Tome of the Unholy

A murder case turns into a desperate race to catch a demon before it possesses more people than Tom Jurgen can handle.

Tome of the Unholy, Part One

Lauren DiBello’s office looked south over the Chicago River. A lawyer at one of the top firms in the city, she was in her late 30s, with silvery blond hair and a sharp nose jutting from her face.

            She stood up as I entered. “Thanks for coming, Tom. Valerie, this is Tom Jurgen, the private detective I told you about. Tom, this is Valerie Carroll, my client. She’s on bail for murder.”

            Valerie Carroll looked me over without standing up. She was short, with pale skin and brown eyes, blond hair in a taut ponytail. She clutched her hands in her lap, twisting them nervously. “It was an accident! But they think—they don’t believe me.”

            A murder case. I usually get cheating spouses, embezzling executives, background checks, and the occasional vampire. But I’d handled murder before. Recently, even. I was still recovering, physically and emotionally, from a night a month ago where I’d confronted a serial killer who could change his face to fool his victims into trusting him—before killing them.

I wasn’t looking forward to more murder. But sometimes it’s my job.

            I sat down. “What happened? How can I help you?”

            “Valerie shot her sister’s boyfriend.” DiBello had a reputation for being ruthlessly direct, in court and in her office. “Valerie, why don’t you tell Tom what happened?”

            She nodded, but didn’t speak right away. Finally she said, “I got home from work. There was noise in Vivian’s bedroom. I thought—at first I thought they were just having sex, her and Ben. But then there was shouting. I thought maybe someone had broken in. So I got my gun—it’s licensed and everything,” she said quickly, defensively. “I opened her door, and there was all this smoke. It was dark and smoky. Viv was standing there, screaming, and I saw someone on the other side of the room, sort of fighting with something, waving his arms, yelling. He took a step at me, and I—I just shot him. And it was Ben.”

            She looked down into her lap, squeezing her hands together.

            I looked at DiBello. She asked quietly, “What happened then?”

            She rubbed her nose. “I saw Ben fall down. I dropped the gun and looked at Viv. She screamed. Then the smoke—it sort of attacked her, like a swarm of bats. She was waving her arms, screaming, and then she just turned and ran. I heard the front door slam. Then the, uh, the smoke was gone, and Ben was lying there on the floor. They—they’d pushed the bed next to the wall to make space on the floor, and there was a circle of, like, duct tape on the floor, and candles. Ben was in the center of the circle.” She covered her face in her hands. “Then I called the police.”

            “So where is your sister?” I asked.

            Valerie shook her head. “I don’t know.”

            “We need to find her,” DiBello said. “She can explain what happened.”

            I looked out the window. “I imagine you’ve called everyone you can think of. And the police have looked for her?”

            “Yes, or we wouldn’t need you.” DiBello frowned. ”The police have Valerie. They don’t need Vivian. We do.”

            “She hasn’t been in touch? Or gone back home?”

            “No.” Valerie sat up. “I haven’t been home. I can’t go back there. I’m staying with a friend. From work. Marketing.”

            “Can you think of anyplace she might go? Friends? Ben’s friends?”

            She bit her lip. “I’ll—try to think. It’s been . . . hard to focus.” 

            “I understand.” I stood up. “Is the apartment open? Can I take a look?”

            Valerie dug into a handbag and extracted a key from her chain. DiBello wrote out the address on the firm’s stationery. 

            “I’ll have the firm wire you a retainer.” She took me out to the hall, letting her client compose herself. “She’s—upset. Scared.”

            “Naturally.” A paralegal rushed by us, arms full of folders. “Let me know if there’s anything else she can tell me. And that list of friends. Places she might go.”

            DiBello nodded. “Good luck.”

 

I stopped at home before heading up to the apartment. My girlfriend Rachel was working on a project at her desk. I sat down at my computer to check my messages and make some notes.

            “What’s the case?” Rachel didn’t turn to look at me. She’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she’s kind of psychic. Cute, too. 

            “Murder. Looking for a witness.” I found an email from Lauren DiBello with a list of names—friends of Valerie, friends of her sister, friends of the boyfriend, with phone numbers and email addresses. Good. “Georgeanne up yet?”

            “Right here.” Georgeanne stood in the office doorway. She was tall and blond, in a T-shirt and panties, barefoot. 

            Georgeanne was part of a family called the Rossini, who were fighting a centuries-long battle with a doomsday cult called the Raen. It’s a long story, but we’d worked together on a couple of cases, helping the two families come to an uneasy truce that constantly threatened to break down.

            She’d been out of the country for two years, doing some work for the Rossini in South America that she couldn’t tell us about. So she had no place to stay, and when she broke up with her latest girlfriend, we let her stay with us. 

It had been a little awkward at first.

            “I’ve got to go see Rigo this afternoon,” Georgeanne said. Rigo was the nephew of one of the Rossini patriarchs. “He might have an assignment for me, and I’ll be out of your hair. Or he might just want to hit on me again, and I’ll be right back here.” She laughed.

            “I don’t mind having you around,” Rachel said from her desk.

            Georgeanne walked over and kissed her. “Thanks.”

            “Hey, me neither,” I said.

            “Jerk,” Rachel said, but Georgeanne kissed me too. Like I said, awkward. But getting better.

I watched her go, then stood up. “I’ve got to check out the murder victim’s apartment. I’ll call.”

“You do that.” Rachel turned to give me a wink. I grinned.

 

 

The apartment was in Rogers Park, on the far north side, just a few blocks from the lake. Any DO NOT ENTER tape from the police had been removed from the door. I slipped the key in the lock and went inside.

            It was a small two-bedroom apartment. The living room was typical—a TV, two bookcases, magazines on a coffee table, prints from the Art Institute on the wall, a long sofa and a couple of chairs, a wide window looking down on the street.

