The Exile, Part Five

The fire was nothing but smoke and water damage by the time I reached the house. It hadn’t spread—neither house on either side looked threatened, but the yard was littered with debris: broken glass, shingles, furniture hurled through broken windows. Styles stood on the sidewalk, a firefighter talking to him.

            A few neighbors were still watching, but the excitement had been extinguished along with the flames. More firefighters were coming out of the house, carrying their equipment, ready to pack up and head back to the station.

            Eventually the firefighter went back to his truck. I walked up. “What happened?”

            Styles turned and blinked at me as if he didn’t remember me. “Jurgen. Tom Jurgen.”

            “Yeah. Sorry about your house. What happened?”

            He looked at the front door, which hung open on its hinges. Smoke was still settling inside. “The Domination.”

            David had mentioned that word. “Uh, what’s the Domination?”

            Styles breathed slowly, as if building up his strength. “They cast me out.”

            “Out of where?”

            His hands curled into fists. “Out of my home.”

            “This place?”

He scowled. “The house I ruled. My rightful place. My true home.”

            “Where is home?” I asked quietly.

            His eyes grew fuzzy, unfocused, as if he was trying to picture it in his mind. “Far away,” he murmured. “But close. Very close.”

            “The passage?”

            Styles took a step back, his eyes twitching. “Stay away. Don’t go near it. Don’t. You won’t like the other side.”

            Something clicked in my mind. So far this case had been normal, mostly. No supernatural stuff. Now? I seem to attract the paranormal like, like—a detective who keeps attracting the paranormal. 

            “It’s the symbol, isn’t it? That’s where the passage is. The way home.” I stared at him. “What’s going on, professor?”

            But he’d already dismissed me. Now he was walking away, as if following a voice in the distance that no one else could hear.

            I started to follow him. He didn’t look back, marching steadily down the sidewalk, but before I’d taken 10 steps something hit me. Not hard, but firmly, like a pillow swung by a giant. My butt hit the concrete hard, knocking the breath out of me.

            One of the firefighters ran up from his truck. “You okay, sir?” A young, stocky guy. He reached down to haul me to my feet.

            “I’m fine, I guess.” Just embarrassed. “Can’t walk on my own two feet sometimes.”

            He nodded, probably writing me off as a drunk. “Take care, sir.”

            “Yeah.” I turned.

            Styles was gone.

 

I had a theory. But I needed Rachel.

            She met me at the hospital. “This cafeteria does not count as making dinner,” she told me as we got coffee.

            “I will make dinner for the next three nights,” I promised. 

            She rolled her eyes. “You’ll make baked ziti and make it last for three nights.” 

            “You like my baked ziti. It still counts.”

            “I suppose.” I paid for our coffee, and we went to the elevators.

            Hallie was still in David’s room, looking tired. After spending all day here, I hoped they’d at least go out on a date sometime. Beckerman was also there, leaning against the window, arms crossed, with a frown on his face.

            “Jurgen?” He straightened as Rachel and I entered the room. “What’s going on with Styles? Did you find him?”

            “His house burned down—”

            “Is he okay?” David looked suddenly worried.

            “Yes.” I nodded to reassure him. “Actually it didn’t burn down, but it did catch fire. I saw him there. I lost him, though.”

            “So why are you two here?” Beckerman asked. 

            “I’m hoping Rachel can help us look into David’s mind.” I glanced at her. “I have an idea of what’s going on. I just want to see if we can get some more information.”

            “I may get nothing,” Rachel said, to me as much as to the rest of them. “But I told him I’d try.”

            Beckerman snorted. “We might as well get that Tarot reader in here.”        

            I shuffled uncomfortably on my feet. “Actually—"

            “Hello?” A hand knocked on the half-opened door. “David? Mr. Jurgen? Is the right room?”

            It was Madame Olivya. Beckerman stared in disbelief. I waited for him to order us all out, or storm out himself. Instead, after a moment, he shook his head and sighed. “I’m not paying her fee. Whatever it is.”

            Madame Olivya wore a dark pantsuit and a long coat. She smiled at David, nodded to Beckerman, and looked Rachel over as if sizing up a rival, or a potential ally. Then she dropped her coat over the foot of David’s bed and opened a big bag. “I’ll do this quickly, since I’m not wanted here.” She pulled up a Tarot pack. “Is this for David?”

            “Yes,” I said. “We want to look into what happened when he disappeared.”

            She pursed her lips. “We can’t control the cards. We can only listen to what they tell us.”

            “That’s what I told him,” Rachel said. “He doesn’t listen.”

            She smiled. “But you do.”

            Rachel winked. “Sometimes.”

            Madame Olivya folded the cards together as I moved David’s dinner tray out of the way. “This is a special deck. My family’s owmn design.” She set the stack in front of him. “Go.”

            David focused on the deck, avoiding all our eyes—especially his father. He picked up a card. It showed a long road winding up a dark mountain, with bolts of lightning in the sky.

            “You have taken a long journey to a dark place,” Madame Olivya said quietly. “You may have walked. You may have drifted in the wind.”

            Beckerman snorted, but David scratched his head, nodding slightly. He picked up another card.

            This one showed three white figures floating in a dark sky—angels, or possibly vengeful furies. Madame Olivya cocked her head. “You encountered strange beings you couldn’t understand. Were they friendly or enemies?”

            David shrugged. “I don’t know.” He picked a third card.

            This one showed the sun and the moon high above a mountain range, with tiny figures in the foreground looking up. Madame Olivya frowned. “I’m not sure . . . this usually signifies God or gods, worship, deities. Sometimes demons or devils.”

            He flipped the next card. A stormy sea, with stars falling out of the sky, and a bright like burning in the distance. “War,” she murmured. “Threatening everyone, all over the world.” She shivered. David just shook his head.

            The next card was a golden tower looming over a white city, gleaming in an unseen sun. David leaned forward, squinting. “That’s—that was there. I think—I must have dreamed it. This morning, or maybe before. It looks real.”

            “A tower can mean vision, the ability to see a vast distance,” Madame Olivya said. “It can also be refuge, a place of safety. High above the wild crowds.” 

            Even Beckerman was listening, trying to put the pieces together. David gulped some water.

            The final card was a tree. Like the tower, it stretched high, but it grew under a night sky, casting a long shadow from a distant moon.

