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.

The Ancient God, Part Four

So the next morning we were on the road to Michigan again. It felt good to have Rachel next to me in the Prius again, even though she insisted on listening to a podcast by one of her psych professors. “I’m missing class, I might as well learn something while we’re driving,” she told me. “You remembered there’s a time change, right?”

            “Of course.” Mostly because I’d almost forgotten last time. “We’ll get there in plenty of time.”

            We were fifteen minutes late, but it wasn’t my fault— a stalled car on the side of the highway backed up traffic for two miles and 20 minutes. Amber and Kris were already there, waiting for me. No Nicole yet.

            I introduced Rachel, and we sat in my car. “What do we do if Driver shows up?” Amber asked, looking out the window nervously.

“Just talk,” I said. “He hasn’t seemed violent so far. Hopefully it won’t turn nasty.”

“But I know Krav Maga,” Rachel said. “If we need it.”

“Cool.” Kris seemed impressed.

Nicole pulled up five minutes later in a dented and dusty blue minivan that was heaving and shaking as she turned off the motor. We opened our doors as she walked over. 

“Hi.” Nicole stopped next to the hood. “Sorry I’m late. I overslept a little.” She wore jeans and a loose jacket with big pockets over a T-shirt. Turning her face from me, she looked at the others nervously  “Hi, I’m—oh.” She recognized Amber. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Amber crossed her arms. Kris stared at her.

I introduced everyone. “Let’s go into the house.”

Amber unlocked the door. Kris and Rachel opened the windows and shutters to let some air and light drift into the living room, but without anywhere to sit we all just stood in a circle, looking at each other. Waiting for someone to speak.

I started. “So, Nicole—your father was Jacob Holroyd, is that right?”

“Yeah.” She nodded slowly. “My mom worked in a store downtown. I don’t know how they met, or started—you know. Anyway, after I was born, my—Jake—he gave my mother some money and she moved to Gary, with her aunt and uncle. She told me about my—Jake—when I was 18, but I didn’t want to meet him right then.”

Nicole glanced at Amber for a moment, then looked away. “But I got curious, and after a while I started checking up on him. And I started learning about his family, and about this place.” She gestured at the walls. “How they built it back in the 19th century, and everyone who lived here—there’s a lot online, and I found some stuff in the library here because I wanted to find out more. Not just about him, I didn’t care about Jake, I was just—there was something about it that was scary.”

“Did you ever meet him?” Amber asked.

“Once.” She bit her lip. “He was—okay. He wasn’t really interested in suddenly having a daughter. He gave me some money, and that was it.”

I glanced at Rachel. She gave me a slight nod. She can usually feel when someone’s telling the truth, and so far Nicole was being honest.

“You did a DNA test,” I said. 

“Yeah.” She seemed embarrassed. “He let me do that. I mean, he didn’t really argue that he wasn’t my father, but we both wanted to be sure. So we did that. Before we met each other.”

“But why did you try to push me in front of that car?” Amber demanded. Kris stood next to her, glaring. 

Nicole looked at the floor again, shifting her feet uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I was—I wasn’t thinking straight. I just wanted to talk to you, but I saw Driver and I panicked. I had to keep you away from him, and I just—I don’t know. It was the only thing I could think of. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You tried to kill her,” Kris said.

Nicole looked ready to cry, and I wasn’t sure what Kris was likely to do. So I asked quickly, “Why keep Amber away from Driver? What’s so important about this house?”

She folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself. “People—disappear. My mother—that’s why she moved away when I was born. She—it made Jake exciting for a while, she said, that he had some kind of secret, but then he—told her too much. So she left.”

I looked at Rachel. She bit her lip, gazing up at the ceiling, then down toward the floor. Then she took a deep breath, nodding.

“Something’s wrong with this house,” Rachel said. 

“Like what?”

She pointed toward her feet. “Down there.”

“Excuse me?” Kris stared. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m psychic.” Rachel stated it as a matter of fact. “No, I can’t tell the future or read your mind, but I can feel things outside the usual human senses.” Kris started to open her mouth with a question, but Rachel cut her off. “Don’t argue, I just am. And yeah—something bad is down there.”

“Bodies?” I looked at Nicole. 

She took a step back. “Not—not anymore.”

