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  Occult Detective

  MONSTER HUNTER

  A Grimoire of Eldritch Inquests

  Volume 1 of 2

  Copyright © 2015 Emby Press

  First Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-940344-19-5

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Emby Press

  All Rights Reserved.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Brian P. Easton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction by Bob Freeman

  “Deck the Halls” by Mike Chinn

  “Freak Show” by Russell Proctor

  “Memento Morbid” by C. L. Werner

  “The Avatar of Darkness” by Robert M. Price

  “The Devil’s Mud Pack” by Neil Baker

  “Matt Brimstone, P.I.” by Christine Morgan

  “An Unanchored Man” by Tim Prasil

  “That the Wicked Shall be Welcome” by Lee Clark Zumpe

  “The Broken Choir” by David Annandale

  “The Vorpal Tomahawk” by Joel Jenkins

  “Bump in the Night” by Justin Gustainis

  “Body of Proof” by Thomas Deja

  “Trace” by DJ Tyrer

  “The Red Brotherhood” by Scott Chaddon

  “Wished Away” by Lizz C. Schulz

  “Cinder & Smoke” by Antonio Urias

  “Murder on the Feng Shui Express” by Jason Andrew

  “Aftermath III” by Glynn Owen Barrass

  “The Stain” by Damir Salkovic

  “The House in Angell Street” by Rory O’Brien

  “The Inuit Bone” by William Meikle

  “Vinnie de Soth and the Vampire Definition” by I.A. Watson

  Author Dossiers

  Do you believe in Magick (Slight Return)?

  Perhaps the oldest and most enduring adage in regard to writing is this, “write what you know”. It is a sentiment that I take close to heart, and particularly apt considering my current state. See, as opposed to writing this introduction from the comfort of my sanctum sanctorum, I find myself on the third floor of a derelict Odd Fellow’s Lodge, the glow of my laptop and the diffuse, ambient light filtering in from the quiet streets without, the only source of illumination. Above me, the water-damaged ceiling’s wallpaper hangs eerily, invoking thoughts of flesh flayed from an unnatural corpse, while all about the damp and musty ritual chamber I am beset by shadows and the unnerving sense that I am far from alone.

  And I am not, of course. Here be ghosts and unseen spirits, dark and malevolent entities prone to picking and clawing at your exposed skin, and shadow figures intent on consuming whatever energies it can steal from you or your electronic devices. My flashlight, voice recorder, and cell phone have all already been bled dry. I write now, furiously, before these disembodied forces drain the life from my laptop’s battery as well.

  It’s true, I write occult detective fiction, but more than that, I consider myself an occult detective in real life too. It is a passion of mine. Has been since my early childhood, thanks in no small part to a number of sources, particularly one Carl Kolchak, intrepid reporter and supernatural misadventurer.

  Side by side with the fictions of authors like Manly Wade Wellman, Algernon Blackwood, Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, and William Hope Hodgson, I was studying the works of Aleister Crowley, Dion Fortune, Hans Holzer, and a whole host of magicians, paranormal investigators, and monster hunters.

  Write what you know has taken on a whole new meaning. After more than thirty years as a serious student of the occult and paranormal phenomena, and even longer as a connoisseur of occult detective fiction, I know of what I speak.

  And that’s what makes this anthology so special. The authors in this collection get it. They understand what makes the genre click. It is, in the end, about verisimilitude. It is writing about mysterious and unknown forces, the esoteric and wondrous, and making it real and palpable and… yes, frightening.

  Occult detectives, psychic investigators, ghostbreakers, and monster hunters have been in vogue since the nineteenth century, and why not? As they say, everyone loves a good mystery. And things that go bump in the night have been a fascination since man first sat around a campfire spinning yarns. It is only natural that a marriage of the two would be both compelling and captivating. When the dark presses in around us with seemingly malicious and menacing intent, who is there to defend us from these malefic and unseen forces?