            “Home,” Madame Olivya stated. “Roots in the soil. The end of the day. The time of rest.” She crossed her hands on the table next to the stack of remaining cards. “The end of the journey.”

            I glanced at Rachel. She nodded. Madame Olivya was legit, as far as she could tell. It was one of the reasons I’d asked her to be here.

            The hospital room was silent, until Beckerman spoke: “So what does it mean?” He sounded skeptical, but no longer hostile.

            “When Styles came here this morning, you didn’t understand him,” I said. “But then later you did. I was hoping we could jog your memory.”

            “With these cards?” Beckerman snorted.

            But David looked at Madame Olivya. “Yeah. That sort of made sense, even if I don’t . . .” More water. He looked past his father, through the window, into the night. “I sort of feel like there’s something there, like when you don’t remember a dream when you wake up? Like that.”

            I looked at Rachel. “Rach?”

            She sighed, then stepped toward David’s bed. “Could I, uh, touch your head?” 

            “S-sure. I guess.” He started a glance toward Hallie, then turned his head back and closed his eyes. “Go ahead.”

            Rachel reached out and pressed her fingers to David’s scalp. She looked at me, as if reminding me that I owed her something big, then looked down at David.

            “There’s something that wants to get out,” she said after a moment. “Not like a demon,” she said quickly when David’s eyes flashed open. “People repress traumatic memories, but that makes problems. Emotional, even physical. I’m a shrink, not just a psychic. I know about this stuff.” She pressed her palm against his forehead. “But I can’t read minds. You have to do it yourself. Or with a therapist, maybe. Not me.” She backed away. “That’s not why I’m here, okay?”

            “Thanks,” I told her. She punched my arm.

            “Why are you here? Why are we here?” Beckerman was getting annoyed again. “What has all this got to do with Quentin Styles?”

            Everyone looked at me. Nervous, I glanced at Rachel, but she was just as expectant as everyone else. Oh, well, I’d done this to myself. 

            “Here’s what I think.” I felt a little like Hercule Poirot about to reveal the identity of the murderer. “That symbol in the cemetery opens a passage to somewhere else. A pocket universe, or something like that. I think Quentin Styles came through it 20 years ago. Maybe he doesn’t remember—or maybe he’s pretending not to remember.” I shrugged. “Either way, he’s been searching for a way back ever since. He enlisted David to help him find it. He’s probably not the first. But David finally did find it, and he accidentally went through, and whatever happened to him there is hidden somewhere in his memory. And Styles wants to go back.”

            “But he knows where it is,” Rachel said. “Right? Why hasn’t he gone back already?”

            Good question. “Maybe he did. Maybe he came back—like David.”

            “So where is he now?” David asked, worried.

            “I don’t care.” Beckerman pushed himself away from the window. “I’ve had enough of this. David—” He leaned over his son’s bed. “I can’t run your life, I don’t want to run your life, all I want is for you to have a life. A good life. Can’t you just—do that, okay? For your—for me?” 

            David reached for his hand. The rest of us checked out the floor, or the ceiling, or the windows. Hallie looked at her phone.

            After a moment Beckerman straightened up. “Okay, I have to go. Jurgen, call me in the morning. Hallie—” He turned. She flinched, but he managed half a smile. “Help him get some rest, okay?”

            She nodded. “Of course.”

            He turned to Madame Olivya. “Well, it’s been interesting. Good night.”

            She chuckled softly. “And to you.”

            I took out my wallet to pay for her reading, but she pushed my hand away. “I don’t want your money, Tom. We understand things, you and I. Maybe I will call you for something one day.”

            “What things?” Rachel asked. She gets territorial about me. Or maybe she was just hungry and eager to go home.

“A knowledge of the dark.” She cocked her head at Rachel. “I think you do too. “

Rachel looked at me. “If I do, it’s all your fault.”

I nodded. “Probably.”

            We walked to the elevators, but Hallie’s voice caught us from down the hall as the doors opened. “Mr. Jurgen! Just a second!”

            I hid a groan. Rachel waved to Madame Olivya to go ahead, and we turned.

            Hallie was holding her phone up. “There’s a fire. In the Classics Building. Where Styles has his office.”

            Rachel and I looked at the phone. It was a local news site, with only a few sentences and a photo of smoke pouring out a window. A small fire had broken out on the fifth floor of the building—where Styles had his office, I remembered—and everyone was evacuated. No injuries. Firefighters didn’t know the cause of the outburst yet.

            Hallie looked worried. “Do you think—is it connected to the fire at his house?” 

            “Yeah.” I looked at Rachel. “Something’s hunting him.”

            “What about David?” Hallie looked back down the hall. “Will it come after him?”

            “So far it hasn’t,” I said. “So, maybe not. Just be careful. Let me know if he remembers any more.”          

            She bit her lip. “Okay. Thank you.”

            Rachel watched her walk back to David’s room. “She’s got it bad.”

            “Does he like her?”

            She grinned. “Yeah. He’s just shy.”

            “Young love.” I pressed the elevator button. 

            Rachel nudged me. “Married love isn’t so bad either.”

            I smiled. “Let’s test that later.”

            She poked my stomach. “Dinner first.”

The Exile, Part Six

My phone buzzed. I groaned, rolled over, and forced my eyes open. 3:12 a.m.  I didn’t recognize the number, and I was tempted to just send it to voicemail, but in my job you sometimes have to answer unknown callers in the middle of the night. “Y-yeah? Hello?”

            “It’s me.” David Beckerman, but his voice sounded different. Distant. “I remember everything.”

            Rachel grabbed my pillow and stuffed it over her head. I swung my legs to the floor and staggered out to the living room. “Okay. What do you remember?”

            “I’m at the cemetery. You have to come here to see it.”

            Oh, hell. “No. No way. It’s dark outside. How did you get out of the hospital? Isn’t the cemetery locked up now?”

            “You need to see it. The gates will be open.”

            “Is that a metaphor, or do you mean—” But he hung up.

            God damn it. I stared at the glowing screen for a moment, trying to tell myself I should just go back to sleep and check it out in the morning. But I knew I wouldn’t. Worse, David knew I wouldn’t.

            And even worse than that, Rachel knew I wouldn’t.

            “What are you doing?” she murmured from the bed as I tried to hurriedly dress in just the light of my phone.

            “David Beckerman. Says he remembers everything, and he’ll only tell me if I go out there and meet him at the cemetery.”

