Chapter One

Murkwood city library is typically quiet this Friday afternoon. At the front desk is a young man in his early twenties, leaning casually on the scratched window of the booth. He wears a long-sleeved gunmetal grey t-shirt, 70s stone wash jeans and black boots worn down to a dull grey. His hair is dark brown and cropped short. His vivid brown orbs have a piercing gaze that isn’t particularly inviting, and he focuses on a random patch of the faded green carpet. He is toned and a little muscular, tall too at just over six foot. He towers over the small, hunched woman slowly scribbling on the paperwork at her desk. She turns back to the driver’s license that quivers in her other hand, lifting her large-rimmed glasses to check the details mere millimetres from her face.

“That’s an interesting name.” she muses, placing the card back on the desk. Her voice resonates in the acoustics of this large, open reception.

He is Augustus Baltazar. In the small photo on his licence he stares back at you almost too seriously, as if to prove a point.

“Yes, it is.” he retorts, tired of being on the receiving end of that same comment.

As she moves over to the pressing machine, his eye is caught by a couple walking across the back of the desk. They are moving towards an open door to the left, closely tailed by an aging man in antiquated clothes, his skin a wizened grey and eyes sunken into their sockets. As his look follows the trio, the old man’s head stutters as it turns, glaring a hole through his watcher. The couple enter through the open door, and the old man disappears through the wall next to it.

“There we go, Mr... Mr...” she squints, trying to attempt some sort of pronunciation of his surname.

“You can call me Stu, thanks.” he responds sharply, happily accepting the freshly laminated renewal card.

The librarian takes her seat again, briefly looking over her shoulder at the open door. “He noticed you, didn’t he?” she adds. “You’re the first one he’s noticed in a while, make of that what you will.” She pauses for a moment, gaining a wry smile. “I worked with him, hmm, must be seventy years or so ago. He was very nice, once you got to know him.” she fondly smiles.

Stu keeps an eye on where the old man vanished, sliding his wallet back into his trouser pocket. “Yep, they know when they’re being watched - that’s for sure. Make of that what you will!” He looks down at her as she pushes her glasses back up her nose. “Is the usual room unlocked, Betty?” She looks blankly back at him. “We are on first name terms now, it seems.” he smiles.

“The Paranormal section is open, you’re the only person that goes down there.” she croaks slowly, nodding at him. “You know where to go?” she mutters.

“Of course. Thank you!” he calls as he walks away, earning a pointed stare from a passing patron.

The cavernous ground floor chamber that he descends is sparsely populated, a grandiose entrance to a long-forgotten theatre. The facade that once housed the stage is at the far end of this slope, long in the distance, the ornate carvings now the border to a vertical wall of books. Opposing doorways pockmark each wall, and towers of perfectly upright shelves march into the distance in perfect formation. The broad, winding staircases that curve up either wall are currently used by just one man, creaking his way up to a hidden floor.

Stu turns into the seventh door on the left that he comes across. It is unusually musty inside the tiny room, but the thick bookcase before him is crammed with leathery bibles relating to everything paranormal that he could ever want. Rarely does he ever see another member of the public in here; in fact there’s only ever been one occasion in the last six years that a librarian has encountered him within here. Even then she found it incredibly odd to find someone in here that didn’t work at the library.

He stretches on tip toes to grab at the worn spine of a thick red tome on the highest shelf. He can never push it back fully each time he returns it, and has enough room to clutch the edges with finger and thumb to pull it clear. It never seems any lighter, catching him off balance as he plucks it from the air and hugs it tight. As he places it on the small table by the door, he takes his seat and twiddles his fingers in anticipation.

The skin of the vast volume wears a network of veins that zigzag like forked lightning. The title, Mannicus, Hilfrich & Arrington’s Archives of Demonology, First Edition is embossed in chunky silver letters that shimmer under the artificial light. The worn, dogged corners of the cover are grubby through age, the book in general poorly maintained. Stu carefully lifts the deep red leather-bound cover and casts his eye over the handwritten contents, scrawled in thin black ink by the hands of three different men. He gently skips past the first few pages, each page thick and crinkled. When he has time to peruse, this is always the first volume he comes to. He consistently finds something new within, and normal browsing is always helpful for brushing up on his knowledge.

