The Demon Killer

An escaped murderer insists he’s killing demons. After one close call, Tom Jurgen’s search for the killer’s girlfriend turns deadly. 

The Demon Killer, Part One

(I took a break from writing Jurgen Report stories to work on a vampire novel. Then I took a break from my vampire novel to write a Jurgen Report story. That’s how it goes. I hope you enjoy this, and I hope you enjoy my vampire novel if it ever sees the dark of night. -JC)

The woman who answered my knock looked me over suspiciously. She was in her 70s, with short gray hair and too much makeup on her face. She wore a faded yellow T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, and she looked as if I’d woken her up from an afternoon nap. “Yes?”

            I didn’t blame her for being suspicious. “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I'm a private detective. I'm trying to locate your neighbor, Stacey Benedict? I'm working for her mother. She’s very worried.”

            The woman looked at my business card. Then she looked at my phone, and its picture of Stacey Benedict. Young, blond, in a Northwestern University sweatshirt. I clicked through to more pictures, and she waved a hand for me to put the phone away. “I haven’t seen her lately. She’s nice, though. She helped me with my groceries one day.” Then she leaned forward, whispering. “Is it true about her boyfriend?”

            I nodded. Stacey’s boyfriend, Kurt Reeding, had somehow escaped police custody after being arrested for murdering his mother and sister. He’d told the cops they were demons and he had to kill them, and they were transferring him to psych when he managed to overpower his guards, unlock his handcuffs, and run into the night. 

            His girlfriend’s mother had hired me because she hadn’t heard from Stacey since the escape. The thought of possibly running into an insane killer while searching for his girlfriend didn’t make me eager to take the case, but Stacey’s mother was frantic, the police weren’t helping her, and I have a cable bill to pay. Plus, I have some experience with demons. Maybe they weren’t real and Kurt Reeding was just an ordinary psycho, but I seem to run into the supernatural more than I’d like.

            Rachel also wasn’t happy about the case, but she rarely tries to talk me out of stuff like this. We’ve been together for a long time, and the only thing she really tries to talk me out of is eating meat. She’s a vegetarian. She’s also psychic, a little. Plus, she’s hot. When I called to tell her where I was going, she only sighed. “Take Donald, maybe.” Donald is our handgun—we named it Donald Duck. But I didn’t expect to actually run into Kurt, so I’d left it locked up at home.

            The old woman shuddered. “I saw him once or twice. He had bad vibes. You know?”

            “That’s what they say.” I set my card on a table next to the door. “If you do see her, could you call me? Or give her my card and ask her to contact me?”

“I will,” she promised. “I pray she’s all right.”

“Me too.”

She closed the door. 

As I checked off the apartment in my notebook I heard a door open down the hall. It closed again before I could turn and look. The hallway was still empty, except for me. 

I’d started by calling all of Stacey’s friends that her mother knew about, and anybody I could find on her social media, and now I was talking to Stacey’s neighbors. The old woman was the last one, but the door that had opened and closed was right next to Stacey’s apartment, and they hadn’t answered my knock before.

So I went back and knocked again.

I had a card in one hand and my phone in the other looking for Stacey’s picture again, so I didn’t pay enough attention when the door opened and the person inside reached forward and grabbed the collar of my jacket. Then I was paying all my attention to the fact that he was pulling me through the doorway. He punched me in the stomach before I got a look at his face, and then he shoved me to the floor before my mind could process what was going on. 

After I blinked once or twice, I was looking up at an unshaven face with bloodshot eyes. He wore a dirty T-shirt and jeans, and he had a handgun in his fist. A shiny weapon, pointed directly at my face. I blinked again and my stomach lurched as I recognized him from the picture my client had shared with me. 

Kurt Reedling. Escaped murderer.

Oh hell.

 

Rachel had been right, of course. I’d tell her that when I got the chance. Maybe during a séance. If I survived this, she was probably going to kill me anyway.

Kurt slammed and locked the door, breathing hard. “Who are you?” His voice was raspy, out of breath, as if he’d just run a mile in the small apartment.

