God Touched - 01 Page 5

  “Oh, Brutus, you naughty dog. Come back here to mommy,” the blonde baby-talked. Brutus? What the hell was she thinking? There were squirrels in the park that weighed more than Brutus did.

  “Thanks for grabbing him, he usually doesn’t like men at all. How odd?” she continued. I just nodded and handed her the leash with a smile. Her friend, a brunette, stood back a few feet, giving me a reappraisal to see if maybe something may have been missed that might suddenly make me more interesting. Like a fancy watch or platinum card; or maybe a brokerage account statement showing millions on deposit. Actually, I had one of those, back in the apartment, for the trust fund that was created from my parents’ estate, but it wasn’t evident here. Their eyes darted over my build with some interest, but alas no other signs of potential worthiness were apparent. So, after a lot of thank you’s, smiles and with a few looks back they continued on their way, picking up their chatter without pause. My lunch over, I jogged home, careful to avoid women with dogs.

  Chapter 4

  I keep a large cardboard box under my futon, which holds my supply of fetishes. A doglike wolf caught my eye. He looked like something that would appeal to a little girl. Peter had emailed more information regarding the case tonight.

  The problems began about a month ago, with strange noises, then progressed to objects moving, foul odors and apparitions. The final straw was the appearance of claw marks on the couple’s seven-year-old daughter, Libi.

  The wolf/dog was carved from tan hued soapstone with little flecks of red. Twisted plant fiber of some type held a feather and a miniature turquoise arrowhead to its back. A small pointed stick protruding from between its hind legs announced it was a boy wolf. I placed it in the pocket of my coat and pushed the box back under the futon.

  The day had been warm, but the weatherman was calling for a cold front to sweep in during the evening and it would get cold and windy. I layered an Under Armour turtleneck with a thick NYPD hoodie and cargo pants. Hiking boots over wool socks and my heavy canvas Carhartt jacket finished my preparations.

  The address was in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood of single- family homes. The house that needed cleansing was white with green shutters and a black door. A dark blue van was parked in front, white letters NYPRT printed on its side. I ignored the van and looked the house over. The house looked back. Yup, I was getting a definite vibe from it. There was an additional feeling of being watched from somewhere else in the neighborhood, but it didn’t feel unfriendly like the house did, so I ignored it. The sound of the van’s door opening brought me around to find Peter striding toward me.

  “Hey Chris, boy am I glad to see you.” he said. And he was. Peter was one of the few people that knows about me and is still always happy to see me. The New York Paranormal Research Team is his baby; he co-founded it with his girlfriend, Melissa Turner. She was still getting out of the van by the time Peter had reached me.

  He shook my hand, his big mitt engulfing my own. Peter is about six feet four and Melissa is just a little above five feet. He looks like a football captain and she could be an eighth grader. “What’s the deal, Pete?” I asked. Melissa was walking toward us with two others from the van. One of the two was Carlton Sinclair, the foppish overly dramatic medium who provided the group’s psychic heavy lifting. He was surprisingly effective. The other person was unknown to me. I frowned at her. My participation in these events is not a spectator sport. In fact, I would be entering the house alone or not at all.

  I turned to Peter. “Who is that?” I demanded. He looked, apologetic. “Ah, Chris, this is Gina Velasquez. She’s with another paranormal group and she actually called us in on this case. She insisted on being here tonight and the family backed her. I didn’t get a chance to tell you. Sorry about that,” he said.

  The other three had reached us in time to hear all of that, but I wasn’t paying them any attention. I was staring at Peter and making him uncomfortable.

  Good! I was pissed. He knew better! All I needed was the wrong person talking about me and my cop job would be history. The girl was tall, about five nine, dressed in a gray hoodie and jeans. She would probably be pretty if she didn’t have such a pissy look on her face. “Peter, you know better. I’m gone.” I turned to leave and the girl, Gina, snorted in disgust and said, “So much for your big gun, Pete.”

  “Chris, wait,” Peter said.

  But I was already walking. Then the door opened at the house next to the haunted one and a young, scared family came down the steps, an elderly couple standing in the doorway. The father and mother were small of stature and their terror was easy to read. Painful to read. One look in their eyes and I could see the anguish of parents unable to protect their child. Clutching the mother’s hand was a living doll, one of the absolute cutest kids I’ve ever seen. Seriously, she could have been on the front cover of an American Girls catalogue. Brown ringlets and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They were very sad, scared little eyes and they froze me in my tracks. All right, I’d have to stay. No way was I letting that little girl deal with demon kind. Peter sensed an easy victory and swooped in.

  “Chris, this is Mr. and Mrs. Klein. And this is Libi.”

  The father nodded hello while shaking my hand. Mrs. Klein gripped my hand hard and spoke for the both of them: “Thank you for helping us, Mr….-“

  “Just Chris will be fine,” I said

  “Thank you, Chris. Peter says you can get rid of this thing. Nothing has worked, the Rabbis can’t do it and nothing Peter’s group does seems to have any effect.”