            The first bedroom was tiny and tidy. The bed was neatly made with a pink duvet over the blankets, dirty clothes were in the hamper, the closet door was half open, revealing dresses and clothes on hangers. A jewelry box and makeup kit sat on the dresser. I didn’t go through the drawers. 

            The second bedroom was a mess. The bed was shoved up to the wall, like Valerie had said, the sheets and blankets tangled.  The shades were closed, filling the room with shadows. A big wall mirror was cracked, and the top of the dresser was strewn with broken perfume bottles, photos, candles, and some underwear. Clothes were piled loosely in a corner. 

            The cops had pulled up some of the duct tape from the carpet, but they’d left half the circle, ragged and uneven. I could see bloodstains in the center. 

            I opened drawers, looking for an address book or something that might lead me to any of Vivian’s friends. I found just T-shirts and socks and underwear, plus a box of, uh, personal items that didn’t directly relate to the case as far as I knew. The closet, like her sister’s, held blouses, slacks, business suits, and the like. Some boxes on the top shelf contained old journals, photo albums, and holiday ornaments.

            Turning away from the closet, I crossed my arms and looked the room over.

On a small table next to the door sat a book, thick, bound in black leather. It looked ancient. 

            I should have spotted it right away. The title was in Latin. Everything was in Latin. The pages were thin parchment, yellowed with age, delicate under my fingers. The book was at least 500 pages long. I flipped the pages, being careful with the parchment, looking for a familiar word. Words, words, words, some pictures—a pig, a lion, something big and hairy with six legs, an angel . . .

            An angel with horns sprouting from its forehead.

            Oh hell. I pulled my phone from my pocket to call Rachel. “Do you speak Latin? Or read it?” I asked when she picked up.

            She laughed. “I took high school Spanish, and all I can say is Dondé esta la biblioteca? What’s going on?”

            “I found a book in the murder apartement. It’s in Latin. I think it’s about demons.”

            “Oh.” She was silent a moment. “I think Georgeanne might talk Latin.”

            “Is she still there?”

            “She went out to meet Rigo, or whoever. I’ll call her.”

            “Okay. I’ll be back soon.”

Tome of the Unholy, Part Two

Back home Rachel and I looked through the book. I ran the title through a translation program. It came out as BOOK OF THE DAMNED. So, probably not a collection of bedtime stories for ancient Latin kids.

            I called Lauren DiBello. She called Valerie, then set up a group call between all of us. Rachel listened in too.

            I asked about the book. “I don’t know about that one,” she answered. “But I know Ben liked to collect old books. Occult stuff. He was really into that, and Viv went along with it. Sometimes I heard weird noises in her room. Not sex. I mean, yeah, I heard some of that too, but—sometimes it was like they were reading stuff out loud. And there was incense and candles that smelled funny. Bad.”

            Rachel and I looked at each other. “And you said the smoke, the cloud, whatever—it went after your sister?”

            “Y-yeah. It just zoomed over to her, and then it was gone. And she turned and ran away. Without looking at me, or Ben. She just—ran.” Her voice was shaking.

            I sighed. “I think your sister and her boyfriend were trying to summon a demon.”

            DiBello knew me, and knew the kind of cases I tend to stumble into, even if she hadn’t called me for my expertise in the supernatural this time. So she wasn’t surprised.I waited for Valerie’s reaction.

            “Demon.” She breathed slowly. “Okay. That kind of makes sense. Sometime there were weird noises, like I said. Disgusting smells. Sometimes things broke for no reason. And Ben was always talking about stuff like ghosts and séances. They went on haunted house tours, stuff like that.”

“Is this important to the case?” DiBello asked. 

“I think Vivian was possessed by the demon they summoned. That could make it hard to get her on the witness stand, to put it mildly.” 

“Oh.” I heard Valerie suck her breath in. “Oh, no . . .”

“What will she do?” DiBello asked. “Where will she go?”

“That depends on what kind of demon is inside her.” I looked at the book. 

“Neither of us reads Latin,” Rachel said.

“Will she try to—to hurt people?”

“Maybe. She might try to hurt herself.” I’ve dealt with demonic possession before, but it’s always different. Some demons have supernatural powers. Others just kill people the conventional way—knives, guns, blunt instruments, teeth. “All I can do is look for her. Talk to the people who know her, and check out the places she might be going.”

“And find an exorcist,” Rachel said. 

“One thing at a time.” I know a few exorcists. I even performed one myself, once. “First we have to find her. I’ll get started on this list.”

“Let me know,” DiBello said.

“I hope—I hope she’s okay.” Valerie sniffed, crying softly. “God, this is a nightmare.”

 

I ran through the list of phone numbers as quickly as I could. I left messages, but I also connected with six or seven people. Some people had gotten calls from Valerie last night. One call was just a hangup. She asked another friend, Justin, where he was, but she hung up when he said he was just watching TV at home. A woman named Avery said Vivian had asked her to meet at a bar they went to often, but when Avery couldn’t go out, Vivian hung up. 

            I got a callback from one of my messages late in the afternoon—a woman named Judith, who told me Vivian had called at 2 a.m. insisting she come out to meet at a bar—a different bar than the one Avery named. She hung up when Judith refused.

            That gave me an idea. I called Valerie again for a list of places her sister liked to hang out. Bars, nightclubs, restaurants, parks, the library? She laughed at the last one. “She’s a party girl. It’s how she met Ben.” The dead boyfriend’s name shut her laughter down. “I’ll, uh, get you something as soon as I can.”

            Georgeanne came home at 4:30. “How was Rigo?” Rachel asked, standing up and stretching.    

“Gave me an assignment.” She leaned against the office door. “And yeah, he hit on me. I leave tomorrow.”

            Rachel frowned, unhappy. I was annoyed. I had to work tonight on the case, if Valerie got me that list soon. And I wanted Rachel to come with me, but she’d want to stay with Georgeanne on her last night here.

