The Ancient God

A seemingly routine stalker case becomes mysterious and deadly when Tom discovers an old house hiding an ancient, monstrous secret. 

The Ancient God, Part One

In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.

―H.P. Lovecraft

The Call of Cthulhu

 

 

“I’m being stalked,” Amber Keenan told me. 

Amber Keenan was in her 30s, blond, a marketing executive. We were in a coffee shop with her girlfriend, Kris Santos, also blond. An artist. 

I opened my notebook. “Okay. Tell me everything you’ve got.”

            The two women looked at each other. “He’s got blond hair,” Amber said. “Darker than Kris. Short. Older than us.”

            “Sometimes he wears a baseball cap,” Kris said. “I can’t see what team. Sometimes he’s in a jacket, sometimes just a sweatshirt. Depending on the weather, I guess.”

            “When did you start seeing him?”

            Amber groaned. “Right around the time I inherited the house.”

            I looked up. “What house?”

            She ran her fingers through her hair. “I somehow inherited this house from an uncle I’ve barely heard of. I mean, both my parents are dead so I couldn’t ask them, but this lawyer showed me the will—the part of it I was in—and I found the name in some documents my mom had, so it’s legit. Now I’ve got this house near Benton Harbor in Michigan and I have no idea what to do with it, and—”

            Amber paused for breath. Kris put a hand on her arm, smiling. 

            I wrote it all down, giving her a chance to recover. Yeah, I still write things in a notebook, not on my phone. I’m not even that old. I love technology, but a notebook and a pen are old habits from when I was a reporter.

            “I noticed someone watching us the day we went to look at the house.” Amber took a sip of her iced coffee. “I didn’t think about it much, there are a few other houses along the street. Then I noticed a guy who looked like he was following me when I was at the grocery store. I didn’t really start worrying until I saw him a few days later on my way home from work. I work downtown, and I noticed him when I got off the bus.”

            She glanced at Kris. “That time I recognized him, and I called Kris, and we went to a bar where the owner knows us so we could get out the back way. So he wouldn’t follow us home, you know? And I’ve seen him at least three times since then, over the last two weeks.”

            “What’s the time frame? When did you see him first?”

            “Four weeks ago.” That came from Kris. “That’s when we were at the house. I didn’t see him then. But I’ve seen him a few times since.”

            “And yes, I called the police.” Amber said, anticipating the obvious question. “They couldn’t do anything without a name or a photo, or anything to identify him.”

            “That figures.” I sat back and crossed my arms, looking at my notes and trying to think of what to tell them. “Did he follow you today? Here?”

            They shook their heads. “I don’t think so,” Amber said.

            “I didn’t see him,” Kris added.

            “Okay.” I sat forward. “I can do a couple of things. One, I’ll follow you home from here. Or wherever you’re going after this. Do you live far away?”

            “A couple of blocks,” Amber said. “Yeah, we’re going home. We’ve got laundry to do.” It was Saturday morning.

            “I’ll follow and watch for him,” I said. “Then we’ll set up a time every day for a week where you can go out and I’ll look for him. If I spot him, I’ll try to follow him home, or wherever he goes. Then we can go from there.”

            “All right,” Amber said, but Kris seemed uncertain.

            “What if you don’t spot him?” she asked. “Or you lose him?”

            A reasonable question. “I’ll be honest. I’m pretty good at tailing people, but I can’t guarantee anything. In the meantime, I can advise you on personal security. It’s not my speciality—I’m not a bodyguard, but I know a bit about it, and I know some good people I can recommend.”

            “And what if you do spot him?” Kris asked. “What then?”

            Another fair question. “That depends. If I can identify him by where he goes, we can go to the police. On the other hand, we could simply confront him directly. Ask him what he’s up to. That might scare him off. That’s not my favorite option—”

“Yeah, it could just make him mad.” Kris frowned. I was glad she hadn’t pointed out that I don’t have the most intimidating presence. She looked at Amber. “What do you think? I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

Amber sighed. “Yeah. Don’t get in his face. Just see if you can figure out who he is.” She shuddered. “I hardly go outside anymore anyway. God, this is driving me crazy.”

Kris put an arm around her. I went up to get more coffee and give them a few minutes together, and then I sat down to go through the details. We set up a schedule, talked about pepper spray, Tasers, and other self-defense options, and then Amber sent a retainer to my Venmo. I used the bathroom and left.

Outside I crossed the street and waited at a bus stop, watching the coffee shop door and scanning the area for signs of the stalker. I called Rachel, my girlfriend, to let her know what I was up to. She told me to be careful, and also to pick up some bread from the grocery store on my way home.

I’ve handled stalking cases before. They can be tricky. Restraining orders are fine when you can get them, but they don’t always stop someone who’s seriously obsessed—or just crazy. I hoped this guy turned out to be relatively normal. Capable of being scared, willing to listen to a cop or a lawyer. 

Or at least nothing supernatural. I hoped.

 

I got home two hours later, after following Amber and Kris without spotting their stalker. I put away the groceries, checked my email, and turned on the TV. It was Saturday, after all.

            Rachel got home for her class 15 minutes later. She’s working on a degree in psychology, and Saturday classes are part of the schedule. “I’ll be so glad when this is over,” she groaned, letting her backpack slide to the floor.

Rachel’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and psychic powers. She helps me out on cases when I need some insight into the supernatural, at least when she’s not studying psych or working at her gig as a graphic designer.

