part0008

I awoke around six in the morning from a dreamless slumber. A night without nightmares is rare in my world. Discussing my past with Ashley—along with our post-interview debriefing—had cleared my mind more thoroughly than any therapy session.

I stared at my unfamiliar surroundings for a beat, remembering the details of our evening. Ashley had invited me for a drink after the show. I knew she was either trying to pick my brain or get into my pants. Turned out she wanted to do both.

One drink led to another, and before I knew it, I’d found myself in bed with the lovely podcast host. Perks of the job, I guess. Even occult experts have their groupies.

I watched Ashley’s sleeping form now, fighting back the temptation to trace the curves of her sunbaked skin. There was no point in waking her, especially since I planned on sneaking out of her place. I couldn’t allow myself to get involved with anyone, not after what happened to my fiancée three years earlier.

As I got dressed, I wondered about Ashley. She seemed so normal. Why was she was so drawn to the bizarre and mysterious? Was she attracted to me or my dark past?

Maybe, on some level, I was craving something more meaningful than a fun roll in the hay with a paranormal groupie. But the last time I had allowed myself to get too close someone, they’d paid the ultimate price. Dating Simon Kane came with some serious risks.

I stepped up to the mirror and took a glance at myself. My body was lean yet muscular, the result of hours spent hiking the Malibu canyons or doing laps in my pool. My workouts focused on core strength and explosive power, as opposed to building big muscles, and I did some of my best thinking while exercising.

The shoulder tattoo of a snake devouring its tail stood out against my tanned skin in the pale dawn light seeping into the bedroom.

When I was thirteen, he pressured me into getting the snake tat from one of his artist friends who I later discovered was a fellow cult member. Dad had told me it was a rite of passage, a way of marking my journey toward becoming a man. I now know he was grooming me for his sick little club .

I guess no one had told dad it was illegal to give your kid a tattoo. But my father was rich enough not to worry about the consequences of his actions. Especially since he was only one sacrifice away from changing the world as we know it. I guess once you’re kidnapping and killing folks, child abuse doesn’t seem like a big deal.

The Ouroboros, a symbol of life and death and constant renewal, was the mark of my father’s cult. Over the years I’d tried to remove the tattoo on many occasions, but the ink always returned within weeks of being lasered off my skin. It's magical in some way that I don't quite understand, which is some disturbing shit right there. On the upside, the ladies seemed to love it. I guess they think it adds to my mystique. Whatever.

I reached for my leather shoulder holster system, which held the two weapons I never left the house with nowadays. One side contained my Glock loaded with rune-engraved silver bullets that proved to be deadly to many black magic creatures. An extra compartment held an additional magazine of my custom-made ammo.

The second holster was a vertical leather sheath for my father’s athame, his ceremonial knife. The athame sported a five-inch, double-edged blade. Where the blade met the curved wooden handle, a pentagram had been etched into the cold steel.

If you’re wondering how a blade that was used in twelve highly publicized cult murders ended up as my weapon of choice, well, there is a story there. But I’ll save the details for another time. Suffice it to say, I was able to channel the Hexblade’s magic against the forces of darkness. A knife that once took lives was now saving them. That's irony for you.

The double-holster system offered me quick access to my gun and knife without overloading my waist. And it fit snuggly under the stylish, modern suits I favored nowadays. Monster hunting in style, as I liked to joke. Personally I don’t give a shit about fashion but looking a certain way allows you to navigate certain refined circles. You’d be surprised if you knew how many rich amassed their vast fortunes with a little help from the dark side.

I shot Ashley a final glance as I closed the last button of my silk shirt and let myself out of her place. Five minutes later, I stepped out of her Westwood apartment and headed for my black BMW 8 Cabria Convertible. I couldn’t help but feel like a thief stealing away into the night.

As I gunned the engine, my eyes traveled up to Ashley’s third-floor apartment. To my surprise, she was standing on her small balcony like some ghostly apparition, her white nightgown dancing in the early morning breeze, her gaze fixed on me.

And for a split second, her eyes seemed to glow with red light. I couldn’t help but think of my father in the cave all those years ago.

An instant later, Ashley vanished back inside her apartment, and I relaxed slightly. My imagination was playing tricks on me—a sign of a guilty conscience.

I stared at my reflection in the rear-view mirror, not exactly proud of myself. Then I put the BMW in drive and took off into the early morning.

The sun was rising on the horizon as I eased onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Golden light painted the ocean to my left and crept over the mountains on my right. I’d been all around the world, but nothing compared to a California sunrise.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into my gated driveway. The mansion where I’d grown up shimmered in the burgeoning sunlight. There was nothing overtly sinister here, except for the memories the place stirred deep within my soul.

