James Swain: Shadow People

“I can’t read your mind over the phone, just in person.”

“Then how did you know the FBI was looking for this guy?”

“The way you framed your questions told me he was on your radar.”

“Fine, you’re right. He is on our radar.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not much. During the past two years, a killer has been sending the FBI taunting letters that contained photographs of dead women lying facedown in grassy fields. There have been six victims so far, with a promise of more to come. We don’t know the victims’ names, or what they look like. We haven’t even found the bodies. The letters were postmarked from different locations in the Northeast, so we’re assuming that’s where he lives. An occult sign was burned into the grass beside each body. That’s how we knew he was a devil worshiper.”

Peter’s breath formed a white cloud in front of his face. The FBI liked to think it knew a thing or two about the Devil and his twisted followers, but they were wrong. What the Bureau knew only scratched the surface of a group whose history stretched back thousands of years.

“Describe the sign in the grass,” he said.

“It was an inverted triangle balanced atop a large V with a line drawn across the top. The FBI keeps a databases of symbols used by various cults and the like, and has seen this symbol at crime scenes before.”

An icy finger ran down Peter’s spine, and he shivered. Garrison had just described a magical sigil. Made of complex occult symbols and geometric figures, sigils were used by psychics to make contact with the spirit world, their true meaning known only to practitioners of dark magic. The sigil in the photos sent to the FBI was the Seal of Satan, and meant Dr. Death was working directly with one of the Devil’s sons. Two thousand years ago, the Devil had sent six of his sons to the earth with the purpose of causing havoc and misery. Those sons were responsible for most of the horrible events which mankind had inflicted upon itself. If Peter was right, Dr. Death had entered into a pact with one of these sons, and been given special gifts which made him more powerful than an ordinary devil worshipper.

“How close are you to finding this madman?” he asked.

“We’re not. The Bureau has run out of leads. That was why I called you right back.”

“Maybe this will help. His victims are women who push back against the darkness. Their names are Mary, Joan, Kelly, Diane, Christine, and Edie. His next victim’s name is Rachael.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. He’s killing women involved in good works.”

“That’s something we didn’t know before. How good a look did you get at him?”

“Very. I was right next to him.”

“I know you want to keep your psychic powers a secret, but I need you to let a police artist draw a composite of this guy. It could help us nab him.”

“No cops.”

“What’s wrong with the cops?”

“They’re not good at keeping secrets.”

“We can use an FBI artist, then. I’ll set it up for tomorrow.”

There was a click on the line. It was Liza, probably wondering where he was.

“I need to run,” he said to Garrison.

“Don’t go yet. I want you to think if there’s anything you might have forgotten to tell me about your encounter with this guy. This is important, Peter.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No. People forget things when they sleep. We have to do it right now.”

Another click on the line, indicating that Liza had hung up. “There was one thing,” Peter said, realizing he’d left out an important part. “I saw this strange apparition before and after the séance. It was a quivering black mass that didn’t have a face. Another psychic told me it’s called a shadow person. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Could it be connected to the killer?”

“I think so. This thing kidnapped me.”

“What do you mean ‘kidnapped’?”

“My soul.”

Another click on the line. Liza again. His girlfriend wouldn’t have called again unless she was pissed off. “I’ve got to beat it. Let’s talk in the morning.”

“One more thing.”

“No more. Liza is going to kill me.”

The sound of shattering glass sent Peter flying off the stoop. A man’s dress shoe landed at his feet along with shards of glass. He picked up the shoe. It was one of his.

Turning around, he looked at the brownstone. The master bedroom window had a gaping hole in it. Loud music was streaming out, the voice of Coldplay’s “Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall” ripping a hole in the still night.

He ran up the steps to his front door, fumbling with his keys. “I’ve got to go,” he said into the phone.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Should I send someone over?”

“Capital idea.” He hit the button that let him switch calls and said, “I’m coming through the front door.”

“There’s a man in the bedroom,” Liza screamed. “He’s attacking me!”

Peter burst into his brownstone. Every light was turned on, and so were the CD players. He loved music, and kept a stereo system in every room. His intruder had turned them to full volume, the competing voices of Amy Winehouse and Fifty Cent filling the downstairs.

What the hell was going on? Burglars tried to keep things quiet, or at least the ones he’d heard about. He flew up the staircase while glancing into the living room. His favorite illusions had been knocked off their pedestals and lay in a gut-wrenching heap on the floor. The Flying Carpet would never fly again, and the Zig-Zag illusion that let him pull out a woman’s middle was now just a pile of boards. Butch, the mechanical toy panda that predicted the future, sat on the mantel over the fireplace, banging its miniature cymbals in obvious displeasure.

Dark thoughts filled his head. Had Liza been injured? Was she okay? If the burglar had harmed her… he tried not to imagine it.

He reached the second-floor landing. On the walls hung promotional photos of famous magicians that had once adorned the lobby of Lou Tannen’s, the greatest magic shop that had ever existed. Every frame was shattered, the photos torn to shreds. They could never be replaced.

“ Liza!” he called out.

“He’s in the bedroom with me,” came her voice from the third floor.

“I’m coming!”

The stairs groaned beneath his feet. Many old buildings in New York were inhabited by ghosts, and he sensed that the ghost in his brownstone was trying to warn him about the danger that awaited him upstairs.

The third floor was another disaster area. Pictures yanked off the walls, illusions in the hallway turned upside down and destroyed. His intruder had targeted his collection, and everything appeared ruined.

Peter entered the master bedroom ready to confront the person who’d wrecked his home. The room had been ransacked, his prized sixty-inch plasma TV torn off the wall, its screen kicked in.

He looked around the bedroom. No sign of Liza, or of a burglar. He checked the adjoining bathroom, and also looked under the bed. Nothing but a few dust balls. The Coldplay CD was still rocking the house, and he silenced the music with the remote.

“Liza? Where are you?”

“In the closet,” she replied.

The master bedroom had a spacious walk-in closet. He opened the double doors to find Liza backed into the corner with a letter opener clutched in her hands. She was trembling, and looked half scared to death. “I know this sounds stupid, but are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m freaking out. Did you see him?”

“There’s no one there.”

“That can’t be-he was here a few moments ago.”