            “T-Tom Jurgen,” I managed to answer, my heart pounding. “I'm a, a private detective. I'm unarmed. I'm harmless, I'm not going to hurt you. You don’t have to shoot me.”

            It wasn’t the first time in my life someone had pointed a gun at me. Or a knife, or any other kind of weapon. But it’s never a pleasant feeling. I bit my lip and tried not to throw up. 

            Kurt’s handgun looked smaller than the one I’d left at home, but just as deadly with its bright metal shaking in front of me. This wasn’t the time for comparing our manhood, with Kurt staring at me as if I was speaking a foreign language he needed to decipher in his head. “What are you doing here? Why are you—where’s Stacey? Is she here?”

            The part of me that wasn’t gripped by terror realized this was good—if Kurt didn’t know where Stacey was, he hadn’t found her either, which meant she was still alive. Hiding from him. The rest of me struggled to think of an answer that would keep him from killing me. “She’s not here. I don’t know. Her mother is worried about her.”

            Kurt lowered his weapon. “I thought she’d come back. I thought if I waited . . .” His voice trailed away. 

            I felt something tickling my head. An itch on my scalp. But I didn’t dare move. Not even when Kurt took a step back and sagged into a dusty armchair. I started to say something, to reassure him again that I wasn’t going to hurt him, that he didn’t need to shoot me, but then I saw the body on the floor behind him.

            A man. Middle-aged, Black. In a shirt and necktie, dried blood staining the floor in front of him. His eyes were wide open, as if fixed on something far away that no one else could see. 

            Kurt followed my eyes top look the dead man over. “That was, uh, a mistake. He wasn’t one of them. But I couldn’t let him leave. You know?” He swung his face back at me. “She’s not coming back, is she? Shit.” He was talking to himself. “It’s been three days. Three days? I don’t know, I don’t know—” He stood up.

            I felt the itch on my scalp again, and this time I couldn’t stop my hand from reaching up to scratch it. Kurt saw me and then his gun was in my face again, and I froze, expecting my next frenzied heartbeat to be my last one. What would a bullet in my brain feel like? Would I see the white light? Would Rachel get married again?

            Then his arm dropped. He ran a hand over his sweaty forehead, and turned for the door. “Stay away from her,” he told me. He fumbled with the lock, and then he was gone. 

I sat on the floor, gasping, amazed that I hadn’t vomited pr soiled myself. I don’t know how long I stayed there, telling myself over and over, I'm not going to die, I'm not going to die, as I tried to catch my breath and make my heart slow down. Eventually I stretched out my legs and took a deep breath. I managed not to look at the dead guy as I dug out my phone to call the police.

The Demon Killer, Part Two

Rachel came out of her office when I got home, hugged me, then punched my arm. “You idiot.”

            “Yeah.” I patted her shoulder. “Does this get me out of making dinner at least?”

            “The freezer is yours.” She kissed my cheek. “If you can eat. My appetite went to hell the minute you called me.”

            I’d been talking to the police for three hours. Kurt had gotten away, and I couldn’t help them at all, but they kept asking questions until we all got bored with each other. A paramedic checked me out and said I was good to go. Driving home took me more than an hour because I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting Kurt to be hiding in my backseat.

Now I opened a cabinet and found the whiskey bottle we’d bought when we closed on our condo three months ago. We hadn’t opened it yet, so I unwrapped the cap and poured myself a stiff one. “You?”

            Rachel shook her head and took a beer from the refrigerator. “You okay?”

            “Maybe.” We went into the living room.

            We’d bought the condo three months ago. Sharing an office in a two-bedroom apartment wasn’t working anymore, with Rachel doing more of her counseling work from home while I talked on the phone to clients and sources, so we pooled our resources for a down payment on a three-bedroom condo. Now we each had our own office, more space, and bigger payments, but business was good for both of us, assuming neither one of us got murdered. Which was more of a possibility for me than her.

            Rachel sat next to me with her beer. She’s got red hair with a little gray now, and hazelnut eyes, but her psychic powers hadn’t faded with time. Now she ran a finger through my own graying hair. “You want to talk?”

            “Will you charge me?”

            She punched my arm. “It’s going to cost you one way or another.”