The various entries, in chronological order of their original inclusion, are illustrated with lurid tales and ‘genuine’ eyewitness accounts. The text is either in English, German or Latin, depending on which of the authors added the entry. Although English is his native language, Stu knows the odd word in the other tongues, and can pick up on a few more of them.

Some of the names, and maybe the odd description, stand out to him, his gaze lingering over particular words. Grazzlebam - a short snouted beast with thick brown fur and glowing red eyes, indigenous to northern Scandanavia. Verquenimus - a Roman deity no longer listed in modern texts, who took delight in boiling newborn babes alive in his own hot piss. And Nornstas - an invisible parasite that this book wholly blames for spreading the mysterious sweating sickness of the 15th and 16th century. Ironically, the accompanying image is of a period farmer running away... from nothing.

The next section he comes across, shoehorned in at a strange place, relates to elementals and beasts that incessantly drip blood, whether it be their own or that of their victims. Perhaps the authors tried to collate as many of these particular entities as possible, before resorting back to a standard single entry system.

It’s then that he feels the phone buried within his jeans pocket vibrate twice in immediate succession. Grabbing the smooth black pebble-shaped phone, he flicks the touch screen and sees a text message from MIKE.

Alright mate! How does a few bevvies in town tonight float your boat? The missus is working late so let me know if you fancy it, you defiler of toasters!

Stu smirks and ponders over an equally amusing retort.

***

A thin man in his late thirties, adorned in his finest suit, sits on a bench in the midst of the police station, deliberating the outcome of his meeting. His hands wring repeatedly, sliding and feeding into one another like tangling serpents. His ring finger has the faint impression of gold long-removed. His deep eyes stare off into the distance, his black skin topped by a greying crop of short hair. Detective Inspector Joe Merrick has just taken the worst kicking of his professional career, and is surprised to still be employed, albeit with severe restrictions.

“How did it go?” an approaching man asks. Merrick looks up, sighing as he does.

“Nowhere near as bad as I was expecting, Jeff.” he replies. “Live to fight another day. You’re stuck with me.” he adds, resigned with having to accept his fate.

“Good to hear. How about a game of squash later to take your mind off things?”

“Yea, maybe. No... I don’t know, perhaps another night?”

“Alright, let me know another time when you’re up for it. Actually, come with me - I want your advice on something. If they let you, of course.” Jeff nods, directing his aim at the door beyond. Merrick chuckles a little, getting up to pat him on the arm. DI Robinson leads him down the hall, Merrick averting his eyes from passing colleagues. He’ll handle conversations when his head is somewhat clearer.

Merrick follows Robinson to his office round the corner, where a TV setup in here is currently showing paused video. “What do you have?”

“Just watch.”

The video starts, CCTV footage of a desolate car park, looking to be outside a convenience shop or small supermarket. A streetlight close to the camera is the only illumination. Robinson points towards the back of the image, highlighting a figure clad entirely in black casually walking into view. Then the picture flickers violently, and instantly turns into static. Merrick looks at Robinson, a good deal confused, but Robinson leans his head towards the TV, insinuating that he keep watching. A good twenty to thirty seconds pass before the picture returns with a slight pop, and Robinson points to the figure walking back the way they came. Whoever it is has a rucksack, and is purposely stuffing something deep into it.

“Is this your ATM thief?”

Robinson nods eagerly. “First confirmed footage, right about the time the machine was shorted and emptied.”

Merrick smiles back at him. “Let’s hope the last four years of hunting are about to finally pay off!” He notices Detective Sergeant Angela Dawson waiting patiently nearby. “I’ll catch you later, Jeff.” he finishes, patting him on the shoulder.

“Boss!” Dawson speaks as Merrick gets nearer.

“Morning.” he replies, unbuttoning his jacket.

“You look awful.” she says. “I can’t begin to imagine how much weight you’ve lost recently.”

Merrick tries his best to ignore her. Her short black hair is cut to the shoulders, deep blue eyes light and vivid. Her tan skin is a soft brown, mostly covered under her stark grey suit and white blouse. Her arms are crossed purposefully, trying in earnest to guide him, yet not authoritative enough to make him listen.