            Georgeanne spotted the book on my desk. “What’s that?” She moved for a closer look. “Tome of the Unholy? A little light reading?”

            “It’s for a case. You read Latin?”

            “Catholic schoolgirl. It’s where I get my naughty streak.” She winked at me. “What kind of case?”

            “It started with murder. Now it’s getting serious.” I told her the story so far. “If I had some kind of idea what demon they summoned, and if I could read Latin, and if I knew where Vivian is, and if pigs had wings—”

            “Well, let me take a look.” She lifted the book. “I don’t have much packing to do.”

            “You don’t have to spend your last night here doing this jerk’s work for him,” Rachel said. “He was going to make a special dinner and everything.”

            “Hey, it’s your turn to cook,” I said.

            “That’s okay, I owe both of you guys.” She flipped through the parchment pages. “This looks interesting, anyway.”

She and Rachel went into the living room as I checked my email. Valerie had sent me a list of Vivian’s 16 favorite hangouts. I recognized some of the places—they showed up in the media when celebrities visited the city—but others sounded like dives. I used a GPS app to map out an efficient route between them, then headed for the kitchen. Rachel and Georgeanne were on the sofa, leafing through the book. “I think I met that one once,” Rachel said, pointing to a picture. I didn’t ask. 

I made baked ziti for dinner—the one from the Sopranos cookbook. “Leftovers don’t count when it’s your turn to cook tomorrow,” I told Rachel as she poured wine for Georgeanne. “How’s the book, Georgeanne?”

“Fun. There’s a demon that possesses children and makes them eat their parents, You know, good times.”

“Yuck.” Rachel sprinkled parmesan cheese over her ziti. “So what’s the plan, gumshoe?”

“Hit the bars and clubs.” I drank some water. “Look for the possessed sister.” 

“Rough life.” 

I took my shot. “Look, you can come with me. Actually, it would be easier if you came with me. Both of you.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “What’d you have in mind?”

“A hot babe would have an easier time getting into some of these places than a middle-aged gumshoe on his own. And getting people to talk.” I glanced at Georgeanne. “Two would be even better.”

“You go.” Georgeanne speared some ziti on her fork. “I don’t have any sexy clothes. Just camo gear in my duffel bag, and a few T-shirts. Plus, I might find something in that book.” She chewed. ”You know, comfort reading.”

“I’ll go.” Rachel kicked me under the table. “This doesn’t count as date night, though.”

I winced. “No chance of getting lucky?” 

She shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

“Just wake me when you come in,” Georgeanne said with a wink.

Tome of the Unholy, Part Three

We started near Vivian and Valerie's apartment on the far north side, working our way south toward downtown. The first was a semi-dive called Angelo's decorated in an aquatic motif, with a swordfish mounted to the wall behind the bar and plastic sharks dangling from the ceiling. Rachel wore a tight white blouse and a snug black skirt short enough to show off her legs and catch everyone’s attention. “You owe me for this,” she muttered as two men checked her out from down the bar.

            The bartender recognized Vivian’s picture on my phone but said he hadn’t seen her in days. Neither had the two guys at the bar. Rachel meandered the small Thursday night crowd—mostly young, not too drunk yet—and came up empty. I paid for our drinks and left my card, and we walked to the next bar.

An hour later we were on the near north side, where hot, happening nightclubs were scattered like glitter in the night. We stood in a short line with a crowd of brightly dressed 20-somethings, half-drunk or high or both, laughing and singing and checking their phones impatiently. 

The bouncer on the front steps looked Rachel up and down, then peered at me and shook his head with a sigh. “Okay.”  He waved us in.

Hip-hop music blared from every mirrored wall as people danced beneath gleaming lights. A DJ on a raised platform in the corner gazed out over the crowd like a horny deity waiting for his next virgin or not-so-virgin sacrifice.

A young Black man in a tank top jostled me as I headed for the bar. He apologized, checked out Rachel, and smiled. “Hi there. Wanna dance?”

“Maybe later.” She took my hand and whispered in my ear. “I’ll mingle. Fifteen minutes?”

            “Good luck. Be careful who you dance with.” I watched her walk away. I knew Rachel could take care of herself, but even after living together for several years, I was just insecure enough to worry about all the handsome, muscular young men watching her walk into the throng of dancers.

The bartender, a six-foot-tall Asian woman with spiky black hair, thought she recognized Vivian—tonight. “Yeah, she was here for a while.” She had to almost shout over the hip-hop. “Seemed a little out of it. Looked like she slept in her clothes. Got some guy to buy her a drink. Is she in trouble?”

“Her sister is looking for her. What guy?”

She closed her eyes a moment. “Leather jacket. Skinny necktie. Snake tattoo on his neck.” She shrugged. “He seemed nice.”

“Thanks.” I paid for a beer and carried it with me as I questioned other people, not drinking any. I was on medication for night terrors after my serial killer case, and even if I wasn’t, downing alcohol all night would make for bad detective work and a wicked hangover in the morning.

I focused on staff—other bartenders, serving staff, roving bouncers. One server remembered Vivian too, talking to the guy with the snake tattoo. They’d left together maybe 45 minutes ago.

Rachel found me a few minutes later, holding a drink someone had bought her. “I got hit on by three guys and two women,” she shouted over the music, setting the drink on a nearby table. “This is fun!”

I took her hand. “Let’s go.”

“Party pooper.” She stuck her tongue out.

Outside, the music still pounding in our ears, I told her about the bartender and the bouncer. Rachel hadn’t found anyone who’d seen Vivian. 

Our next stop was only a few blocks away, in the Old Town neighborhood. Rachel called Georgeanne while we walked. 

