Apocalypse Nigh: Jono Grey, #1

By David Gearing

Flickering lights? No problem. Ghosts in the cabinets? Consider them gone.
Jono Grey can get rid of any problem your haunted home or place of business can possibly have.
But when he takes a job to exorcise a ghost that refuses to leave, Jono senses that the spiritual world is on the verge of bringing forth the end of the world.
And while Jono Grey isn't the hero the magical world deserves, or even wants, he may just be the reluctant hero that that it needs.
Apocalypse Nigh is the first part in the Apocalypse Nigh series, starring the darkly funny and nihilistic Jono Grey, Exorcist Extraordinaire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Gearing
• Release date: Oct 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393356387

David Gearing

David Gearing is a recent transplant from the harsh Arizona deserts to the green forests of the Pacific Northwest. He plots, he games, he pretends to be his own living room rockstar when no one is looking. His other books range from various genres from thrillers to gothic horror and beyond. You can find him at his webpage DavidGearingBooks.com or at his publisher's website AkusaiPublishing.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jono

The dark room is filled with the smell of garlic. The oil splatters on the flat stovetop just begin to turn rancid as I sit there, waiting for him to get home. His kitchen was huge, filled with just enough counter space to hold any random kitchen gadget and gizmo you could imagine buying from those TV shopping channels.

This isn’t a personal meeting. I don’t wait for this, creeping like a bad stalker for my own entertainment.

Oh, I’m not above that, mind you.

But today it’s a personal call, not business. A little girl waits around the corner for me to finish this job. She makes a noise, but I’ll be the only one to hear it. Her name is Darlene. She’s only eight years old and loves ponies like any girl should. Her favorite color is not pink, but yellow. The color of daffodils. She came to me while I was sleeping one afternoon.

Yes, afternoon. Don’t judge.

She was in the corner of my bedroom, playing with my clothes and belts. She didn’t want to wake me up, she said. But please, could I help her. I’ve gotten used to them. It’s been years since the first one.

I was twelve. My first was a woman. Twenty-seven years old.

No, that’s not why I prefer the company of men.

But seriously, just because my mark is single doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be able to cook. He’s got a lot of money from what I see here. Walls painted the color of an espresso shot in a cup of almond milk. Dark tiles on the floor that only add to the heavy Italian influence of this whole getup.

He could afford cooking lessons, easy. This whole house, all five thousand square feet of it, is a testament to the bad, bad things that Dennis has been up to.

State-of-the-art security. Cameras in every nook and cranny. Heavy metal fences that block everyone’s view into his very private, very personal yard that houses a rotund fountain that squirts water into the air like diet cola mixed with Mentos.

All the while, the insides of this house has everything real, not fake. No fake leather couches. These sons of bitches were once real cows. The wood furniture isn’t plywood painted to look like oak. The sharp edges, the long, sturdy legs of this table? All of this used to photosynthesize light into energy and energy production in a rainforest somewhere. The sides are smooth as a baby’s ass, but some parts seem slick with grease of some kind.

I cannot bring my fingers up to my own nose before I have to pull it away.

More garlic oil. Everywhere.

I close my eyes and pray I didn’t get that shit on my shoes.

The walls are a soft color no matter where I wander off into.

The office is a light tan color that relaxes my eyes as I sift through the piles of mail. An ivory handled letter opener like any good, old fashioned rich person would have.

Papercuts from sharp edges on an envelope? Not if you make three to five million dollars a year.

Even the bathroom smells like the damned garlic smell. Putrid, burnt garlic. He uses the stove at too high a temperature. Probably watching some cooking network show and suddenly became inspired.

The search through his bedroom shows no live-in girlfriend. No feminine influences.

I shake my head as I wander from room to room. At least get a decorator or a gay friend. Help yourself out.

Maybe you can fix that girlfriend problem right up.

The security motion lights flicker on out front.

It’s almost show time.

I take my seat in the dining room and wait for the door to creak open.

And creak open it does.

I’ve been anticipating this very moment for hours now, though you’d never know it. My heartbeat is as smooth and slow as a Kenny G album.

But it seems Dennis here, this slippery bastard, has been off making some detours and side trips.

And here I was going to be a good guest and let him die quickly.

