The Town (Not a Tom Jurgen story)

 A lawyer finds Lovecraftian horror in a small town. Not a Tom Jurgen story.

The Town

The GPS in his car stopped working about 10 miles outside of the town. Fortunately he was off the highway and already on the road that led straight into town. Harkin, Illinois. He ground his teeth, frustrated by the long drive, the gray sky threatening rain, and his need to find a bathroom soon. 

            One side of the road was farmland, flat and lifeless in the late fall. On the other side had trees and the occasional empty barn. He fought the urge to drive impatiently faster, just to get to Harkin and get the papers signed and then turn around to go home. He’d be driving late anyway. He just wanted to get this done. The senior partners wanted this finished by the weekend.

            Finally he reached the town. He turned down the main street, peering through the windows for anything that looked like a town hall or a post office, but he spotted a diner first and decided to stop there. A restroom. Food. Maybe someone would know where to find James Medford.

            His name was David Kyson. Thirty-five years old. Lawyer. Divorced. A daughter he saw every other weekend. A condo with a view of the rear of the building next door. A car with GPS that no longer worked. He only wanted to finish this and go home, and he tried not think about the fact that he didn’t have anything at home to hurry back for.

            Inside the diner he asked for the restroom. The woman at the cash register had gray hair and a nose was sharp as a crow’s beak, eyes staring at him through steel rimmed glasses. He promised to order something right after he got done. She pointed toward the back. “Abby! Customer!”

            He sat in a booth. A teenaged girl, blond, carried a menu and a glass of water to the table. “Hi.” She sounded bored. “Coffee?”

            “Coke.” He felt a little better now. “And, uh, a cheeseburger. Fries? Thanks.”

            He took out his phone. The signal was erratic—he couldn’t text the office to let them know he’d arrived, he couldn’t scroll through Twitter, and he ended up playing some Tetris until the food came. The burger was lukewarm and dry, and the fries were soggy, but he didn’t want to complain and piss anyone off. When he finished he took his check up to the cashier.

            “Uh, I’m looking for James Medford?” he asked, handing over a twenty. “He lives here in town. I’m a lawyer, I’m just here to get some papers signed. They didn’t, uh, have his exact address.”

            The woman punched the register keys with bony fingers. “Caitlin!” she yelled without looking up.

            The teenaged waitress, reading a book at the counter, looked up. “Yeah?”

            “You know where Janie Medford lives? Her dad’s name is Jim, right?”

            “Uhh . . .” She wrinkled her forehead. “Up on Highland, yeah. Thirty-four hundred something.” She pointed. “Take Third Street, turn right on Walker, take it up the hill. Turn right on Highland. It’s right there.”

He nodded. “Thanks.” 

The cash register popped open with a the ding of a bell. “Sixteen-fifty,” the woman said. 

He gave her a twenty.

In his car he followed the clerk’s directions. Third Street, Walker, up the hill . . . The hill wasn’t steep, but the road wound back and forth for what felt like a full mile until he reached Highland. A wide street without many houses, the lawns overgrown with wild grass, and old trees leaning down over the street like vultures. 

The sun was low, and he turned on his lights, watching the mailboxes. Most of them had names. 

There. Medford. He pulled up a long gravel driveway to a two-story house with faded siding and a crumbling front porch. The bottom step was broken. The screen over the front door had a long rip. The doorbell didn’t work.

Kyson knocked. 

After a minute the door opened. “Yeah?” 

The man inside was tall, beefy, in a soup-stained sweatshirt and jeans. “Yeah?” he asked again.

“James Medford? I’m Dave Kyson, I’m a lawyer with Collins and Schmidt, in Chicago? I’ve got some papers for you to sign about your late uncle’s estate.” He as talking too fast, and he had to pause for breath. “You and your sister—she only knew the town, she didn’t have your number or exact address.”

Medford peered through the screen. “Uncle Roland? I heard he died. Leslie sent you?”

“Leslie, yes. There isn’t a lot of money involved, but—”

“Money?” That caught his attention. “Okay. Yeah, come on in.”

The living room was small, with a sofa and two recliners, duct tape holding their fabric together. An empty pizza box sat on a small table. A TV sat in the corner. 

“Sit down.” Medford gestured to an armchair. “Can I get you something? A beer? The place is a mess. I take care of my wife, she’s sick, she’s—anyway, let me get you something—”

“Just water, thanks.” Kyson took a seat on the edge of the armchair. It rocked to one side and he planted one foot on the thin rug to keep his balance.

“Hang on.” He left and came back a minute later clutching a glass of water with a single ice cube. “Here. It’s cold. What, uh, how much money are we talking about? Sorry, we’ve just been trying to keep it together here, I can only work part-time because of my wife, and there’s not much work for my kid—”

“It’s about $7,000, after taxes. Which have been paid.” Kyson opened his briefcase. “There’s also $450 in your daughter’s name, so I’ll need her to sign—”

“Seven thousand?” Medford sank onto the sofa, as if the amount had slapped him across the face. “Do you have the checks with you?”

“No, I’m sorry, we need the signatures before the checks can be cut. They’ll be FedExed to you, you’ll probably get them—well, Monday, since tomorrow’s Friday. Although we can get Saturday delivery if you want.”

“Oh. Okay.” He nodded. “I guess that’s okay. She’s not here right now, she went over to Shana’s after school. I can sign and get my wife to sign, let me find a pen—”

“I’ve got one.” Kyson fished in his pocket, then slipped the documents from the envelope. “Here—and here . . .”

Medford scrawled his signature hastily on the highlighted lines. Then he looked up at the ceiling. “I’ll have to—you wait here.  I’ll get my wife to sign. She’s—she doesn’t want anybody to see her in bed. Just a minute.”

He heard hurried steps on the stairs as Medford headed up to the second floor. Good. He could get out of here soon, maybe get back home before midnight—

Except he needed the daughter’s signature. And she wasn’t here. What was her name? He looked at the papers. Janina. Where was she? Some friend’s house. Maybe he could go over and get her to—

Medford came back. “Got it. Her signature’s a little shaky. That’s going to be okay, isn’t it?” He held out the paper, and Kyson saw an almost unintelligible scribble, but it would do. 

“It’s fine.” He tucked the documents back into the envelope. “Now, about your daughter—”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Medford paced across the room, frowning. “Let me call her. Give me a minute.” He disappeared into the kitchen. Kyson leaned forward and watched him picked up a phone. A landline. Didn’t anyone here in this godforsaken town have a cell phone? 