“How was class?” I asked.

“Actually pretty interesting. Sexual addiction.”

I sat up. “Tell me more.” 

“Later, maybe. What’s the case?”

I shrugged. “Stalker.”

“Huh. I had a stalker once.”

I looked up from the TV. “Really? What happened?” 

            She smiled. “I scared him away.”

            I grinned. “You can be pretty scary.”

            She went to the bedroom. When she came back she was in a T-shirt and shorts, and she brought beers for us. We clinked glasses, and I handed the remote over.

            “Who was your stalker?” I asked as she sped through the channels looking for a reality show she hadn’t seen yet.

            “Oh, it was—a long time ago. Right after college. I had three roommates in this tiny apartment.” She paused on a channel. “Oh, good, Real Housewives of Reykajik! I haven’t seen this in ages. Anyway . . .” She sipped on her beer. 

“I started getting notes left on the front door. Post-Its, then letters. First it was just, ‘Have a sexy day,’ and then the letters started getting creepy. I figured it had to be someone in the building, but the landlord was no use. So I set a trap.”

            “What kind of trap?” 

            “Shut up, I want to watch this . . . Okay, I got this stuff that was invisible, but it would glow if you put it under a black light, and I left some outside the door. It took a few days, but eventually I could track the guy back to his apartment from his footprints.”

            “Very Doc Savage of you. Color me impressed.”

            She nodded. “I thought it was pretty clever. And it worked.”

            “What happened?”

            “I knocked on his door and told him to piss off.”

            “And that was it? I mean, not that you’re not scary in your own way, but—”

            “I had a dog with me. It belonged to my roommate’s boyfriend, but he didn’t know that. He growled. The guy denied everything, but I could tell it was him.” She tapped her forehead. “He tried to argue, the dog picked up on my feelings and lunged at him, and, well, I may or may not have hit him with a blast of pepper spray.” She sipped her beer. “Case closed.”

            I patted her leg. “I’ll bring you along if this case gets complicated.”

            “Great. Now shut up and let me watch the show.”

 

The next day I followed Amber and Kris on a quick walk to the park with a stop at the grocery store, but didn’t see the guy. On Monday, though, I followed Amber home from work and caught him as she got on her bus on LaSalle. He was already aboard, holding a strap in the aisle. I managed to keep my eye on him without being obvious.

            Like Amber said, he had blond hair in a baseball cap, and he wore jeans and a leather jacket. Not too tall, kind of skinny, with thick hands and sharp eyes. I couldn’t manage a photo, but I kept my eyes on him, trying not to let him notice me as the bus rolled in its stop-and-start pattern up the street. 

I texted her so she’d know I was there. We all got off the bus near her apartment building, and he waited outside when she stopped at the grocery store. Once she got home, he stood on the nearest corner for 15 minutes, then walked north for three blocks to an el stop. I lost him a few minutes later, but it was a start.

            He didn’t follow her home the next day, but he was back on Wednesday. I stayed with him longer, tailing him off the train and down the street past electronics stores, Mexican restaurants, and shoe stores until he went into a bar. I went in and had a beer, watching him until he went to the restroom, but he didn’t come back. I found a back door to the alley, but it was too late. He was gone.

            On Thursday I called her to check in. I’d been sending Amber daily emails, but I had some other information to share.

            “No, I get that tailing people is hard,” Amber said after I apologized for losing the stalker again. “It feels better knowing there’s someone there, you know? I know I can’t hire someone full-time, but I sorta wish I could.”

            “Do you want me to keep at it?” I asked.

            “Yeah,” she said. “At least until next week. Then maybe if you don’t know where he lives, we can just try to talk to him on the street.”

            I wondered what had happened to Rachel’s roommate’s dog. But at least I had plenty of pepper spray, and my Taser. “There’s something else you might want to know,” I said. “I was looking into the history of the house you inherited.”

            “Oh. Yeah, Kris keeps telling me we’ve got to do something about that. I’ve just been all over the place with this guy—” She paused to breathe. “Okay. What do you know?”

            “Your uncle, Jacob Holroyd, was your mother’s half-brother, correct?”

            “Y-yeah. I think that’s it. She didn’t talk about him much. Grandpa’s first wife—I think she left him. Grandpa was an alcoholic. Mom didn’t—well, she tried to maintain some kind of relationship with him, but he wasn’t easy, and so they didn’t keep up together.”

            “Right.” I’d gotten some of this from property records, and some from the lawyer handling the estate, such as it was. Jake Holroyd’s mother had married a man named Quinn Powell, who adopted Holroyd. They apparently never had any other children. 

I told this to Amber, and then I got to the hard part: “There’s another thing. Jake’s parents, uh, committed suicide. In that house.”

            “Oh my God.” Amber gulped. “In the house?”

            “Yeah. Jake found them. They hung themselves in the attic—”

            “I don’t think I want to know. Jesus Christ! Just a second.” I heard her take a gulp of water. Or whatever she had handy at her desk.

            “This was 20 years ago or so. Jake continued to live there until he died this year. The lawyer, James Crowley, obviously wasn’t able to track down any other relatives—”

            “Yeah, he said he only met my uncle twice, about five years ago and then last year. Christ. I mean, I got some money, too, but—”

            “Did he leave the house to you specifically? In his will?”