“There’s just lots and lots of evil shit in here,” Georgeanne said. “I can’t tell if there’s any one page they looked at. I’m about a quarter through. Here’s one bad boy who splits himself up so he can infect other humans. And there’s one who makes people commit public suicide and then jumps into the nearest witness. I’m opening more wine.”

The next place we stopped at was smaller and quiet. Instead of a dance floor, it had pool tables. The music was techno. The bartender, a young Latinx man with a thin beard, told us he’d seen Vivian playing pool with a group of men in the corner. 

I sent Rachel over to talk to them. Her glare told me I’d pay for it later. Possibly for the rest of my life. 

I nursed a beer and watched. The three men at the table welcomed her. One of them offered her a cue to join their game.

She sank a few balls, and the men applauded and patted her shoulder. She laughed. Then she pulled her phone out and showed them Vivian’s picture. I saw them nodding, pointing, talking to each other and her. Then Rachel sank one more ball and, to my relief, came back to me.

“They were actually pretty nice.” She sat next to me. “Didn’t even hit on me.”

“What about Vivian?” I forced my brain back to the case.

“She left about half an hour ago with one of their friends. Larry. Larry Lanigan.” She scrolled through her phone. “He owns a furniture store. They said it’s right near here—okay, here it is.” She pushed the phone at me.

LANIGAN’S FURNITURE. I saw a long leather couch, an easy chair, and a couple of end tables in front of a window looking out onto the street. The address was off North Avenue, just a few blocks away. 

“Good work, Nancy Drew.” I moved to kiss her cheek—hoping the pool players were watching—but she pushed me away.

“There’s more. She said something about wanting to meet up with a friend. She called him Balmon. They thought it was a funny name.” Rachel tapped a number on her phone. Georgeanne. “Hi, it’s me. Can you look up a name in that book? Is there—okay, okay, there’s no index, I get it.” She rolled her eyes. “Balmon. Something like that. Okay, call me back.”

We left, heading for Lanigan’s store. Would she really take him there? I didn’t know, but it was too close not to check out. 

Night had settled in. The streets and sidewalks were busy outside the bars, but when we turned to the next street the atmosphere got quieter, with few people and cars buzzing by. I spotted Lanigan’s at the end of the block.

Rachel’s phone buzzed. Georgeanne. “Yeah, I found him. It. Whatever.” She was out of breath, as if she’d been running for blocks. “I read about him already, it’s the one that infects other humans. Balmonicus. Says something like, ’This unholy beast will consume one soul to become two, then two to become four,’ yada, yada, yada. That sound like your guy?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” This was getting more and more complicated. “Is there anything in the book about how to get rid of it?”

“There’s something . . . It’s going to take me a while to figure this out.”

“Okay,” Rachel said. “We might be close to her now.”

“Wish I was there with my gun. This guy sounds nasty.”

Georgeanne had weapons—and she was good with them. But I didn’t want anyone killed—particularly Vivian. “We’ll be okay. Keep checking the book.”

We reached the storefront on the corner. Through the front window we could see sofas, chairs, tables, bookcases, and other furniture-related accessories. The front of the store was dark and murky, but lights glowed in the back. 

Leaning forward, I shaded my eyes and peered into the store, but all I could see was shadows drifting in and out of the light. 

Rachel pressed her ear to the glass. I waited, but she shook her head, exasperated. “What do we do now? Break a window?”

“That would probably set off an alarm.” I didn’t want the police here. Yet. Instead I knocked on the glass. Then I knocked again, harder.

Something in the back moved forward. Rachel took a step back. I waved, then backed away myself. The shape—tall, two arms and legs, probably male—started running, dodging between chairs. He jumped over a table. He tripped, rolled over, and sprang up, looking behind him, then took off again like a rabbit desperately trying to escape a bloodhound.

He finally reached the front of the store. I could see his face—red, twisted with fear, sweat dripping down his forehead. His arms pumped furiously as he ran and jumped on a long table next to a sofa.

Head down, he launched himself at the front window.

I ducked as the glass erupted. The guy tumbled on the sidewalk next to me, groaning, holding his head as blood dripped from his scalp. I reached for him

And then more glass shattered, showering shards over my head. A man leaped through the opening, hitting the sidewalk on his shoulder, and then reared up, snarling. He looked at me, then down at the man who’d smashed through the window. Then he turned and ran, racing down the street like a rabid dog in search of someone to bite.

More people jumped from the store—six or seven, at least. They seemed disoriented, confused, and then they scattered, each dashing in a different direction. One of them screamed something. A woman clawed at my arm before pushing me aside and running across the street.. 

Rachel was on her knees, her arms shielding her face and eyes. I reached down to pull her to her feet. She stood, tottering, and pulled her arm away. Then she pointed. “Tom!”

Vivian Carroll stood on the sidewalk, arms at her sides, breathing hard. She wore jeans and dirty sneakers, her blond hair a tornado. Her eyes burned like fire.

I lifted a hand. “Vivian? My name’s Tom. Your sister Valerie sent me to find you.”

She blinked, as if she couldn’t hear me. She looked down at the man bleeding on the sidewalk, her lip curling in disgust. 

Then she swung a fist at me.

I ducked and jumped back, my arms raised. I looked for Rachel, hoping she’d come to my rescue before I had to hit a woman. 

Vivian snarled at me. I tensed.

Instead of attacking me, though, she spun around and ran away like a cheetah seeking new prey.

I chased her for half a block, but a car turning a corner cut me off, and I had to watch her disappear into the night. I didn’t know what I’d do if I caught her anyway. Tackle her to the street and try an emergency exorcism right there? 

When I got back to the store, Rachel was crouching beside the guy who’d jumped through the window. “It’s Lanigan,” she said. “I called an ambulance.”

Lanigan was rocking back and forth on the sidewalk, hugging his knees in a fetal position and moaning. 

I knelt. “Hi. Can I ask you some questions? I’m Tom Jurgen. That’s Rachel. I’m a private detective.”