He saw dirty plates and half-empty glasses on the kitchen table, and a refrigerator covered with newspaper clippings and pictures from magazines. He listened as Medford talked. “What? No, I thought—what? Goddamn it. Okay. Sorry. Thanks.” The phone slammed down. Kyson sat back as Medford returned.

“She’s not there,” he grunted, angry. “Shana’s mom said she and Shana were hanging out here. That means she’s hanging out somewhere else. Damn it.” He paced again. “It’s hard, you know? I’m taking care of my wife, and she’s 15, you know what teenagers are like, right? Don’t you?” He stopped and looked at Kyson for an answer.

“I have a daughter,” he said. “She’s 12. She’s already a drama queen.” Probably because of the divorce. “I’m not looking forward to the next few years,” he admitted. 

“Yeah, I hear you.” He turned for the kitchen again. “Let me make a few calls.”

Kyson sighed, hiding his frustration. This could take all night. He stood up and walked out of the living room onto the porch.

It sagged under his feet, and the rail almost fell off when he put a hand on it. He wanted to stomp his foot or pound something with his fist, but the porch might fall down. Hell, the whole house might collapse 

He looked across the road, down at the town. He could see half of the main street, a car or two cruising slowly past the central traffic light. Streetlights were on, glowing like torches in the forest. He saw the roofs of shops and office buildings, the spire of a church, a dry fountain the middle of a courtyard—all the things you expect in a small town in the middle of nowhere. 

Clouds were low in the sky, blocking the rising moon. He smelled freshly cut grass and gasoline in the mild breeze, and something else—something dank and rotten drifting faintly in the air.

Kyson took a step backward, and found a bench. He sat down, suddenly drowsy from the long drive. The bench was metal, rough, but when he leaned his head back he didn’t feel anything but the urge to close his eyes and let his mind sink down into the black . . .

 

His eyes jerked open to the night sky, the moon shining down over the town. What the hell? He lurched to his feet. I fell asleep? What time was it? He looked at his phone, which at least still showed the time—9:37 p.m.

            Goddamn it. He pushed through the door. “Mr. Medford? What happened? Why is it—where are you?”

            The living room was empty. Dark. The kitchen light shone next to the staircase. He heard footsteps coming down, and then Medford was there, sweating in a T-shirt, his eyes bloodshot.

            “What the hell happened?” Kyson demanded. “Why is it so late? Why did you let me go to sleep out there?”

            “I thought you left.” Medford blinked. “You weren’t here. I was taking care of my wife. She’s sick. She’s—”

            “Jesus Christ.” Kyson shook his head. “Look, I didn’t want to spend the whole night here! Now I’ve got to find a motel, or drive all night . . .” Damn it. “Is your daughter back, at least? Can I get those papers signed?”

            “Janina . . .” He turned around and shouted up the stairs. “Janie! Are you home? Janina!”
            No answer. Great. 

            Medford pounded up the stairs, then came back down a minute later. “She’s not here. Shit. I need to—” He went back to the kitchen and Kyson heard him punching numbers on the phone. “Is she there? Where are they? I don’t . . .” He listened. “All right. Okay.” The phone slammed down.

            He came back to the living room. “Not at Shana’s. They’re probably at—this kid, Dale Larkin. He throws these parties. Shit. I can’t—” Medford looked at Kyson. “Can you go get her? Bring her home? Then you can get those papers signed and leave, or find a motel. Hell, you can sleep here if you want—”

            “No, thanks.” This place? “I just want to get out of this godforsaken—” Kyson stopped. “Sorry. It’s just—it’s been a long day, I’m really tired, and then I fell asleep and now it’s almost ten o’clock and I just want to go home and . . .” He groaned. “Would your daughter even come with me? I can’t go busting into some teenager’s party and drag her out of there.”

            “I’ll—I’ll write a note for you. Please. It’s not safe. She’s only 15. I try, I tried to do the right thing with her, but my wife and everything . . .” For a moment he seemed ready to burst into tears. “I’m just so tired.”

            “All right, all right.” Kyson bit his lip, pissed off. I’m a lawyer, this isn’t my job, tracking down teenagers. But if it would get him out of here—“Where do I find this guy Dale and his party?”

 

He saw the bonfire from half a mile away, down a dark dirt road surrounded by thick, hulking trees. A boombox somewhere played loud music that Kyson didn’t recognize.

The bonfire rose next to a trailer on leaning awkwardly on a set of concrete blocks. Twenty or 30 teenagers danced wildly around the fire, laughing, grabbing each other, running close to the fire and darting away, and throwing empty beer cans into a pile next to a Styrofoam cooler stuffed with ice. Some girls had stripped down to their bras or taken off their jeans to dance in their panties. Guys were shirtless. Couples made out together in the shadows. 

            Kyson groaned and stopped the car. This is going to be a pain in the ass. But he thought about his own daughter, in a few years, dancing with boys like this, half undressed, drinking, doing crazy shit. It helped him get some anger going. He pushed the door open.

            No one noticed him walking toward the fire until a kid bumped into him, spilling his beer on the ground. “Hey, hey,” the boy laughed. “Watch the beer, man, you don’t wanna—” He looked up and realized that Kyson was a stranger. An adult. An intruder. “Uh, what—what’s going on?”

            “Janina Medford,” he said. “Is she here? Where is she?” Damn it, why hadn’t Medford shown him a picture of his daughter?

            “Janina—Janie? You mean Janie?” The boy blinked. “She’s, uh—” He turned his head. “I don’t know.”

            Kyson sighed, irritated. He took a step toward the throng of squirming, sweaty teenagers, hesitated, then leaned back. “Janina Medford! Come here!” Maybe he could embarrass her into coming forward.

            A shirtless kid spit on the ground and headed over to him. “What’s the deal, man?”

            “Janina Medford,” he said. “She needs to—I’m here to take her home.”

            The kid laughed. “For real? Who are you, her dad?”

            “I’m a lawyer. I’m just in town to get some papers signed. Is she here?” He didn’t want to stand around arguing with some drunk kid. 

            He laughed again. “Whatever.” 

            Then a girl stalked over to him. Long hair, in her bra and jeans. Her face was flushed from beer and embarrassment, and she was pissed off. “Who the hell are you?”

            “Janina?” He reached into his back pocket. “This is from your dad. You need to come home.”

            She snatched the paper from him. Her eyes swam as she tried to focus. “Shit.” She crumpled the note up. “What is this? Who are you?”

            “David Kyson, I’m a lawyer, you and your parents inherited some money and I need some signatures. Can you just get your shirt so we can get you home?”