            “No. It was just to be divided among any living relatives. He had to do some kind of search to find me.”

            I wondered how thorough he’d been for a client he barely knew. I’d have to do some searching of my own.

            “All right,” I said. “I’ll follow you tonight—”

            “I’m going out for drinks. With work people. Not for long, but an hour or so.” A bar downtown. I noted the name and promised to stay with her.      

            Rachel was working on her side of the office. “Stalker case?”

            “Yeah. I’m tailing her again tonight.”

            “Is she cute?” Rachel sometimes gets territorial when I’m around another woman.

            I shrugged. “Reasonably. She has a girlfriend, though, so I’m probably not her type.”

            “You never know. Just be careful.”

            I figured she wasn’t just talking about Amber. “Don’t worry.  I don’t have a dog, but I’m a Jedi with my pepper spray.”

            “Use it wisely, young padawan.” We both went back to work.

 

So at six p.m. I was outside a downtown bar called O’Riley’s, with an office building on one side and an alley on the other. Amber was inside, with three women and one man from her office, sitting around a table drinking beer and wine. A light rain was beginning to fall. Fortunately I had a jacket and a hat. I just hoped it wouldn’t turn into a downpour.

            I hadn’t spotted the stalker as they were walking over. I stood in front of the office building next door with a good view of the bar’s entrance, pretending to talk on my phone as I watched. Every few minutes I put my phone away, paced, then pretended to get another call so I’d be doing something normal. 

            I was getting tired and wet, so I was thinking about going in to see if somehow he’d snuck into the bar when I saw him. Across the street, hands in his pockets, just watching. I looked away quickly, and tried keeping an eye on him in the reflection of the office building’s windows, but that didn’t work as well as it does in detective novels. I had to keep turning back, aware that he could slip away in an instant if I took my eyes off him.

            He didn’t seem to notice me. I managed a few pictures with my phone, then texted Amber that he was outside.

            She texted back a minute later: I’m getting a cab home.

            The stalker stayed where he was as Amber pushed her way through the revolving doors of the bar with two co-workers. She glanced around, as they hugged, chatting good-bye, and then she turned to the curb and lifted a hand, looking for a cab.

            The rain was heavier now, and the street was busy. Amber’s friends headed for the subway stairs, and she stayed, her eyes darting nervously around as she looked for an open cab.

            The stalker, on the far side of the street, suddenly moved forward. He dodged a car, waited for another one that slowed and honked, and then stood in the middle of the street, looking both ways for a safe moment to finish crossing.

            A cab flashed its lights, and Amber took a step to the curb. Then a woman I hadn’t noticed before darted out from the shadow of the alley next to the bar and skidded behind her, shoving Amber in the back. 

Amber stumbled. The cab hit its brakes, and the driver twisted his wheel to veer away from her as he forced it to a stop on the wet pavement.

            The woman, in a long green coat, boots, and a skirt, stood on the sidewalk, watching Amber as if deciding whether to try pushing her further into the traffic. 

Then the stalker was making his way across the rain-streaked street, and she turned and ran away without looking back, ducking in front of two guys in business suits to duck into the subway.

            Amber caught her balance and looked around, confused. She pulled the cab’s door open and slid in. and the cab drove away into the rain.

            The stalker stood motionless, peering up and down the street. For a moment our eyes met. Then he turned and walked back across the street, his arms swinging back and forth as if he was in a hurry.

            I crossed, but I lost him in half a block. By now I was soaked by the rain, frustrated with my shadowing skills, and puzzled by the woman in the green coat. But there was no point in getting more wet. I got a cab of my own and headed home.

            Amber called me as I was taking off my damp socks in the bedroom. “What happened? Did that—it felt like someone tried to shove me in front of my cab!”

            “Yeah.” I’d been rerunning the scene through my mind on the ride home. “I’m not 100% sure, but—yeah, that’s what it looked like.”

            “What about the guy? What happened to him?”

            “I lost him again. It looked like he was trying to get to you when that woman came up.”

            “Damn it.” I could hear Kris behind her, trying to keep her calm. “What the hell is going on?”

            “I think I have to confront him.” I didn’t like the idea, but I tried to keep my nerves under control. “Before this—escalates any further.”

            “Yeah. I guess. I don’t know.” She sniffed. “Sorry. I’m going to work from home tomorrow. I’m scared to go out now. Even the cab driver thought that woman was trying to push me.”

            “That’s good. Stay home and safe. I’ll swing by your building tomorrow morning to see if I can spot him. If that doesn’t work . . .” My voice trailed off as I thought about the next step.

            “What?”

            I had one idea. “How would you feel about going out to the house this Saturday?”

The Ancient God, Part Two

So on Saturday I was just south of Benton Harbor, Michigan, parked down the street from Amber’s house. It had two stories and an attic, with a tall, thick tree shading a wide front lawn that was carpeted with dandelions. Around the back I could see a big tree and a small wooden structure, like an outhouse, also surrounded by weeds and dandelions 

The house’s windows were shuttered; the siding had faded over the years of bright summers and cold winters. The grass hadn’t been mowed lately. The house loomed over the rest of the street, which had a few smaller houses scattered up and down the block.

The day was sunny and warm. The neighborhood was quiet, with just a few houses in either direction. A woman down the street weeded her garden. A young boy rode a bicycle in circles up and down the cracked pavement until a friend joined him and they pedaled off.