“What was that list of people?” I asked. “People who disappeared?”

“This house is dangerous!” She looked like she wanted to run away, but she stomped a foot on the floor and clenched a fist. “It’s got to be burned down or something! That’s what I want to do, but Driver—his family—that’s what they’re scared of.”

“Stay calm.” I held up a hand. “Those people?”

“When I started looking into the history, and I found out about the Driver family—how they owned the property but let the first Holroyd build the house here—I started noticing people disappearing.” She looked away from me, but then she was looking at Amber and Kris. She turned around, shaking. “I have to—you won’t believe it if I don’t show you.”

Great. ”Trust me, Nicole. I have seen things you wouldn’t believe, and I’m not talking about human beings.” I glanced at Rachel. “But I’ll look at whatever you’ve got to show me. One thing first.”

She tensed. “W-what?”

“You’ve been institutionalized for mental health issues. Twice. What was that about?”

Nicole glanced around like a trapped bird. “Y-yeah. All right. I had some trouble with drugs. And, uh voices. I’m not crazy!” She glared at us, then lowered her head. “Except, yeah, I am crazy. A little. Just—not about this. This is real. I have to show you.”

“Where?” Amber asked.

“It’s downstairs.” She pointed to the hallway. “The basement.”

“I’ll get the car flashlight,” Rachel said. “Wait for me.”

Kris went with her to get their flashlight. Amber stayed, arms crossed, watching Nicole. . “You could have just told me.”

“I was scared. You wouldn’t believe me.” She faced away, trembling.

“You could have tried.” She looked at me. “What do you think is down there?”

“I’m afraid to guess” I had some ideas. I was just afraid some of them might be right.

Rachel and Kris came back. Nicole led us to the basement door, and they turned on the flashlights as we climbed down.

With more light than our phones, the basement was even spookier. We could see the cracks in the concrete, the cobwebs in the corners, the droppings everywhere. Plus, a dead rat lay next to the washer, its long tail curled like a snake waiting to strike.

The door stood like a tombstone, black and solid. 

Nicole walked to the furnace and reached behind it. “I found it back here. It took me two hours.” She held out a key.

“You were the one living here?” Amber asked.

“Just a couple of days. I was—hiding. Sort of.” 

“From who?” I asked. “Wait—Driver?”

She nodded. “I found out some things about him too.”

I looked back, up the stairs toward the open door. Chances were Driver was close. “Someone should keep an eye on the door up there.”

“I’ll do it.” Rachel stepped away from me, one eye on the door. “I can already tell—there’s something in there I don’t really want to see.”

I gave my flashlight to Rachel, then took the key from Nicole. The lock resisted, but eventually I managed to turn it and twist the knob. I pushed the door open.

Three wooden steps led down to a narrow platform. We walked down carefully. The platform creaked when I stepped onto it, and I held my breath as Amber joined me. Kris and Nicole stayed at the steps, following our gaze as we looked out at a wide pit in the dirt floor.

The room was about 30 yards across, with plywood walls holding out the earth. The dirt was black, damp, and smelled like dead worms and decaying compost, a swampy odor that made my stomach churn. 

Kris flicked her flashlight back and forth, until Amber pointed. “What’s that?”

She aimed for the center. Something moved.

For a moment I thought—hoped—it was a shadow from somewhere. Then it moved again, something long and ropy, like a snake slithering through a swamp. It rose up, swaying in the air, curling and uncurling as if stretching after a long sleep. Tiny hairs like cilia rustled along its length. It straightened out, reaching toward the ceiling, then froze, as if responding to something only it could sense. 

Then something opened up in the center of the pit.

An eye. A big, bulging, monstrous eye.

Amber jumped up onto the step next to Nicole. The eye was a pale mustard yellow, with a tiny black pupil swimming in the center, rolling from one side to the other. The lid quivered, blinking, and a thick, sickly fluid oozed out one side, seeping into the black dirt around it.

“What the hell?” Amber breathed.

I looked at Nicole. “You knew this was here? You saw this?”

Before she could answer I heard Rachel: “Tom?”

I headed up the steps. Rachel’s light was pointed at the top of the stairs.

Driver was there. 

“Who’s that—” He peered down, shading his eyes against Rachel’s light. “What are you doing down there?”