I try hard to remain still, though I’ve had decades of practice at this. Too much moving and I take away the moment of surprise. Too much motion, and I risk hitting something, vibrations rattling off into the air and ticking the fine hairs inside Dennis’s ears. When that happens, this little prize I have in a thick, gallon-sized freezer bag will lose its edge.

And I do so love the edge.

The man’s shoes squeak like I wouldn’t imagine a high-quality shoe would squeak. Against these tiled floors, that hints at something wet, though not with a high viscosity.

But I cross one leg over the other and wait in the dining room. This is the third room he would hit if Dennis were to go straight to the bedroom. The first would be the entrance hallway, then the kitchen.

Though why he spent this much money on a kitchen this large and he can’t even cook garlic is beyond me.

The man’s shoes get into the kitchen and he hesitates.

I think he sees me.

Honestly, I’m not sure I mind at the moment.

Dennis takes slow, steady steps to the edge of the island in the middle of his kitchen and he draws a sharp seven-inch, Damascus steel Santoku knife with a bamboo handle.

The edge of the blade slides out, smooth and slow, out of the block, then leaves a high-pitched ring in the air that carries nicely.

I smile, swallow my spit, and say, That’s some high-quality steel there, Dennis.

His feet leave the floor about three inches and he turns toward me—thought not at me. Seems that he can’t tell where I am just yet.

Whatcha gonna do with that knife, Dennis? Come home, take care of the other one? I say.

What other one? he says. Fear gives his voice a quivering vibrato that makes him sound like Aaron Neville guest starring in a Justin Timberlake concert.

Don’t be coy, I say.

A dull, green spark dances at the edge of my fingernail.

How did you? he says. The man wears a black suit that hugs his shoulders and chest. But this isn’t a casual, wear something fancy to work suit. His tie is missing and there seems to be a wet, red stain near the top button near his neck.

A woman?

I shake my head. Snapping my index finger against my thumb, I say. I show him with the other hand. With twice the light, this poor bastard seems twice as scared.

So, I let one dim out and he holds the knife finally at my face.

But his eyes leave my face and look at the contents of the freezer bag just under my left palm.

Oh this? I say. Just something I found in your freezer.

He takes a step back.

But I let him. He’s not going anywhere.

You want it back, Dennis?

His eyes widen.

Here. I toss it underhand to him. The glimmer of the lights from my fingers travel along with the bag in the air, leaving this amazing green arc from my chest to his.

His hands grasp the bag with a thump, but his eyes widen deeper, his jaw dropping so low he hits his chest with his chin. His hands slip from under the bag and it hits the floor.

That’s awfully disrespectful there, Dennis.

I stand up and adjust my black jacket.

You should take more pride in your work, Dennis. In two steps, I’m already on the other side of the kitchen island. We’re looking at the package on the counter. My fingers grab the package and I point the eyes straight at him. Look at this, I say.

He wants to look down, but he doesn’t. He averts his eyes, staring at the notes on the refrigerator.

I said look down here. I snap my finger and hook my hand down and up again like carving a letter J in the air.

His head does as I command.

Grasping both sides of the head with my hands, I point its eyes again at Dennis’s face. Look at this handiwork. I smack my hand lightly against the countertop. I mean, the effort you took to sharpen the knife alone just screams mastery. The skin is left smooth along the edges, no ripping or tearing. That demonstrates patience, a willingness to get this right.

I look around the house and point at the living room behind me.

I mean, you’re obviously a guy who cares about the finer things, am I right, Dennis?

His head stays locked looking downward, but his eyes try to look at me.

I said ‘Am I right, Dennis?’

His eyes move up and down, his head and neck as stiff as the muscles in little Carly’s face here.

Thank you, I mutter and peer down at the severed head. All I ask is that you keep up with me, Dennis. Can you do that for me?

Dennis’s lips begin to quiver. I see he wants to shake his head, so I wave my right index and middle finger up and down.

His head follows my fingers’ motions.

I run my hand through his thick, coppery red hair. Let me get that for ya, bud. I press it back, but it flops back over his forehead. I flick it back again.

But it doesn’t sit forward.

Helluva head of hair, you got there, Dennis, but I digress.

I take the head and pull it back up. My other hand motions for him to give me the Santoku knife. It feels balanced in my hand.

Like an extension of my arm, dude. Good job.