“It’s done now, time to move on. I take it you’ve heard?” he queries, looking her square in the eye.

“I have. Looks like it’s just me and you. I guess I’m just like you boss, no-one else wants me.”

Merrick smirks as he looks around the office. “Fine. We’ll wait until something comes in. For starters though, you can buy breakfast. I’m fucking famished.”

***

The gym is sparsely populated - not uncommon, having opened only half an hour ago. A skinny woman glistens with sweat as she completes another set of sit-ups on a firm yoga ball. A man, in a corner, hides beneath a sodden towel as he thrusts his arms forward and back, legs pumping up and down, his breath heavy as he grinds a whooshing cross-trainer. Another woman, a little overweight, paces steadily on a whirring treadmill, arms swinging loosely at her side as she looks up at the subtitles accompanying the morning news.

Finally, past the rows of unused rowing machines, dumbbells, benches and exercise bikes, a tall man in a tight sports shirt, physique lean and toned, repeatedly hammers a punch bag. It is Stu, expending pent-up rage on the overly worn equipment.

His hands are crudely taped; punches controlled and delivered in short bursts. He thumps the bag with unrelenting fury, his clenched fists a hot red. He has not even broken a sweat, no matter how quickly or frequently he strikes. He doesn’t relent - jabbing, drilling then jabbing again. Skipping to the right, then back to the left, he delivers a quick flurry of damaging, stomach-aimed punches. Although not trained to box, he still takes to it like a seasoned pro.

Pausing for a moment, considering his next strike, he decides instead to retire, his gaze taken to a couple just entering the hall. Checking the adjacent clock, this session seems to have drawn on longer than he anticipated.

***

The early evening crawl to get out of the city shuffles on, the summer heat frying the steel tombs lined across the tarmac. Some have their windows wound down, whilst other cars whir noisily with the blasting ice of air con. Music sometimes blares, for others it’s just talk. Some swelter in silence, patiently waiting for the snake to slither apart.

To the north of Murkwood the main route crosses the Silenti at its widest but not quite deepest, though only beaten by the curl around the castle. Previously a popular suicide spot, high barriers now guard the road from the perilous drop to the river below. The passing motorists cannot see the beauty of the rolling river like they could a decade earlier, but it hides the violent struggle playing out below.

The creature is nine feet tall, its hulking frame enhanced by slithering tentacles that writhe and snap from monstrous biceps, twitching and lashing out at a man just lurking within the shadows of the bridge. The creature is a twisted humanoid, body ripped like an abomination on steroids, skin a shield of cracked scales. It towers over the human, even though one foot is lower and invisible amidst the flowing water. With only a yard between them, the tentacles lash and whip, striking the man with venomous aggression. He stumbles with each lick, biding his time. He receives the punishment like a scolded child, flinching with each strike, bloodied lacerations searing his flesh.

The creature lumbers forth and reaches out with a hand of two scales fashioned into points. The wet foot pops out of the soft mud and slams onto the bank, shuddering the surrounding grass. The armoured skin that binds the thing flexes like exposed muscle, thicker than the flesh of a rhino. The human stumbles back a little, trying to grab onto the concrete support but losing his grip. He falls to one knee, and now is his time. Now when he appears weakest.

Through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, just off the centre of his chest, a contorted, fist sized scar upon his breast glows a dark red, and frazzling electricity daggers down the veins of his right arm. He throws his palm forward, an intense ball of lightning crackling alive which hurtles at his foe, lashing the thick frame with enough voltage to fry a normal man. The beast shudders as the electricity plays havoc, unable to shake an overwhelming dizziness as the force fizzes into nothing. It takes a step or two back, both feet sinking into the wet mud beneath the water.

The human stands and unleashes a torrent of power from both palms, the entirety of his arms alight with zipping thunderbolts. This time he aims directly at the water, supercharging the liquid which in turn electrocutes the beast. It bellows in agony, a deafening roar that shatters car windows above and triggers wailing alarms. The armoured skin pops and burns, hot sores bleeding fire. Head cocking to one side, enormous body twitching uncontrollably, the beast tips to the side and falls, drenching the panting human, refreshing him enough to replenish expended stamina.

A smirk emerges from the shadows, with eyes watching the current consuming the hulking, dead carcass.