Tyrel Hanson P.I.: The Case of the Mullo

By Catherine Milos

Angel. Viking. Demon hunter. Tyrel Hanson has hunted the darkness and pursued justice since the dawn of creation. Now, he’s just a human trying to pass the time as a PI in the Canadian prairies. Sure, he takes the odd normal case, but he specializes in the paranormal. He and his side-kick Stephen delve into investigating a Canadian prairie town with a zombie problem. Their investigation uncovers a missing person and a sinister trail that will leave Tyrel calling some of his big-hitter contacts in for the job. Tyrel and Stephen try to solve the case in this second installment in the supernatural series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Milos
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781988951034

Catherine Milos

Catherine Milos is a Canadian author who has been writing stories since she could hold a crayon. She has published numerous creative non-fiction articles in journals, essays, poetry and occasionally the odd business writing piece. She finds the most enjoyment in writing novel-length fiction.Aside from writing, Catherine’s passions include rescuing strays, creating and appreciating art, connecting with nature, and being amazed by the magic of life.

Book preview

1

In the beginning, I did it for God.

Now, I do this because I want to. It keeps me occupied while my girlfriend Madison is away for months on research projects or for work. Mostly, it pays the bills and keeps me from getting bored.

I can't say I am thrilled to take another little‐paranormal‐on‐the‐prairies call. We have a missing person case to get to and bigger issues back home to deal with. One of my brothers has gone AWOL and I'm sure the others are up to no good. I've also got a friend who is magic‐blind, a condition that just might kill her. But I guess all of that will have to wait.

Stephen ends his call with the mayor of Yash, Manitoba.

What's the job? I ask, focused on the road.

I don't want to hit a deer or, worse, a moose. Hit a moose and the chances of survival are slim. Of course, Stephen and I could just pop into the Shadow Realm at the last second and escape certain death. I still don't want to mangle my silver 1992 Corollinga, or an animal for that matter. I hate highways for the carnage they cause.

The sun is high in the sky and we have been driving for hours. Stephen handles logistics of the next case from the passenger seat.

Mayor says a dead person has been wandering the streets, screaming out and disturbing the peace.

So another spectre, I say.

Shouldn't be too hard. Mind, the last spectre we had turned out to be an Asian fire spirit protecting a burial site of a murdered boy.

Nope, Stephen says. He tears into a candy bar. It is the last of our supplies.

I'm getting low on gas. We'll need to stop soon and refuel.

What do you mean nope? I ask.

With a mouthful of chocolate, he answers, Actual body. Mayor called it a zombie. Said constituents are preparing for the damn zombie apocalypse. Says the thing wanders up and down Railroad Street at noon for an hour then makes its way back to Greenridge Cemetery and settles into its grave until the next day. Folks won't go near it, not even to burn it. He said they're conflicted over murdering one of their community and part superstitious as well.

Sounds like this town wouldn't make it if it was the actual zombie apocalypse. What is it shouting? I grin. This might be my first zombie case, ever. Not in any of my lifetimes have I come across an actual zombie. I am excited but I remain skeptical. A good PI is always skeptical.

It shouts go to the church. Stephen punches the coordinates for the town into the GPS on his phone.

Is there a gas station nearby? Got to refuel. And get Morgana and whoever else we can tap into on the missing person's case. And the other issue too.

Already done. Kamiel's watching over the other issue. Morgana's tapped into her network and she's compiling the case files. She and Alan are working the missing person's case until we get back.

Stephen taps his screen. I glance over. The little dot shows we are less than two kilometers from the nearest station. It is easily accessed right off the highway.

Why hasn't anyone gone to the church? I wonder out loud.

Not sure which one the zombie means and who it wants to go there. There are eleven churches in this town, Stephen says.

Eleven? How big is this damn town? Even for a standard prairie town, eleven churches are a lot.

Nine thousand.

Even though nine thousand is a good‐sized town, eleven churches seem a bit overkill. It also made the job harder. We'll have to figure out which church the supposed zombie wants us to go to. Did you get a list of the churches? It'd be useful to try and narrow them down once we get more information.

Yeah, but the mayor says we should start with the local gypsy—his term, not mine—Virginia Cardei. Says she lives outside of town near the graveyard. A lot of folk blame her, Stephen says.

All right. How far from here?

Yash is in Manitoba, so about a day and a half. Stephen visibly perks up when we drive into the gas station. There is a small‐town diner that advertises pizza with a neon sign in the window.

I am beginning to wonder if taking Stephen under my wing was a good idea. He has a bottomless pit for a stomach. I'd have to take a job a month just to keep him fed. Or, make him take a job a month to keep himself fed. I liked that idea better.

Grab us a seat and order me a burger. I'll fill up, stock up on snacks, then meet you there. I am going to regret leaving him alone with the menu, I'm sure.

2

I did regret leaving Stephen with the menu for that long. When I entered the diner, the table was full with half the menu already. If I didn't know better, I'd think Stephen's superpower was eating. We stop to rest and refuel twice more during our fifteen‐hour trip across the expanse of the middle of Canada that led us here to Virginia Cardei's little house.

Virginia's house is two stories with sharp points reaching to the sky and little Victorian windows. One of those old houses on the prairies that rich people built in the eighteen to nineteen‐hundreds.

In the Canadian prairies, colonial old is about two hundred years. It's tough to keep anything standing long on the prairies. If the hail, rain, lack of supplies, or disrepair didn't kill a small‐town house, the ninety‐kilometer‐an‐hour winds and arctic winters often did enough damage. There are broken farmsteads, grey and collapsing all over the place between