  It is the occult detective that stands at the threshold of the Abyss, staring into the face of the unimaginable. They do not turn away. They do not run and hide in fear. They hold their ground, standing face to face against the preternatural horrors that surround us.

  As the late, great Dion Fortune once wrote, “We move among invisible forms whose actions we very often do not perceive at all, though we may be profoundly affected by them.”

  The occult detective perceives more than most. As the following tales unfold, perhaps you will as well.

  —Bob Freeman

  I.O.O.F. Beacon Lodge No. 320

  July, 2014

  DECK THE HALLS

  Mike Chinn

  Damian Paladin reached under the dash of his Chrysler Airflow coupe; a hidden compartment dropped open at the press of a stud. He removed a burlap bag, around the size of his bunched fist, and slipped it into an overcoat pocket. Snapping the compartment shut, he stepped away from the automobile.

  Leigh Oswin was still standing on the bridge’s South pedestrian walkway, close by an old, beaten-up black Ford which was parked square across the sidewalk, blocking it. She pulled the fur collar on her winter coat tight around her throat. “You know, this wasn’t how I’d pictured spending Christmas Eve.”

  Paladin grinned at her. “How’s that?” He vaulted easily over the rail separating sidewalk from the George Washington Bridge’s six lanes. “You don’t think there’s something traditional about it?”

  “Only the cold.” She loosed her grip on the fur collar long enough to light up a cigarette. “So…what? We just stand and wait?”

  Paladin took out his pipe but didn’t try lighting up – the thing never stayed lit for him anyhow. He joined Leigh by the Ford and contemplated the two gaps in the guardrails, in front and back of the jalopy. Gaps wide enough to drive a truck through, but missing thick suspension cables by inches. Something had ploughed off the traffic lanes, taking out both sets of guardrails; something far bigger and heavier than the old Ford. On the outside of the sidewalk, twisted lengths of rail still hung out over the river. No one from the Port Authority had been by to cordon off the area yet.

  Paladin stood in the outer gap, gazing down. Far below the Hudson River ran cold and fast. He shivered. “About the size of it, princess.”

  *

  Scott Edelman closed the bathroom door carefully behind him. He moved softly across the apartment’s main room towards his wife, Maria, who was trying to hang a last glass bauble on an already overcrowded tree. The fir scraped the apartment’s ceiling, filling almost a quarter of the already cramped room.

  “How’s it looking?” she asked, turning to face him.

  Scott smiled. “Perfect.” He stopped at the only table, filling up two mugs with egg-nog. He handed one to Maria, trying not to look at the wall clock at the same time. His wife caught him out anyway.

  “I know – she’s late.” Maria took a sip of her drink. “It’s not like her…”
>
  “Yeah – if nothing else, your sister’s punctual.” He was trying hard not to sound angry.

  “Please, Scott.” Maria stepped closer, nuzzling him. “It’s Christmas…”

  He sighed. “Okay – I’ll make nice. Hope Rosie does the same.”

  There was a high, musical snap. Both of them glanced towards the tree: one of the baubles – the one Maria had been struggling with – had fallen off. It lay on the hardwood floor in several sharp pieces. She made a strangled little noise in her throat, almost slamming her mug down. Egg-nog splashed the table’s surface.

  “Mama’s favorite!” Maria dropped back to her knees, reaching for the shattered ornament. “Oh, Scott, it’s ruined!”

  He opened his mouth, but found he had nothing to say. He’d never met Maria’s mother – she’d died fifteen years earlier – but from what his father-in-law let slip, the woman had been more like Rosie than Maria.

  Maria hissed, snatching her hand back. Scott figured she’d cut herself on the broken glass. He knelt beside her, taking her hand in his. “Where’s it hurt…?”

  “Here.” Maria turned her hand, showing him the back. It was a mess of tiny scratches – almost like a rash. “Those fir needles sure are sharp…!”

  “Guy I bought it off said they were soft!” Scott raised the injured hand to his lips and kissed it. “Daddy will make it better.”