  “Well, Ma’am, I shouldn’t have any problem. But I do need some help.” I reached in my jacket and pulled out the wolf fetish. “You see, I need someone to help me name this little guy.” I looked at Libi as I said this, then dropped to one knee and set the little wolf down in front of her. “Libi, this is a guardian wolf. His job is to protect families like yours from scary things like the thing in your house. He’s going into the house with me and together we’ll throw that thing out. And after, he is going to stay here and live with you and your mom and dad. But he needs a name first. And I’m afraid you’re the only one who can name him.” I explained to her wide brown eyes.

  I can’t tell you why this works, but whenever I take a fetish that’s been named by a haunted child in with me, the resulting guardian is much more formidable. I suspect it has something to do with the power of a child’s belief.

  “Do you have any ideas for a name?” I asked her.

  She looked at me very seriously, thinking it over. “Malachi.”

  “Malachi is perfect,” I said, standing back up with the newly named Malachi in my hand. It was perfect, the newly named fetish taking on an almost palpable presence against my skin.

  “Okay, everyone settle in for a little wait and I’ll go clean it out. You’ll hear noises and yells, but just ignore it.” I turned to Carlton. “Did you get a name?” He sometimes will ‘see’ a demonic entity’s name. Sure enough, he handed me a scrap of paper with a neatly printed word. Azamogtath.

  Don’t say that out loud as you read this. It’s generally a pretty bad idea to speak their names… unless…you happen to be me.

  “Perfect.” I nodded my thanks and then headed in, thinking as I always do, of my first time.

  The house is old, a small two-story wood shingle affair, long neglected. Its decay is a result of active avoidance by whoever owns it, rather than forgetfulness, laziness or lack of money. The owners simply want nothing to do with it and it isn't likely to sell. On either side of the dull brown door, broken windows look out at us like the eyes of a monster, bracketing a rectangular maw.

  The three of us stand by our bikes, one bullying, one uncertain and one resigned. Carl, Eric's fat red- faced cousin, is pushing him to get on with it. It's well past dinnertime and the late August day is rapidly aging, approaching it's natural death. Carl is beginning to show signs that the house is getting on his nerves. In fact, I would say he is scared shitless, based on his increasing
rants and insults. Eric, my only real friend, hasn't fully committed himself to the quest for his pre-teen honor. And I'm just waiting for him to decide to go in, as I know he eventually will.

  “Come on already! I'm growing a fucking beard here!” Carl says.

  “All right, all right, I'm going,” Eric says. “But I'm only going as far as the kitchen!”

  “Whatever, just get on with it, pussy.”

  Eric started up the steps and after a moment I followed.

  “Where the fuck you think you’re going?” Carl asks.

  “With him.” I replied.

  “Like fuck you are! He's gotta go by himself.” Carl says.

  “He is. I'm just following.”

  I'm not about to let Eric go in alone, for three reasons.

  First, because the house is hostile and dangerous. Anyone can tell that with one glance. Five people died in this wreck, eight years ago. Old Man Miller shot his kids, his wife and finally himself. The house had never sold, the stories of haunting had grown and countless kids had tested their courage in the same way we were. I’m not willing to let my only friend go in without backup.

  Secondly, Carl is once again manipulating his cousin. If Eric chickens out, which Carl is betting he will, he could lord it over him for years. That's not going to happen.

  Third, the house scares the crap out of me. So I'm going in.

  Eric tugs on the door handle, perhaps hoping it will be locked. It opens surprisingly quietly, no spooky haunted house creak or groan. The late day sun casts beams of dust-moted light in pools on the floor and faded furniture. We have entered directly into a small living room, complete with couch and flower-upholstered chairs. Everything is coated in a thick blanket of dust, the floor directly in front of us littered with old footprints. The trail leads through the gloomy doorway ahead, sunlight not quite reaching that far into the house. It smells moldy and stale, like clothes left wet for days. Eric pushes ahead and the house stays quiet, like it's waiting. The dark hallway leads to the back of the house where it empties into a dining room. The kitchen lies off to the right, the stairway to the left. A small bathroom is straight ahead. I'm up close to Eric's back, unwilling to let him move away from me. We round the corner into the kitchen, tension fading fast as we see it is empty of anything overtly threatening. A tiny table and chairs, ancient refrigerator – door open and empty, sink stacked with old dishes. The stove is pulled away from the wall, uplugged and left, as if in a hurry. A tiny window looks east, the unkempt yard now gray with the afternoon growing old. Above the window hangs an electric clock in the shape of a cat, the kind with the swinging tail and eyes that move back and forth with each tick. It's not plugged in.

  “Grab a fork or something and let’s get out!” I whisper. The tableware is a trophy, proof of his ordeal.

  “Ookay.” He reaches toward the pile in the sink.