Rachel wasn’t with me. “Drive to Michigan with you? Let’s see, I’ve got a paper to write and another lab experiment to design. I can do that in the car while you drive and listen to classic rock, sure. Or, here’s a thought—no.”

Her psychic abilities might have come in handy with the stalker, but her classwork was her priority. I had to hide my irritation, because it was a fight I couldn’t win. I settled for texting her that I’d arrived safely, then waited for Amber and Kris. 

I looked around from inside the car. No sign of the stalker. Was he a neighbor? I had a few fuzzy pictures of him from my phone. Maybe someone would recognize him if I started knocking on doors. Or maybe someone would shoot me. You never know.

They showed up at 11:30. Or maybe 12:30, with the time change. I watched them get out, go up to the door, unlock it and go inside while I waited to see if the stalker would show his face. 

A minute later Amber called. “Hi. We’re here. Everything looks pretty much the same. What do we do now?”

“Let’s wait a bit to see if—whoops, there he is now.”

The stalker was across the street, standing under a tree. Had he been there the whole time? The lot was empty, just tall grass and weeds and a mound of dirt. 

I took a gulp of coffee, steeled my nerves, and got out of the car.

He watched me cross the street. He was wearing the leather jacket and his cap, leaning against the tree, smiling as I approached. 

“Excuse me,” I said. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

He looked over my shoulder at the house, then nodded. “Sure.”

“My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. I’m working for the woman in the house over there, Amber Keenan. You’ve been following her.”

He straightened up and looked me over. “I’m Driver. I don’t mean her any harm.”

“You’re scaring her. What are you up to?”

“We—I want to make sure she’s safe. The house is important.”

“Important how? To who?”

He shook his head. “To some of us.”

I looked around. “The neighbors?”

Driver laughed. “No. They’re—not important.”

This wasn’t getting me anywhere. “What’s your full name?”

He looked down. “No. This is none of your business.”

I took a different direction. “What about that woman the other day? Who was she? Was she trying to kill Amber?”

Driver’s eyes flickered. “We’re—I’ll take care of that.”

“Doing what? Is Amber in danger?”

He shook his head again. “Not from us. Not as long as she takes care of the house.”

“What’s important about that house?” I asked again.

            “It’s beyond your knowledge. You wouldn’t understand. Or believe.”

            The list of things I’ve run into that most people wouldn’t believe is pretty long—vampires, gargoyles, killer fungus. “I’m pretty open minded. Try me.”

            He looked at my eyes for a moment, then away. “Sorry.”

            I had more questions, or at least variations of the questions I’d already asked, but I got the feeling he was finished talking. “All right.” 

I turned, pulling up my phone, and accessed the camera.

            Then I turned back and got a picture of him. Nice and close. 

I managed another picture before he took a step forward, frowning. I switched hands and reached for the pepper spray in my jacket, but before I could get it out he changed his mind and turned away from me. He started walking, not looking back, not toward any particular house or yard. Just away. Not running, but quick.

I didn’t think following him would work right now. So I let him go, checked the photos, and crossed the street to the house.

“We were watching,” Amber said as she opened the door. “What happened? What’d he say?” Kris was right next to her, staring at me hard.

“His name’s Driver, he said.” I showed them the picture. “First name, last name, code name, I don’t know. He says he only wanted you to be safe, but he—or they—want to make sure you take care of the house. It’s important for some reason.”

“This place?” Amber spread her arms. We were in a big, empty room with a fireplace in one corner and curtains pulled across a wide picture window. “I’m figuring out how to sell it. How is it important?”

“You said ‘they,’” Kris said. “Who’s they?”

“No idea. He seemed to slip up by saying ‘us.’ He said what’s important about the house is beyond our knowledge.”

Kris rolled her eyes. “What does that mean?”

I didn’t answer. 

The floor was wood, rough and unpolished, as if the living room’s carpeting had been pulled up recently. The air was dusty, smelling like animal droppings and lingering disinfectant. A dark hall led to the other side of the house, and I could see a kitchen at the far end. “Mind if I look around?”

We glanced into a dining room and a study, both empty except for a few boxes and crumpled wads of newspaper. A door to the basement stood in front of the kitchen, but we went past it for the moment. 

In the kitchen I tried the faucets, but only a few drops dribbled into the dirty, stained sink. The cabinets were mostly bare, but cans of spaghetti sauce and beans and vegetables sat in the cupboards.

A back door was locked and bolted from the inside. A screened window looked into the back yard, where grass and weeds had taken over, surrounding the big tree and the outhouse I’d seen from the car.

A wastebasket in the corner held a few fast food bags. “Are these from you?”

“Uh-uh.” Amber shook her head. “I don’t think they were here before. Kris?”

“No.” She looked into the basket. “That was empty.”

The second floor had four bedrooms and two linen closets. In one bedroom, facing the back yard, we found a dirty T-shirt and a long white sock.

“Oh shit,” Amber said. “Someone’s been living here?”

The rest of the bedrooms showed no sign of human habitation. We checked all the doors and windows. Every one was locked securely. 

            A narrow staircase led up to an attic. Amber had to unlock it with one of the keys the lawyer had turned over to her, and we went through. Under the sloping ceiling we found dust, cobwebs, and mouse droppings. A single shuttered window kept out the sun, so we used our phones as best we could, but only a few empty boxes lay scattered across the creaking floor.