            I sat back and closed my eyes. “It was—you know. Vampires and killer plants and ghosts and Lovecraftian monsters, but a psycho with a gun is worse than all of them. You’re lucky I didn’t need to change my underwear the minute I walked in the door.” I took a sip of whiskey. “I know, I do this to myself. But not this. This came from outside.”

            “But there were demons. That’s what they said.”

            “I didn’t think they were real demons. Just garden-variety schizophrenia. But—” I rubbed my head, remembering the itch when I was with Kurt.

            “What?”

            “I don’t know.” I looked at Rachel. “You getting anything from me?”

            She put a hand on my head and closed her eyes. “I'm not sure. There’s so much rattling around inside there after all these years I can’t tell what’s new and what’s just repressed trauma from those giant killer chickens that one time. Wait a minute—” She punched my arm again. “Are you horny?”

            “Always when I'm next to you.” I smiled. “Don’t worry. I need dinner more than anything. Almost being killed brings out all kinds of primal appetites.” I finished my whiskey. “I’ll search the freezer.”

            Rachel pushed me down. “I’ve got it. You just want another drink.”

            “Gee, you really are psychic.” I sat back and let her take my glass. 

            “You are going to quit the case, aren’t you?” She came back with my glass and the whiskey bottle.

            “First thing tomorrow,” I promised.

            She handed me the bottle. “Don’t get too drunk.” She leaned down to kiss me, then headed back to the kitchen to look for dinner.

 

The next morning I called my client to tell her I was off the case.

            Jane Benedict took it well. “I guess I can’t blame you,” she said with a sigh. “I only thought—I’m just so scared for Stacey. But I suppose you don’t have a choice.”

            I felt like crap. P.I.s are supposed to be brave, and tough, and heroic. But it was less than 12 hours since Kurt had pointed his gun in my face, and I my stomach still hadn’t fully unclenched. “I'm sorry,” I said for the third time. “I can recommend some other private detectives who might be able to help you—”

            “Maybe,” she cut in. “I have to think about it. Just—send me your bill, I guess?”

            I apologized again, and we hung up. I was working on her invoice when my phone buzzed again. The number looked familiar, so I answered it.

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is, uh, Meredith Freeman. Are you still looking for Stacey? Did you find her?”

            This was one of Stacey’s friends I’d talked to yesterday. Before my encounter with Kurt. I hesitated, and before I could say, “Not really,” she went on: “I just thought of someone who might know where she is. I don’t have her number, but she works at Planet Fitness on Halsted. Her name’s Jess, Jess Kinder.”

            I swallowed. “Okay. Is this a friend of Stacey?”

            “They used to be roommates. It took me a while to remember her name. I used to go there to work out sometimes.”

            She was trying to be helpful. I’d feel guilty telling her I was off the case. So I thanked her, and sat there in front of my computer for 15 minutes. And then I called Jane Benedict.

            “I have one more lead I can check out,” I told her. “I’ll do that, and then I'm done. It shouldn’t take too long, and then I’ll report back. Is that all right?”

            She took a long time to answer. “Well, if you want to. After yesterday I understand you’d want to stay away. But—yes, if you can do that, I’d appreciate it.”

            “Okay.” She thanked me again, and we hung up.

            Rachel was working from the counseling center today. That meant I wouldn’t have to watch her glare at me, which helped make my next call easier. A little.

            She wasn’t happy. “If you get killed I am going to marry the first man I meet. I’m going to take his last name. I'm going to have his babies. I'm going to—” She stopped to take a breath. “Jerk. Just don’t get killed. Okay?”

            “I won’t.” I told her. 

            “Take Donald.” Her voice was an icy order. “Use him if you have to. Got that?”

“Got it.”

“Just make sure you come home tonight.”

            “I will.” I hoped I could keep my promise.

 

I had the Glock in the trunk of my Prius as I parked down the block from Planet Fitness on Halsted. I have a concealed carry permit for it, but I figured I wouldn’t need it inside a gym. Of course I didn’t think yesterday that I’d need it, but today was a new day, right?

            Inside the front door a man in a black T-shirt with the logo of the place stood at the check-in desk. He smiled, probably sizing up my need for a membership and a workout, and asked what he could do for me today.