Lanigan clutched his head. Rachel slugged me. “He’s kind of in pain right now.”

“We won’t have a chance to talk to him once he goes to the ER. Larry? Can you tell ius what happened?” I leaned forward. “Vivian picked you up at a bar—”

“Bitch.” He spat the word, and some blood. “We were going to—she wanted to see my store. Like she wanted to do it here, We came here, and suddenly she let all these people in, and then they were—shouting at me.” He gasped for breath. “Then there was—something, something pounding on my head. In my head. I just—they were pulling at me, grabbing at me, and I ran, and I didn’t know where I was going, I just had to get away.” He shook his head. “I guess I crashed through the window.” 

He rubbed his skull, then stared at the blood on his hands. “What the hell happened?”

Sirens rang down the street. I stood up. 

“What now, kemo sabe?” Rachel asked.

“We’ll get him in the ambulance. Then—I guess we’ll keep tracking her.” If Georgeanne was right, Balmon was trying to possess more humans. We’d interrupted it mid-possession with Lanigan, but Vivian would try again with someone else. It sounded like Balmon already had the start of a posse.

Rachel shuddered. “I got some seriously bad vibes from her. Or it.”

“You can go home if you want. Help Georgeanne.”

She hesitated. Then gave a small nod. “Maybe I can find something in the book. You be careful. Don’t screw up Georgeanne’s last night with us by getting killed.”

“That’s all I will think about, Georgeanne’s perfect evening.” 

“Jerk.” She kissed me. “Call me every 15 minutes.”

I held up my phone. “Got it.”

Tome of the Unholy, Part Four

Larry Lanigan was semi-conscious when the ambulance arrived. and he didn’t seem to remember talking to me, so I just told the paramedics I’d seen him jump through the window, leaving out Vivian Carroll and the others. No point in confusing them with the true facts.

            Then I checked my list of bars and nightclubs. Only two names left. I took an Uber to the first one, a few blocks off Michigan Avenue. By this time in the evening—8:30—it was noisier and more crowded than the ones I’d visited previously. Without Rachel I had a harder time getting anyone to pay attention to me, but I managed to show Vivian’s picture to a dozen customers, plus all the bartenders and other staff members I could flag down.

            No one had seen her tonight. I didn’t see her anywhere. So I left.

One more place on the list. But I hesitated. Was I missing something? What if she went somewhere else? I called Valerie again.

“I can’t think of anything.” She sounded exhausted. “I can’t focus. I just keep seeing it over and over again, the black smoke and me with the gun and Ben—Ben falling down . . .”

I had another call coming in, so I let her go. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Yeah, Mr. Jurgen?” I didn’t recognize the voice right away. “This is Rod? I’m the bartender at Angelo’s. You were here tonight asking about Vivian? She’s here right now.”

I called Rachel as I looked for a cab. “Do you want me to come up there with you?” she asked.

            “No. Keep looking through the book. Did you guys find anything yet?”

            “Georgeanne’s looking at a long chapter at the back. It might have spells for casting out demons. Or it might be recipes for barley and lentil soup. She’s not sure yet.”

            “Let me know either way.” A cab slowed near me.

            Vivian was gone when I reached Angelo’s. The bartender shook his head. “She just left with two guys. I didn’t know them. Sorry.”

            “Thanks for calling.” I slid a $20 across the bar to him. “Did you hear anything about where they were going?”

            “No. I never saw the guys before. It seemed like she was hitting on them, and they looked kind of surprised. Older guys, your age—sorry, I mean—”

            I laughed. I’m in my 40s, and the bartender was 25. “No problem. Thanks again.”

            I hustled down the sidewalk toward the Carrolls’ apartment. It was the most logical place for her to go if she wanted some privacy for possession.

            In the elevator I called Rachel again. “Anything?”

            “I’m sending you what we’ve got.” She sounded annoyed. “Georgeanne’s not sure of the translation. Or we can just send you the Latin.”

            “Send me both.” I wasn’t sure I could pronounce any Latin correctly, but I’d have to try either way. “Wish me luck.”

            “Just be careful.” 

            Yeah. I hung up. The elevator doors opened.

            Breathing slowly, I made my way down the hall to Vivian’s door. I pressed my ear against it, listening. Nothing.

            Slowly, as silently as I could, I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door half an inch. Now I heard voices murmuring inside, and I smelled incense burning. 

            I checked my phone. Rachel had sent two emails, one in English and the other a screenshot of the Latin spell.I knew I’d mangle the Latin, so I expanded the English as much as I could, took a deep breath, and pushed on the door.

            Candles and incense sticks burned on a table in the center of the living room. The shades were shut tight, so shadows filled the room. Vivian stood with her back to the door. The two men faced her, their eyes wide. Their shirts were off, and their chests were heaving as if they were hyperventilating from the incense fumes. 

            They didn’t react to me. They wobbled unsteadily on their feet, staring at Vivian. Her arms stretched forward as if reaching for a hug as she chanted words in a language I didn’t recognize. Not Latin.

            One of the guys twitched, then toppled to the floor, his body shaking. The other just stood there, oblivious to his friend’s distress.

            Vivian stopped chanting. Her head started to turn—

            I darted forward and shoved at the middle of the back. She shrieked in surprise, twisting, and fell to her knees. 

            “Get out of here!” I shouted to the guys, but they were too lost in the demon’s spell to break free quickly. So I brought up my phone and started reading: 

            “Demon of Hell, leave this world! Demon of Hell, leave this woman! Demon of Hell, leave this place! I cast you out, demon of Hell, back to the hell from whence you came!”

            Yeah, it sounded cheesy. I wondered about Georgeanne’s translation. Maybe it worked better in the original Latin. It didn’t seem to be having much of an impact on Balmon now.