            She wanted to argue. Dale was standing behind her, smirking. Another girl was walking toward them, in cutoff shorts, holding a T-shirt. Kyson hoped this was over. All he wanted to do was get the papers finally signed and go home.

            Then a low hum began to rise from the darkness beyond the fire.

            The rumble gradually grew louder, like a distant freight train steadily coming closer. A sudden chilly wind blew across the field, making the sparks from the fire quiver and dance. Janina grabbed her shirt from the other girl. 

            The ground suddenly shook under his feet. Was this earthquake country? He reached for the girl. “Come on, let’s get out of—”

            A sharp crack cut him off. What the hell? The ground shook again, and someone yelled. Janina clutched her friend’s arm. Dale swung around, unsteady, and leaned forward, peering through the firelight.

            Then a dark shape surged from the darkness.

It was tall and spiky, stalking forward on long hairy legs, skinny arms sticking out from a slender, twisted body. Like an insect, marching upright, a clicking sound chittering from the twitching oblong head between its high bony shoulders—a creature from another planet, or another dimension. Or Hell.

            Someone screamed. Teenagers ran, scattering in every direction away from the fire. Kyson saw one of the thing’s long arms sweep like a scythe, and a boy fell, shrieking in panic and pain. Blood streamed from his neck, and his head dangled at an unnatural angle.

            Then Kyson was running to his car, not thinking about Janina or the papers or anything, just listening to the screams rising up everywhere around him as his chest pounded. He grabbed at the handle and plunged into the seat, punching the engine button before his feet were fully inside. He scrambled around and slammed the door, and then the passenger door opened next to him. Oh God, one of those things—

            But it was the girl. Janina. Medford’s daughter. He’d forgotten about her. She was still in her bra, clutching her T-shirt, her face pale and streaked with sweat and terror. 

“Wait—wait—” She grabbed his arm before he could get the car going. “Shana—”

            The door behind her opened. Kyson was already shifting into reverse, and a girl’s voice swore at him. “Fuck it, wait! Let me—”

            He twisted the wheel and kicked the accelerator. The girl was yelling but he ignored her as he searched for the path that would take him to the road, back to town, or out of town, anywhere away from here, far from whatever those monsters were that had burst out of the earth beyond the fire—

            Janina was hitting his arm. “Slow down! Let her get in! Let Shana—”

            The car hit something. Kyson saw a blur of a body flying away, arms wheeling wide. Had he hit a teenager? He stomped the brake, and the door behind him slammed shut. “Go! Go!”

            Shadows loomed over the car—the things, reaching out for him. He saw claws stabbing at the hood, and hit the accelerator again. The tires rolled over a soft, squishy bump, and then the car was veering wildly down the dirt path as he clutched the wheel, trying to control it before he hit something else and flipped over.

            Janina was screaming. Shana kicked and pounded the back of his seat until he shouted. “Stop kicking me! Stop screaming!”

            She stopped her kicking. Janina struggled with her T-shirt and finally threw it on the floor. “God!” she yelled. “What are those things? What’s going on?”

            Kyson pounded the steering wheel. “What were you kids doing out there? Where did they come from?”

            “It was just a party! Just a fucking party!” She leaned back, closing her eyes. “God, what is going on?”

            Shana sat in the back seat, crying. Screams in the distance kept Kyson’s heart pounding. He tried to peer beyond the headlights for anything in the road, and flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror very few seconds to check behind them.

            Suddenly Shana screamed, pointing ahead. “Watch it! Watch—”

            The car shook again, and he twisted the wheel to stay in control. It wasn’t one of the insect things—this was man-sized, staggering back, but its face wasn’t . . . It looked like a dog, rearing up on its hind legs, with a long snout, yellow teeth slobbering with spit, red eyes glowing wide against a hairy face, claws in its stubby fingers.

            The thing rushed toward the driver’s side of the car and Kyson stomped on the pedal again, veering away. The thing, whatever it was, tried to grab on, scraping its claws on the window, howling like a rabid beast until Kyson wrenched the wheel to the left and it tumbled away—just as the car rammed into something else.

            This one looked like a pig. It had a flat nose, floppy ears, and its hands were flat and deformed as it clutched the bumper and pull itself up on the car’s hood. Kyson pounded on the horn, pressing the accelerator harder, and twisted right and left, desperate to throw the thing off. 

            The ground shook again under the car. Another fucking earthquake? Or did he just run over another malformed creature? The pig-man rolled off and Kyson twisted in his seat, fighting to stay on the road, praying there weren’t more of whatever those things were waiting to jump out at him.

            Sweat ran down his temples. “What the fuck is going on?” He shot a glance at Janina. “What kind of town is this?”

            She finally managed to pull her T-shirt on. “I don’t—it was just a party! Just a fucking party while everyone else went off for Harkin Day!”

            “What the hell is Harkin Day?” He leaned forward, trying to peer through the shadows beyond the headlights.

            “It’s the anniversary or birthday or something! The adults make a big deal out of it, I don’t know.” She sank in her seat, biting her lip.

            “Your father didn’t say anything about it.”

            “All he cares about is taking care of mom. She’s such a mess—” Then Janina reared up and twisted toward the back seat. “Hey, Shana! You okay?”

            “Y-yeah. No. I don’t know.” She’d stopped crying. Kyson could barely hear her voice over the engine. “Are they gone?”

            “For now. I don’t know.” She turned to Kyson. “Where are we going?”

            He hadn’t really thought about that. Away from the town, yeah. But these girls—“I’ll get you back home,” he told her. “Then I’m getting out of here. Fuck the papers. I just want to get out of here.”

            Janina put her head down, as if she were praying—or trying not to throw up. Shana was crying again.

            Kyson just tried to focus on the road ahead. Not the darkness all around him. Just another mile or two. A few miles through a curtain of pitch blackness that drifted and swayed in every direction.

            He caught flickers of movement flashing past the windows, just beyond the range of the headlights, and flinched each time, swinging the wheel left and right. Insect thing? Animal man? Or was there something worse out here in the dark? He bit his lip and forced himself to breathe slowly, hoping his heart would slow down soon.

            He glanced over at Janina. Her eyes were closed, as if she’d passed out from exhaustion. Or maybe just beer. She was cute, and he would have enjoyed seeing her in her bra more if he hadn’t been too scared to think. Now she looked like a little girl, not much older than his daughter, and he felt a sharp stab in his chest, a sudden loneliness, a desperate need to see his daughter again.