            “I'm looking for Jess Kinder? There’s no trouble, I'm just asking after a friend.”

            He seemed puzzled, but he tapped his computer. “I just paged her. Just a second.”

            It took two minutes, but a young blond woman in tights and a pink tank top over a sleeveless T-shirt walked out from the gym area. The guy behind the desk nodded to me, then crossed his arms, keeping his eyes on me in case I turned out to be a stalker.

Jess Kinder looked confused. “Can I help you?”

“I got your name from Meredith Freeman,” I told her, trying to look as harmless as possible. “I'm a private detective. Tom Jurgen.” I showed her my card. “Meredith thought you might have any idea of where Stacey Benedict is.”

“Oh.” Jess stared at my card and then looked at me, maybe trying to fit me into her idea of what a P.I. should look like. “Okay. Come on.”

            She led me past rows of treadmills, stationary bicycles and stairmasters to a corner of the gym with a few tables and chairs and a small juice bar. No one was behind the counter. 

            We sat down. “We shared an apartment for a year,” Jess said. “We’re not really close friends, but we have friends in common so I saw her sometimes after she moved out. At parties and stuff. I met her—that boyfriend once or twice.” She grimaced. “Even without—all that, I could tell something was off with him. Anyway . . .” She ran her fingers through her hair. “This is probably what Meredith is thinking of. I remember her aunt came to visit this one time, one afternoon. With this older guy. He wasn’t her uncle. You could tell they weren’t related. Just, like, a family friend of her aunt, you know?”

            “Do you know their names?”

            Her eyes scrunched up. “Aunt . . . Patricia. Patricia Coles, yeah. I remember Stacey introducing us. The guy?” Jess looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Like, Charles? Or Joseph? Something kind of older, old-fashioned, right? But he was nice. Quiet. I didn’t hear him talk much. I was in the kitchen and then I was in my room watching TV. They were out in the living room all afternoon. Anyway—” She shook her head. “Sorry. I just remember, when they left, Aunt Patricia said something like, If you ever need a place to go, you can come up to Grayslake. I remember that. This was a little before she got her own place. I don’t know if she meant hiding out or just getting out of the city, but when I heard about Kurt, and I was talking to Meredith and she mentioned you . . .” She shrugged. “Does that help?”

            “Maybe.” Grayslake is north of Chicago, about 60 miles away. Stacey owned a car. It wasn’t a bad lead, which meant I had to follow up on it. Damn it. 

            We spent few minutes talking about possible spellings of Coles, and then I thanked her for her help. Then I went out to my car and spent five minutes working up my nerve to call Rachel again.

            She was silent for a moment after I told her about Grayslake. Then she sighed. “You know, I always tried not to be the girlfriend in the movies who’s always trying to talk her boyfriend into not being a P.I. or a spy or a soldier of fortune, because those chicks are usually so annoying. But you’re making it hard.”

            “I could have been an accountant like my father. But then we never would have met.”

            “And my life would be infinitely more boring.”

            “You’re too hot for that.”

            “Yeah, there’s that.” She groaned softly. “Sometimes I just miss riding along with you. Even into the jaws of the valley of the shadow of death, or whatever.”

            “I miss that too. Couldn’t you do counseling while I drive?”

            Rachel snorted. “I’ll ask my supervisor. Okay. Go. Don’t get killed. I mean it—shoot whoever you have to, just be home for dinner.”

            “Wouldn’t miss it.”

            “Just don’t miss the bad guy.”

            I felt a little better as we hung up. Then I called my client.

            “Patricia . . .” she murmured. “She’s my husband’s sister. He died eight, ten years ago, and I haven’t talked to her in years. I didn’t know Stacey was in touch with her at all. She’s—well, she takes her religion pretty seriously. But I never had a problem with her.”

            “Do you know her address?”

            She spent a few minutes looking it up. “Unless she moved. I don’t think I got a Christmas card from her the last few years.”

            “Do you know anything about the other man?”

            “No. Patricia never got married. I don’t think—I don’t want to say anything, but she never seemed interested in that. I don’t know.”