Amber was behind me, with Kris. Nicole stayed inside the door at the top step, keeping her eyes on the pit.

“Stay up there.” I reached under my jacket.

Driver ignored me. He walked down slowly, shaking his head as if disappointed in me. In all of us. “You shouldn’t have come here. How did you get the door open?”

By the time he reached the bottom step I had my handgun out. “Please keep your distance. I haven’t fired this very much, and I wouldn’t want to shoot you by accident.”

Yeah, I own a handgun. A Glock we’d named Donald Duck, bought after a particularly dangerous case last year. I don’t carry it often, and I’ve never actually shot a human being with it. Although I have shot other things.

But if Driver was a serial killer—which is all I’d been worried about this morning-—I didn’t want to be helpless. Especially with Rachel close by.

Driver looked at the handgun. “You’re going to shoot me, Tom?”

“I hope not. What’s that thing down there?”

His eyes flickered toward the door. “It’s been there for thousands of years. It’ll be here long after we’re dust.”

“Feeding on humans? Have you been giving sacrifices to the elder gods?”

Driver’s frown grew dark. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Of course not. “Whatever. Nicole? Lock the door. Let’s get out of here.”

I heard her move behind me. I was keeping my eyes on Driver. Then the door at the top of the stairs swung open.

I stepped back, both hands on my pistol, but now more people were coming down. Two men, a woman, another man, another woman—”Hold it!” I shouted, trying to keep my voice and my hands steady.

“Are you going to shoot us all, Tom?” Driver smiled. “Meet the Driver family.”

“Maybe I’ll start with you.” I didn’t mean it. But I’d shoot somebody if I had to. I heard Rachel’s breathing next to me, shallow and fast. I was fighting to keep my own breath under control.

The Drivers—five of them, plus the original—were all ages, from a bearded man in his 60s to a girl who looked 19. They formed a semicircle behind Driver, arms at their sides. None of them looked armed.

Driver smiled. “This family has been serving the ancient god for 150 years. That doesn’t end today. The ancient god is forever. Before the Earth cooled, he lived, and when the sun dies, he will endure. You are nothing in his sight.”

“Nice.” Rachel shined her light around the family. “We’re nothing except good eating? Is that it?”

He shrugged. “Even gods have needs.”

“Let’s get on with it, Glenn,” said the old man with the beard.

Driver nodded. “If you’re going to shoot, Tom, start now.” He took a step forward. His family moved in too, slowly but with determination on all their faces.

I pointed my gun. “Sorry, Glenn—”

“Wait!” Nicole. “This is my house! My house now!”

“You can have it,” Amber said. 

“You aren’t part of the sacrifice.” Driver waved a hand at Amber. “We need you. We need a legal heir so the house stays intact. You’ll—come to understand. We’ll take care of you—”

“Bullshit!” Nicole screamed. “I’m Jacob’s daughter, and this is my house now! You!” She pointed at me. “Come here. You too.”

I backed toward her, Rachel next to me, my pistol still aimed roughly at Driver. “What’s going on?”

Nicole motioned to Amber. “You guys. Come on.”

Driver started forward. “What are you—”

“Come on!” Nicole waved her arm frantically. “Get inside! All of you!” She held up the key.

The Drivers started forward. Amber whirled, and she ran with Kris through the doorway. I pulled Rachel, and for once she didn’t resist. We jumped through the opening, and Nicole shoved the door with her shoulder, slamming in Driver’s suddenly enraged face.

A heavy iron bolt hung from the wall. I hadn’t noticed it before, but with a grunt, Nicole pushed it into place as the Drivers on the other side pounded and shouted angrily.

We stood on the small platform. In the pit the eye pulsed, and another one of its tendrils pushed up through the dirt, as if sniffing the air.

“Now what?” Amber demanded. “You can have the damn house! What are we going to do now?”

Nicole pointed. “There’s another door.”

I looked across the pit. Yeah, another door, 50 feet away, on the far side of the room. Hanging open.

“I found it when I was here before. We can go around the edge, if we’re careful. I did it once.” She looked at me, desperate. “I’m sorry! It was all I could think of!”

It was better than fighting the Drivers. Even with my pistol, they outnumbered us. And I’m not a killer, for better or worse. I looked at Rachel. “I guess we better do it.”