            Kyson drove without looking at the speed until the town approached. A house, dark, with a car parked in the driveway. A bar, lights on inside, windows lit with neon, but no one going in or out. A motorcycle parked by the side of the road, no rider in sight.

            Should I stop and warn people? But he didn’t see anyone to warn. The town seemed deserted. Maybe everyone had already fled. Just like he was going to do, as soon as he got Janina home.

            The diner’s lights were on. He thought he saw someone inside, standing behind the counter. Not the young waitress, maybe the old cashier woman? He couldn’t make out—

            Then a pickup truck shot around the corner, out of control, and slammed into Kyson’s car. 

Janina screamed. Kyson cursed. The airbag shoved him back against the seat, and for a second he couldn’t breathe. The car spun, and he stomped on the brake, his brain drowning in panic. Shana’s body hit the back of his seat. A car horn blared and kept blaring.

The airbag sagged and he could breathe again, but his heart was thundering harder than ever inside his chest. Through the cracked windshield he saw his hood embedded in the side of the pickup, the door half open, a man’s body dangling through, blood dripping from his scalp.

He turned. “Y-you okay?” His throat felt raspy. He could barely hear himself over the pickup’s horn. 

“I, uh, I guess so?” Janina sat up. “Shana? You okay?”

Shana groaned from the back seat. Kyson groaned himself as he struggled with the door, finally pushing it open with his shoulder. He stumbled out to the street and leaned on the car as he pulled on the back door handle for Shana.

It took two tries to open the door. Janina was next to him by then, and she leaned down, reaching into the car. ”Shana? Shana!” She pulled, and Kyson leaned down to help her, and they slid Shana out onto the street.

Shana sank to her knees and threw up. Kyson’s stomach was threatening to erupt too. The pickup’s horn kept blaring. The driver was still motionless, hanging half out the door. He couldn’t tell if the guy was breathing.

Janina screamed. 

Down the road people were coming toward them. Except they weren’t people. Like the dog and the pig he’d seen outside town, they looked like some kind of weird animal-human hybrid, deformed, misshapen, stumbling forward like the walking dead. 

Some had horns sticking from their foreheads. Others loped forward on their arms like apes. One looked like it had wings flapping behind its back, and another one had a long tail looped around one shoulder.

They stared for a moment at the oncoming horde, stunned, terrified. Then Janina shouted something and turned to run away. Kyson followed her, then stopped to look back for Shana. She was on the ground, shaking, and for a moment he wanted to leave her. She wasn’t going to make it, and he didn’t want to stay and get ripped apart by whatever those things were. 

But something inside Kyson forced him to grab her hand. “Come on, goddamn it,” he growled, his voice shaking. “Come on!”

Shana looked down the street at the approaching throng, then took off, leaving him behind. Shit. He hurled himself after her, losing his balance for the first few steps but staying on his feet somehow as he followed the two girls.

Shana shouted to Janina and pointed to the right, into a courtyard off the main road. Janina headed after her. Kyson looked back and wished he hadn’t. The creatures were slow, but there were more of them, lumbering forward like zombies in search of fresh meat.

He ran faster, gasping for breath, as Shana sagged against the front door to a shop—a bakery. She fumbled in her cutoffs and dug out a key, and a moment later the door was open and she fell inside.

Janina tripped over her and sprawled on the tile floor, breathing hard. Kyson managed to step over the two girls and throw the door shut, hitting the dead bolt to lock it. 

The shelves were empty, but he smelled sugar and bread. A light behind the counter cast long shadows around the room, and he saw a bulb hanging down through a door to a back room. But the big windows in front wouldn’t hold back the throng of monsters for more than a minute.

He helped Janina stand up. “What is this?”

An alarm began to ring, and lights flashed from the corners. Shana got to her knees. “My parents—this is their bake shop.”

“It’s not going to be safe.” He pointed at the window. Janina yelped. The creatures were closing in. Some had fangs, dripping with spit. Others had claws that twitched as if hungry for something to slash. Their faces weren’t human anymore—a mix of animal and demon, twisted with rage and defiance.

Shana stood up, staring through the window. “They’re—so ugly.”

“I think—” Janina peered. “I think that’s Mr. Anderson. Math. He wears those Hawaiian shirts when I see him in the store.”

They were only 10 feet away. “We’ve got to get out of here!” Kyson shouted. 

“In the back.” Shana poked Janina’s shoulder. “Back door.”

She raced around the counter. In the back room a single light bulb dangled from the ceiling, ovens and refrigerators lined the walls, and a storeroom stood off to the side.

Shana leaned against the thick back door, pressing her ear against the crack. “I don’t hear anything. But I don’t know—”

From the front of the shop, the window crashed like cannon fire breaking through. The sound was mixed with the howls and roars of the beasts bursting through. Shana straightened up, fumbling with the locks.

Kyson listened as the noise of the shop being trashed surged closer and closer to the back room. He joined Shana and Janina, all of them frantically trying to flip the locks until finally they were open, and they stumbled into the alley behind the bakery.

Janina fell to the concrete, groaning. Shana pointed. “That way, I think. We can get to—”

Something stumbled through the doorway, a thing with tentacles instead of arms. Shana ran. 

Janina grabbed Kyson’s leg. “Help me, you asshole!” she shrieked, and he bent down to pull her to her feet. The thing with tentacles took a step toward them, as if confused or blind—Kyson couldn’t see any eyes in its deformed head—and they turned and ran after Shana down the alley.

She was running far ahead of them, panic powering her feet. Janina yelled but Shana didn’t slow down. They darted past garbage cans and piles of boxes and rotting food as Shana veered to the left out of the alley.

Kyson saw the church across the street. Half the streetlights were dark, and no one was on the street. Shana was still running down the sidewalk but she was losing strength. Janina reached her, and they stood holding each other up.

A door opened. “In here! Hurry!”

Shana instinctively shuffled away, but Janina held onto her arm. Kyson saw a woman in the doorway of a house, leaning over, waving an arm. He hesitated, then looked behind him. 

A doglike thing was racing down the street on all fours, growling and slobbering. 

Kyson ran, with Janina right behind him, pulling on Shana. Up three steps, then through the door as the figure pulled back. The two girls crashed into him as the woman cursed and shoved at them so she could slam and lock the door.

She was in her 70s, and in a wheelchair. She started to speak when something hit the door hard enough to make the wall shudder, and something else howled ferociously from the street outside.

The woman wheeled back, and Kyson followed her into a living room. One lamp cast deep shadows over the walls. Janina and Shana collapsed on an old couch, trembling and whispering to each other. Kyson sank into an armchair, his body shaking.