            “All right. I’ll be in touch.”

            Probably Kurt wouldn’t be waiting for me in Grayslake. Probably. Had his girlfriend ever talked about her Aunt Patricia? Probably not. I kept telling myself that, over and over.

            But I couldn’t shake the feeling of Kurt Reedling staring at me out of my mind. Not just his gun—okay, mostly his gun—but his eyes. Distant and detached, as if he was seeing things I could never see, hearing things beyond my ears. 

            He wasn’t one of them, he said about the dead man on the floor. That was a mistake. What did that mean?

            I rubbed my scalp. I remembered the itch I’d felt, sitting on the floor, wondering if he was going to kill me. Not exactly an itch, though, but something else. More like a mosquito or a bug, trying to bite me. Or trying to burrow inside my head . . .

            For a moment I wished Rachel had been there, to get a reading on Kurt, to see what was inside his head. I pushed the thought away immediately. I was glad she was far away. 

The Demon Killer, Part Three

The house lay at the end of a long, woodsy street, with evergreens and ash trees on either side as I looked for the address. A small blue Subaru was parked in the driveway. Stacey’s car. 

            I didn’t see any other cars parked along the street. I tried to peer between the trees, looking for Kurt, but saw only birds and squirrels hopping between the branches. Finally I parked my Prius in front of the house and got out.

            I hesitated, but eventually I went to open the trunk. The metal box was there, locked, with my shoulder holster lying across it. I took off my jacket, struggled into the holster, and then unlocked the box for the Glock. 

            I zipped up my jacket, hoping the handgun wouldn’t show. I didn’t want Aunt Patricia to think I was a hitman. Then I made my way up the walk to the door.

            It opened about 20 seconds after I rang. The woman who looked out was short and heavyset, her hair streaked with gray. She wore round glasses, and her blue eyes were sharp. “Hello?”

            “Patricia Coles?” I showed her my card. “My name is Tom Jurgen, and I'm a private detective trying to locate your niece, Stacey Benedict. I was hired by her mother.” 

            A man came up behind her. Taller than Patricia, and taller than me, balding, with bushy gray eyebrows and deep brown eyes. “What’s going on?”

            Patricia held up the card. “He’s here after Stacey.”

            “Just to talk to her,” I said quickly. “Her mother hasn’t heard from her in days. She just wants to know her daughter’s safe.”

            The man frowned. “A private detective?”

            Patricia looked over my shoulder, around the yard. “I think it’s okay.”

            They moved back, and I entered the house. Patricia locked the door. The man stayed close to her, protectively. “I’m Samuel Holtz. Reverend Holtz. I’m a friend.” He wore a vest under his shirt, and gray pants that looked freshly pressed.

            “Close friend. For 15 years.” She pointed into another room. “Right here. Stacey?”

            The living room had dark wood paneling and a high ceiling, very rustic. Stacey Benedict lay at the end of a long blue sofa, looking up at me as we entered. Twenty-three, her mother had said. She was barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt that looked as if she’d slept in it for a few days, and her blond hair was tied back in a tight ponytail. 

She looked up at me, suspicion mixing with hope. “You’re—you said something about my mom?”

            Patricia came around me and showed her my card. Stacey read it slowly. “How did you find me?”

            “Your aunt visited when you were living with Jess Kinder. She remembered your name. And she offered you a place to stay if you needed it.”

            “Did you get my address from Jane?” Patricia put her hands on her hips. 

            “Yes. Look, she’s just worried. A phone call would probably be enough if you don’t want to go home—”

            “I can’t.” Stacey dropped my card on the floor. “Not until he’s locked up again. I can’t.”

            “I don’t blame you. I ran into Kurt yesterday.”

            Her eyes went wide. “W-what? Where?”

            “He was hiding out in an apartment down the hall from you. Apparently waiting for you to come home.” I decided not to mention right now that he’d murdered her neighbor. And almost murdered me. I wasn’t sure either of us could handle it.

            “That’s why I can’t go back!” Stacey was sitting up now, shivering as if a blast of cold air was rushing through. “Not until he’s back in jail! Or—or dead! I don’t want him dead, but I can’t let him get to me like—like he did. To them.” She sank back and rubbed her eyes, trying not to cry.

