Morris Rosen’s house had a wide grassy lawn with a big tree, a narrow veranda, and a thick front door. I pressed the doorbell, waited 30 seconds, rang again, then used the key my client had sent me.
“Hello? Mr. Rosen?” I pushed my head in. “I’m Tom Jurgen. Your son sent me?”
No response. Adam Rosen hadn’t heard from his father in six days. He was in Toronto, recovering from COVID-19, so he’d called me to go to Morris Rosen’s house in Arlington Heights to make sure his father was okay. I’d suggested just having the local police do a wellness check, but that seemed to make him nervous. Was the senior Rosen wasn’t making meth in his basement? I hoped not.
“Mr. Rosen?” I closed the door. The front hall was empty. So was the living room, the dining room, and the pantry. Likewise the three bedrooms upstairs.
That left the basement.
The basement door was next to the kitchen. I turned the knob, flipped a light switch, and headed down.
A stocked bar with high stools ran along one wall, with a big TV mounted opposite it. Chairs and a sofa sat in between. One door led to a laundry room—the dryer door was open, with boxers and socks lying inside.
Facing the bottom of the staircase was another door. I pulled it open.
I expected a closet with paints and tools, maybe a fuse box. Instead I was looking—outside. A sidewalk with grass on either side, and tall trees jutting upward into a cloudy gray sky.
I stepped back, disoriented. The trees reached way higher than the roof of the house I was in. The sidewalk curled to the left and disappeared behind a cluster of leafy green bushes.
It wasn’t like someone had just built an indoor underground park. I could see a cloudy sky above the branches. It was more like a peek into another dimension.
Then I saw the old man.
He was sitting on a wooden bench, in a checked jacket and a red cap.
I pulled out my phone. Adam Rosen had sent me photos of his father Morris. I peered at them.
The man on the bench was Morris Rosen.
“Hello?” I waved a hand. “Mr. Rosen? Hello!”
He didn’t seem to hear. No sign of recognition or response. As I watched he lifted a hand to scratch his cheek. So he was awake. Alive.
I called again. Then, cautiously, I stepped forward.
A rush of wind blew at me, pushing like a wave. I staggered back as a black cloud suddenly enveloped my body like a swirling smoke bomb. I waved my hands, coughing, as my face and neck were assaulted by small pricking stabs, like hornets stinging at my skin.
I lurched backward, gasping, and the black cloud was gone. I stood still for a moment as the pounding in my chest settled down, and stared at the doorway.
The old man just sat there, as if he hadn’t seen anything. Couldn’t see anything.
I called one more time. Not too loud—I didn’t want to draw another attack, whatever that cloud was. Then I took a few pictures on my phone and headed quickly back upstairs to call my client.
“I was, uh, afraid of something like this,” Adam Rosen told me when I called him from my car. I restrained myself from yelling Then why the hell didn’t you warn me?
He coughed. “Maybe you should, uh, head back to your office. I can explain. It’s going to sound—strange.”
Strange is my business, apparently. I started the car. “Talk to you soon.”
I used to be a reporter, until my editor fired me for insisting on reporting the strange things I saw—monsters, ghosts, vampires. Now I’m a private detective, and between cheating spouses and employment background checks, I still keep running into ghouls and other things that go bump in the night.
It’s a living.
Back at my apartment I made fresh coffee while Rachel set up a video call. Rachel’s my girlfriend. She has short red hair and hazelnut eyes, and aside from technology issues she helps me with my more supernatural cases, which comes in handy because she’s a little psychic. She’s also hot. Not that I’m biased or anything.
I showed her the picture of Morris Rosen while we were waiting for Adam. She wrinkled her nose. “You know I can’t pick up anything from pictures.”
“I thought you might admire the composition.”
She punched my arm. Then Adam came onscreen. In his 30s, he had short blond hair and a thin beard. “Hi. Thanks. Uh, I guess I should explain.”
I introduced Rachel. He checked her out, then cleared his throat. “My mom and dad got divorced when I was a kid. I didn’t see too much of her, and dad didn’t talk about her. He got remarried, but Sheila died about 10 years ago. Anyway, uh . . .” Long pause. “Mom—Annabelle—showed up at the house one day when I was staying with dad. This was about six months ago? She came to the front door. I almost didn’t recognize her. Anyway, they started arguing right away. Eventually she left.”