  The whirring sound makes us both jump, looking wildly for its source. It takes a second to realize the cat clock is swinging its tail and flicking its eyes- without apparent need of electricity. The air is suddenly, impossibly cold, shocking after the humid summer heat. Eric bolts and I start to follow, only to catch a glimpse of a figure on the stairway ahead. It's Marcus, my brother, turning and climbing the stairs almost in the same moment that I catch sight of him. I follow him, aware that Eric is thundering down the hall on my left, but unwilling to lose this chance at seeing Marcus. As I start to climb the stairs, numbed by the sight of my older brother who looks the same as my current age of twelve, he glances at me and rounds the stair landing half way up. I hurry to catch him, my brain not yet realizing he can't be here. I climb as fast as I can, rounding the landing and gaining sight of the upstairs. Marcus is gone. The tiny hallway has a bedroom to either side and I turn to look into the left first. A rustle of cloth brings me around in a whirl and I freeze. My mother is looking at me sadly, her pretty face and neck, marred with bright red ax wounds. I am suddenly terrified and certain this is not my mother. My natural cowardice takes hold and I turn to run. The thing masquerading as my mother makes a mistake. “Christian, why didn't you help us?” it implores in my mother's voice. My terror turns to rage and I change my retreat to a charge, running full out without thinking about my action. My mother's face changes to something else, something that my mind can't quite grasp. Then I'm right in the middle of it, flailing my arms in angry boy fight, violet light flaring up around me and the thing spins up into a greasy blot of blackness that sticks to my left hand like coal miner's snot. My hand flicks on its own in disgust, and the black blob flys upward. Something huge, smoky and birdlike snatches it and then both are gone.

  Gramps finds me on the front porch, responding to a garbled message of hysteria translated by Eric's mother. He looks me over and then sits next to me. We say nothing for a while, then the words flow and not long after, so do the tears. He takes me home, my bike in the back of his big red pickup.

  The first thing I like to do when I go inside is say the thing’s name. I speak in a clear loud voice and I mock it. Like a cat unable to stop from chasing a string, Azamogathth comes to its name. Like a coward it comes from behind me and like I guessed that it would, it comes with Tatiana’s face. Or at least a pretty good imitation of it. But my Sight always shows me the reality and my left hand caught it like a Yankee fielder catches a pop fly. It struggled and cursed me, but I’m pretty smooth at this part of the job. I think this must be my one hundred and seventh cleansing, each just like the rest. I toss it up and think >Kirby< and my giant smoky, hawk-winged friend snatches the nasty thing from the air and pops back to where ever it is that he goes. The house stinks of sulfur and brimstone as I trot down the front steps and hand Malachi to Libi. “You’re gonna want to air it out. Smells like Hell’s Outhouse. But it’s gone and Malachi will keep anything else from bothering you.”

  Carlton leads the family and the others in to check my claim, Peter giving me a high five as he heads in. Gina just looks at me, her face unreadable, before I turn away and head into the dark.

  Chapter 5

  The predicted cold front had moved in and the dark autumn sky swirled with bulbous gray clouds, the wind rushing alongside me, brushing the painted leaves of the small maples that lined the street. The air temperature had dropped a good ten degrees and I was glad for my fleece lined jacket and the thick cottony feel of my NYPD hoodie, as I hustled down the sidewalk. It was blustery and Halloween spooky, and I enjoyed it immensely. Fall is my favorite season, as I welcome the change from the wet tropical heat of August to the cool of September and October. I love warm clothes and heavy jackets, although I am usually happy to put them away come spring. And I'll admit that I like feeling the mystic veil between this life and the next thin appreciably as Halloween draws near.

  The sensation of being watched was still with me, in fact stronger than before, almost palpable. Something or someone was pacing me, and I had the oddest feeling that I who it might be. An extra gust of air brushed my right cheek, smelling of jasmine and lilac, and I turned to find Tatiana walking next to me. She glanced at me once, her blue eyes glinting in the low streetlight, before she turned to look ahead. A second rush of air on my left announced Lydia's arrival, smelling of rose and musk, her Cheshire cat grin bright in the dark. “Hello ladies.” I greeted them, trying to project calm. “Love the outfits.” They were both wearing skintight black leather catsuits that blended with the night but failed to hide their charms. Think Kate Beckinsale in Underworld , times two.

  “Hiya Northern, nice night.” came from Lydia, her voice amused.

  “Hello Christian.” Tatiana said, her accented voice wrapping around my name like smoke. Nobody calls me Christian, but the way she said it had physical weight, like a warm hand pressing on my chest.

  Whatever smartass comment I was gonna make next flew right out of my head.

  “Are you well? Your heartbeat sounds ...erratic.” Tanya asked, concern shadowing her voice.

  Lydia choked back a laugh as I replied
. “I'm fine. It's nothing.” Just you, your voice and that damned catsuit. Any annoyance I still felt from the night before was gone, destroyed by her impossible presence.

  “To what do I owe the honor?” I asked, trying to center myself.

  “You were at our house today. You were injured when you struggled with the ...thing. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” It was the longest speech I had heard Tanya make, and her Russian accent was much less noticeable than before. But what was she talking about? Injured? I turned to her and found her looking at me, apparently not needing to see where she was walking. Me, I need to keep eyes forward to walk uneven sidewalks at night, so I stopped, both vampires stopping instantly as well. I marveled at the reflexes that produced such an immediate reaction. “Er..what injury?” I asked, puzzled.