            “What do you mean?” I asked.

            She didn’t answer. No one spoke for a long minute.

            “Would you like some coffee?” Patricia asked.

            “Wait a minute, Patty.” Holtz looked at me as if sizing up whether I was a saint or a sinner. “Now that you’re here, do you have to stay? Can’t you just tell Jane that Stacey is safe?”

            “I could. It would be better if Stacey calls her mother herself. You don’t have to say where you are—”

            “No.” Stacey shook her head. “She’ll know I'm here now. If Kurt goes after her—God, what if he goes after her? That’s what I'm afraid of. God, this is a nightmare.” 

            “She’s safe here,” Patricia said. “She was.” She glared at me.

            “We’re trying to help her.” Holtz put a hand on Patricia’s arm, trying to keep her calm. “There’s something—more to it. You wouldn’t understand.”

            I remembered the itch in the back of my head when Kurt was with me. Then something clicked inside my brain. 

            “Stacey—” I wished Rachel was here, but I had to do this by myself. “Is Kurt—are the demons coming from inside him?”

            She stared at me, her eyes wide. Scared. “Y-Yeah. I think so.”

            “Wait—” Holtz looked shocked. “How did you—do you know?”

            “I’ve seen a lot of things you wouldn’t believe.” I perched on a chair next to the sofa. “Stacey, what happened?”

            Stacey brought her legs up, hugging her knees. “He said we had to go to his mom’s house for dinner. That was kind of weird, we hardly ever did that. And when we got there, nothing was ready. They weren’t really expecting us, but his mother started something in the oven, and his sister was making a salad. But then he told them to stop and sit down, so we were all there in the kitchen, and he was staring at us, and his face was all red, and he started—talking.” 

            She looked at Holtz. “I told you—it was like, uh, speaking in tongues? I don’t know. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he kept talking, and getting all worked up. They were staring at him, and then they were doing it too, his sister and his mother, and his sister was waving the knife around she was using to chop stuff for the salad—” 

Stacey stopped. “And I sort of started doing it too. I don’t know why. I just started kind of moaning, and everything around me was sort of spinning. I got up, and Kurt’s mom was standing up and shouting, and I ran out of there. I was in the living room, on the floor, I don’t know how long, but I got up and went into the kitchen again—”

            Stacey closed her eyes. “He had the knife, and there was all this blood, and his mother and sister were still doing their weird talk, but he was stabbing them, first one of them and then the other, over and over and not stopping while he was talking like that too. Then he looked at me and—” She opened her eyes to catch her breath. “I ran outside and called 911. But I could still hear them. I could hear it in my head. I can still hear it now, the words, the nonsense words, going on and on.” She looked at Holtz again. “That’s why I came here.”

            “You’re trying to do an exorcism?” I asked. Holtz was a minister, not a Catholic priest. Still, it wasn’t impossible, despite what the church said. I actually pulled it off once, but I was lucky that time, and I paid a price. I wasn’t eager to try it again. 

            Holtz grimaced. “I don’t know about that. I’m just trying to provide some spiritual comfort. I'm not sure I believe any of this, but I’ll do what I can.”

            “I know it sounds crazy,” Stacey said, tired. “But it’s what I saw. And I can still feel it. Inside me. Around me.”

            “I still don’t understand—” Patricia sat down next to her. “I don’t mean this as being critical, honey, I really don’t, I just don’t understand how you got involved with this—this guy in the first place.”

            Stacey gave her a sad smile. “Same way as usual, you know? You match with a guy, go out a few times, he’s not so bad, no fireworks but no red flags at first. I kind of just drifted into it. At first things were fine. Then he started watching these videos, on YouTube? Weird stuff. I watched one or two, and they were about Satan and the end times, and we argued about it. I should have left then.” 

            She rubbed her eyes. “He started that—that talking, but I thought he was just drunk. We weren’t—we never lived together, so I didn’t see him every single day, and when he told me to come to dinner with his mother I was surprised, but it wasn’t completely strange. I’d met them once or twice. They seemed—okay. His mother liked to quote the Bible. His sister looked like she was on drugs, but she was quiet most of the time. But when we got there, they looked—scared. And then, then . . .” She shook her head. “I think I'm going crazy.”