            On the ground again we looked at the windows and doors. All of them were secure, with no signs of tampering that I could find. 

That left the basement. I led the two women down a set of dark stairs, again using my phone for light. We spread out across the concrete floor, shining our phones at the gray cinder block walls, looking into shadowy corners and cautiously examining ominous shapes that turned out to be the washer and dryer, an empty freezer, and the furnace. Two small windows near the ceiling on one side were too high for any of us to reach, but they were too tight for any intruder to have gotten through.

A tall, heavy wooden door stood in the wall opposite the two windows. Amber fumbled with her keys. “Nope, no, nope—none of them.” She tried each one again, then slid them back into her jeans. “Anyone got an ax?”

We headed back upstairs. Kris looked annoyed with me. Amber just seemed freaked out. I couldn’t blame either one of them. 

“What now?” Kris demanded, arms crossed.

“I can use the picture and the name he gave me to try to identify him. I also want to look more into the house’s history. Maybe—I don’t know. Somebody buried treasure here?” 

Amber bit her lip. “I just can’t go on like this. I want to burn it to the ground.”

That was one option, though not something I could legally recommend. I knew people who could threaten Driver—not “people,” technically, and I didn’t like to think about what favors I’d owe them if I went there, so I didn’t mention that. 

Like I said, stalking cases are complicated. 

Kris put an arm around her. “We’ll figure this out. Somehow.” She looked at me. “Right?”

“I’ll do my best.”

We went outside and locked up. I stood on the porch, looking for Driver as they got into their car and drove away. No trace of him. I looked at his picture on my phone, then turned back to the front door of the house, making sure it was locked firmly. 

A chill ran up my arm as I touched the doorknob. I’m not psychic like Rachel, but something about the house made me wary. I’ve visited a few haunted houses and met some angry ghosts in them, and this place had the same kind of aura around it—and inside it. Something that made me want to leave and not come back.

Again I wished Rachel was here. But I usually wish Rachel was with me. I sent her a text that I was on my way home and went back to my car.

 

On Monday morning I followed Amber to work without spotting Driver, then went back to my desk to call the lawyer who’d given her the house. I’d spoken to him once before, after she’d authorized him to talk to me, and he’d been reasonably helpful without going beyond the bare minimum. This time I figured I’d try pushing him a bit.

            “Did you keep any keys from the house?” I paused. “Because it looks like someone’s been inside since my client took possession from you.”

            The lawyer, James Crowley, cleared his throat. “There are no keys to the house in my possession.”

            “Are there any other keys floating around in someone else’s possession?”

            “There could be. I was only in contact with Mr. Holroyd. There may have been someone—”

            “Do you know if there was anyone else with access to the house?”

            “No! There was only—” He stopped.

            Gotcha. I felt like I was the lawyer now. “Who? Was there someone else?”

            “Someone called asking about the house. If it was for sale. I told her no—”

            Her. “A woman? Did you get her name?”

            “It was—let me think—Mickey something. Or Nikki, maybe. I don’t remember the last name. I told her the house was passing on to Mr. Holroyd’s next of kin, and she asked who that was, but I—something was off about her, so I just said it was part of the estate.”

            “Off about her how?”

            “Like—she sounded very anxious. In a hurry. I started to ask her if she wanted me to contact the estate for her, but she just hung up.”

            “You haven’t heard from her since?”

            “No. Sometimes you get random people trying to find out if a house is good to rob, stuff like that, but we’d already cleared out the house, at Ms. Keenan’s request. Not that there was much there. I went in once after Holroyd died, and it was just furniture, a few pots and pans, a bed upstairs, empty basement—nothing.”

            After we hung up, I started digging into real estate records. 

The house had been in the same family for close to 150 years, starting with a guy named J.P. Holroyd in 1872. He’d died shortly after building the house, leaving it to his wife and two sons. 

            Since then, it had passed between generations, father to son, or sometimes father to nephew, staying in the same family without much dispute. One man emerged in 1901 claiming to be the illegitimate son of Silas Holroyd, but the family apparently bought him off, and he disappeared. Two sons battled for control of the property in the 1950s until the older died in a car accident. 

Other family members had died tragically too. One drowned in the river between Benton Harbor and its sister city St. Joseph, Michigan, in 1879; another had died in the Spanish Flu pandemic in 1918, and his son was shot by a robber in 1923; one of them shot himself in the head when the stock market crashed in 1929, and so forth.

            The family had done well for more than 100 years, establishing a series of department stores that thrived until the 1980s or so, then apparently living off real estate investments in the area until, one by one, everything got sold off until only the house was left. And then Jacob Holroyd’s parents had killed themselves.

            The parents, Brad and Annabelle, had been in their 50s. Brad had owned a bank in St. Joseph that failed 12 years before his death. Annabelle, as far as I could determine, simply devoted herself to raising Jake. 

            That brought us up to the present day. I wasn’t sure it helped, but it gave me some context to the story. 

            A reverse image search of Driver’s face didn’t get me anywhere. The few possible matches were obviously wrong, and there were too many other results for me to check each one. A social media search only found a lot of Adam Driver fans, and this guy was no Force-wielding Kylo Ren from the Star Wars sequels. I scanned the town records for anything that remotely matched “driver” as a name or nickname. Again, zero. Some detective I was.