  At the edge of his vision, he saw a bauble-laden branch quiver. Instinctively he reached out to catch whatever was about to fall off – and received a slash across the palm. He yanked his hand away; just as another clump of needles swept past his face, missing it by less than an inch.

  Scott lost his balance. Arms pin-wheeling, he hit the floor hard. The impact jarred clear up his spine, kicking all the breath out of him. He wanted to laugh – this was so stupid: him flat on his keister; Maria on her knees, trying not to go face first into a thick tangle of fir tree—

  The laugh died stillborn. Maria wasn’t falling: she was caught in an embrace of writhing branches which whipped and tore at her exposed skin; slashed through her blouse and skirt. Her mouth gaped in a scream which was choked silent by a boa of crimson tinsel. Thin rivulets of blood networked her face.

  Scott struggled upright, still not sure what he was seeing. He reached for his wife, trying to get a hold on branches that were flailing whips; branches which wriggled and tore from his grasp, growing redder and more slippery. All he could see of Maria were her legs, jerking and kicking, stockings holed. The mass of branches heaved – and even that brief sight was gone. A single shoe hit the floor with hollow finality.

  Scott dived forward, reaching with hands that were little more than bloodied bone. He grabbed needle-laden branches, dragging himself forward …towards Maria. He didn’t care what hurt he was doing to himself, or how much the thrashing, heaving tree tried to stop him. He just had to get to Maria; get her away—

  It wasn’t until he was deep inside the tree, the stench of resin flooding his lungs, serpentine branches flaying the flesh from his bones, that he realized it wasn’t trying to stop him at all…

  *

  A truck roared past, horn blatting. Both Paladin and Leigh glanced up, but neither paid the disappearing vehicle much attention. Traffic on the bridge was pretty light – sensible folks were probably at home with friends and family, enjoying the holidays. Or out celebrating.

  “In places like The Palace,” Leigh said out loud.

  Paladin pulled his attention away from the river and glanced in her direction. “You say something, princess?”

  She shook her head. “Is it me – or is it getting colder?” Leigh shivered, trying to huddle deeper into her coat. Paladin frowned, stepping back from the shattered rails. He looked at the abandoned Ford and along the otherwise deserted walkway.

  “It’s not you, princess…”

  *

  “This must be the place.”

  Paladin and Leigh stepped into an apartment hallway busy with uniformed cops who looked like they wanted to be someplace else. Every apartment door was open and blocked by rubbernecking neighbors. All but one. That was firmly closed and guarded by a couple of New York’s Finest. The no-nonsense kind.

  Paladin shrugged and rammed hands deeper into his overcoat pockets. He walked towards the two uniformed bulls like he had every right to be there. Before they even had a chance to tell him to beat it, the closed door swung open and a familiar figure stepped through: tall – though his careworn stoop and expression made him look shorter – hiding under a nondescript overcoat and battered hat. His downcast eyes registered Paladin like the occult investigator’s presence was the most natural thing in the world.

  Paladin stuck out a hand. “Detective McNamara. Didn’t think I’d find you here. You change precincts?”

  “I wish.” The policeman squeezed the offered hand for the briefest time, his sour expression not changing. “After that Herbesthal case, suddenly I’m the go-to guy on all the bugshit stuff…”

  “Bugshit?” Leigh pressed around Paladin, offering her right hand, smiling broadly – the full Klieg intensity. The detective held onto her hand longer than he had Paladin’s; his face even lightened some.

  “Like what’s back there, Miss Oswin.” McNamara hooked a thumb at the door hanging half-open behind him. He took out a pack of smokes, offering them around. Leigh took one; the detective lit both.

  “And what is back there?” Paladin wanted to know. At The Palace, revelers were choking the joint; this was no time to dragging heels in Washington Heights. Leigh had been quite vocal about it on the drive over.

  “Officially? Multiple homicides – two adults – probably by an intruder. Break-in gone sour…” McNamara took a deep drag on his cigarette.

  “Unofficially?”

  A thin smile dragged at the detective’s mouth; it didn’t look happy being there and vanished fast. “That’s why I asked for you, Paladin.” He stepped back, pushing the door wide with an arm. “You’re the real expert.”