            “Shit.” She sat up. “Hang on.”

            “You don’t have to come.” I sat to tie my shoes.

            “Someone’s got to keep you from traveling to another dimension. I’m not living through that again.”

            Several years ago, when we were dating, I’d gone through a portal in a tree to an alternate reality called Forsythia. I came back alive, but Rachel hadn’t been happy with me. “Fine. No portals. We’re just going to listen and then take him back to the hospital.”

            “You’re lucky you made enough baked ziti for the week. Give me a minute to find my bra.”

            So 45 minutes later we were at the cemetery entrance. The front gate was open in the literal sense, and the camera watching it didn’t appear to be moving. No security guards were in sight, so I slowly drove in.

            “I can’t say I didn’t know what I was getting into when I married you,” Rachel said as I navigated the road winding past all the tombstones. “Wasn’t something like this our third date?”

            “No, that was the museum with the ghosts and the kidnapped girl. The first time I took you to a cemetery we had to fight off a newly risen vampire and destroy a book of spells. We’d been going out a month or two, I think.”

            “I remember now. We had pretty good sex that night.”

            “Pretty good? I thought it was great.”

            Rachel patted my leg. “You do fine.”

            I followed the map and my memory, and after 15 minutes I was pretty sure I saw the tree. I stopped the car. “Flashlights in the trunk. I’ve got the pepper spray. You got your stun gun?”

            “I know the drill.” Rachel yawned. “If you were an accountant I’d still be asleep.”

            “If I’d become an accountant we never would have met, and you’d be bored silly.”

            She hesitated. “You do have a point.” 

            At first I thought we were alone, that David had fled or he’d lied about being here. Then I saw him standing next to the tree, motionless. 

            We walked slowly. David didn’t seem to notice us, but once we got in front of him he lifted a hand, shading his eyes from our flashlights. He was barefoot, in his jeans and a T-shirt, with the hospital gown around his shoulders like a cape for warmth.

            “You came.” His eyes flicked between Rachel and me. “Hi.”

            “What’s going on, David?” I wanted to point my flashlight into his eyes. “It’s four in the morning, we were asleep, and you called me. Start talking.”

            He sighed, tired, and walked to the side of the tree where the symbol had been carved. “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .” 

            “I can have the cops here right away to take you back,” I told him.

            “Sorry.” He stood straight. “It is far away, or maybe it’s right here, I don’t know. When I went through . . .” He stared at the symbol. “When I went through—I don’t know how it happened. I was looking at it, and then I was just—falling. For a long time, or just a second or two. I felt the same. I never really stopped, I just sort of floated, and I could hear these—beings, talking. Not to me. I couldn’t understand them, but after a while I could. They were all around me, above me, under me.” He tapped his forehead. “Inside me.” 

            David shivered, and not just because he was outside, in a cold graveyard, in the middle of the night. “They were trying to figure out who I am, but mostly they wanted to make sure I wasn’t—somebody else. Eventually they . . .” He rubbed his head. “I saw it, like a movie or something inside my brain. There was a war, a kind of a war, and when it was over they kicked somebody out. Exile. They wanted to know if it was me, but I guess they figured out I wasn’t the guy, so they—they sent me back.” 

            He looked down at the ground. “I guess you found me.”

            “Yeah.” I looked over at Rachel. 

            She stepped toward David and put a hand on his arm. After a moment she let her arm drop. “It’s gone now.” She stepped back. “The thing that was trying to get out. Maybe being near this thing knocked it loose.” She took a step toward the tree, and for a moment I thought she was going to put her hand on the symbol and let it pull her into another dimension. But she stopped before I could yell, and just stared at it. “It’s like a wave pulling you in,” she murmured. 

I looked back at David. “So Styles is an exile, trying to get home. What are you doing here?”

            He pointed to the symbol. “Guarding it.”

            “Just you? Alone, in your bare feet?”

            David smiled shyly. “Well, now you’re here.”

            “Oh, no.” Rachel shook her head. “We’re not getting involved in a civil war from another dimension.  No way.” She turned to me. “How about we just chop down this tree and burn that carving?”

            “Not a bad idea,” I agreed. “Except we don’t have an ax in the car.”

            She groaned. “Add that to the supplies. Along with the mallet and stakes.”

            “No,” said a voice from behind a tombstone. A dark form walked toward us, steady but impatient. I flicked my flashlight at his face even though I’d recognized the voice.

            Quentin Styles stopped in front of David. “David, David—you were doing so good. You were my favorite student, from the first day. Are you turning against me now?”

            “They showed me what you did to them.” David’s voice quavered, but he stayed firmly on his bare feet. “You didn’t just kill them, you ripped them apart.”

            “They didn’t show you what they did to me!” His voice shook. “It was worse. Much worse. An eternity of agony, and then—cast out. Exiled to this pitiful plane of so-called existence.” He shook his head sadly. “They only showed you what they wanted you to believe. You’re a better student than that.”

            “They didn’t just show me,” David said. “I felt it. I was inside them as you shredded them piece by piece.”

            “It was war.” He sounded haunted. “Total and complete. There’s no other path.”

            “I can’t let you go through.” David clenched his fists. “They don’t want you.”

            “You think you can stop me? The three of you? In my world I’m a god. A boy, a middle-aged detective and—who are you, now?” He looked at Rachel.

            “I’m Rachel.” She crossed her arms. “And I know krav maga.”

            He shook his head. “None of that will help you. It’s my destiny. You can’t stop me.”

            “Who burned down your house?” I asked. “Your office? They’re here, aren’t they? Looking for you? Maybe that’s why you’re so desperate to get out of here.”

            Styles glared at me. “They have no power over me here. They can only sneak and hide, peer around corners and cast blunt darts at me. I am still a god. They’re nothing.” He waved an arm at David. “Out of my way, boy.”

            David flinched but stood his ground. “No. Not a chance.”

            “Let him go, I say.” Rachel smirked. “Good riddance.”

            “I can’t! You didn’t see—or feel—what he did! And now it’s in my head! I can’t forget—and I can’t let him do it!” David backed up, standing against the tree, arms wide. “You can’t do it!”

            “I will!” Styles crouched, and then he rushed forward like a rabid dog and grabbed David’s arms, pulling him away from the tree. 