            I emailed my client and confirmed that I’d follow her home from her office again. Rachel came back from a morning class, kissed me, then ignored me for the rest of the day to work on a web page redesign for a client of hers. I spent the day dealing with other cases—internet searches, calling people with questions, writing and sending emails, and all the stuff of a P.I.’s life they don’t show you on TV.

            I quit at 4:30, kissed Rachel, and headed downtown to Amber’s office building. Once again I waited with my phone in hand, pretending to talk, my eyes darting everywhere for Driver’s face. I thought I saw him once, but the face turned out to belong to a man using GPS to find an address.

            Amber emerged at 5:25, walked to the nearest bus stop, and rode the bus up LaSalle and a few other streets until we reached her stop, a two-block walk from home.

            She didn’t stop at the grocery store today. I stayed half a block behind her as she made her way down the sidewalk, glancing around and back nervously a few times, but otherwise she was just like any other pedestrian on their way home on a Monday afternoon.

            Then the woman came out. 

            She’d been standing in the doorway to Amber’s apartment building. She wore the same green coat and skirt and  boots, her hair pulled back, her eyes hidden behind round sunglasses. One of her hands was buried inside a big leather purse slung over her shoulder.

            Amber jumped back. The woman pulled something from her purse—I expected a knife or a handgun, but it was a file folder. She shoved it into Amber’s face. 

            “Look at this!” she shouted. “Just look!”

            I was running forward, but then Driver was behind her, arms reaching. He grabbed her wrist, and she twisted halfway around, yelling at him. 

            I had pepper spray in my hand as I reached Amber’s side. “You okay?” 

Before Amber could answer, the woman kicked Driver in the leg. With her boots, it hurt, and he grunted, letting go of her and staggering back. “Stop, Nicole,” he told her. “Just wait a—”

            She swung a fist and punched him in the chest. He sank to his knees, gasping, and the woman—Nicole?—darted past him.

She ran down the sidewalk. Her elbow hit a woman walking a dog, who yelled, but she kept going, and in a moment she was around the corner and out of sight.

Driver lurched to his feet, breathing hard. “I told you,” he gasped. “I told you, I’m just watching out for her—”

“Who are you?” Amber screamed. “What do you want? Why are you following me?”

“Keep the house,” he said, backing away. “Don’t let her scare you. Just keep the house.”

Then he turned and ran.

I looked at Amber. “Do you want me to go after him? I might be able—”

“No.” She shook her head. “Forget him. I just want to get inside.”

Good. I probably couldn’t have caught Driver, which would have been embarrassing, but I had to make the offer. 

People were staring at us, and the woman with the dog asked if we wanted her to call 911, but Amber only wanted to go home. The woman held the door for her.

I looked down the street, trying to see if Driver had a car, when I noticed something on the sidewalk at my feet. Just then, a man locking up his bike pointed down. “Hey, you dropped something.”

Nicole’s folder. I bent down. “Thanks.”

The Ancient God, Part Three

Up in their apartment, Kris poured Amber a glass of wine and offered me one. I asked for water. 

            The apartment was small and cozy, with lots of books, pillows, candles, and paintings. A pottery wheel sat in one corner. 

            We told Kris what had happened. She seemed annoyed that I hadn’t done something—grabbed Nicole, captured Driver, handcuffed them to a signpost and interrogated them on the spot, or something like that. I couldn’t exactly blame her. But I did have Nicole’s folder. That was something, right?

            We opened it on the kitchen table. “What is this?” Amber murmured, moving papers around. “Oh—wait.”

            “Is that . . .” Kris leaned over her shoulder. “Yeah.”

            Four sheets of paper. One was a birth certificate from the state of Michigan. Born in Benton Harbor in 1983, the child’s name was Nicole Jeanne Moss, the mother Kathleen Joyce Moss. The father’s name was blank.

            The next two pages were stapled together and dated just eight months ago, showing the results of a genetic test that indicated Nicole was a match with someone identified only by a number, with a 97% probability that the number was her father.

            The last page was a list of names, written by hand on a sheet of yellow paper, with dates next to each name: Erick Fischer, 6-11-96; Zach Wilkerson, 9-22-97; Julie Given, 3-2-12; and on and on, ending with Josh Havens, 11-12-22. Men, women, spread out over three decades.

Amber and Kris looked at each other. “Who the hell are these people?” Kris asked.

“No idea.” But the list was ominous. “Recognize any names?”

Amber leaned down. “I don’t think so.” Then she picked up the genetics test. “Do you think this crazy woman could be Jake Holroyd’s daughter?”

            “I wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions,” I said. ”But, yes. It’s a good working theory, at least.”

            “If she is Jake’s daughter,” Kris said, moving the pages around, “and she’s definitely older than Amber, and Amber’s just Jake’s niece, then that means the house belongs to her. Right?”

            “Oh my God.” Amber breathed a sigh of relief. “I could get rid of the thing. Yes!”

            “Probably,” I agreed. “There’d have to be more paternity evidence. She’d need a lawyer. But I think the house would rightfully go to her, if this holds up.”

            “So why does Driver care about it staying with Amber?” Kris frowned at the papers.

            I shrugged. “We don’t know who he is, yet. If I could get hold of Nicole, she might be able to tell us.”

            “Can you do that? With this?” Amber held up the folder.

            “This gives me a little more to work with.” I reached for the documents. “Can I take these?”