The woman maneuvered her chair around the room, picking up a bottle of whiskey and a glass. She gave them to Kyson, then looked at the girls. “You don’t look old enough to have any. Do you want some water?”

They didn’t answer, but the woman wheeled away and returned a moment later with two plastic bottles, placing them on the table in front of the sofa. 

Kyson poured himself a shot and drank it down, shuddering as it burned its way past his throat to his stomach. “Okay,” he said, his voice dry and raspy. “Okay. Okay—what the fuck is going on out there?”

The woman crossed her arms, and Kyson saw that in her lap she had a pistol on her skirt. A big revolver. She frowned. “I’m Amelia Hart. Are you a visitor here?”

“Dave Kyson,” he said. “I’m a lawyer. I’m just here to get some papers signed by—” Je nodded toward Janina. “And her father. They live here. Her name’s Janina, and the other girl is, uh, Shana?”

Shana nodded and gulped some water. Janina looked at the woman. “I don’t really know this guy. But he did get us out there when everything started going to shit.” 

“Welcome to Harkin,” Amelia Hart said. “You have to understand—this is a cursed place. It was cursed before we were founded. It’s cursed today. It’s going be cursed forever.”

Oh God. “What—what kind of curse?”

She grimaced. “It’s in the water. It’s in the ground. It’s in the air. Something sick. Something evil. It seeps in and can’t ever be sucked out. It comes from deep below the earth, and for some reason it’s focused right here. Like a fault in the earth. It builds up slowly, over the years, through the decades, until it finally has to burst. And it came today. Tonight.”

Kyson stared at her. Was she crazy? Was everyone in this town insane? 

But he’d seen them. The insects, the animal-men. The monsters. He looked at Janina. “Is she right?”

“I don’t know! I never heard about this.” She hugged her arms around her body. “My dad never said anything about it.”

“It’s true.” Shana’s voice was a whisper. “I mean—I don’t know all of it. My aunt told me one time. When Harkin was founded, they had to make a deal to, to let people live here. I don’t know. I thought she was getting Alzheimer’s so I didn’t pay attention, and my mom told her to shut up.” Her head sank. “I hate this. I hate this.”

“So those—things, those monsters outside—they’re people?” Kyson shook his heads, trying to make it make sense. “And those insect things, back at the party, what are they?”

“Servants of below.” Amelia closed her eyes for a moment. “To bring the maker forth. The others outside? Yes, they have lived here for years, long enough for the evil to seep into their souls. These two—” She nodded at Janina and Shana. “They’re too young yet. Still pure. But if you stay here long enough, it will get inside you too. It gets to everyone.”

“What about you?” Kyson asked. “You seem normal enough.”

Amelia sighed. “It doesn’t like cancer, apparently. Cancer that’s stronger than the chemo they gave me for two years. I won’t live to see another Harkin Day,” She chuckled. “I wouldn’t anyway. It’s every 100 years or so, they tell me.”

Kyson stared at her, trying to make any of it make sense in his mind. All he wanted to do was get out of this town, get away from this nightmare. But his car was wrecked, and those things—whatever they were—were outside, ready to tear him apart. And these two kids . . . He looked at Janina and Shana huddling on the couch, shivering from both the chill air and the terror circling around the house.

Something crashed at the door again. Kyson looked at the curtain over the front window and realized the things outside could break through at any moment. He stood up, his legs wobbling. “Is there a back door? Some way out of here?”

Amelia blinked at him. “Yes, but—"

Another bash at the door, shaking it almost off its hinges. The doorknob jittered. Before Kyson could move, the door burst open as if a sledgehammer was battering through it. Amelia picked up her revolver, then froze.

The man at the door was human, in a denim jacket and jeans, breathing heavily. He nodded to Amelia, almost apologetic. “Ms. Hart.” His eyes flicked at Kyson, then zeroed in on the two girls quivering on the sofa. “We’ll take them.”

“Do you have to, Walt?” She sounded sad. “I didn’t think you were part of this.”

“Some of us have to do this for the town.” Walt shrugged. “It has to be done.”

“Wait a minute,” Kyson said. “What are you doing with them?”

Walt looked over at him. He was in his 60s, unshaven, looking tired. “You’re not part of this. You can go.”

“I can’t. My car’s wrecked. What am I supposed to do?” His voice rose, angry now, but his body was still gripped with terror as he caught glimpses of things moving around beyond the door. 

“Just stay here,” Walt said. “You’ll be safe.”

He stepped away from the door, and a wave of dark things surged through into the house, things with long arms and large misshapen heads and claws jutting from their hands. Kyson jumped back and fell over, trying to scramble away, but his legs wouldn’t move. His arms felt limp. He could only lie on the carpet, paralyzed by fear, as the girls screamed and begged for help.

He didn’t pass out, but a long time went by before he could lift his head. Amelia Hart sat in her wheelchair, looking out the door, her face pale and her eyes leaking soft tears.

“What—what will they do to them?” Kyson grabbed the edge of the sofa to stand up. “Where did they go?”

“The town wants its sacrifice. The young, the pure. It leaves a few, so there’s a future. But it wants to feed.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. 

Jesus Christ. He stumbled toward the door. “You’re all crazy. This whole town is crazy.” He leaned on the doorframe, one foot outside, then stopped. “Where did they take her?” Kyson asked.

The old woman pointed. “There. Church.”

The church across the street was lit up. He saw an older couple walk up the front steps and push on the doors. Something flew in the air near the steeple on dark, leathery wings.

Of course. Kyson sighed, then walked to Amelia in her wheelchair. He reached down and picked up the revolver in her lap. 

He’d never fired a handgun in his life. He wasn’t sure he could hit something two feet in front of him, and he definitely wasn’t positive he’d be able to shoot a person.

But he had to try and do something.

“Wait a minute.” Amelia’s skirt had pockets. She brought out a handful of bullets. “That’s all I have. Good luck.”

He stuffed the bullets into his jacket. “Th-thanks.” Luck? His luck had run out ever since driving into this godforsaken town. Godforsaken. Literally.

 

Halfway across the street he stopped and looked past the church, up the hill behind the town. Medford’s house was up there somewhere. He’d seen the church from the porch. 

For a moment all he wanted to do was run, run down the street and keep running until he was out of Harkin, running into the darkness, whatever lay out there waiting. If his car still ran, he knew, he’d be on the road right now. Forget Janina and her friend, forget Medford and the goddamned legal papers, just leave them all behind to whatever fate worse than death was here for all of them.

