Chapter 2:
It was a little after eight when I pulled up in front of the house. I'd gotten a little turned around and made a few wrong turns – all these suburban streets look damned near identical, especially after dark – but I was fairly certain this was the right address: 1814 Grove St.
Mostly fairly certain.
I got out of the car and did some much-needed stretching. I'm a crack over 6'9", so being cramped up in an old Bug, while comical from the outside, can be downright uncomfortable on the inside.
I looked around self-consciously as I retrieved my wizarding gear from the car and locked up shop. The street was lined with neat, pretty little trees outside of neat, pretty little houses, with nice, reasonably priced and well-maintained cars parked in the driveways, meaning that the Blue Beetle stuck out like a thumb that was beyond sore and was now well and truly gangrenous.
My stomach voiced its agitation as I began trekking up the path to the house, which wasn't as well-maintained as most of the others on the street. I'd passed at least three Burger Kings along the way, which had caused my belly to scream in desire. Unfortunately though, since I was pretty much doing this gig pro bono that meant I still barely had two nickels to rub together, so I'd instead settled for a sandwich and a candy bar when I'd stopped for gas. That's right, I sprung for a Snickers for dessert. I figured I could justify it since I'd need as much energy as I could get fighting this spook. Oh, the life of exuberance I lead.
As I approached the door I fished out the key that Sarah Weyland had given me and slid it into the lock. Technically, I could have gotten in without the key, but it was sure easier doing it legitimately. You see, every dwelling is surrounded by a mystical, protective force called a Threshold. Think of it as a metaphysical barrier that keeps out supernatural nasties. The greater the sense of love and homeliness saturating the dwelling, the stronger the Threshold. For instance, a bachelor pad like mine, situated in the subbasement of an old, converted boarding house and inhabited by just one reckless wizard, one lecherous spirit of intellect, a cat that thinks itself master of the land, and a newly adopted puppy that was growing at an alarming rate, the Threshold was serviceable but lacking. By contrast, the household of my good friend Michael Carpenter had positively one of the strongest Thresholds I'd ever seen, thanks to the boisterous brood of offspring that he was raising with his loving wife, Charity.
An old place like this, which had been owned by the same family for decades, but had housed only a single, lonely old man for the last several years would fall somewhere in the middle. I could probably get through uninvited, but my Power would take a significant hit and going up against a spook of this calibre, I needed every ounce of strength I could muster.
As I turned the key, I began gathering Power and channelling it through my foci – bits of kit designed to focus a wizard's magic. In my left hand I gripped my staff – a solid six foot length of oak, carved with runes designed to channel and redirect various forces. On that wrist I also wore my shield bracelet – a collection of silver shield charms that I could use to conjure a protective energy shield. It was mainly useful for projectiles and blunt force, but it had saved my bacon more than once. Hanging from a thong on the inside of my heavy, black leather duster – which was itself imbued with protective magic – was my blasting rod, a thumb-thick stick which I used for quick and dirty fire evocations. Finally, on my right hand I wore a simple silver ring which stored a little bit of energy every time I moved that arm, which could then be released in a devastating surge.
Sure, it was possible for a practitioner to sling spells without foci, but for a guy as young and unrefined as me, it made things a Hell of a lot more difficult.
The door opened with a creak and I felt my magic flowing through me and into my foci, ready to be released with the utterance of the right phrase. I wasn't expecting to get whammied literally right out the door, but it always pays to be cautious.
I stepped into the gloom and felt for the light switch. After flicking it a few times to no avail, I figured that the city must have cut the power. Sarah had said that she'd been having trouble keeping on top of the bills, so it wasn't surprising.
Instead, I grabbed the pentacle necklace hanging around my neck. Despite most people associating it with Devil-worship, the five points of a pentacle actually represent the five elemental forces of Earth, Wind, Fire, Water and Spirit, contained in a circle of human will. You know, just like Captain Planet. It was all that I had of the mother I'd never known and for me, it was a powerful symbol of faith; my own personal faith in my magic, represented by the forces of nature held in balance by human willpower.
I held the talisman out and infused it with an effort of will, bringing forth pale wizard light to partially illuminate the room.
I took a few steps further in and reached out with my wizard senses, feeling for any supernatural juju in the air. I didn't have to try very hard, the place was thick of paranormal energy, it was practically dripping from the walls. So much so that it caused me to stumble back a step or two.
"Whoa," I said, shaking my head.
I was tempted to use my Sight to take a better look at the place, but decided to hold off on that unless it proved necessary. Better known in some cultures as a Third Eye, a wizard's Sight allows them to peek behind the curtain and see the world for what it really is. If something is truly pure and good, you may well just drop to your knees and weep before its sublime beauty. But if something's evil, I mean truly, utterly wicked and repulsive, then you will see it for all its vile, putrid, nightmarish horror, all played out in brilliant Technicolour. And the worst thing? Once you've seen something with your Sight, the memory never fades. It's always right there in your mind, fresh as the moment you first saw it.
Understandably, most wizards shy away from using this "gift" unless absolutely necessary.