            

Rachel was making dinner when I got home. We take turns, and tonight she was working on a baked ziti recipe with eggplant and zucchini, because she’s a vegetarian who likes weird stuff in her ziti. I’ve learned not to argue about it unless I want cereal for dinner. I said hi, then went to the office with the folder from the mysterious Nicole.

            The easiest document to tackle was the list of names, so I started plugging them into the internet, looking for whatever they had in common. 

            In 20 minutes I’d tracked down results on half of them—enough to find a pattern. I quit before I got sucked down a black hole of research and went to check on dinner.

“Not yet,” Rachel told me, opening the oven. “You can set the table.”

I did that, opened a beer, and went back to my office to start working on the documents until she texted me from the kitchen that dinner was served.

            “How’s the stalker?” She spooned some ziti onto her plate.

            “Still out of reach, but we had a break today.” I told her about Nicole and the documents—the birth certificate, the genetics results, and the list of names.

            “So did you find out anything?”

            “Yeah. Hey, this is really good.”

            “Don’t act so surprised.” She kicked me under the table. “Tell me what you found.”

            I put down my fork. “Everyone I could find from that list lived in the Benton Harbor-St. Joseph area. And the ones I found were all missing persons.”

            She groaned. “Oh, hell.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Serial killer?”

            “Maybe.”

            We ate in silence for a minute. “It’s got to be connected to that house.”

            “You think they’re all buried in the basement?”

            “I don’t know. Maybe. The family history has a lot of tragedy. And the house had a definite vibe. I could feel it even without you there.”

            “So—something spooky? Not of this Earth?”

            “I hate to say it, but—yeah. If I have to go back, it would really help if you came with me.”

            Rachel sighed, then nodded. “Yeah. I can do that.”

            “Thanks,” I said. “We’ll see.”

 

The next morning I followed Amber to work again. We’d agreed to keep the surveillance up in order to establish a solid pattern of stalking if and when we went for a restraining order. 

            I didn’t have to hide as I tailed her, since Driver already knew I was watching for him, but I had my phone ready to get more pictures—and my pepper spray ready in case things went sideways. 

            Driver was nowhere in sight as we rode the bus. Maybe he was taking the day off. I trailed Amber to her office building, and she headed to the elevators at 8:11 a.m. I turned to go back home—

            And found Driver right behind me.

            I managed not to jump. He was in his leather jacket, glancing at the people on their way to work. Looking for Nicole? 

            He stepped toward me. “She should stay away from her. She’s dangerous.” His voice was low and fierce.

            “Nicole? Nicole Moss? The woman from yesterday?”

            “Of course. Wait—” He stared at me. “You know—”

            “Yeah, we have her name. Is she really Jake Holroyd’s daughter? Is something about that scary to you?”

            He shot at look at the door, as if he wanted to follow Amber up to her office and warn her in person. “We have to protect the house. That’s Amber’s responsibility now, that’s what Jake passed on to her. She has to understand it.”

            “She never signed up for that.” I motioned him toward the curb so nobody would overhear—or run into us while listening to their playlists. “What is so special about that house, anyway? Is somebody buried in the basement or something?”

            “Things have been going on for—for a long time.” He backed away. “Just tell her—she has to keep the house. She can’t let Nicole have it.”

            “Was Nicole hiding out in the house?” I thought of the discarded food, the T-shirt. “Has she been living there?”

            His eyes widened. “W-what? No, that would be—no.”

            “Someone’s been inside. Not you?”

            Driver looked up, as if trying to find Amber in her office above. Then he shook his head. “Keep her safe,” he told me. “Just—watch out for her.”

            He turned and darted into the street, narrowly missing a bus. When the bus pulled away, he was out of sight. 

            I sighed. Could Driver teleport, or was he just too fast for me? I needed to work out more. 

In a coffee shop I called my client. “Jesus Christ,” Amber groaned. “What did he mean, watch out for me?”

“I’m assuming he meant Nicole. She did try to shove you in front of that cab the other day.”

“But then last night she only wanted me to look at those papers. Am I going to have to hire security now? I mean, you’re doing fine, but—”

“I’m not a bodyguard, I know. We should consider that, but right now I want to find out as much as I can about Nicole. And as much as you probably don’t want to, we may have to go out and visit that house again.”

Amber sighed. “Okay. Will you be there when I go home?”

“Yes,” I promised.

“Okay. I’ve got to call Kris. Thank you.” She hung up. 

 

Back home I told Rachel about the encounter. “You okay?” she asked. “It sounds like he didn’t try to attack you or anything, but—”

“No, and I had my spray. But this is getting out of hand.” I sat at my desk and fired up my computer.

“You really think your client needs hired muscle? Beefy, rugged rent-a-cops? Can I help interview them?” She licked her lips.

“I don’t think we’re there yet, but I don’t want her to say I tried to talk her out of a bodyguard if something serious happens. And no, you may not interview candidates for the position. I’m insecure enough as it is.”

            “You’re no fun.” She stuck out her tongue, then went back to her web page redesign. I started in on Nicole Moss. 

            Unlike Driver, she was easy to find online. According to her social media pages, Nicole was a waitress “looking for love and big tips.” She enjoyed hiking, bicycling, and tequila. She’d been born in Michigan, gone to college in Indiana, and now she lived in Indianapolis, working at a local restaurant and also teaching dance classes. Her favorite bands and musicians were people I’d never heard of, but like Rachel, she enjoyed reality TV.        