            “Stop him! Stop him!” David tried to struggle, but he was too weak and tired to put up a fight. Fortunately I had my pepper spray, and Rachel was reaching for her stun gun. I didn’t much care who was on the right side of a war in another universe, but I couldn’t let Styles injure my client’s son.

            I darted forward, pepper spray raised, while Rachel went in from the other side. She got to him first and jabbed her stun gun into his arm. Styles screeched and shook, but kept his grip on David’s arms, so I leaned in and squirted his face. 

            Styles howled, pushing David to the ground as he clawed at his eyes. Rachel backed away and I reached down to help David get to his feet—

            And a beam of white flame burst from the symbol in the tree. 

            It streamed straight at Styles like a spear, lighting up his face in an unearthly glow. His body shook, and he tried to raise his arms, kick with his feet, but they flailed helplessly, as if an electric current was running through him from skull to feet.

            His face twisted in a silent scream. I could see the muscles in his throat, fighting to shriek, struggling to breathe. Slowly he rose in the air, his feet dangling, until he was six feet above the ground, shrouded in that glowing white fire.

            His body hung there like a fish on a spike, his face contorted in fear, or pain, as his arms and legs jerked up and down. 

            The white flame burned more fiercely—I could feel it on my forehead as David staggered backward, breathing hard. I grabbed Rachel’s hand to pull her away. “You okay?”

            She nodded, shading her eyes. When I looked back, Styles’s body was breaking apart, melting, but his lips were moving with words none of us could hear. A prayer for mercy? A cry of defiance? There was no way to tell. He just stared at the tree, into the light, his arms locked to his sides and his legs hanging down, as if the energy had drained from his body.

            “Oh God,” David breathed, his face covered with sweat.

Styles trembled in the air for another long moment, and then he managed to turn his head to look down at us with hatred in his face, snarling with rage. “Never!” It was one last loud howl of fury forced from his throat. “Never—”

Then the flame vanished, taking Styles with it.

Most of him, anyway. One shoe lay on the grass, in the center of a dark circle that smoldered as if a fire had died there. 

            The symbol on the tree had been burned away too, leaving just a black patch bare of bark. I walked up to and reached out to touch it, but Rachel snapped, “Don’t you dare.”

            I could feel the heat emanating from the tree anyway. I didn’t want to burn myself. I let my hand drop. 

David sagged, and Rachel caught him before he fell on the ground. “Let’s go out of here,” she said. 

“Yeah.” I took one shoulder and Rachel held the other one, and we started carrying David back to our car. It was a long walk.

            

We took David back to the hospital. Hallie had gone home, but the night nurses and the doctor were all over him, plugging the monitors and IVs back into his body as they snapped questions about what had happened. We told them we’d gotten a call from the cemetery and found him there; we left out the part about a university professor being incinerated by white fire shooting out of another dimension through a tree.

            We got back home at 6:30. “Back to bed? You’re not going to the office today.”

            “I may as well stay up.” Rachel yawned. “I’ve got paperwork, and I don’t have any phone clients until the afternoon. Make some coffee.”

            I slept for a few hours, then got up for cereal and coffee. Rachel was working on her side of the office as I called my client. 

            “David, uh, told me what happened last night.” Beckerman was at the hospital. “I don’t know if I believe it, but—he’s acting normal now. A little angry, a little embarrassed. That girl Hallie is here, and for once—” He lowered his voice. “Now he’s behaving like a boy who likes a girl who likes him. Which is good. She seems like a nice girl.”

            “Yes,” I said.

“Look, Jurgen, I just have to say it, all right?” He took a deep breath. “I was right about Styles.” He sounded pleased with himself. “I mean, wasn’t I?”

            “I guess you were,” I agreed. “You might wait a while before reminding your son.”

            “Yeah.” He chuckled. “I’ve learned that much about being a father. All right, send me an invoice. You should, uh, include your hours last night. Thank you for helping my son.”

            “No problem.” I hung up.

            “How’s dad?” Rachel asked from her desk.

            “Couldn’t resist saying ‘I told you so.’” I picked up my coffee.

            She snorted. “Typical.”

            “Yeah.”  I sipped. The coffee was cold. “Thanks for your help last night. You going to take a nap later?”

            “I don’t know.” She threw a Post-it pad at me. “I might want to lie down for a while.”

            “Really?”

            Rachel grinned. “Yeah.”

            “Me too.” I picked up the Post-it pad and threw it back. “Let me know.”

            She caught it. “Oh, I will.”

 

# # #

Reading Group of Terror

 Tom Jurgen’s investigation into a small-town reading group turns up a dangerous threat.

Reading Group of Terror, Part One

The house was set back from the dark road. Its gravel driveway was long enough for eight cars to park, one after another around the long loop. More cars were parked on the grass. Light glowed from the big window next to a wide porch.

            The car I was following was in back, near the road. I watched my subject, Bryan Furier, walk up to the porch and ring a bell. The front door opened and Furier went in.

            I waited at the end of the driveway, with the back of my Prius sticking out into the road. Once the door closed behind Furier, I turned off the motor and headed up to the porch, moving as quickly and silently as I could. 

            The porch was 20 feet long, and extended to half of the front window. I made my way on light feet down the planks of the porch and leaned over cautiously, peering inside through a half-inch gap in the burgundy-colored drapes. 

            A group of people sat in a circle of chairs. Some held glasses of wine or bottles of beer. All of them, 15 or more, had something in their laps or on the floor at their feet. A book. I couldn’t make out the title, but it was definitely the same book for everyone.

            I decided I couldn’t stay up here any longer before someone noticed me, and pretending I was lost probably wouldn’t go over very well. I hurried back to my car and pulled out before anyone could spot me. I drove a hundred feet further along the road and pulled over on the narrow shoulder. This stretch of the road was deserted—no houses, no traffic, just dark trees and a moonless sky.

            Now what? It didn’t look like Furier was having an affair. More like he’d joined a book group without telling his wife. Maybe the discussion was the prelude to a swingers’ party? That didn’t seem likely, but I’ve never been to an orgy, so I wouldn’t know.

My client, Jayne Furier, suspected her husband of cheating on her. “Every Tuesday, for the last four weeks he says he has a late patient,” she’d told me when we met in a coffee shop near my apartment. “He’s a dentist, some people have to come late, fine. But every Tuesday? He hasn’t been himself lately. Something’s wrong.”