I cut open the frozen bag and pull out Carly’s frozen head.

This is going to sound crazy, Dennis. I know it does, because everyone says so. But hear me out, okay?

He raises an eyebrow.

I smile.

But little Carly here has been talking to me. She asked me to come see you.

His eyebrows arch upwards. His upper lip curls upward into a snarl.

See? Crazy right? I lean up against the counter and wave the knife around. Damn this blade, though. So well balanced. I let the knife spin around on my index finger then snap at the handle.

I point the blade at Dennis’s forehead.

You see, Dennis, she also asked me to do something. Didn’t ya, Carly?

I’m not sure how much Dennis sees, but I sneak my hand behind the frozen head and I move it up and down, making her agree with me. Carly would have wanted me to.

And you’re not going to like where this is going. Is he, Carly?

The head shakes no.

A tear drop traces a thin line down his cheek and falls onto the countertop.

I know society tells us that we shouldn’t cry, Dennis. But you, man? Let it all out.

He looks up at me.

A thin figure with long curly hair peeks out from behind the countertops by the refrigerator.

This is for you, Carly.

Dennis begins to whimper.

And then he doesn’t.

Chapter 2

Jono

This might have been the moment I was waiting for all night.

The spirit gone, I was finally able to rest and relax at home with Maxim. Max for short. He is an adorable dirty blond with a penchant for cooking and keeping as much mousse in his hair as he can muster. This is a man who is the typical gay where I am not. He cooks. He cleans. He checks brand names on the labels of pants and shirts. When in doubt, I ask him for fashion advice.

The door to the apartment is locked. He’s been home all day, then.

The apartment isn’t on the nasty part of town, but it’s not on the nicest either. We have a wonderful view of the dirty sidewalks of Tucson, the ones that lead up and down the dirt roads that no one ever dares to take at night.

When the rush hour traffic gets to be too much, you’d never believe the number of cars that are bumper to bumper. But when it’s the middle of the night? The old white folks would rather drive down Oracle and the photo enforced street lights before taking a detour or a shortcut.

When I walk into the apartment, it smells like mangos and crushed pepper.

He’s been watching cooking shows again.

It’s a habit that has been paying off for me in spades. Especially in the winter time. The sudden burst of cakes and Christmas cookies are more than I can handle, so I bring them in for the boys at the bar.

The Baron sends me a free shot whenever Max makes his shortbread cookies.

Honey? I ask. The door closes behind me.

The apartment is a blinding mess of colored furniture and white walls, sparsely decorated with some red and black Japanese décor. Kanji and flowers and the like.

I don’t know what they mean, these symbols. Someone once said friendship. Someone else says love. Others say it means something rather offensive in Korean, and we’d better watch out because Kim Jong-un is watching us.

Yeah. We don’t talk to him anymore.

We don’t have much money, mostly because there are plenty of spirits that walk the earth but no one wants to pay for them to disappear. Not until they raise a ruckus.

The kitchen looks like he’s been baking again. The sweet aroma of crème brûlée wafts in from the oven. Red aerosol cans of whipped cream, two of them, sit waiting at attention like good little soldiers.

He’s not around, so I pop the top off one of them and unload some whipped cream into my mouth.

Just what do you think you’re doing? Max asks. He wears shorts in the middle of fall because it’s Tucson. Jean shorts with the legs rolled up to about mid-thigh. It’s a habit I would break him of if he didn’t look so damned adorable.

His black wife beater shows through the armless holes of his red shirt. He works out, but only enough to keep the fat at bay. He says that his is a family of Southern fatties. Lovers, not fighters. If anything, they love their red velvet cakes and bread pudding with bourbon sauce.

Though to be fair, I’m not sure how southern Tallahassee, Florida actually is.

To fight about it would be useless. The slightest sign of me trying to argue, and he says that I don’t know what I’m talking about, me being from California and Seattle and Michigan, depending on the lifetime. What did I know about southern food and southern people?

I agreed to keep my mouth shut.

Quite often, our disagreements always end with me saying, You’re right. It’s the only way he’ll shut the hell up.

The cream dissolves in my mouth. I try to swallow the aerosol aftertaste, but it refuses to go down.

He leans in and kisses me. Creamy, he says.

I smile and lean on his shoulders. "Work