But he knew he wouldn’t. He was too scared to run, scared of dying out in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, all alone. He wasn’t going to be safe anywhere. He didn’t have anywhere to go. 

So, with a sick feeling of dread in his stomach, Kyson started toward the church.

The street was empty. The front door was heavy. The vestibule and the room beyond it—narthex?—were dark and deserted, but then he slowly, silently peeked forward into the sanctuary.

Kyson froze. The pews were filled. The entire town seemed to be packed in, their heads bowed, some chanting quietly in their seats, some standing and swaying back and forth, one woman in the middle of the center aisle singing a song without a tune and words he couldn’t recognize. People stood in the aisles. 

No one looked back. Everyone was focused on the altar up front. And the screams echoing from the arched ceiling above.

He saw Janina. She was on her knees, her T-shirt ripped, and she was crying as a bearded man held her arms. A body lay next to her, blood on her bare, lifeless legs. Shana? Two more bodies lay next to that one, and on the other side four teenagers struggled with men—and one woman—holding them, hands on their arms, their necks, their shoulders as the kids squirmed. Teens, like Janina, although the boy at the end of the row looked only 10 or 11, and he wasn’t fighting. A man behind him had his hands clamped on his skinny shoulders as the boy wept silently.  

And pacing back and forth behind them, a tall man in a black robe, balding, gazed up at the sloping ceiling and shouted loud enough to hear through the clog of voices in the pews, except the words he was yelling weren’t English or any words that Kyson recognized. In one hand he held a long knife. Blood dripped from the blade onto his arm and his hand.

This was Hell. They were in Hell.

No one had noticed him. No one paid any attention as he made his way up the side, trembling, past the statues of Mary and some apostles. Everyone was fixated on their prayers and songs, and on the bloody scene up in front of them, and no one turned to see him walk past them until he reached the edge of the altar platform.

Even now, no one called out or shouted a warning. Maybe they thought he was part of whatever unholy sacrifice they were carrying out on the altar. Jesus, on the cross behind the man with the knife, seemed to have his eyes closed. Maybe he was weeping silently too.

Kyson gripped the pistol. Could he really do this? He had to. This was wrong. Everything about it was—evil.

He lifted the gun.

The tall man stopped behind Janina, next to the bearded man gripping her arms. He looked down and took a long, deep breath as he raised the knife.

Kyson held his breath and fired.

The gun kicked in his hand, and he barely held onto it. The roar of the shot rattled his ears. The man in the robe turned to look at him, surprised but unhurt, not alarmed, as if a statue had only fallen to the floor.

Kyson bit his lip, aimed, and fired again. This time the bullet hit the guy, spinning him around with blood on his shoulder. He toppled to the floor, and the other people on the altar started to turn to look for whatever was making the noise. 

He fired again, trying to hit the bearded man holding Janina. Three shots went wild because he was trying not to hit her, but then one of them smacked into his face. His eyes went wide with surprise, and he fell back, his hands slipping away from Janina’s arms.

She blinked, confused, but her instincts kicked in and she scrambled to her feet. She saw Kyson and ran toward him as he kept shooting, firing over her head, bullets roaring through the air as the people on the altar began realizing what was going on. 

In the audience the people just stared, most of them still singing and chanting but a few of them starting to move toward the aisle. To chase him? Or flee? 

The gun clicked. Empty. Suddenly Kyson remembered that he was alone in a church with 100 or more crazy people, and a horde of demons outside. It was time to get the fuck out of here. 

Janina ran past him. “C-ome on!” he heard her stammer, and he followed her behind the altar, where she was pulling on a door. It stuck, and she cursed in fear and frustration until Kyson reached around her and found the lock. 

The door led outside, to a yard filled with trees and shadows. A garden at one end, and a high metal fence around it. Kyson slammed the door as Janina ran across the grass.

The metal gate was locked. Janina swore again, crying. Kyson looked back, but the church door was still shut. “Let me boost you,” he said, linking his hands.

“Y-yeah.” She took a breath, lifted her leg, and Kyson boosted her up until she could drop over to the other side. “Go,” he said. “I’ll get over it myself.”

She gulped, and almost stayed. But then the church door opened, and she turned and ran. 

Two men. Three. Kyson’s hands trembled as he pushed the revolver’s cylinder out and shook the empty shells from the gun. He dropped one bullet from his pocket but got two more into the gun and slammed the cylinder back in. The three men were almost there, but they were too close for him to miss. One bullet hit the first guy in the chest. A second shot caught the guy next to him in the face. The third guy stopped, his eyes wide, and then he whirled around and ran back. 

Kyson managed to load two more bullets, and then he aimed at the lock on the gate. It took both bullets to shatter it enough to open, and by then more people were making their way through the church door. He swung the gate wide and ran, following Janina in the distance, into the darkness. He wondered if he’d run into any monsters. Would bullets kill them? How many did he have left?

Then he was running. It felt like a dream, the kind where something’s chasing you and you don’t know what, and after a while you want to lie down and wake up but you can’t, you have to keep running no matter what. He ran, into the darkness, not caring where he went just as long as he kept going.

 

He woke up near dawn on James Medford’s sofa.

            His body ached. When he rolled over he felt the pistol in his jacket, pressing into his leg. He sat up, thirsty, shaking, and he wondered for a moment if it had all been a nightmare, a nightmare of monsters and murder and endless terror, running until he dropped. But the gun in his pocket and the pain in his legs and feet told him it was all true. Every terrible memory of the terrifying night before.

            He saw Medford out on his porch, and staggered outside on shaking legs. Medford leaned on the railing, looking down on the town. The church steeple rose below them.

            “Guess it went back,” Medford said. “Guess we gave it enough this time.”

            Enough children? Kyson shuddered. “J-Janina?”

            He nodded. “Inside. Sleeping. Thank you. For bringing her back.”

            He remembered running after her, after escaping from the church. Running up the hill to the house until he was ready to collapse. “They almost—” He stopped. My God, I shot people. I killed them. “It’s okay. I’m glad—I’m glad she’s back.” He swallowed. “Can I have some water?”

Inside Medford filled a glass from the kitchen sink. Kyson drank it down, and Medford filled it again. Then he pulled a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet and poured some into a coffee cup. “Look like you could use this too.”

It burned going down, and felt good. He let Medford pour him some more. Then—“How can you live here? In this town?”

Medford poured some whiskey for himself. “My wife.” He shrugged. “She was born here. She can’t leave.”