            Vivian rose to her feet, her burning red eyes like flaming arrows about to launch at my heart. Her mouth opened, the jaw dropping down like a trapdoor, and darkness poured from her lips.

            I staggered back, waving my arms as the darkness attacked my face like a swarm of bats. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. Or move. I was paralyzed, trapped in a black shroud as I stumbled blindly backwards, trying to reach the door, trying to get away—

            Then everything went black.

Tome of the Unholy, Part Five

I unlocked my door and went inside.

            “Tom!” Rachel ran to the door. “Where the hell—what happened?” She raised her fist to punch me in the chest. Then she stopped. 

            Georgeanne was behind her. “Tom? Did you find Vivian? What happened?”

            “I don’t—” I pushed the door closed with my heel and leaned against the wall. “I don’t remember. I was there, in the apartment, and then . . .” I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”

            Rachel looked at Georgeanne. Georgeanne nodded and put a hand on my arm. “You look like you need some sleep. Let’s get you to bed.”

            I pulled my arm away. “Just let me sit down. Get me some water.” I made my way slowly to the sofa. Rachel went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of water.

            Georgeanne sat next to me. “You okay?” She stroked my shoulder. “What happened?”

            My head hurt. “I don’t know.” I gulped some water and leaned forward to set it down on the coffee table.

            The book lay open in front of me.

            I kicked the table, toppling it over, knocking it over, spilling the magazines and the remote and a bottle of wine—and the book—onto the rug. 

            Rachel came out of the bedroom, holding something behind her back. “What’s wrong?”

            “That book!” I jumped up, jabbing my finger. “Get rid of it! Burn it!”

            “Calm down.” Georgeanne grabbed my arm again. Tight.

            “Stop touching me!” I tried to yank my arm free, but she was strong. “Let go of me, bitch!”

            I tried to swing a fist at her, but she blocked it with her other arm and shoved at my chest, pushing me to the floor. Then she was on top of me, legs around my body, clutching my wrists as I twisted and squirmed, trying to kick free.

            Rachel kneeled next to me. “Roll him over.”

            Georgeanne grunted and clamped a hand on my shoulder. I fought, cursing them viciously, using words from a language I didn’t recognize, but they managed to force me onto my chest, my face pressing into the rug.

            They pulled my arms back, and I felt metal close with a click around my wrists. Handcuffs. Another pair went around my ankles.

            Georgeanne rolled me face up again. Rachel gazed down at me.

            “Sorry, Tom.” She shook her head. “I guess Balmon didn’t figure out that I’m psychic. George?”

            She stood next to Rachel, holding the book. The Tome of the Unholy. “I put a Post-it here, give me a second—okay, here we are. Get ready.”

            Rachel planted a knee on one of my shoulders. “Go back to hell, Balmon.”

            I roared. Or Balmon roared, using my throat. It tried to summon up the darkness inside me, spew it forth over Rachel and Georgeanne, bring them into the darkness with me—

            Then Georgeanne started reading in Latin.

            I understood the words. Balmon did, anyway, and it hated them. They burned, like hot pokers jabbing into its heart. Or whatever it had at the core of its being. I felt the pain shoot through my body, felt the demon struggle to stay inside me as Georgeanne kept speaking, my muscles pulling at the cuffs, trying to rock back and forth as Rachel held me, her hazelnut eyes fierce—except I felt a drop fall on my cheek, a tear as she watched me, gritting her teeth, determined to hold me down until the thing was gone—

            Then suddenly it fled. I felt a release surge through me, body and brain as the demon burst out of me like that thing from Alien. I groaned, gasping for air, then squeaked, “Watch out! It’ll try—it’ll try—”

            The black cloud rose above me, spinning wildly in the air, veering one way and then the other, searching for a new victim to possess, But Georgeanne kept reading, her voice steady and firm. The cloud quivered, closed in on itself, dropped and lifted again, reaching the ceiling, and then it suddenly exploded outward like a dark star in a silent supernova, scattering particles of dust that vanished as they fell. 

            Georgeanne closed the book with a snap. “I think it’s gone.”

            Rachel leaned down close to my face. “You all right?”

            I nodded. “Can you take the handcuffs off now?”

            “Jerk.” But she kissed me.

 

Lauren DiBello called me two days later. “They dropped the charges. I don’t know if anybody believed their story about summoning demons, but Vivian was pretty convincing that it wasn’t her sister’s fault. So send me your invoice. Leave the bit about you getting possessed by a demon out of the formal report. I don’t want the senior partners to question your sanity. Or mine.”

            “Hey, at least I didn’t have to hire an actual exorcist. I don’t know what their fees are like.”

            She snorted. “Just take care of yourself.”

            We hung up. I turned to Rachel. “Case closed.”

            “Thanks to Georgeanne.” She crossed a leg over her knee from her desk. “She texted to see how you’re doing, by the way.”

            Georgeanne had left for her assignment yesterday. We had no idea where she was, or when we’d see her again. It was kind of exciting.

            “Good thing she speaks Latin,” I said.

            “And that I had handcuffs. I had to explain more about our sex life that I usually do, but she took it well.”

            I chuckled. I’d slept most of yesterday, waking up to kiss Georgeanne goodbye before collapsing into bed again. After a few nightmares, I was feeling better today.

            As far as I could tell, all the demons had left once Georgeanne exorcised me. Vivian woke up the next morning with only vague memories of being possessed after the shooting, and no memory of me. The two guys were gone, and there were no reports on suspiciously demonic behavior in the news. Getting rid of Balmon apparently sent the rest of it back to Hell.

            “So now we’re even.” Rachel pointed a finger at me. “We’ve both been possessed by demons.”

            It had happened to Rachel several years ago. She’s never let me forget it. “Yeah, we’ve got that in common. It’s good to share things in a relationship.”

“Let’s stick to doing the dishes, okay? At least for a while.” She turned back to her computer.