            Cheating spouses pay for a big chunk of every P.I.’s cable bill, so I took the job.

            Parked on the side of the road, I used my phone to search the real estate records for the town of Hartwell, Illinois, about 30 miles west of Chicago. Warren Hartwell Inc. was listed at the house’s owner. Interesting. It was a printing company, mostly small runs of textbooks, training manuals, family histories and memoirs, and some small collections of poetry. 

            I was just checking out some titles when a blue light flashed in my mirror. The police. Uh-oh.

            The cop who knocked on my window was tall and beefy. “Everything okay, sir? Lost?”

            “I think I got turned around.” I kept my hands on the steering wheel. “Which way is Bensenville?”

            He chuckled. “You passed it Can I see your license and registration?”

            I handed them over. “Tom Jurgen. Chicago. Visiting friends in Bensenville?”

            “Possible client. The GPS on my phone sometimes channels another part of the multiverse.”

            The cop chuckled and passed my documents back. “Turn around, go back to 19 about three miles back, going east. Look for York Road. Have a nice night! Drive safe!” He slapped the hood of my car as he walked back to his vehicle. 

            At least he hadn’t made my walk a straight line or recite the alphabet backward, neither of which I can do sober anyway. On the other hand, he didn’t pull out right away. He waited until I started up, turned, and headed back up the road. 

            I stopped at a gas station to text Rachel I was on my way home. She texted back almost right away: Bring ice cream and maybe we’ll have sex later. I started a search for Baskin Robbins. 

 

Rachel was getting ready to leave the next morning as I came into the kitchen. She’s my wife—we’re still newlyweds, technically, although we lived together for years—and she works three days a week as a therapist at a mental health clinic. Today she was dressed in her professional slacks and a blue blouse.

            “I made coffee.” She set her Supergirl mug in the sink. “I think I left some for you. What’s up for today?”

            “Call my client, tell her it doesn’t look like her husband’s having an affair, send the invoice.” I got out a bowl for my cereal. “You home at the regular time?”

            “Yeah, sixish.” She kissed me. “See you. Good sex last night.”

            “Good ice cream, too.” Pralines and cream is her favorite. I watched her go, heard the locks click on the door, and poured myself some coffee.

            At 9:30 I called my client—Jayne Furier was a VP at an insurance firm downtown—and told her what I’d seen last night. “It does not look like he’s having an affair,” I finished, “but I can’t tell you what’s really going on. It looked more like a social or literary salon than anything.”      “I don’t know.” She sounded confused, understandably. “He’s sick today. Canceled his patients. He’s sleeping now. Nothing went on out there? You’re sure?”

            “Well, like I said, I couldn’t stay and watch very long. Something might have happened later, but it didn’t have that vibe, from what I could tell. What time did he get home?”

            “Nine or so. Nine thirty.”

            I’d been there at seven. “I suppose there would have been time for—something. But I don’t know. What’s interesting is that the house is owned by a company the town is named for, Hartwell. Does that name sound familiar?”

            “No, I don’t think so. What kind of company?”

            “Publishing. I could look into the company and the town a little, if you want. Although I have to say, at this point it would probably be more cost-effective for you to simply talk to him.”

            “Yeah, maybe.” She thought about it a moment, then said, “Just a second” to someone else. “Can I let you know? I have to go into a meeting. I’ll call you back later today, if that’s all right.”

            “That’s fine. Whenever’s convenient.”  You have to give clients time to process information and make decisions about it. And so far this had been a simple case, like most cheating spouse jobs. No vampires or witches. I get too many of those.

            I spent the rest of the day trying to track down employees at a plant that had burned down in a suspicious fire which was part of a lawsuit over negligence. Nothing supernatural there, either. Just after lunch my phone buzzed. Jayne Furier. “He’s—Bryan’s in the hospital.”

            I frowned. “What happened?”

            “He just—he called me, and he couldn’t talk, he was just growling and swearing and spitting. I called my sister to go check on him, and he was unconscious, but still making strange noises, and kind of crawling round on the floor. She sent me a video, hang on—”

            A moment later an email popped up. I saw Bryan Furier wearing pajama bottoms, sprawled on the floor, sweating all over his body, his face red and twisted. “Rrr . . . ahh . . . gah!” he groaned, spitting up at the phone. “Arr . . . rarrr . . . gahh!” He pounded a fist on the floor and kicked out at the air as a woman’s voice tried to calm him with his name and promises to get him help.

“They took him to Northwestern. I’m here now, and he’s—they don’t know what’s causing it. They gave him something and now he’s in a coma.”

            I’d seen this kind of thing before—the growling, the spitting. But I didn’t want to freak Jayne Furier out. Yet. There were probably any number of legitimate medical reasons aside from the one I was worried about.

            “Is it about last night?” she asked, breathless. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I w3ant to know what happened out there. This isn’t Bryan, something isn’t right, something’s not . . .” She stopped, gasping.

            “All right,” I said in as reassuring a tone as I could manage. “Let me look into it. If I have to, I’ll go out there and knock on the door. Is that okay?”

            “Yes, fine. I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m sorry.”

            “That’s all right, I understand.” I’ve had to deal with lots of worried spouses and family members. Sometimes their stories don’t have happy endings. “I’ll be in touch.”

            I spent a few minutes looking up Hartwell, Illinois on the internet. According to its website, the town had been founded in 1894 as Whitman, but changed its name in 1946 several years after Warren Hartwell started up his first printing press in a warehouse and founded his publishing business, bringing jobs and money to the town. Hartwell died in 1962, and business shrank over the years, but the printing business was still going, expanded and profitable. The original warehouse had been torn down years ago, but the site was home to a town historical society. Open until six.

            I usually get better information by talking to people than roaming the internet. So I texted Rachel to let her know where I was going and headed for the car.

 

The Hartwell Historical Society was a small brick building next to the town’s post office and across the street from a grocery store. A bell rang as I walked inside, and a young man stood up from a reception desk beneath a large painting of an old white man, with the name “Warren Hartwell” on a plaque beneath. The society charged $10 per person for admissions, according to a sign next to the painting.

            “Hi! Welcome to the Historical Society!” In his 20s, the guy wore a green blazer with a big red WHW monogram on the left side, underneath a name tag that identified him as Hal.

            “Hi.” I picked up a brochure. “I’m interested in that house outside of town? The one that’s owned by the Hartwell company?”