“Yeah.” She squeezed my hand. “I did kind of miss this stuff.”

The pounding at the door hit a peak, then paused. That only made me more nervous. I looked at Amber and Kris. “Well?”

“Okay.” Amber nodded, glanced at Kris, and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Kris glared at me, but she took Amber’s hand.

Nicole went first, facing the wooden wall around the pit, testing the ground step by sideways step. Her toe slid once, and she gasped, leaning back to catch her balance. Then she edged forward again.

I followed, Rachel behind me, then Amber and Kris. Amber was crying softly, but Kris kept her calm, swearing occasionally at the monster, at Nicole, at the Driver family, and me.

Halfway around Nicole paused, looking over her shoulder. The eye seemed to be following us. The dirt slid around like the surface of a pond, more of the thing’s tentacles sliding around beneath the dirt. 

One popped up, darting around like a cobra seeking prey. Another one rose straight up next to it and stayed motionless, stiff as a spear.

Nicole started moving again, quicker, hands against the wall. “Almost there,” she said, more to herself than the rest of us. 

Her foot slipped in the damp earth. She staggered, almost going down to one knee, and the tentacle darted forward, slapping at her ankle.

Nicole yelped, kicking. I grabbed her wrist, and then I almost went down as she jerked away from me, shuffling awkwardly. I leaned against the wall for a moment, my heart pounding, until Rachel pushed me.

More tentacles rose through the dirt, swaying back and forth. One poked at Kris’s heel. She swore, and Amber grabbed her wrist tighter, pulling her sideways.

Nicole reached the doorway and sagged against it, gasping. I nudged her through, turned, and pulled Rachel past me. 

Amber was right there, with Kris urging her toward me, and then a tentacle pushed up through the dirt and wrapped itself around her leg. Amber screamed and toppled over as the thing pulled her, a second tendril rising to slip under her waist.

Kris shouted as Amber shrieked. I swore, reached under my jacket, and pulled out the Glock. 

My first shot missed the tentacle around her foot. The second bullet scored, and it shuddered and went limp. The one under her hips froze, and Amber rolled away. She crawled through the doorway with Kris holding her arms.

Rachel jabbed me in the ribs. “The eye,” she snapped. “Shoot for the eye.”

Right. I found the big yellow eye, bulging from the center of the pit. Could I really hurt this thing? Or would I just make it mad? The ancient god is forever, Driver said. But I doubted anyone had tried shooting its big ugly eye before.

I squeezed the trigger. I stopped counting the shots after three bullets and just kept firing until the magazine was empty, which took only about three seconds. 

The eye twitched when my first bullet struck it, and blinked in spasms with every one after that. Something started bubbling out of it, a greenish liquid that spilled onto the dirt and turned into steam. By the time the gun was empty the eyeball was twisting around and around, and the ground started shaking as more tentacles fought their way through the dirt.

Rachel grabbed my arm. “Come on!” 

I followed her up a set of winding metal steps and through a trapdoor that brought us up into a small shack that looked and definitely smelled like an outhouse. A small window near the metal roof let in a little light. The door hung open.

Amber and Kris were already outside, holding each other under a tree. I staggered out, my legs shaking, but the sunlight felt warm and safe on my face.

We were behind the house. I looked around. “Where’s Nicole?”

Rachel shook her head. “She ran to the front. She said to get away.”

I had another magazine for my Glock, so I switched them out. Then we headed toward the front yard and our cars.

Halfway there, Nicole’s van came clattering around the house, tearing grass up from the lawn as it shuddered across the back yard, rocking back and forth. It skidded to a stop under the tree, next to the outhouse.

The front door popped open and Nicole tumbled out. Hauling herself to her feet, she started running, waving her arms. “Get away!” she shouted. “Get away!”

Oh hell. Was she—

I grabbed Rachel’s arm, and she shook me free as we raced for the front of the house, Amber and Kris behind us, grunting and gasping as they sprinted. They actually passed us and made it to their car just as Rachel and I reached the rear of our Prius. Nicole stumbled on the front lawn, plucked herself up again, and joined us, panting and wheezing.

“What did you do?” I demanded. “What are you—”

The car exploded.