“Thanks again for saving me, by the way.”

“As long as I don’t have to do it too often.”

“Deal.”

She snorted. “Hah! Next case I’ll be saving your ass again, like always.”

“Probably.” I smiled, then went back to work.

 

# # #

 

The Vanished

While battling night terrors from his previous case, Tom searches for his client’s vanished mother on a trail that leads to black magic and death.

The Vanished, Part One

I punched at the darkness, my heart thudding in my eardrums. My feet felt like lead ingots were chained to my ankles as I tried to run. Then I tripped, cursing, and kicked out at the shadows, but didn’t connect with anything. 

            I rolled over and hugged my chest, my arms digging into my ribs. Protecting myself. I didn’t know what was after me. Or who. I just knew it was danger. Terror gripped my body, my brain. I fought to breathe.

            Suddenly I was paralyzed. Nothing moved. I tried to kick, tried to roll, tried to untighten my arms around my body. Tried to open my fingers. Nothing worked. I was trapped.

            Was I dead? I closed my eyes, then opened them, trying to pierce the gray shadows around me.

            “Tom. Tom!”

            Rachel kicked me. Gently, in her bare feet, but it was enough to force my eyes open. For real this time. 

            I looked up. Rachelk stood over me, in a T-shirt and panties, scowling. “It happened again.”

            “Damn it.” I really was hugging my chest, lying on the living room floor, breathing hard. I unwrapped my arms and Rachel grabbed my hand, helping me sit up.

            “What was it?” She crouched and put a hand on my chest as I caught my breath.

            I shrugged. “The same. Something chasing me. Everything was dark. Then I couldn’t move. Or breathe. Then something was kicking me.”  I nudged her foot with my toes.

            “You wake me up at three in the morning and you’re lucky I didn’t put my boots on first.”  She punched my shoulder. Lightly. It still ached from the knife wound I’d gotten two weeks ago.

            “Thanks.” I squeezed her hand, and she helped me stand up. An arm around my shoulders, she led me to the bedroom.

            “This is the third time this week.” Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, a three-quarter moon shining through the window behind her. “I can’t keep this up. I need my beauty sleep.” She stretched her arms.

            “At least I didn’t climb on the kitchen table this time.” I sat next to her. 

            “Or try to unlock the door and run out into the hall in your boxers.”

            “Good thing I had my boxers on.” But Rachel was right. We both needed our beauty sleep. Not that she needed anything to look hot and sexy, but lack of sleep made her irritated during the day. Which she took out on me.

            I nodded. “I’ll call Dr. Neral in the morning. After my new client.”

            “Good.” She kissed me. “Now bed. Sleep.”

            “Right.” I stretched out and pulled the blankets up as Rachel slid in next to me. “Uh, if I can’t get to sleep right away . . .”

            She groaned. “We tried that last night. Watch TV or something. No whiskey.”

            “Yeah.” I closed my eyes and tried not to see a serial killer in the darkness.

 

“It’s my mom.” Ginny May was in her mid-thirties, with long dark hair in a ponytail, a short nose and large blue eyes slanted downward with worry. We were at a diner near my apartment the next morning. 

            “She, uh, disappeared. About a month ago.” She sipped her tea. “They found her purse and coat burning in a dumpster, and traces of her clothes. But they never found her. I’m sure she’s not dead.”

            I nodded and sipped my coffee. “What makes you think that?”

            She looked away. “I don’t—it’s just a feeling. I know it sounds crazy. But—they never figured out where she was, what happened to her. She just vanished. The last place she was at was a shopping mall. The police said it was maybe a serial killer?”

            I flinched at the words “serial killer.” She didn’t notice. She went on: “I just want to know more about it, you know? Even if you can’t find her, I just want to know what happened. Can you do that?”

            “I can try.” Chances were I wouldn’t find anything more than the cops had, but sometimes looking more closely than a busy suburban detective could turn up something new. I took some information from her, she wrote me a check, and we parted. She worked in real estate downtown, and had meetings to get to.

            I had an appointment of my own. 

 

“So here’s the thing.” I sat on the couch, facing Dr. Neral. “A couple of weeks ago I was involved in a case where there was this, uh serial killer. Meyer Williams. He could change his face to look like anyone the victims trusted to let him in. He killed four people before I caught up with him, and then the last girl and me—he tried to kill both of us, and we—we managed to kill him. So it was, uh, pretty intense.”

            Dr. Francis Neral was a psychiatrist. A Black man with a balding scalp and a thin black necktie. I’d seen him several years ago, after the time I took too many sleeping pills—on purpose—and ended up in the hospital.

            “That does sound . . .  extreme.” He shifted on his chair. “You saved this girl’s life?”

            “We saved each other’s lives.” Every night I saw Stacy Durbin slamming the hatchet down into Meyer’s skull in my nightmares. “There were some I couldn’t save.” I saw them every night too.

“And how are you physically?”

“I got stabbed a few times. It still hurts.” I rubbed my shoulder. “The thing is, I’m having—night terrors.”

He nodded. “What about them?”

“I’m running. Trying to get away from—something. Someone. And I can’t get away. And it’s getting closer. It’s like one of those nightmares where if you die in your sleep, you die for real? That kind of thing.”

“Nightmare on Elm Street.” He smiled. “I’ve never seen it, but I know the, uh, the concept.”

“Rachel has to wake me up. Then I can’t get back to sleep. I don’t even want to go to sleep in the first place.” I rubbed my eyes. “And Rachel is—trying not to get mad at me. For waking her up, and for almost getting myself killed in the first place. I can’t blame her.”

“Are you drinking more?” He peered at me.

I nodded, embarrassed. “Whiskey. It helps me get to sleep, but it doesn’t do much for the terrors. And I’m trying not to turn into an alcoholic.”