            “The Hartwell House? Right. Let me see . . .” He started tapping at a laptop next to the cash register. 

            “Does anyone live there now?” I asked. “Is it still in the family?”

            “You can find out everything about the Hartwell family in gallery two.” He pointed. 

            I really wanted to talk to someone, not look at old pictures, but it seemed more polite to at least start there. So I paid my $10 and followed his finger to gallery two.

            The exhibit turned out to be more informative than I expected. They had the first small printing press Warren Hartwell had owned and operated in his basement, along with some of the first fliers he’d printed for the local church. There was a photo of his first wife, Evelyn, and their newborn child in front of a stack of freshly printed textbooks.

            The company struggled at first, then suddenly expanded, taking over into an old warehouse and churning out more textbooks, church pamphlets, and the occasional self-published autobiography or novel. I couldn’t figure out what Hartwell had done to turn his company into a success overnight, and nothing in the exhibit’s photos and artifacts addressed the abrupt change in fortune. Warren Hartwell lived to be 84 years old, and in his later years he spent a lot on money on the town, funding its library, hospital, one of two elementary schools and a high school, and an assisted living facility for senior citizens. 

The exhibit was straightforward about his three marriages: His first wife divorced him, and his second wife was much younger. They married within weeks of divorce No. 1, and his second son was born six months later, although you had to take a close look at the dates to find the truth. Hartwell divorced wife No. 2 seven years and one more son later. One photo showed her getting into a car, and the caption noticed that she later married a former manager at Hartwell’s publishing company.

             His third wife didn’t have any more children with Hartwell, but they stayed married for 30 years until she suffered from a vague, undefined “illness.”. Some Googling on my phone uncovered the fact that she spent the last seven years of her life in an insane asylum.

            Hartwell sold his publishing company shortly before his death in 1962, but in the early 2000s, with print publishing already on the downslide, two of his grandsons acquired it from its owners, and one of their sons, Sam Hartwell, became the CEO after his brother died.       

            Several photos of the big house hung in one corner. The captions noted that Hartwell House was available for meetings and family gatherings, with a cook and grounds crew. A floor plan let me see the room I’d peeked into last night. There was a phone number, an email address, and a QR code for people interested in renting it. 

            “Did you find everything you want?” Hal asked me back at the front desk.

            “Pretty much. Do people see Sam Hartwell in town very much?”

            “He comes to the town meetings. He eats at the Bistro. I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s pretty nice.”

            “Does he have a family?” The exhibit hadn’t mentioned a wife or kids.

            “No. I mean, I don’t think he’s gay. But I’ve never heard of him dating or anything. Not that I’d really know.”

            I’d found out all I needed from him, so I said, “Thanks,” and left.

            After checking in with Rachel, I started the car. Sometimes the only way to get answers is to just go to the source and start asking questions. So I drove back to the Hartwell house.

            The long gravel drive was empty, but I saw two cars in a garage to the side. I parked in front, walked across the porch, and rang the bell.

            The door opened 10 seconds later. “Yes?” 

            I recognized him from pictures at the Historical Society. Sam Hartwell—30ish, with blonde hair cut shot, bright blue eyes, wearing a dress shirt with a loose necktie. I was surprised to find him at home, but if he ran the company, he could probably wherever he wanted. He looked me over, puzzled but not suspicious.

            “Mr. Hartwell? I’m Tom Jurgen, from Chicago.”  I handed him a card. “It’s about Bryan Furier. I believe he was here at your house last night?”

            He looked over my card, then looked up quickly.  “Is something wrong?”

            “He’s sick. In the hospital.”

            “Is it serious?” Hartwell shoved my card in his pocket. 

            “He’s unconscious, in a coma. He was acting like he was having some sort of seizure. Do you know of anyone else whom was here who’s having problems?”

            He glanced over his shoulder into the house. “You’d better come in.”

            Hartwell led me into the front room where I’d watched Furier and the other last night. Nice carpeting, big chairs and long sofas, and many bookcases, but they seemed filled with multiple copies of the same books. Hartwell Publishing titles? I couldn’t make out any of the titles.

            “Bryan was here for a, a reading group I hold in my home.” Hartwell sat down, and pointed to a chair for me. “There are about 20 of us. We read from some of the works my company puts out—Hartwell Publishing?”

            “I’ve heard of you.” 

            He took out his phone. “Let me get you something to drink. Coffee? Soda?”

            “Some water would be fine.” I looked around the room. “Are these your books?”

            “Some of them. It’s a pet project of mine, a line of inspirational books. Quotations, stories, poems, that sort of thing.” He finished texting. “We meet once a week. Bryan’s been joining us for about a month. We read and discuss one of the books here.” He lifted a hand, gesturing toward the bookcase behind him.

            “Sounds nice. Did you notice Bryan feeling bad when he was here last night?”

            “No.” Hartwell shook his head. “He seemed perfectly fine. And as far as I know, no one else is sick. Is it COVID or something?”

            “I don’t think the doctors know yet.” A young woman in a short skirt walked in just then, carrying a cup of coffee for Hartwell and a bottle of water for me. I thanked her, and Hartwell smiled. “My assistant, Laurie. We’re done for the day, Laurie, you can go home now.”

            “Sure thing, Sam.” She smiled at me and left.

            “How did Bryan get involved with your group?” I asked after sipping the water. Ice cold.

            “One of his friends, Randy. Randall Jarvis. I started the group about six months ago. Randall lives here in Hartwell. He invited Bryan one night, and I guess Bryan liked what we were reading.”

            “What do you read?”

            Hartwell hopped up with a smile, eager to share. “We’ve been reading from this.” He snatched a book from the shelf, one of 25 identical titles, and handed it to me. 

            UNLEASH THE POWER BENEATH. The title stared up at me in black capital letters. “A Guide to Creating the World That Was Meant to Be.” The author, or editor, or whatever, was Nicholas Newman. I flipped it open. Pages of quotations, advice, meditation prompts, reflections, and occasional drawings of sunsets and cliffs.

            “You can take that,” Hartwell said. 

            “Thanks.” I stood up. “Well, thanks for your time. I think I’m done. Sorry to bother you.”

            “No bother at all. I hope Bryan gets better.” We shook hands, and he led me to the door.