Other than the stench of preternatural turbulence that hung thick in the air, the house seemed pretty nice, even in the dim light of my pentacle. It was well furnished and seemed clean and orderly – not your stereotypical haunted house at all. Good on it for fighting against preconceived notions of what can be creepy.
The walls were lined with framed photos and I held out my pentacle to get a better look. There seemed to be several generations of the family represented on the wall, with photographs having clearly been taken over the course of the last half century or so. The most recent one stood out because I recognised one of the faces as Sarah Weyland, looking much as she did now. She was smiling warmly, with her arm round an older man whom I assumed to be her late uncle.
Following the photos backward in time told a tale in reverse, as the family became bigger and bigger the further back I went. Some were big, official family portraits with nearly two dozen people, while others were simpler and more intimate with just one or two people. Gradually, the family shrank again as it reached the first photo, which was a simple black and white Polaroid in a simple frame, depicting a man and woman with six children, standing in front of the very house I stood in. If I had to take a guess based on the fashions, I'd have said it was the late forties or early fifties. I squinted at one of the children – a teenage girl of no more than 16 – she was the spitting image of Sarah Weyland. Her grandmother, no doubt.
Suddenly I was pulled out of memory lane by a creak overhead.
I whirled around and thrust out my staff with my right hand, while readying my shield bracelet with my left, Power ready to be let loose. I squinted in the dim wizard light, trying to track the sound.
There was another creak. It definitely came from upstairs.
I lowered my head and closed my eyes so that I could Listen. That's right, capital L. It's a pretty unique ability that I have, rare even among wizards, which allows me to, well, listen. Hey, nobody gives Superman grief for his super power names.
I could hear muffled voices and muted footsteps from overhead, but nothing particularly clear, maybe a word here or there. It sounded like there were definitely two of them though. And they were definitely living, breathing, flesh & blood humans.
I kept my magic on simmer as I crept over to the stairway and immediately noticed flashlight beams dancing around upstairs. I took a moment to weigh up my options. As far as I could figure, there were only three reasons why there'd be anyone else in the house who wasn't of the ethereal plane. Option 1: They were squatters or vagrants just looking for a place to stay. Option B: They were thieves out to knock the place over. Option tres: They were just a couple of kids out to hook up in the local haunted house.
I came to the conclusion that a display of force probably wouldn't be necessary and opted to go for a more diplomatic approach.
"Hey, you, who's up there?" I called up the stairway.
The flashlights immediately extinguished and I heard the sound of hurried, panicked whispering. I turned my head and tried to Listen more closely.
"Since when do ghosts go announcing themselves?" hissed one of the voices.
"I'm pretty sure that's not a ghost, Dean," said the other.
Dean, eh? That was one name down.
"Well who else would be hanging around a haunted house after dark?" said the first voice.
"You mean besides us?" said the second voice sarcastically. "I don't know, kids maybe? Or, a thief?"
Interesting, from the sound of things they weren't option B or C. Squatters then?
"Listen up guys," I said in my most authoritative voice, "I don't know who you are, but I've got a badge that says I can be here, and I'm willing to bet that you don't." Yeah, OK, so that was a bit of stretch. I don't have a badge per se, but I do have a P.I's license, which is practically the same thing. Besides, they didn't know that. "So how about you come down here and we can sort all this out. I'm not looking to get you into any trouble, I'm just looking out for your own safety, I promise."
"What, do you think he's a cop?" asked Not-Dean.
There was a pause and then, "Sam, what the Hell would a cop be doing here now? The neighbours said the dead guy's niece is staying in the city for the next few nights, so I say this guy is full of it."
"So what do you want to do? We can't just play the quiet game all night."
Another pause.
Alright," said Dean, "he wants to play the badge card, two can play at that game."
Suddenly his voice rang out loud and clear and I cringed as I stopped Listening and just, well, listened.
"Hey there, sorry to scare you pal. This is special agents Knopfler and Withers, FBI."
Did he seriously just use Dire Straits for their pseudonyms? Who were these guys?
"We're just conducting a routine follow-up investigation, so no need to worry about us."
"Uh-uh," I said, sounding unimpressed, "listen buddy, word of advice, steer clear of British soft rock for your aliases, it just makes you look like an ass."
I didn't need to use special wizard hearing to know he'd just cursed under his breath. That said, I did reach out and Listen once again.
"Maybe he's working the case, like us?" said the one dubbed Sam.
"What? You mean like another Hunter?"
"I mean, could be."
Ah. So that's what I was dealing with: Hunters.
Hunters are vanilla mortals who've had a taste of the supernatural, usually in a seriously traumatic way, and proceed to take it upon themselves to go around killing things that go bump in the night. Their knowledge of how things really work is obviously greater than most, but they still by no means have the full picture. I'd never encountered a Hunter personally, but I'd heard that they're usually good folk. Although, my mentor, Ebenezer McCoy had a less than favourable run-in with one out by Sioux Falls a few years ago. It kind of soured his opinion of them.
The White Council didn't have any official stance on Hunters, but the general consensus was that they tended to do good work clearing up the riff-raff out there, which made the Council's job easier, so as long as they didn't get in our way or break any Laws of Magic, they tended to leave them to their own devices.