“I’m asking because I can prescribe some medications to help you sleep better, but you can’t drink if you take them.”

I nodded. “Like before.” He’d given me antidepressants when I tried to kill myself, and I’d gone without beer for months. Lots of soda took its place. 

“But I think we should also see each other. At least for a while. I suspect you have some issues to talk out.” He crossed his arms, waiting for my reaction.

I looked around the room. Photos on the walls showed birds flying, butterflies, clouds,. Very peaceful. “Like what? I mean, I’m not fighting the idea of therapy, but—”

“Guilt, for one thing. You said you couldn’t save the others.”

I sighed. “Yeah.” Four dead. “I—I didn’t know what was going on at first. I did save one person. But the guy—he used my face to get into someone’s house. And he murdered two people there.”

He nodded. “And then there’s everything else you deal with. Vampires, demons. Killer plants. Giant killer chickens?”

I chuckled. That was when I’d first started seeing him. “Yeah. My business seems to take me to some dark places.”

“And it’s only natural that some of those stresses would come out in your dreams. I mean, this killer is certainly one factor, but things like these usually have multiple causes in the subconscious.”

“Yeah.” I sat forward. “So—same time next week?”

“It’s a date.” He leaned over to write out some prescriptions. 

 

Three Roads Mall in Skokie reminded me of a ghost town in an old western movie. There weren’t actual tumbleweeds blowing past the shop doors, but it felt haunted, even though most of its stores were still open for business and enough shoppers roamed the vast central area to keep it going even in an age of Amazon and online shopping.

            Veronica May had last been seen here. Mall security cameras caught her going in and out of several stores—dresses, cosmetics, a Barnes & Noble—but there was nothing suggesting she’d been attacked or abducted, or even approached by anyone. The footage I saw—sent by my client after the police had released it to her—showed only a middle-aged woman wandering from one store to another, minding her own business, carrying more and more bags with each stop.

            The mall was quiet in the middle of the weekday. A group of senior citizens power walking, mothers shopping with infants in strollers, a few teenagers skipping school to hang out at the food court—do teenagers still do that?—along with people my age (40ish) or younger gazing at window displays while talking on their phones.

            I followed Mrs. May’s path through the mall, stopping at each store she’d been recorded going into. No one remembered her specifically, but most of them had been questioned by the suburban police, and everyone knew about the dumpster fire out back. 

            “Gross,” said an older woman working in a Dress Barn. “You could smell the smoke all day.”

            “Yeah, I remember that,” said a young woman wearing a “Mimi” name tag in a store that sold macrobiotics and vitamin supplements. “I think I rang her up for some gingko biloba. For memory. She was nice. I wonder what happened to her? Hey, you look like you could use some St. John’s Wort.”

Ginny May had found an unopened bottle of ginkgo biloba in her mother’s purse. I turned down the St. John’s Wort and went to the Barnes & Noble next, where I couldn’t resist browsing before questioning the booksellers there. 

I bought a book about the battle of Stalingrad and asked the cashier about Mrs. May. Like the rest, she didn’t remember the woman, but a friend of hers had mentioned giving her directions to the restroom. 

I checked out the mall’s anchor store, a Target, but found no one who could offer me any new information. Annoyed and frustrated, I walked down the wide central aisle on my way to the parking lot. Then I spotted a hallway with an arrow underneath the universal symbols for men’s and women’s restrooms.

I didn’t expect anything, but I had to check it out. I found both restrooms, a locked storage closet, and an emergency exit. I couldn’t open it without tripping an alarm, which meant that probably Mrs. May hadn’t used it either. 

Another locked door was signed “Mall Employee ACCESS ONLY.” I watched a custodian in a brown uniform punch a keypad for entrance, but didn’t try to follow him in. A few minutes later the door opened again and a woman came out, wearing a blue blazer and tan slacks. “Can I help you?”

She was Black, in her 30s, and husky, with a name tag that read J. BEVERS, THREE RIVERS SECURITY.  She’d probably spotted me loitering here on the surveillance cameras. I gave her my card and explained what I was doing at the mall.

“Oh yeah,” she groaned. “That sucked. We spent hours looking at the recordings. I mean, yeah, it sucked for the lady, and her daughter too. Everyone was upset. We really wanted to find her, but there was nothing.”

“What about the dumpster? Could anyone just get back there?”

Bevers shrugged. “Store owners have access. Their employees. The dumpsters are supposed to stay locked, but people always forget. That particular dumpster, the one they found her stuff in? It belonged to one store but it’s closed now. Business is tough.”

“What store?”

“Silk’s Jewelry. Rings, necklaces, gold and silver and diamonds. Some crystals for the new-age folks. It’s right next door.” She pointed. “Went out of business a month, six weeks ago. The cops talked to them—they took over my office while they worked, but I couldn’t be there. I guess they didn’t find anything.”

I thanked her and headed back out to the shopping area.

The sign still hung over the glass doors—Silk’s Jewelry. Metal bars behind the glass didn’t let me see much, just an empty counter with bare shelves behind. 

Out in my car I called my client. “Yeah, I remember something about the jewelry store,” Ginny May said. “They questioned the owners, but they didn’t say anything. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just wasting my time. And yours.”

“Did she take any herbal supplements? Someone at that store remembers her.”

“Yeah, she’d order stuff online, and she could spend an hour at the vitamin shelf in Walgreens.” She laughed. “What would that have to do with what happened?”

“I don’t know. The wrong mixture might have made her disoriented, and more vulnerable. But that doesn’t tell us much about who did this.”

“Yeah.” Ginny sounded sad. “Maybe that’s it. Thanks for your time—”

“Wait—let me keep on this for another day. I don’t feel like I’m done yet.”

            She hesitated, as if afraid I was milking her for a little extra money. “Okay. Let me know if you find anything, otherwise I’ll try to let it go.”

            “Great. Thanks.”