            In my car I saw a white Ford Explorer backing out of the garage. Laurie, the assistant. I waited for her to turn around toward the driveway, but she stopped and opened her door. “Everything okay?” she called.

            I lowered my window. “Fine, thanks.”

            Then she slipped down out of the truck and walked toward me. I tried not to stare at her legs. “I hope Mr. Furier’s okay,” she said, leaning down and resting her arms across my open window. “Oh, he gave you the book.” She pointed to it on the seat.

            “Yeah, I read this kind of stuff.” I was lying, but she was cute and Rachel was nowhere around to punch me. “I can always use a little more positive thinking in my day.” That was true enough.

            She frowned. “It’s a—weird book. Be careful.”

            “Weird how?” 

            Laurie shook her head. “It—changes people. I don’t know. I read it once, and it gave me dreams for a week. Not great ones.” She backed away. “Sorry. Have a good one!”        

            I watched her walk back to her truck, then looked down at the book. Then I headed down the driveway to the street.

Reading Group of Terror, Part Two

I had vegetarian burritos ready to bake when Rachel got home at 6:15. She came into our office to drop off her laptop, kick off her shoes, unbuttoned her blouse and kiss me, in that order. “Crack any cases, Sherlock?” 

            “Not yet. Did you cure anyone’s neuroses?” 

            “Had a few good sessions. What’s that?” She pointed a finger.

            I had the book from Hartwell on the corner of my desk. “That’s the book they were reading last night. A bunch of quotes and stories and—what?” Rachel was staring at the cover. 

            “I don’t know.” Rachel’s psychic. She can pick up magic and supernatural whispers. She leaned over and placed her fingers on the cover, her head cocked, as if listening for something far away.

            Then the book erupted into flame.

            Rachel jerked her fingers away with a yelp. Orange fire leaped up from the book, stabbing at the air. I stared for a moment, confused, then kicked my garbage can over to the corner of the desk and shoved the burning book into it. The heat burned my arm as I grabbed the beer I’d opened just a few minutes before and poured it over the flames. Then I reached for the water bottle Laurie had given me at Hartwell’s house and started dumping what was left of that into the can as Rachel ran for the kitchen.

            I nudged the can away from my desk as Rachel came back with the fire extinguisher in the kitchen. “How does this work again?” she muttered, but she managed to pull out the pin and then blast at the flames until they drowned in the white spray.  

I took a deep breath. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” She put the extinguisher down. The office smelled like stale beer, chemicals, and smoke. I opened a window. “What the hell was that?”

            She looked down into the garbage can and sighed. “I don’t know. There was something there, in that book—something that didn’t want me looking at it, or seeing into it. But I didn’t get a chance to figure it out. It just went whoosh.”

            I bit my lip. “This was supposed to be a simple cheating spouse case. Damn it. I should have been an accountant.”

            “Then you’d probably have demons haunting your spreadsheets.” She picked up the extinguisher. “When’s dinner?”

            “Fifteen minutes.” I bent down to search the can for the book, and pulled out what was left of it—scorched cover, burnt pages, dripping with a combination of smells. “I’ll dump this down the chute.”

            Rachel backed away. “Maybe keep it. In something safe. I’m going to change.”

            I put the wet pages in three plastic bags and stashed it in a plastic sandwich container. After dinner I went into my office. It still smelled, so I pulled a small desk fan out of a drawer to blow away what was left of the stench. Then I checked some notes.

            Last year I met a woman named Sydney Josondra at a library called the Bibliotheca Davonia north of the city. The library specialized in the occult, and I thought she might have some insight onto the kind of inspirational book that would burst into flame spontaneously. I found her number, left a message, and went to go watch Resident Alien with Rachel. 

            Halfway through the second episode my phone buzzed. Sydney. “Sorry.” I got up as Rachel paused the show, irritated. “This shouldn’t take long. —Hello, Sydney, thanks for calling me back so soon.” I headed into the office. 

            “Oh, I was just finishing up some work here and thought I’d call you before going home.” She’s an older woman, in a wheelchair, sharp and knowledgeable about all kinds of volumes of forgotten and potentially dangerous lore.

            “I appreciate it. It’s about a book I had that suddenly burst into flames.”

            She laughed. “That’s never happened here, but I have heard of incidents like that. What book?”

            “Unleash the Power Beneath, by , uh, Nicholas Newman,” I told her. “Published by Hartwell Publishing. It’s a sort of inspirational book, with quotes and poems and stuff.”

            “And how did it happen to explode?”

            “My wife was touching it. She’s psychic. It just went, well, exploded on us. We put it out fast.”

            “That’s good. Let me see . . . Yes. Here’s someone. Milan Powell. They collect books of magic and spells. Some spells aren’t obvious, you know. They’re hidden inside other words. Here’s their number. They, uh, go by ‘they’, just so you know.”

            I took it down. “Thanks, Sydney. How’s everything at the library?” 

            She laughed. “Books never die. I’ll always be here. Good night, Tom.”

            “Good night.” We hung up. I went back out to the living room, hoping I hadn’t missed anything important on the show. Rachel hates bringing me up to speed. 

 

Jayne Furier called me the next morning as I was turning on my computer. “He’s about the same, maybe a little worse,” she told me, her voice raspy as if she hadn’t gotten much sleep. “He came out of it for a few minutes last night, but he didn’t say anything that made sense. It sounded like, like, ‘Rylah,” or ‘Reelya’ or something, and then he just went back into the coma.” She sniffled. “Did you find out anything?”

            I told her about driving out to Hartwell and meeting Sam. “Do you know a man named Randy Jarvis? He said that’s who got your husband involved in the group.”

            “Randy . . . yeah. He was a dentist, too. Then he started selling real estate. I haven’t heard from him in years, it’s kind of surprising. He never mentioned hearing from him.”

            “Do you have his number, or his email?”

            “I think so, just a minute—yeah, here it is.” She read me a phone number. “I think it‘s his personal cell number. He’s divorced, and we fell out of touch. At least I thought we did.”  

            “I’ll call him, if that’s all right. I should also tell you about something strange that happened after I met with Hartwell.” I told her about the fiery book.

            “Oh my God. What does it mean? Is it—did he plant a bomb or something?”

            “I don’t think so.” I hesitated. How to put this? I’m a magnet for the paranormal? “I think this may have a supernatural cause. There was something about that book that wasn’t quite right.”