The only downside? Hunters tend to list practitioners of magic among the ghosts and Ghoulies that needed to be dealt with. I'd have to handle this delicately, and I'm nothing if not delicate.
Yeah, I know, even I didn't buy that.
"Hey, listen, Sam and Dean was it?" Suddenly there was a silence upstairs that was so thick and heavy, it was almost tangible. "Yeah, I don't know who you are exactly, but I get the feeling we're on the same side. So how's about, rather than standing here in the dark all night like a bunch of dicks, we talk this out. Maybe we can help each other out."
More silence. I was just about to Listen again when a voice rang out.
"Alright," said Dean, "fine. Come on up here."
I scoffed. "Oh no, not on your life. You've got me outnumbered and you've got the high ground. You guys can come down here."
"Not in a million years pal, we don't know what you are and you know our names. That puts you on a pretty short list of possibilities and most of them ain't friendly.
He had a point. Names carry a certain currency in the paranormal community – the wrong thing knows your name, it can do a hell of a lot with it. I probably shouldn't have dropped that particular bit of knowledge for the sake of a shock and awe moment.
"OK, compromise. We'll meet halfway. Literally. One of you come down, I go up and we meet in the middle of the stairway. Deal?"
There was a moment of silence and then Dean responded.
"Yeah, yeah, OK, fine. I'm comin' down, just keep your hands clear. My partner's got a shotgun that's going to be pointed right at your head, so play nice."
"Sounds like a plan," I said.
A second later the stairway was cast in the glow of their flashlight beams and I took to the first step. I could just make out Dean's silhouette, but I had to shield my eyes from the light.
"Hey, do you mind pointing that thing down a bit?"
He didn't. Prick.
The stairs creaked as we mirrored each other with our movements, both slow and deliberate. Soon there were two steps between us, close enough for me to reach out and gently swat his flashlight out of the way.
"Yeah, that's enough of that," I said.
"Aw what's the matter midnight cowboy," said Dean smugly as he looked me up and down, "blinded by the light?"
I blinked a few times to clear the spots from my eyes, then narrowed them, getting my first good look at this Dean guy. He had the high ground, but it looked like he was probably about 6'/6'1". He looked like a cross between a redneck and a frat boy. You know, a real douche with the hair to prove it.
I held my arms out, still gripping my staff. "Satisfied?"
Dean frowned. "What's with the big stick? You some kinda pole vaulter or something?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"And the funky pentacle glow-stick; what, you heading to a rave?"
"Listen pal, you don't get to ask questions. I'm being paid to be here, you're not."
"Yeah, right," he scoffed.
"I'll prove it," I said, reaching into my duster pocket.
"Hey, hey, hey, easy!"
Dean made to reach for something in his jacket and I heard movement overhead.
"Relax, Van Wilder. I'm just going to show you my credentials."
He sized me up for a second, then gave a quick look back up the stairway, before nodding.
I fished out my P.I license and held it out for him to inspect. I didn't think it would be a good idea to show him my business card just yet. You know, the one that boldly declares in 20 point typeface, Harry Dresden: Wizard.
"Huh, so you're a P.I., huh? What you doing here?" He looked back up the stairs, giving some sort of signal.
"The owner of the house wants me to investigate some paranormal activity. Some folks have been hurt."
"That doesn't sound like work for a Police Academy drop-out."
I could tell this was going to be one of those nights that really pushed the limit of my good manners.
I took a breath.
"Let's just say I'm a specialist."
Suddenly the other one, Sam, appeared behind Dean, taking slow, cautious steps.
"What, like a Hunter?" he asked.
This kid was a few years younger than Dean, probably colleague age. 22/23 at best. He probably had a few inches on Dean, but I was pretty sure I'd still loom over him. He was dressed in much the same way as Dean – all flannel and woodsy jackets - but his hair looked more like someone had dropped an old mop over his head. His face was also much more earnest than Dean's, it really lacked that punchable quality that Dean had clearly spent so long perfecting.
"No. I'm not a Hunter," I replied. "Think of me as Hunter-adjacent, I'm in the loop. Judging by the flannel and the shotgun that's probably full of rock salt, I'm guessing that's what you two are."
Sam looked down at the sawed-off Ithaca 37, looking flustered.
"Oh, umm, yeah."
"OK," I said, "so now that we've established that we're all on the same team, how about we try and talk like civilised people. You know, minus the shotguns."
Dean looked back up at Sam, as if they were having some kind of psychic conversation. I figured they must have been pretty close given how well they could clearly read one another. Brothers maybe? Or life partners? Hey, I don't judge.
Their unspoken huddle lasted about a second or so, ending with Sam shrugging in a "what have we got to lose" kind of way. Dean turned back to me and smiled. "Sure, what the hell. And hey, if you try anything we don't like, we can always light your ass up."
Then he patted me on the shoulder before barging past me and heading down the stairs.
"Anyone want a beer?" he called out as he disappeared into the kitchen.
I looked back up at Sam, who offered me an awkward, apologetic smile as he slid past me.
"Uh, sorry about him," he said before disappearing down the stairs.
And here I thought that bloodthirsty, vengeful spirits were going to be the worst part of my night.
7