The blast threw rocks and dirt and tree branches 20 feet or higher into the air, with a roar that threatened to blow out my eardrums and a shock wave that pushed me and Rachel to the street. 

We rolled, me on top of Rachel as I tried to shield her from any falling stones or debris, and for once she didn’t push me away, except to shove my arm away from her mouth so she could breathe. 

I saw Nicole on the ground, hands covering her head, her lips moving as if she was praying.

After a few minutes the sky stopped dropping random objects on the street around us, and I stood up on unsteady legs.

The side of the house was gone. Obliterated. Beyond I could see where the bomb in the van had gouged a deep crater out of the earth, flames flickering up over the edge. Was it deep enough? I hoped so. Otherwise we were likely to meet a very angry elder god again.

The front door opened, and Driver staggered from the house, followed by his family, coughing and wobbling. Driver paused to look at me, and for a moment I was afraid I’d have to take my pistol out again, but the old man with the beard slapped his shoulder and shook his head. Driver gave me one last glare, then turned and went with his clan to a pickup truck parked across the street.

Rachel helped Nicole to her feet as they drove away. Amber and Kris walked over, Kris holding Amber’s arm to help her walk.

I looked at Nicole. “Gasoline and fertilizer?”

She nodded weakly. “I’m sorry. It was the only way. That thing—” She leaned against my car, close to collapse.

In Chicago we would have been hearing sirens already. Out here the air was still clear and silent, except for the crackling of whatever was still burning inside the pit.

“They’ll trace it to you,” I told Nicole. “There’ll be enough of the van left for the FBI or whoever—”

“I had to stop them. Don’t you see? It was my father! My father, letting them kill people! I couldn’t—I can’t . . .” She coughed. “You guys better get out of here. I’ll wait. I’ll tell them everything and they’ll think I’m crazy and lock me away.”

I looked at Rachel. She rolled her eyes. “I know you. You love telling your stories to people who don’t believe you.”

“Yeah.” I turned to Amber. “If you’re fast, they won’t get you. I’ll try to leave your name out of it so you won’t have to answer any questions.”

She sighed, looked at Kris, then ran a hand through her hair. “They’ll know it’s my house. I’ll have to talk to them anyway. I guess I should stay.”

We went over our story together until the police and fire trucks finally started showing up.

 

We told them the whole story—Driver, Holroyd, the house’s tortured history, and the ancient god in the pit beneath the house. They clearly thought we were crazy. I’m used to that, but Amber and Kris had to force themselves to stop insisting it was true after a while. 

In the end, though, they had a suspect who seemed legitimately crazy, who admitted pulling off the blast, and who told all the cops and paramedics and firefighters over and over about the one-eyed underground monster she’d blown up. Nicole clambered into a patrol car’s back seat in handcuffs but without an argument, and we watched them drive her away.  

            I don’t know what they ever found in the pit—the bloody remains of an ancient elder god? Bits and pieces of unidentifiable organic matter? I wondered if it could have survived, maybe digging itself deeper into the earth to wait a few hundred years before emerging again. When the Michigan police and the FBI called me during the days and weeks afterward, they refused to share any information on what was down there at the bottom of the black crater—alive, dead, or sleeping.

            Driver and his family disappeared. The local police seemed to know about them, and implied that they’d been keeping an eye on them for some time. Their house, when I eventually found it, was empty, and the land around it was dead and barren.

Kris basically hated me, even though I didn’t think it was all my fault, but Amber paid my bill and let me know she was working on restoring the house so she could sell it eventually, with the lower basement area filled in by cement. She didn’t see Driver or his family again, but she was careful whenever she drove down to check out the remodeling progress.

            I asked Rachel, when we got home that day, what she thought the thing was. Alien? Demon? Lovecraftian elder god?

            She sighed. “I don’t know. It was old. Maybe centuries, like that guy said. And hungry. But also . . . tired. Not ready to let go, but—” She finished her beer. “But definitely evil.”

            “Yeah. I got that too.” I opened another beer for her. “Thanks for coming out. Sorry I almost got you killed. Again.”

            She patted my arm. “If I didn’t want to get scared once in a while—well, there are lots of cute guys at school.” She grinned.

            “Now I’m scared.” But I sipped my own beer and tried not to think about the monster while we watched TV. Or any other elder gods waiting underground for another sacrifice.

 

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