My day job (or is it a night job?) was hunting monsters, demons, and ghosts, but that didn’t mean I had to live in some gothic, fog-enshrouded castle. I drove a sleek convertible, wore stylish designer suits, and lived in a sunny beachfront villa. I enjoyed expensive booze, good cigars, and beautiful women. I tried to embrace the good things in life as often as I could, a way of staving off the darkness that had shaped my world.

I parked the car in the circular, flagstone-paved motor park and headed for the front entrance. Palm trees stirred in the early morning ocean breeze. I inhaled a deep breath of the salty air as a flock of seagulls darted across an electric blue sky.

For a long time, I thought I would never return to California, much less the home my father built. Now I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Even though my work as an occult crime consultant consistently took me all over the world, Los Angeles felt like home.

I tapped my security code into a keypad, and the front door buzzed open. An elaborate system of wards protected the grounds and the main structure, keeping the place safe from any supernatural attack. My list of enemies had grown over the last few years, and it paid to be watchful.

I used protective wards, but that was the extent of my magical abilities. I was willing to use minor magic to safeguard my home, but I had resisted the temptation to delve into greater sorcery. I had seen what had happened to my father, knew how the mystic arts could corrupt human minds. It wasn’t a skill man was meant to mess with.

In the daylight, the 30,000-square-foot mega-mansion felt bright and airy, a far cry from the haunted fortress of my nightmares. It featured vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams, skylights, and two fireplaces that made the home feel warm and inviting.

The interiors had achieved a perfect balance between timeless elements like hardwood floors and ultra-modern additions like the sliding glass doors that opened to the endless blue ocean. Additionally, the mansion boasted a theater room, a gym, a sizeable occult library, and a trophy room filled with some of the more dangerous relics from past cases—not to mention the abandoned underground temple.

I only ventured down there when I had to remind myself why I’d devoted my life to fighting the darkness. When I needed to remember how it all started.

My plan was to make a double espresso and jump into the pool for a few laps. I’d given up surfing after my recent battle with an aquatic nightmare beast Lovecraft would have been proud of; too many things in the ocean that could strike at you while your guard was down.

After a few yawns, I figured I required sleep more than caffeine or exercise. Last night’s bed gymnastics had worn me out. I would check in with my assistant real quick and then hit the hay.

Yes, you read that right. I have an assistant. You didn’t think I faced the nightmares of the void all on my own, did you?

I walked into the spacious living room, which doubled as the command center of my paranormal investigation operation, where a young woman in her early twenties sat behind a large antique table brimming with computers, newspapers, magazine articles, and stacks of books.

Her features were delicate but intense, her emerald eyes razor-sharp but slightly haunted, an effect heightened by her black lipstick, mascara, eyeliner, and eye shadow. She was dressed entirely in black, too, but her hair was dyed blue, and she wore an assortment of ankhs, pentagrams, and other occult jewelry.

She was punk, metal, anarchist, and Suicide Girl all wrapped into one enigmatic package. In short, she looked the way I’d expected Ashley Jones to look. Her combat boots rested on the table while she leaned back in her chair.

Dakota Vesper had come to work for me less than a year earlier after I’d saved her from being sacrificed by a group of devil-worshipping bikers. Her ex-boyfriend (a real winner) had sold her to pay for his meth habit. No wonder the relationship didn’t last.

After that traumatic experience, I feared Vesper might end up in an asylum or worse, so I offered her a place to stay while she got her life back together.

Surprisingly, one day turned into eighteen months as she started taking care of all the little things around the house I was way too busy to deal with. Besides fielding phone calls from the world’s law enforcement agencies and individuals in desperate need of my services, she monitored the news, always on the lookout for a suspicious story that might require my attention.

To be honest, I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed an assistant until Vesper entered my life, and I couldn't imagine doing the job without her at this point. It certainly was nice to have someone I could open up to about the horrors I faced every day.

Vesper got something out of this arrangement, too. Besides free room and board in my mansion, an excellent salary, and (in theory) free use of my Ducati, the gig had allowed Vesper to confront her demons.

Dakota Vesper didn’t leave the house much. After a year and a half of working with me, she’d put many of her dark experiences behind her and found herself in a much healthier place. Unfortunately, the psychological strides she’d made gave way to crushing anxiety whenever she ventured beyond these walls. The mansion had become her home but also a castle protecting her from the outside world.

In the past, I’d tried to bring her along on some of my cases, but she always found an excuse to bow out. She wasn’t quite ready to face the world at large, and I figured it was best not to press the issue.

I know what you’re thinking, but despite our living situation, we’d never jumped into bed together. We both had terrible track records with long-term relationships and didn’t want to ruin a good thing. The way we saw it, we both made better partners and friends than lovers.

“Good morning, boss. Someone looks well-rested. How did the interview go? Did Ashley Jones get under your skin?”