            “You’re not.” Patricia put her arms around her. “You’re safe.”

            I wished Rachel was here. She could have read Stacey’s aura, or something, and seen whether a demon was trying to get inside her. Or me, for that matter. Plus, I always wish Rachel was nearby. Except when there’s danger.

            “I think the only thing to do,” said Holtz, “is to stay here until they catch him again. They have to find him eventually, right? Soon?” He looked at me.

            I nodded. “He didn’t strike me as very smart. Or rational. I don’t think he could hide—”

            Suddenly Stacey jerked back, shaking. Her mouth dropped open, and she started grunting, like an animal. Her aunt stared at her in shock, and then her eyes rolled back and she started pounding her fists on her legs, babbling incoherently.

            I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, but nothing came out. My throat seemed to freeze up. I tried to stand, then dropped back into my chair.

            Holtz was the only one who didn’t seem affected by whatever was going on. He wasn’t looking at me, though. His eyes were on Patricia, and he looked stunned, confused, as she started to rock back and forth, wailing and moaning. Stacey was writhing next to her, sweat streaming down her face, her lips twisting in words that didn’t look like any language I’d ever heard.

            Something crashed in the hallway beyond the living room. Holtz swung around, alarmed. He shouted something, and then a boom ripped the air. 

Holtz staggered back, doubled over. Blood streamed down his vest as he stumbled on the edge of a coffee table, and then he went down, gasping and groaning. He bit his lip as his eyes flickered, and then his eyes closed tight.

            Kurt was standing there, his handgun clutched in his fist. His eyes twitched and darted around the room, sparkling like fireflies until he found Stacey. If he noticed me or even recognized me, he didn’t focus on me. He just smiled at Stacey, ignoring Patricia, and he started to laugh as he looked at her and licked his lips.

            Stacey was staring back at Kurt, trying to fight the shuddering in her body as she twisted and squirmed. Her lips were chanting in a meaningless rhythm, spit dribbling down her chin as she gazed up at him, her eyes trembling in terror.

            I was trying to move, but something seemed to be pressing down on my body. My arms and legs were paralyzed, and my throat was closing up. I choked, fighting for air as cloudy darkness descended around me. 

My head was pounding, as if something was battering on my skull. Through the roaring in my ears as I struggled to breathe I could hear singing from far away, in ancient words I could almost recognize, words for hell and damnation and torment. 

            I bit my lip, and tasted blood. I’ve been possessed before, and I knew what it was like, but this was different. Maybe every possession was different, like every demon. But I knew I had to resist. Somehow. 

            The singing was louder now, closer, pounding at my eardrums, and my body felt as if it were being crushed under a wine press. I bit my lip harder and tried to focus on the pain, just for an instant, just for one moment. I needed something to zero in on, something to hold onto, because if I got lost the demon would take me, and Kurt would kill me after he killed Stacey and her aunt, the way he’d killed Holtz and the man in the apartment and his family, and I’d be dead, and maybe I wouldn’t care by then, but—but—but—

Rachel would be so mad at me—

            Rachel. 

            I clenched my eyes and tried to picture her. She was angry. Furious. Screaming at me. Rachel never screams in real life, she hardly ever raises her voice. When she’s mad, she gets quiet. It’s worse. 

But picturing her angry gave me something to focus on. I felt myself leaning into it, letting her anger sting me out of my stupor. The black clouds drifted. I could see light glowing behind them. Then I saw Kurt, laughing, his pistol shaking in his hand. Stacey, her head jerking back and forth as gibberish and saliva poured out of her mouth. Patricia, paralyzed, her eyes frozen in shock.

I gasped suddenly, and for a moment I could breathe and think and move again. Kurt wasn’t watching me. His eyes were on Stacey. His lips were curled in a demonic smile. His arm was shaking as he tried to steady the handgun in his fist, watching Stacey, waiting for something. A message from Hell? An order from the demon inside his own head? Whatever it was, I had to act while I could.

