her sedatives.” Pam stroked her sister’s hair. “She’ll be here all night. They say she’ll be okay, but—I couldn’t tell them about the book. Or what she said, that Rhahar thing. They’d think she was crazy. They’d think I was crazy.”

            “Yeah.” I’ve been called crazy plenty in my life. It’s not fun.

            “What does it mean?”

            I took out my phone. “I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you.”

            Pam sat down next to the bed again. Outside in the hall, I leaned against the wall as someone pushed a cart of dinner trays past me. I was looking up phases of the moon.

 

I had dinner ready when Rachel got home. Her favorite: tofu with brown rice and cilantro and other stuff. Her eyes widened when she saw it. “Special occasion? Guilty conscience? Whatever, I’ll take it.” She gave me a kiss.

            I let her talk about her day for a while. She can’t go into detail about her patients, but the other therapists at her practice are pretty amusing. After telling me about her morning staff meeting, she put down her fork and looked at me. “What’s going on? There’s something you’re scared to tell me.”

“You, too, could be a detective.” I told her what I’d learned from Milan Powell, and what Jayne Furier had gone through while being possessed by the book. 

“So you think this demon is coming soon,” Rachel said. “And it’s not just a standard demon possessing one person at a time. More like Cthulhu coming to destroy the world. Or at least the suburbs.” She frowned. “How soon?”

“The night before the new moon.” I showed her my phone. I’d downloaded an app. 

“Next Tuesday. Not a lot of time.”

“Yeah.” 

“Well . . .” She sipped her beer. “Burning down the house probably isn’t plan A, right?”

“It was a great Talking Heads song in the 80s, but arson isn’t my first choice.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Start looking for Plan B.”

I spent part of the night looking through the book Milan had given me: The Power of Hope. Lots of inspirational thoughts and stories, but I couldn’t detect any hidden meanings—or anything that would help me vanquish Rhahar. Rachel didn’t pick up anything supernatural from it. She was watching Lust Atoll, her latest favorite reality show. I checked it out from time to time, mostly during any scene involving actual lust. There were plenty.

My phone buzzed while Rachel was getting us more beers from the kitchen. Milan Powell. “Hi, I was just looking at that book you gave me,” I told them. 

“Find anything good?” They giggled.

“I’m not as good as reading between the lines as you are. Did you happen to find out anything that might help me with Rhahar? It turns out he may be making an appearance sooner than I thought.”

“Actually . . .” They hesitated. “I was just looking through some books. Can you come out tomorrow? I think I found something.”

“That would be great. Noon?”

“Make it one. I’ve got lots of laundry in the morning.”

“Mind if I bring my wife?” Rachel had returned with beer. “She helps me with this stuff.”

“Bring anyone you want. See you tomorrow.” They hung up.

“What are you getting me into?” Rachel sat down next to me and picked up the remote.

“Milan Powers. She—I mean, they might have a book that could help with Rhahar. Can you come? If I do all the laundry and fold it and put it away?”

She smirked. “Don’t beg, it’s not manly. But yeah, I’ll come.” She kicked up the TV sound. “Now be quiet, this is getting good and lusty.”