He paused for breath and a swig of water. “She didn’t even talk to me then. Sometimes she called the house and left messages for dad. If she got me she’d just hang up. Anyway, I, uh, deleted the messages when I got them. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that?” He sighed.
“I had to come up here for work.” Adam was an IT consultant. “Then I got COVID. I’m stuck here for another week. I was talking to Dad every other day, but then he stopped calling me or answering. So I looked for someone to check on him, and I called you because, uh, you seem to have experience in . . .” He hesitated. “The thing is, my mother is, uh, a witch.”
I looked at Rachel. She shrugged. I nodded. “That explains—some of this. Maybe.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “I said Dad didn’t talk about her, and I hardly ever saw her, but she left some stuff. Books and things, in the basement. I found them when I was 11. They were in the wall. Some of them were in Latin or some other language, but a few were in English. I never did anything with them—” He stopped. “Well, okay, I tried a few things. Most of them didn’t work, but I, uh, okay—I started a fire in the basement one time. I got it out, and I don’t know if my dad ever figured out what happened. But the books and stuff were gone later. I don’t know what he did with them.”
I sipped coffee. “So you think your mother is responsible for trapping your father in the basement?”
He nodded. “Maybe she wants money? I don’t know. I tried to call her after you went there, but she doesn’t answer. I guess we’ve got to find her.”
“Any idea where she is?”
Adam shook his head. “Like I said—I mean, I’ve got her number, but I haven’t seen her in years.”
“She must be close by.” I glanced at Rachel.
She sighed. “I can ask around.” Aside from being psychic, Rachel has lots of friends in Chicago’s supernatural community. “What’s her name? Annabelle? Does she use Rosen?”
“No, it’s, uh, Silvestri. Annabelle Silvestri.”
“Any other information?” I asked.
“I can, uh, send you some stuff. Her number, her emails if she still uses either of them. The last address I have for her.”
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” We ended the call.
“Now what?” Rachel looked at me.
“Usual missing persons stuff. I ought to go back out to the house to check phone messages and do another search, now that I know what I’m looking for.” It would have been useful to know all this for the first visit, but then Adam didn’t know his father was stuck in another dimension. Or whatever it was. “Call Carrie and her friends and see if anyone has heard of her.”
“Okay.” Rachel stood up. “Be careful. And don’t forget it’s your turn to cook dinner.”
“I’ve got a plan.” I had no plan. I hoped something would occur to me on the drive home. If I didn’t get eaten in Rosen’s basement.
Back at the house, I went downstairs again. I could see Rosen on his bench, as if he hadn’t moved in hours.
I wondered how long he could last. How many days had he been in there? Maybe he was suspended, or maybe time worked differently beyond the doorway.
I stood ten feet back and hurled a pen at the doorway. It hung in the air, quivering like an arrow in a target, and then the black cloud erupted again. I jumped, but it only billowed out two inches or so, and in a few seconds it was gone.
The pen dropped to the floor. I left it there.
Upstairs I listened to the messages on Rosen’s answering machine. They went backward: One two days ago from his dentist confirming an appointment, one from someone asking why he hadn’t shown up for his shift at the local animal shelter, a message from his cleaning service, four or five in between from his son, jumping between worried and irritated, and then—
“Morris?” A female voice, seven days ago. “I’ll be over tomorrow for the thing. Have it ready for me.” Click.
Tomorrow. That would have been last Thursday. Adam hadn’t heard from his father since then.
I did a thorough search. Kitchen cabinets, bedroom drawers, bathroom cabinet, toilet tank—the works. I was looking mostly for the books Adam mentioned, and any other mystical objects from Annabelle that Morris might have hidden away. I found nothing like that, just the usual clothes, books, videos, and personal papers.
A computer sat in one second-floor bedroom. I sat down and turned it on, expecting to hit a demand for a password, but the screen opened right up. The desktop image showed the Grand Canyon. A few folders held shopping lists, contact information, miscellaneous articles about COVID, politics, and medicine, and of course porn. I don’t judge.