            Under the surface, though, I found that she’d been arrested several times for reckless and disorderly conduct, and spent at least two stints in mental health facilities, one for 10 days and another for two months. No details. It didn’t necessarily make her a threat, but it was one more piece of data to consider the next time we met her.

            Finding the restaurant where she worked now wasn’t hard—a steak and seafood place on the north side of Indy. I called, but she wasn’t working today. I didn’t leave a message.

            Finding her address and phone number—landline, at least—took a little longer and may have involved some questionable ethics on my part. She didn’t pick up. I didn’t leave a message. No sense in spooking her. Yet.

            Then I called James Crowley, the lawyer. “The woman who called you about the Holroyd house—was her name Nicole Moss?”

            “Uh, yes, maybe. Yes, I think so. Did you talk to her?”

            “She’s been in contact, yes. Her mother was Kathleen Moss, and she lived there too. Do you know her?”

            “I, uh—I don’t know. It doesn’t ring any bells.”

            I couldn’t tell if he was being evasive, or just confused. So I went ahead. “Look, if Nicole Moss is Jake Holroyd’s daughter, with Kathleen as the mother, does she have a better claim to the house than Amber Keenan?”

            “If—what? How could—what are you saying?”

            “Nicole has been trying to contact Amber.” I decided to leave out the first incident, where she’d tried to kill my client, just to avoid any complicated questions right now. “We think Nicole might be Holroyd’s daughter. We don’t have any hard evidence. But could she inherit instead of Amber, if that was true?”

            “Well—yes. She’d have to go to court, since Amber has already been named as Jake’s heir, but it would probably hold up in the end. Especially since the house was only turned over recently. She hasn’t moved in or anything, has she?”

            “No. What if something happened to Amber? What if she got hit by a car? Would that simplify the case?”

            “Yes. Why? Was she in an accident?”

            “Not yet.” This was still all speculation, until we talked to Nicole. Then I remembered something I hadn’t asked Crowley before. “Do you know a man named Driver?”

            A long pause. “There was a family. They lived outside of town. I don’t think—I haven’t heard anything about them in years. They may have moved away.”

            “Where outside of town? I didn’t find anything about them.”

            “They, uh, kept to themselves, from what I heard. Really, I’m talking 50 years ago or longer. Why do you ask?”

            I was still trying to keep the details of Amber’s stalker private. “I ran across the name doing some work for Amber.”

            “They had some property—I could send you the location—”

            “Was there any relationship between the Drivers and the Holroyd family?”

            “Not—not that I know of.” He was definitely uneasy talking about them.

            “All right. Send me the location.” It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Well, it might hurt if Driver or his family were armed with shotguns, but I’d deal with that later. “Oh, one other thing—there’s a door in the basement that Amber doesn’t have a key for. Would you have that lying around?”

            “I’ll look. I don’t think so, but I can check.”

            “Thanks.”

            We hung up. I looked at my phone, wondering if his next call was going to be to Driver. Or if I was just making things up. 

            “Crack the case?” Rachel asked from her side of the office. 

            “Not yet. It is looking like another drive to Michigan is in the near future.” I looked for Amber’s number on my phone.

            “Hey, I’m the psychic. You’re just the amiable lunkhead I keep around for sex.”

            “Promises, promises.” I tapped Amber’s number.

            When she answered, I told her what I’d learned. Which seemed pretty inconclusive when I boiled it down for her. “I can keep trying to contact Nicole,” I finished. “She must have some idea of what Driver wants from you.”

            “And if she’s Jake Holroyd’s daughter, I can just give her the house. Maybe he’ll stop stalking me then.” She sighed. “Are we going to have to go out there again?”

            “Maybe. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

            After we hung up I called Nicole’s landline again. This time I left a message. Then I looked over my shoulder at Rachel. “Hey, since you only keep me around for sex—”

            “Not now, lunkhead.” She was peering at her monitor.

            “Just making the offer.” I turned and went back to other work.

            My phone buzzed half an hour later. Unknown number. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Tom Jurgen? You’re the guy last night? With Amber—Amber Keenan?”

            “Is this Nicole Moss?” I saw Rachel swing around as I spoke the name.

            “Y-yes. Do you have those papers? I didn’t mean to drop them and run away, it’s just—Driver was there.” She was almost whispering, frightened.

            “We have them, and we’ll return them to you. But can I ask you some questions?”

            “Not now. I have to go to work, and then—wait, are you in Chicago?”

“Yes. Did you drive up yesterday just to talk to my client?”

“Yeah, I just—oh God, I can’t talk right now. Look, can I see you tomorrow? At the house? I’ll explain everything. I’m really sorry.’

I didn’t really want to wait that long. “Let me ask you one question.”

“Okay.”

Great. What should I ask? I fumbled my thoughts for a moment, then came up with the one I was most curious about: “Who is Driver?”

She hesitated. “He—his family owned the land the house was built on. There’s always been a connection.”

“Why is he—”

“You said one question. I have to go now, all right?” 

Fair enough. “One o’clock?”

“Yeah. Okay. One o’clock.” She hung up.

I turned to Rachel. “Can you clear your schedule tomorrow?”

She sighed. “I guess I can ask Colin to share his class notes. And this redesign’s almost finished.” Then she brightened. “Road trip! Yay!”

“I just hope my client is that enthused.” I picked up my phone to call Amber.