“Your wife.” He glanced up at the ceiling. Oh God. “Is she—”

Medford sighed. “You might as well see for yourself.”

Kyson followed him up the stairs. He saw a door with Janina’s name painted on it with a stencil, the words KEEP OUT! printed below in black crayon. Medford led him to the end of the hall and opened the door there.

A lamp glowed next to a double bed. A woman lay under a checkered blanket, breathing slowly, sweat covering her forehead. Medford perched on the bed next to her and took a tissue to wipe her face. “She’s sick.”

Kyson looked at her. The wife’s hair was gray, tangled, and the nightgown over her shoulders was stained with sweat. She squirmed in her sleep, but as he gazed at her Kyson slowly realized that something was wrong. Her arms were thin and her fingers bony, but her legs under the blanket didn’t seem right. She seemed . . .

Medford stood up and pulled the blanket back.

Kyson stared. For a moment he was nauseous, about to vomit, but he controlled it. He rocked on his feet, trying to make sense of what he saw. It was—wrong. It was inhuman and unnatural. It was cursed.

From the waist down, Medford’s wife had the body of a worm. 

Coarse whiskers sprouted from the folds in its leathery skin. The tail flipped back and forth restlessly. It smelled like something from deep in the earth, rotting and decayed. 

“It’s what it does to people who live here,” Medford said. “If you live here long enough.”

Kyson rubbed his eyes. Whatever. He turned and left the room, feeling numb. 

He pushed on Janina’s door and peered inside. She lay on her bed, half covered by sheets, breathing shallowly. He left her and went downstairs.

He went out on the porch. The sun was edging up from the horizon beneath a gray sky. The town was asleep. 

Were all the insect creatures back underground? Had the animals transformed back into regular humans? And the people in the church, watching them slaughter the teenagers on the altar—were they sleeping soundly in their beds, grateful that they were safe again?

Was the thing under the town content? Satiated for another century? What would happen when it returned again? What would the town look like? What would they do to appease it?

Kyson closed his eyes.  The hell with them all. He dozed in the growing light of the rising dawn, dreaming uneasily of blood and monsters. 

 

# # #

 

             

 

 

Soul Survivor

A local singing sensation hires Tom Jurgen for an urgent case—get back the soul she sold to become a star.

Soul Survivor, Part One

“You were recommended to us by Allison Gentry,” Monica Welles said. “She’s been mentoring A.J. for the last few years.”

            Allison Gentry was a pop superstar. I’d handled a case for her a few years back. She wasn’t quite on the level of Taylor Swift, but she still packed stadiums regularly. 

            “So what can I do for A.J. Garcia?” I asked. A.J. Garcia was an up-and-coming star from Chicago, and while I’d never actually listened to any of her songs, I knew she was big on TikTok and Insta. As a P.I. in my mid-40s, I’m up on all the hot social media the kids are using these days. 

Monica Welles worked for one of the biggest PR firms in Chicago. We sat in a conference room at the PR firm’s office. A window looked out across the Chicago River at the skyline to the south. “There’s a stalker situation.”

            “Only one?”

            She smiled briefly. “This one is—different. For reasons I can’t tell you yet, A.J. specifically asked for you, because of Allison.”

            Uh-oh. Allison Gentry’s case had involved a shapeshifting killer. “Okay.”

            Monica handed me a folder. “We need to locate the man who sent these emails. He goes by the name DominickX.”

            I looked at the printed-out emails. I’ve seen lots of vicious, violent, stomach-churning threats in this job, so I braced myself. But these were different, less graphic, but stranger, with a menacing undertone: You made your bargain, now live within it … I won’t listen to your pleading and whining, bitch … Keep your skinny brainless ass far away from me … No one will remember you … I will lose you in the dark. 

            The address line at the top said they came from DominickX at an email server I didn’t recognize. “These aren’t explicitly death threats,” I said. “But I can see they’d be upsetting.”

            “She wants to know who they’re coming from.” Monica took a sip of water.

            I looked closer. “Uh, some of these appear to be return messages.”

            She frowned, nodding. “A.J. ignored our advice. She tried to talk to this person. You can see it didn’t go well.”

            “Yeah.” I folded up the emails and put them in my jacket pocket. “You can’t always get much from an email address. Do you have anything else that might give me a lead?”

            She bit a lip. “It’s possibly someone from her life, someone she’s met. Sometimes these people pop up from years ago.”

            “Right.” I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

            We discussed the financial details and shook hands. Monica walked me to the elevator, and I went down to find my car in the parking garage.

 

“Hi honey, I’m home.” Rachel leaned into the office we share when she works from home. “What’s for dinner, darling?”

            “Lasagna’s in the oven, snookums. Give it another 20 minutes.”

            She grimaced. “Call me ‘Snookums’ again and you’ll be eating it by yourself in the bathtub.”

            “Okay, hotbuns.”

            Now she glared. “I’ve got a divorce lawyer on speed dial. Don’t make me use it.”

            Rachel’s my wife. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and some psychic powers. She’s also got a comeback for almost everything I say. I’ve learned not to push too hard.

            “How was work, uh, Rachel?” I asked at dinner 30 minutes later.

            She kicked me under the table with a smirk. She’s a therapist at a mental health clinic, so her days can be intense sometimes. “Decent. Had a breakthrough with one patient. I can’t tell you about it, of course. Confidentiality and all that.”

            “I tell you everything about my cases.”

            “Only the ones you want help with, and then you can claim me as an associate, so there’s no ethical violation. We had a whole class in that kind of stuff.”

            “Yeah, that’s—that’s just what I was doing.” Honestly I probably share more than I should about my cases with Rachel, but she can keep a secret. “Ever listen to A.J. Garcia?”

            “I hear her on the radio in the car sometimes. Wait, are you working for A.J. Garcia?” Her face lit up the way it does for a new season of Real Housewives of the White Lotus.

            “Well, her PR agency. Stalker case. But I probably shouldn’t tell you more than that.” I sipped some beer.

            She rolled her eyes.  “Fine. Be like that. Is she in danger?”

            “I don’t know. A lot of these cases don’t end up in actual violence, but it’s unnerving for the victim. Even if she is famous.”

            “I know. I told you about my stalker.”

            “Yeah.” She’d gotten the guy good. “Anyway, I got referred by Allison Gentry. Remember her?”

            “I still have my autographed picture. Wait, I worked with you on that case, so I’m kind of an associate on this case. Right?” She smiled and leaned across the table at me.

            I grinned. “Do you want to be?”