I couldn’t get into his email, so I checked his internet browsing history. He wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter. His bookmarks were mostly about medicine or history. He’d searched recently for “submarines,” “diabetes,” “Social Security office near me,” “animal shelters near me,” some porn again, nothing kinky,“bank deposit boxes,” “Clint Eastwood movies,” and more.
The computer wasn’t a laptop, so I couldn’t take it home with me to work on there—or let Rachel play with. She’s good with computers. After half an hour I stood and stretched. Time to go home.
I went down into the basement for one more look. Maybe something would occur to me.
In the basement Rosen was now standing in the doorway, one fist in midair, as if trying to hammer his way free. I walked toward him. “Mr. Rosen? Morris?”
He blinked in my direction, but his eyes didn’t quite focus on me. He waved a hand and moved his mouth. I couldn’t hear him, so I waved my arms.
Rosen stepped back, breathing hard. He lifted both hands and gestured something, then stopped and shook his head, annoyed.
With one finger, he tried spelling in the air. I stared, concentrating. The first letter looked like an “A.” The second was maybe an “N.” He did it again—did he mean to repeat it? Then another “A.”
Annabelle? “Annabelle!” I shouted.
He kept spelling, but his hands started to shake. He stomped a foot on the ground, then doubled over, gasping, his face red.
I hesitated. I knew what would happen, but I couldn’t just leave him there if he was having a heart attack. I stepped forward, my hands up. One careful step—
The smoke burst out and swallowed me again, burning my eyes and my throat. I forced myself forward, waving my arms as the spectral hornets jabbed at my face and neck. One step, two—my hand stopped against something cold. I pushed. I didn’t want to try punching it and get my hand stuck like Rosen. I pushed hard, and my fingers poked into a chilly, slushy barrier. I coughed, trying to ignore the stinging on my skin, and jammed two fingers as deep as I could.
The smoke roared around me. I couldn’t breathe. I slid my fingers out and stumbled back, falling flat on my ass on the concrete floor. When I blinked, the smoke was gone.
Morris Rosen was sitting again on his bench, staring into nowhere.
I waved and shouted, but he didn’t see or hear me.
I rubbed my face and neck, catching my breath. Whatever was stinging me inside the cloud didn’t leave any marks. After a moment I bent down to pick up my pen. Then, with one last look at Rosen, I went back upstairs.
In the kitchen I drank a glass of water to calm my nerves. Then I called Rachel. “It’s definitely the ex-wife. You got anything on her?”
“It’s been, what? Two hours?” She snorted. “I emailed Carrie, and Mandy Sikorsky, and Alan, and a few others. Nothing yet. You all right? Your voice sounds funny.”
“I’m fine.” More water. “I’ll be home in a while.”
“Don’t forget dinner!” She laughed and hung up.
I spent another half hour searching Rosen’s computer and office some more. The bookmarks didn’t get me anywhere; the files on his computer were boring (except for the porn, which I didn’t look at). The office had cardboard boxes and file cabinets filled with years of paid bills, financial reports, old tax returns, warranties for appliances, and the like.
Back home I used my own computer to search for Annabelle Silvestri. The basic information Adam gave me checked out—address, email, phone number. She didn’t answer her phone when I called. I sent an email. Her address was in Elmhurst, a western suburb. I could go check it out tomorrow.
I also found her under the name Anna Silver. A website had a picture matching the ones Adam had sent me. She offered psychic readings, spiritual consultations, “soul cleansing,” and scented candles. Testimonials from clients were enthusiastic, especially for the candles.
Anna Silver showed up on other websites, mostly related to psychic services. She had Facebook and Instagram pages for her business. “Hey, Rachel, looks like you’re missing a deal.” I sent her some links. “You, too, could be an online psychic.”
“I actually did that in college.” She finished her coffee. “I was still figuring stuff out. And I didn’t know how to hide bad news. Girls didn’t like it for some reason when I knew they were cheating on their boyfriends. So what’s for dinner?”
“Coming up.” I sent a quick email to Adam, then headed to the kitchen.
Rachel’s a vegetarian, so I made rice and chickpeas with curry, along with roasted asparagus and a salad. She found it edible. She cleaned up as I finished some end-of-the-day emails, and after dinner we watched some Netflix until it got boring. Then we started kissing and turned the TV off.
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