James Swain - Shadow People

“Enough to piss him off.”

“You’re my hero.”

Nemo laughed in the clouds. His face was starting to fade, as was his voice. Out-of-body experiences never lasted more than a few minutes, and Peter strained to hear him.

“I had a strange thing happen to me that I wanted to warn you about,” Nemo said. “My handlers routinely give me files of dangerous people they’re trying to catch, and ask me to find them. This morning, I was given a composite of a serial killer in Westchester County called Dr. Death. My handlers asked me to project myself to Friday night, and see if I could find Dr. Death, so I did.”

“What happened?”

“I found him. I also found someone else.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me? What was I doing in Westchester?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. I projected myself to Friday night in Westchester County, and floated around for a few minutes. After a while, I felt your aura. It was really strong, and I spotted you standing in the parking lot of a train station on the outskirts of town.”

“Was I by myself?”

“No. You were with a hulking black guy who acted like a cop.”

“Special Agent Garrison, FBI.”

“You’re hanging out with the FBI? That’s dangerous stuff, Peter.”

“Tell me about it. Now, what did you see?”

“Garrison drove you to a house on a hill that reminded me of the house on the hill in Psycho. It had faded shingles and a gravel driveway surrounded by a thick hedge. You and Garrison went inside the house, where a really terrified woman was being held in the living room. She was tied to a chair, and was totally freaking out. Dr. Death was also in the living room. He’s an overweight guy, dressed like a nerd, didn’t look scary at all. At first I thought, what’s going on here? Then things got freaky.”

“How so?”

“Dr. Death’s body started to change until he looked like a gargoyle on steroids. The guy grew horns and his hands turned into claws. It was like watching a bad horror flick. You guys started fighting to the death.”

People who entered into pacts with the Devil often lost their human qualities, and became like their master. Monsters in every sense of the word, they deserved no place on this earth.

Peter had never fought one of these people, and had no idea how his powers would stack up. He supposed there was a first time for everything.

“You’ve got me on the edge of my seat. What happened then?” Peter asked.

“I woke up,” Nemo said.

“You suck, you know that?”

“Hey, nobody’s perfect.”

Nemo’s face was now an afterimage, his voice barely a faint whisper. In a few seconds he would be gone, leaving Peter to wonder when they’d again hook up.

“Be careful, Peter. Whatever this guy is, it isn’t human,” his friend said.

Peter started to thank him for the warning. But by then, Nemo had disappeared in the clouds, leaving nothing but a pair of gulls circling overhead.

Clyde Jucko had the disposition of a junkyard dog and a face to match. He was waiting outside EZ Storage as Munns pulled into the parking lot, and climbed out of his car. A big man, he cast a long, menacing shadow that stretched halfway across the lot.

Munns approached Jucko cautiously. Jucko was holding what looked like bolt cutters in his hand. Munns’s eyes fell on the broken padlock lying on the ground.

“You went into my unit without my permission,” Munns said.

“It’s my unit. You just rent it from me,” Jucko corrected him.

“You had no right to do that, or to touch my things.”

“I didn’t touch your goddamn things. I just wanted to see what you’ve been up to. You bring the money?”

“I got it.”

“Give it to me right now.”

Munns pulled an envelope stuffed with hundreds from his pocket and tossed it to the older man. As Jucko counted the money, Munns glanced in both directions. The other units were empty and they were alone. Except for the steady hiss of cars on the nearby highway, the air was still. Munns knew that the best course of action was to shoot Jucko in the head at point-blank range, and throw his body in the trunk of his car. A single gunshot would carry through the woods and trail off like a lonely clap of thunder. It would go unnoticed, and Jucko would join the list of people who’d come in contact with Munns and disappeared.

Only there was a problem with that scenario. Jucko was pointing the bolt cutters like he was planning to cut Munns’s balls off. He looked ready for a fight, and drawing a gun on him at this moment seemed out of the question.

“All here,” Jucko said, pocketing the cash. “Okay, now I want you to tell me what’s been going on. Who’s been living in that unit?”

“No one,” Munns said.

“That’s a bunch of bull. I had a look. Someone’s been living in there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Have a look, see for yourself.”

Jucko had not lowered the bolt cutters, and Munns stepped around him while keeping his distance. He brought his face to the open door of his unit, and gazed into the darkened interior. Inside were six stainless-steel footlockers stored on the rack of a metal shelving unit. Inside each footlocker was the body of one of his victims. One of the footlockers had fallen from its spot, and lay broken on the concrete floor. Light streamed down from the gaping hole in the ceiling. Jucko had been correct in his assumption that the hole had been created from within. But by who? Or what? Munns couldn’t be sure. He started to slide the door shut and felt a hand on his arm.

“What the hell are you keeping in those footlockers?” Jucko demanded.

“That’s none of your business,” Munns said.

“Everything’s my business.”

Jucko pushed him to the side before Munns could reply. Sliding back the door, he entered the unit, and flipped over the broken footlocker lying on the floor. A corpse wrapped in plastic tumbled out, and Jucko used the bolt cutters to cut away the plastic shroud. A skeletal face stared up at him. It was Edie, Munns’s last victim. She had cursed Munns as he strangled her to death, and the invective was slow to leave her face.

“It’s a dead woman,” Jucko said in horror. “What kind of monster are you?”

Munns’s gun was tucked in his belt behind his back. As he reached for it, Jucko swung the bolt cutters up from the floor and their blades brushed his face. Warm blood ran down Munns’s cheek and his vision blurred. His hands covered the bleeding wound.

Jucko reached behind Munns’s back, and relieved him of his gun. Dropping it in his pocket, he triumphantly rested the bolt cutters on his shoulder. “I should kill you. Save the state the trouble of locking you up. Now get on your knees, or I’ll bust your head open.”

“I thought we had a deal,” Munns blurted out.

“I ain’t making no deals with the Devil. On your knees.”

Munns’s neck began to burn. The sensation started at the shimmering tattoo, and spread straight up his neck and into his brain like so much bad poison sent from below.

“No,” Munns said.

“What did you say?” Jucko declared.

“I’m not kneeling to you, or anyone else.”

For reasons Munns could not explain, he no longer felt afraid of Jucko. In his mind, he saw himself taking Jucko outside the shed and dismembering him in the parking lot, the old man’s blood staining the pavement and spoiling an otherwise perfect day.

Munns’s hands were burning as well. He brought them up to his face to have a look. The skin was turning a sickening black, and his fingernails had grown into talons. A sound escaped his lips that was not human.