            “I like this one song of hers, ‘Piece of Heaven.’ Yeah, tell me.”

            I told her about my meeting with Monica Welles. Rachel asked, “Is she hot?” like she always does whenever I meet another woman without her around. “The email address was shut down. I tried to send a fake spam to the account and it bounced right back. Lawyers could probably get more from the company but I guess they don’t want to go that route.” I sipped my beer. “Anyway, I started looking into her past contacts with fans. Celebrity stalkers usually want to be noticed, they want attention.”

            “She’s got to have a million fans. A few hundred thousand, anyway.”

            “Including the two of us. There are at least 200 fan sites, not counting the porn fakes—”

            “Yuck.”

            “Yeah. I’m still working through them. Just to be thorough. I can’t look at every single fan, but I can look for variations on Dominick and other markers. That’s it so far.”

            “What if Dominick isn’t anything like his real name? Or her real name, whatever.”

            I shrugged. “Variations, like I said. At some point I’ll have to go back to the client and ask if there’s anything more. There’s stuff they aren’t telling me yet.”

            “Same thing happens in my job.” She finished up her lasagna. “There’s more, right?”

            “Enough for tomorrow. Lunch maybe after that.”

            “Good.” She took her plate to the dishwasher. “Hurry up. I want to finish cleaning up and watch Lust Archipelago. It’s the season finale.”

            That show usually made Rachel a little playful after a few episodes. I finished my plate and helped her clean.

 

Two days later I was in a meeting with A.J. Garcia.

            I wasn’t alone. Rachel was there. She had a free afternoon, thanks to a patient who had rescheduled and a staff meeting that got cancelled. Or that she skipped. I know better than to ask certain kinds of questions.

            Monica Welles was there. So was Josh Heider, a lawyer in his 30s with prematurely gray hair, and Phillip Chapin, CEO of Chapin Jacobs Management, A.J.’s management agency. Chapin was in his 60s, with a broad chest and thick shoulders, in a tailored suit. No necktie, but he kept his collar buttoned. 

            This conference room didn’t have a view, just posters of some of the artists the firm represented, including A.J. I actually recognized a few of them. Coffee, water, and hot water for tea sat on a table in the corner. 

            A.J. was short and slender in a T-shirt and cargo pants. Her scalp was shaved almost bare, and she had a ring in one nostril. She wore dark glasses with purple lenses, and her eyes were half-closed, as if she were stoned or just sleepy after a long night. A can of Monster energy drink sat on the table in front of her. She didn’t look up when Monica introduced Rachel and me, but she managed to murmur a faint “Yeah, hi.”

            “Okay.” Chapin put his arms on the table. “What do you have, Mr. Jurgen?”

            I opened a folder. “DominickX appears to be a man named Dominick Slipko. Several years ago he was part of an early fan group for A.J. when she started getting attention at the local clubs. I have a picture—” I pulled out a photo I’d printed. It came from a fan website, and showed a younger A.J., with longer hair, standing next to a man with a thin beard in a T-shirt with her picture on it. “That’s from 2019, at a club called Amber, on Halsted.”

            Chapin glanced at the photo, then passed it to A.J. She forced her eyes open and gazed down at it for a moment. “I remember that show. I think he was a partner in the place, but I don’t remember the picture.” She pushed the picture away.

            “I don’t have a current address or location for him.” I held out another sheet of paper. “These are some places he’s lived, but there’s nothing in the past two or three years. One address belongs to his mother, so he might have moved there. What do you know about him?” I asked A.J. Chapin frowned, as if I was breaking some rule about talking to the talent directly.

            She blinked, rubbing her scalp. “He was a little older than me. I don’t know. He—he knew a lot about me when I met him.”

            “What did he know?” I asked. “What did you talk about?”

            A.J. ‘s shook her head tiredly. “Just—stuff. He talked about my grandma. She gave me my first guitar, but that was in all the stories about me. Stuff about my songs that I never told anybody. He wasn’t creepy. I mean, more than anyone.” 

            “Do you want me to locate him?” I asked. 

            Chapin started to answer: “I think we can handle that from—”

            “Yes.” A.J.’s voice was suddenly sharp. “I want—I don’t know if I want to talk to him. Yet. But I want to know where he is.”

            Chapin, startled, looked at the lawyer. Heider seemed puzzled. Monica raised her eyebrows.

            “Okay,” I said, speaking to A.J. “I’ll do what I can. The same rates will apply.”

            Chapin didn’t argue. My hourly rate wouldn’t put much of a dent into the firm’s quarterly report. 

            “We’ll want this all to be kept confidential, of course,” Heider said. His tone warned of dire consequences if any of this leaked on social media.

            “Naturally,” I promised.

            Chapin gave me a stern look. “It’s for A.J.’s protection. Her welfare is very important to everyone.”

            Her welfare. “Of course.” 

Heider nodded, still skeptical of my discretion. Then he and Chapin stood up and left, leaving us with Monica and A.J.

            “Are you all right, A.J.?” Monica asked softly.

            She didn’t respond right away. Her head drooped, as if she were falling asleep. After a moment she nodded. “I’m fine.”

            “It was nice to meet you,” Rachel said. “I’m not exactly a superfan, but I like your songs. The ones I’ve heard.”

            For the first time A.J. looked up, meeting Rachel’s eyes. “Th-thanks.” For a moment I thought she might let Rachel shake her hand—I was hoping for that, actually—but instead she just looked at Monica and then down at the carpet again. “Let’s go.”

            We left. Monica walked with A.J. behind us, talking quietly. I saw A.J. stumble once. Monica caught her, and they headed for Monica’s office as we found the elevators.

            “Something’s off about her.” Rachel frowned. 

            “A.J.? What?”

            She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’d say she’s depressed—she looks like she has some of the symptoms, and that would be understandable. But there was something else.”

            “Demon? Possession?” I glanced around. No one was close enough to overhear me and question our sanity. 

            Again she shook her head. “I’d recognize a demon even without contact.” She’d encountered more than a few demons since she started helping me with my cases. “It was like something—missing. But I don’t know what.”

            The elevator doors opened. “Maybe it was something to do with Dominick.”

            “Maybe.” She pressed the button for the ground floor.

            “I miss working with you,” I said as we descended.

            She poked me with her elbow. “Me too. But I like my job.”

            “At least you’re available for consultations. And other things.” I winked.

            She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas. I still have paperwork, always. And you have to get cracking on finding Dominick.”

            “Yes, boss.” I folded my arms and waited for the ground floor to arrive.