I slide my hand toward the zipper of my jacket, keeping my eyes fixed on Kurt. He was breathing hard, licking his lips, rocking on his legs  as he leaned toward Stacey, the handgun pointed at her—

            I reached inside my jacket and slipped the Glock from my holster. 

Kurt saw me move. He saw my weapon, and his eyes flashed with surprise, but I had my hands together and the safety off, and I remembered to squeeze the trigger when I fired. 

            The first bullet hit him in the shoulder, and he looked more surprised by the roar of the gunshot than any pain. I fired again, hitting his leg, and he staggered backward. His face was twisted with rage, and he spat toward me as he tried to bring his gun up.

            My third shot went straight to the chest, and Kurt toppled to the floor. He let out a long shriek of anger that faded after two or three seconds until he was just whimpering with pain. His arms and legs shuddered, but his gun slipped out of his fingers, and I forced myself to stand up and kick it into a corner. 

            Patricia had collapsed on the sofa, breathing shallowly. Next to her, Stacey’s voice faded to a whisper before she stopped. 

            As I watched her, a shadow seemed to rise from the top of her head. It rose up, swirling around like a cloud of dust, and after a moment it burst into a thousand shards that vanished in the air.

            “Oh my God.” Stacey leaned forward, holding her head. “What was that? What—” She sat up and saw her aunt lying next to her. “Aunt Patty? Aunt—” Then she saw Kurt on the floor. 

“Shit.” She looked at me. “Is he—did you—”

            “Yeah.” I took out my phone, wobbling on my feet. “Are you okay?”

            “I—I think so.” She shook her head to clear it, and rubbed her throat as if it hurt from all her chanting. 

Patricia sat up suddenly, as if startled from deep nap. She looked at Stacey, then me, and then she saw Kurt. She looked back at me again, confused and frightened. “What—what happened? Where’s Sam?”

            “I’ll tell you later.” I sat down again. I kept the Glock in my lap, keeping one eye on Kurt. He looked like he was still breathing, but he wasn’t moving. But I’ve seen—and lived—too many horror movies to trust that the monster was going to stay dead. “I have to call—” The police, I thought. Then Stacey’s mother. Then Rachel. 

            Screw it. I called Rachel first.

 

Rachel hugged me for a long time, then punched my arm. “Jerk. Are you all right?”

            “Yeah. I'm fine.” We made our way to the couch, and I sank into it, exhausted.

            “You hungry? Want a beer? Whiskey?” She looked me over. “You look like hell.”

            “Thanks. Beer.” I closed my eyes until she sat down next to me with beer for both of us.

            Rachel put a hand on my leg while I drank. “So tell me about it,” she said gently.

            I’d already spent five hours telling the cops everything. They discounted all the stuff about demons, of course, but they didn’t need any convincing that Kurt Reedling was a murderer and I’d shot him in self-defense. They kept my gun, of course, but told me I’d get it back in a few days. 

Jane Benedict had driven up to the local police station for her daughter, and thanked me over and over again, in between apologies for almost getting me killed. Again.

            I didn’t see Aunt Patricia. She’d collapsed in shock before the police and paramedics showed up. Stacey’s mom promised to call me with an update.

            When I finished Rachel brought me another beer. “Now tell me how you’re really doing.”

            I sighed. “I didn’t have a choice. He killed Sam Holtz. He was right in front of me. He killed that guy in the apartment. He was going to kill all of us. So I had to do it. Right now? I just feel—numb.”

            “That will probably change,” Rachel told me quietly. 

            “I know. Flashbacks, nightmares, panic attacks.” I sighed and sipped my beer. “Right now, I'm just glad to be home.”

            “I'm glad he’s—” She squeezed my arm. “I probably shouldn’t say dead, but I'm glad you shot him. And that you’re home.”

            “Yeah.” We sat back and held each other for a long time.

            “How did you fight it?” she asked after a while. “The demon?”

            I closed my eyes. “You,” I told her. “I pictured you. Yelling at me.”

            Rachel laughed and punched my arm gently. “Good. For that I’ll make you dinner.”

            I smiled. “Good to be home.”

 

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