My apartment felt oddly empty and at peace without the increased hustle and bustle of the normal workday, but I wasn’t about to complain. Stepping inside, I closed the door behind me and took a breath, listening to the surrounding silence though I felt little relief. The conversation with Agent Fenric rattled around inside my head and brought forth more questions than answers. She and I had always had a friendly rivalry of sorts, a mostly amicable head-to-head, because I understood how limited she was in what she could really do. Her agency didn’t technically exist— it had no real functional budget, not much staffing and mostly existed on a handshake and a head nod. But since the incident on George’s Island, her little group had gained more notoriety and more money to play with. And if the rumors were true and she’d established a full blown base of operations in Fort Warren, I feared that our friendly rivalry soon wouldn’t be nearly so friendly.
Agent Fenric didn’t know the full details of my background, but she knew enough that I was beginning to feel a little concerned about what she might decide to share with her peers, or even worse with her supervisors. The last thing I needed was men in black suits knocking on my door in the middle of the night, wanting to take me to a windowless room in Langley, Virginia and ask me some very important questions.
I paused by the table where Sammy generally sat and leafed through some of the pages of notes he’d taken, scanning them for any details that stood out to me. The vast majority of the tips that had come through the tip line had been quickly checked and debunked. Most were marked with a red “X”, though there were a few that had been highlighted in yellow or green. The tips with the yellow highlights represented a possible supernatural exposure that either required more investigation or at least a mention on social media or through our online blog platform. Tips in green were ones deemed worthy enough for an actual article in the newspaper, either framed as a cautionary tale, or with some actual meat behind them.
Then there were the few tips documented and outlined with a black border around them. The black border signaled that Sammy thought the note should be redacted and if that was the case, that meant it was a situation that I should investigate personally— a situation that could pose a threat but might be too sensitive to share with the general public. Our main objective with Bump in the Night was to walk a very thin, delicate line between sharing information and not spooking the public and some of these stories drifted a bit too close to the spooky edge of that line. Snatching one of the pads from the table, I carried it to the kitchen and flopped it down on the counter, crouching and removing a bottle of whiskey from one of the lower cabinets. It occurred to me that while I, by and large, enjoyed the relative peace and quiet of my apartment, there was something to be said for sharing a drink after a hard day’s work. I recalled that first night after running across Indigo— her drinking vodka, me drinking whiskey, sharing barbs back and forth, getting a bit more familiar with each other.
I eased a long stream of whiskey into a glass, filling it almost to the top, not even thinking about adding ice. Satisfied with the pour, I set the bottle on the faux wood counter, looking at the amber liquid shifting into a gradual ripple. That close kinship I’d formed with Indigo over shared alcohol was exactly why I needed to keep myself separate from those personal relationships. That night would remain firmly lodged in my memory now— for as long as I lived, most likely, which was going to be considerably longer than Indigo did. Every one of those bonds formed, every one of those lingering memories would be another wound— another scar gouged into my psyche that would outlive the friend I’d shared that moment with in the first place. And one I’d somehow have to learn to live with in the absence of the person who I’d built it with.
The voices in my head grew ever louder and I swept the glass of whiskey to my lips and took a long, hard swallow, the bite of alcohol and the surging burn coating my throat and into my stomach. It took a lot of whiskey to get me drunk but on nights like tonight, it was a chance I was willing to take.
As I lowered the glass back to the counter, I hesitated a moment, my hand elevated, almost hovering over the surface beneath. A slight tingle pinched the bridge of my nose, almost watering my eyes. A faint shifting in the non-existent wind, a displaced pocket of air which brought the sour tang of sulfur to my nostrils. The taste of whiskey was already fading and I could feel the sour air on my tongue, a light waft, but no less pungent. It was a smell I knew all too well— it was the smell of dark magic.
Nearly undetectable by regular humans and even some supernatural beings, the trace odor of dark magic lingered in the air and could be detected by those conditioned to its presence. As an Enforcer, working alongside the Caretakers for all of those years, I’d been well-trained to smell and sense the imminent arrival of that power. Even being outside the supernatural realm for several years, the innate ability still remained. I set the whiskey glass down and scanned the apartment, searching for any indication of a spiritual presence, a ghoul or specter— perhaps even a demon. But I neither saw, nor felt anything out of the ordinary within my immediate vicinity.
Moving around the kitchen island, I crossed the threshold of my open concept apartment, moving behind the couch, glancing at the secondhand coffee table we’d purchased to replace the one Indigo had shattered not long before. For just a second, I stared longingly at the pool table and considered racking up a game, but after chewing it over, changed my mind. Instead I moved a bit more swiftly, cut over to the hallway, crossed in front of my bedroom and went to my office door. Almost second nature, I punched in the code combination, listening to the quiet hiss and clack of the automated lock disengaging. Sweeping into the small, enclosed office, I stood before the various display cases situated around the rectangular room. There was also a mixture of uncharacteristically well-organized bookshelves which would have made the room look like a study, if it weren’t for the acrylic display cases filled front to back with an array of knives. Then, on the back wall, was the trusty old pool cue, mounted horizontally on a pair of hooks. It drew my eye as it always did.
The knife cases were illuminated beneath the pale light of a pair of free-standing lamps, a gleaming, angular array of glass and translucent acrylic. The heady aroma of dark magic void dispersal carried into my office and I unlatched the door of a nearby case, plucking out one of the aged blades from within. Its hilt a sense of calm reassurance against my palm, the balance of the blade nice and even. I’d named this blade after Christine, King’s first novel, due to its ability to generate a concussive wave of invisible impact, not unlike the telekinesis used by the aforementioned teenager. As I emerged from the room Indigo lovingly referred to as the murder room, I heard a noise on the other side of my front door, a soft, shifting creak of aged wood, the trademark sound of someone approaching the entrance to my apartment.
We received the occasional in person visitor at the paper’s headquarters, but it was a rarity and especially not at this hour of night. Holding my closed hand tight to my thigh, the blade swung around backwards, pointing behind me. I strode through the living room furniture, knees bent, moving with a silent, sweeping movement conditioned by centuries of service to my supernatural overlords. Nearing the door I flattened my left hand, holding my palm toward the oak surface, pressing the end of the hilt into the inner tendon of my forearm, preparing to unleash a strike if necessary.
The floorboards shifted again, a low, straining creak, like a whisper of warning from the hallway outside. Just as I neared the door, turning my shoulder toward it, my muscles tensed, I could feel the floorboards shift. A quiet, insistent knocking tapped on the other side, knuckles smacking wood. I froze, my eyes narrowed, saying nothing.
“Gus?” The voice was a quiet hiss without an ounce of aggression. “I know you’re there.”
That voice— it resonated within my skull, a familiar tenor that seemed to extend from the murky depths of my past and lay a gentle, caressing touch upon my forearm. Gooseflesh streaked along in response.
“Gus? Please. It’s important.”
There was no more hesitation, my flattened palm curled and I unlatched the deadbolt, then gripped the doorknob, the door opened.
She stood, framed in the doorway, looking back at me, remarkably similar to how she looked the last time I saw her so many— too many— years ago. I stared at her face, trying to reconcile her presence in my mind, trying to peel her out of my memories and place her within the context of my current, more human, existence.
“It’s me,” she said, the smile creasing her pale lips gently. “It’s Loren. Your wife.”