The way she said “under your skin,” it sounded suspiciously like “under your sheets.” In case I forgot to mention it, Vesper has a biting sense of humor.

“My female intuition tells me she asked all the interesting questions off-screen. Did she want to see your big manly knife?”

The double meaning of her words was unmistakable. Vesper was a piece of work, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“True. But a proclivity for random hook-ups with beautiful strangers is a weakness your enemies might exploit.”

I regretted the words as soon as I’d spoken them out loud. Vesper looked like she’d been slapped for a moment but then got a hold of herself, her features growing cool.

“I know, I’m the last one to tell anyone how to live their life. I worry about you, that’s all.”

I met Vesper’s gaze, wondering if I was detecting a hint of jealousy in her voice. Surely she didn’t have feelings for me in that way. We were partners, friends. Confidantes. Neither one of us wanted to let it go further. I’d learned the hard way what could happen to those who got too close to me. And Vesper, well, she’d endured some unimaginable abuse while held captive by the demon-worshipping biker gang. The wounds on her body had healed, but the wounds in her soul were a whole other matter.

“Anything new around here?” I asked, feeling it best to change the subject. The question hung in the air for a moment as I made my way to the kitchen island. The gourmet kitchen featured state-of-the-art appliances, a long island designed for both food prep and casual meals, and a dining nook that offered sweeping views of palms trees and the white-sand beach beyond.

I had decided to make myself an espresso after all. Vesper watched me as I struggled to pour some fresh beans into the grinder without spilling half of them.

“The usual reason. Weird shit is going down. And the cops think you might be able to help. Just another exciting day in the life of Simon Kane, I guess.”

“Dead body was discovered in the coastal village of New Harbor, covered from head to toe with occult symbols. Even more interesting, the victim was apparently murdered inside an infamous haunted house. Don’t you just hate it when that happens?”

I turned on the espresso maker. As the water started to bubble, I returned to the living room, intrigued despite myself.

“A Detective Winters requested you for this investigation. I guess she’s friends with Chief Barker of the Bangor Police Department.”

Hearing Barker's name brought back memories of the Broken Man and the trail of bodies the abomination had left across the state. Barker had never forgotten the role I'd played in putting an end to the beast’s reign of terror.

I studied my assistant for a beat and decided that she looked nervous. A girl like Vesper didn’t spook easily. There was something she wasn’t telling me.

Vesper’s silence told me everything I needed to know. I was suddenly wide awake. I knew John, even considered him a friend.

I don’t have too many of those, so when I lose one, it hits me real hard. Suddenly I felt like skipping my espresso and going straight for a real drink .

Going by the time stamp next to the headline, the story had hit the web about the time I was getting better acquainted with Ashley Jones.

“Crazy serial killer with a taste for runaways. Active in the late nineties. TV movie is currently in development.”

Vesper zoomed in on a picture of Haskell, and my mouth went dry. It was hard to believe that he was gone. The man had been larger than life. A real character. In a normal world, Haskell would’ve become a standup comedian or actor. Instead he chose to hunt ghosts on TV. And made a fortune in the process. I guess it pays off to follow your passion, no matter how crazy it might sound.

In this case, Haskell’s passion had been Haunt Chasers , an incredibly popular reality TV series. For eight seasons now, Haskell and his two co-hosts had visited places which were reported to be haunted.

The show was spooky fun, filled with cheap thrills. Odd angles, night vision footage and hand-held cameras defined the visual style of the the series. The charisma and exaggerated reactions of the three hosts, John Haskell foremost among them, gave the whole thing a human dimension.

The way I saw it, the show was pure theater, the paranormal equivalent of professional wrestling. There was little evidence that any of the haunts were real.

Truth be told, I didn’t quite understand why Haunt Chasers and other shows of its ilk were so popular as of late. I guess people need something to believe in. Or they just enjoy a good scare.

My friendship with John Haskell had developed slowly. At first, our relationship had been purely professional. John wanted to interview me for his reality show, and on another instance he’d begged me to let his crew explore my mansion. My Malibu home, with its sordid history and the rumored underground temple, was tailor-made for a show like Haunt Chasers .

Naturally, I’d declined the invitation, but Haskell had taken the rejection like a pro, and we started grabbing beers together whenever he was in town.

As my reputation as an occult investigator grew, our conversations changed. Haskell would want to talk more and more about some of the strange phenomena he’d experienced while filming the show.

Judging by the halting tone as he recalled a few of his more harrowing stories, not every haunting on his TV show was created through skillful editing and post production work. Some might even be real.

Haskell never really expected me to offer him an explanation of what he’d witnessed at some of those locations. I doubt I could’ve given him one without visiting the houses myself. I’d hear him out and that seemed enough for him at the time.