            “Supernatural . . .” Her voice faded. I waited for her to ask if I was crazy. Finally she said, “That makes as much sense as anything, I guess. Honestly, in that video, it looks like he’s possessed, doesn’t he?”

            “That’s what I’m afraid of. Look, I’m going to talk to someone who might know more about the book. I’ll let you know what I find out. Let me know if anything changes.”

            Rachel came into the office as we hung up, carrying her coffee in her Wonder Woman mug. When’s at home she does paperwork and a little graphic design for some of the clients she had before becoming a therapist. “Anything explode yet?”

            “The day is young. We’ll see.” I found Milan Powell’s number.

            They sounded young and energetic. “Yes! I love to talk about books! Can you bring out what’s left of it?”

            “Uh. I think so. When can I see you?”

            “Any time, I’m free until three or so. Then I see my shrink.” They gave me an Oak Park address.

            I agreed to see her in two hours. When I hung up Rachel was staring at me. “Who was that?”

            “Milan Powell. Occult book expert, supposedly. I’m going to ask them about the book from Hartwell.”    

            “Them? He has a friend?”

            “Non-binary, I guess. I’ll have to watch my pronouns.”

She turned to her computer. “Good luck.” 

            I checked out Randy Jarvis. He had an office in Hartwell, and I added his address into my GPS. Then I did some paperwork of my own for an hour, then left to drive out to Oak Park.

 

Milan Powell was in their 30s, with short blond hair and an angular face, in shorts and a fuzzy pink sweater, barefoot. “Hi, Tom!” They held out both arms as if expecting a hug. We shook hands, and they led me inside.

            Milan brought me coffee, and we sat in a small living room without a TV but with bookcases on every wall, from carpet to ceiling, and thick vines dangling like snakes from three pots hanging from hooks overhead. 

            I opened the plastic box and showed her what was left of the book. Milan squinted through the plastic. “What was it called?”

            “Unleash the Power Beneath,” I told her. “Nicholas Newman.”

            “Ah, Nicholas Newman.” They turned to a bookcase and, without looking for more than three seconds, pulled out a thick leatherbound volume.  “Let me see, let me see . . .” Milan flipped through the pages. “Nikolai Nemtsev. Russian mystic. Died in 1899. Published six books of poetry and related material under different names. Let’s see.”

            They walked up and down the bookcases for a lot longer this time, finally stopping and sliding one slim volume out from between two heavier books. “This is one of his.”

            Arise from the Depths, was the title. “Find the Strength to Burst from your Chains,” came beneath. The author was Nick Nemours.

            “Who was this guy?” I didn’t touch the book.

            “He called himself a philosopher and a poet. He was also an alcoholic and drug addict who spent years in prison in Russia, then went to England for a while and ended up dying of liver cancer.” They shrugged. “That’s the official story. He was in an insane asylum when he died, raving about demons and the antichrist. And his books—well . . .”

            They opened it to the first page and read the quote:

            

Begin with the beginning. Seek what is fine. Discard the rest.

 

            Milan tightened their lips. “What that really means, is ‘The world began in darkness. Live in the darkness. Destroy the light.’”

            “How do you see that?” I peered at the page.

            “It’s a message underneath the words. Look at it once and it’s silent. You have to keep going back to it, time after time, to bring it out. Or you have to know how to spot it, like I do.” They grinned. “Years of reading this stuff. I have to be careful now.”

            Milan turned the page. This one had a short tale:

 

A young man went to a wise old monk seeking wisdom. “Master, what must I do to become as wise as you?”

The monk said, “Find the tallest tree in the forest. Climb to the top. Come back and tell me what you see.”

So the young man walked in the forest for days until he found the tallest tree. Climbing it was difficult, but he finally made it to the top.

When he returned to the old monk, he said, “Master, I saw past the borders of our land, and over the clouds, and beyond the edge of the world. I saw that I am just a speck in the vastness of the universe, no bigger and no smaller than anyone else.”

The monk smiled. “You have seen much. Go and seek more, and never stop. That is the path to wisdom.”

 

            Milan sipped some tea from a cup on the edge of the table. “What that’s saying is, ‘There was a young man, he climbed a tree, and saw that his life was meaningless, nothing. He fell from the tree, and as he was dying there, the monk found him and said, ‘There is no knowledge, there is no hope. You have lived for nothing. Only Hell remains.’ And he spits on the kid before he dies.”

            “Wow.” I looked at the words on the page. “That’s pretty bleak.”

            “Everyone sees a slightly different version, but that’s the main point.” They skipped a few pages. “Here’s where it gets good—or bad.”

            

Seek only to serve. Look for what the universe wills for you, and follow it gladly.

 

            Milan sighed. “That means, ‘You shall suffer until the end of time, and welcome the agony that comes eternally.”

            “Yikes.” I rubbed my forehead. “The whole book is like that?”

            “Yeah.” They turned pages rapidly until she got to the end. 

 

Embrace the power you have and use it to bring others into the circle.

 

            “I won’t read that out loud.” They closed the book. “It could—conceivably—summon a demon. It’s basically, ‘Come worship me and help me bring enslave the world in my power.’”

            “So he hoped people would read this and become possessed?” I sipped my coffee. Hazelnut. It tasted good.

            “Reading it out loud, over and over, is supposed to help the demon come and find you. Following your voice from Hell, or wherever.” They went back to the first big book and scanned the page. “It says here he wrote at least 20 of them and tried to sell them or give them away to libraries, churches, whatever. Most of them have been destroyed, so the rest are hard to find. I’m lucky.” Milan smirked, tapping the book with a finger. “The one you said, Unleash the Power Beneath? That’s the hardest to find.”

            “So if one person reading that book could summon a demon—” I thought back to the other night. “What would happen if, say, 20 people were reading the book together? 

            Their eyes sharpened, as if they heard something threatening from far away. “Is that—is someone doing that?”

            I nodded. “I think so.”

            Milan shook their head. “That would be—bad.”

            I was afraid of that. I took one last look at the ruined book I’d brought. “I guess I’d better get rid of that.”

            “You should burn it. I mean, I’m against burning books in general, but—” They shrugged. “Some need fire.”

            “Yeah.” I stood up. “Thanks for your time. Should I—” I reached into my pants for my wallet, but they shook their head.

            “No, that’s fine. I love to talk about my books.” We shook hands again. “Call me if you need anything else.”

            “I will.”