  Paladin and Leigh walked past McNamara and into the apartment. Inside it was cold – much colder than the hallway; two blanket-draped shapes lay on a scuffed wooden floor; the twisted, naked trunk and branches of a Christmas tree was propped against a corner: floor thick with shed needles and tree decorations. The otherwise naked walls were draped in red paper-chains, quivering in a breeze too slight for Paladin to feel. The frigid air was musty with the smell of dying fir trees and … something else. He couldn’t place it.

  McNamara closed the door firmly behind them. “Scott and Maria Edelman. Married a year and a half; been renting this apartment for the past six months. Maria’s sister – Rosario Martini – discovered the bodies: she was going to be spending Christmas with them.” He sighed heavily. “Always seems worse at Christmas—”

  “Tough on her,” Leigh commented.

  “Could have been worse.” McNamara stepped towards the draped forms, crouching over them. “A truck hit a patch of ice on the George Washington: smashed through the side rails and nearly dropped into the river. Driver’s still out cold. Caused a tailback until the boys got the truck winched out the way.” With the air of a threadbare conjuror, he grabbed a sheet in each hand and tugged them away. “Because of it, Miss Martini was over an hour late; otherwise she might have been laying here, too…”

  Leigh snatched in a shocked breath; Paladin didn’t blame her. It wasn’t pretty. The two bodies were slashed and scored: death by a million cuts. It was hard to tell blood stained shreds of clothing from butchered flesh. Long and sinuous red streamers draped the bodies and floor. Paladin didn’t envy whoever got the job of deciding which was Scott Edelman and which Maria. He crouched by the nearest body, careful where he stood. Every inch was scored by the small wounds. Mutilated.

  Paladin stood upright again. “Like they’d been attacked by an ant-sized army wielding phonograph needles,” he said, more to himself.

  “Sure.” McNamara finished his smoke and crushed it out carelessly on the
floor. “Or maybe the fir needles that just happen to be covering every inch of the apartment…”

  Paladin smiled. “Why, detective – whatever are you suggesting?”

  McNamara glowered back. “We got a bald tree, a room full of shed needles, and two bodies taken apart – and I mean taken apart – by the tiniest stab wounds I ever seen.” He took a shaky breath. “I ain’t got a clue what I’m suggesting… How ’bout you…?”

  “I’m never going near another Christmas tree, that’s for sure!” Leigh muttered.

  Paladin thought for a moment, then stepped around the bodies. He stood by the skeletal remains of the fir tree propped against the wall, and reached out. His fingers caressed the trunk’s rough surface, tracing the whorls and ridges, the flaking bark. He frowned, puzzled; turning his attention to the thin twigs and branches. He covered every inch that he could reach; frisking the tree. Eventually he dropped his hands and stepped away.

  “Nothing,” he said. But that wasn’t exactly true; there was … something… But he couldn’t quite—

  “What you mean: nothing?” McNamara shook out another cigarette and lit it.

  “I mean just that. Nothing. The tree’s dead…”

  “Yeah – that’s apt to happen when you cut them down—”

  Paladin tugged at his collar. “Where’s the sister?”

  McNamara drew on his smoke. “She went back to her New Jersey place. Guess the local flatfeet can interview her when Christmas is well out the way…”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  The detective ground out on his second cigarette; the floor was getting plenty scarred. “Not sure, Paladin. She was pretty upset…”

  “Please, McNamara!” He didn’t know why it was so urgent – but he’d stopped questioning his gut feelings long ago.

  Leigh patted the detective’s hand. “I’ll keep Damy on a tight rein.”

  “Swell…” McNamara shook his head dolefully. He pulled a metal flask out of his coat and unscrewed the top. “Get the address off Sergeant Kinsella.” As Paladin opened the door for Leigh, the detective gazed mournfully at the two corpses and took a drink from his flask. “And I promised Jean I’d be home for Christmas. Just this once.”