Phantom Canyon Tales

By D.L. Brown and Martin Walker Brown

"Phantom Canyon Tales" is a chilling collection of seven suspense horror stories by new authors D.L. Brown and Martin Walker Brown with gripping illustrations by Jon Stubbington. This contemporary anthology of horror steals you away to a moon-lit ranch, a violated sanctuary, the office of a private investigator confronting a terror older than humanity.

These tales will take you across many years and many fears. Stories include The Piper's Song, The Men of Yuul, All Hallows End, Blood Wattle, While the Storm Rages, The Broken Circle and The Face Behind the Grate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098364144

D.L. Brown

Don Brown, a native Floridian graduated in Architecture from M.I.T. and retired from Reynolds International in Richmond, Virginia in 1990. His first book of poetry, Florida Scrub Country and Other Poems was published by iUniverse in 2000. He was then appointed Poet Laureate of the MIT Class of 1951. His second book, Joy in the Moment and Other Poems was published by iUniverse in 2006. He edits the weekly Poetic Voices column in the Sanibel Island Sun. His first poem was published by the Christian Science Monitor when he was eleven years old. He writes from his home on Sanibel Island, Florida. He can be reached at [e-mail]

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Copyright Details

The Men of Yuul ©2020 Martin Walker Brown

Blood Wattle: A Thanksgiving Story

© 2020 Martin Walker Brown

The Broken Circle © 2020 Martin Walker Brown

All Hallows’ End © 2020 D.L. Brown

The Piper’s Song © 2020 D.L. Brown

While the Storm Rages © 2020 D.L. Brown

The Face Behind the Grate © 2020 D.L. Brown

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are of each author’s imagination or are used factiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Phantom Canyon Tales Copyright © 2021 by Phantom Canyon Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from both authors except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-09836-414-4

Illustrator details

Jon Stubbington is a UK based artist and freelance illustrator known for his book illustrations and cover designs. Jon works across several genres, including fantasy, science fiction, and horror, creating fully illustrated designs as well as mixed media compositions that combine photo-manipulations and illustration.

www.jonstubbington.com

Twitter: @jon_stubbington

Instagram: @bookcoversbyjon

Acknowledgements

Martin Walker Brown

My wife, Linda, who loves and supports me.

My late step-mother, Barbara, who was my mother.

My father, Robert, from whom I inherited the gifts of tenacity and skepticism.

My brother, Don, who was willing to risk brutal criticism of our work.

Our editor, Janet Valenzuela, who dragged us kicking and screaming to some semblance of proper grammar.

Jon Stubbington, one of the most talented, patient and dependable artists I’ve ever had the pleasure with which to work.

D.L. Brown

I would like to thank my family for their love, support, and encouragement, particularly Anita, my wife, my love, and my friend for over 40 years. I would also like to thank my brother Martin for doggedly telling me we can do this. A big thank you our editor, Janet Valenzuela, for suffering through my complete ineptitude in crafting a proper sentence. Thanks to Jon Stubbington for his wonderful illustrations, excellent suggestions, and boundless patience. And a final thanks to Halloween for providing me with a love and appreciation for the suspension of disbelief.

Table of Contents

The Piper’s Song

The Men of Yuul

All Hallows’ End

Blood Wattle: A Thanksgiving Story

While the Storm Rages

The Broken Circle

Dweller on the Threshold: The Face Behind the Grate

The Piper’s Song

By D. L. Brown

The elderly woman stood on her porch watching the crowd in the park. It was a small park. However, it regularly hosted events because of its central location in the city. This one appeared to be some cycling event. Her neighbors complained about the noise, parking and litter, but the elderly woman welcomed them. A soft, high-pitched whistle drifted from the open front door and the dog next door began barking.

It’s too early, yes, too early. Perhaps in one hour, an hour will do, she whispered, and the whistling stopped. The elderly woman sat in a rusted metal chair near the door, rocking back and forth, while humming to herself.

After a while, when the sun had dropped and the shadows shifted, she stood. It is time, she thought. The whistle from earlier repeated, but at a lower register, a musical affirmation that it was, indeed, time. She carefully stepped off the porch and walked across the street, her long gray hair flowing behind her in the slight breeze. She had chosen someone long before ever leaving the porch. Throughout the day he had visited the various tents and would occasionally leave in a vehicle only to return with more ice or fruit. Now, though, he stood near a tent looking at his phone.

As she engaged him in conversation, she noticed two figures walking in their direction. If they were indeed intending to talk with this same man, she was hopeful they would leave once she made her request.

Excuse me, she said in a soft trembling voice.

Bill Polson turned around. Yes, ma’am. How can I help you? he replied. The other two stopped and waited, obviously thinking it would be a quick conversation.

I was wondering if you might be able to help me, she asked in the same soft voice she hoped might be interpreted as frail. It had worked so well in the past.

Yes, how can I help you? he repeated, thinking the elderly woman might be lost and confused. If so, he would have Stuart or Alex escort her over to the announcer’s tent.

I live across the street and I was wondering if you could help me? she asked.

Did you need some help crossing the street? he asked.

No, it’s just something is wrong across the street, just there. She pointed in a vague direction of her house. And I was hoping you could help me, she said yet again.

Um, something wrong at your house? Would you like me to call the police or fire department? he asked, struggling to hide his irritation. The other two had better wait, he thought. It would be just like them to take off, especially Stuart.

Oh no, nothing like that, no. There is an odd smell coming from my cellar, the elderly woman said.

Cellar? Who has a cellar around here? Alex Mata asked. Bill cut him off with a look before he turned back to the old woman.

Something smells? It could be gas; if so, you should call the fire department and gas company, Bill suggested, dismissing his earlier irritation given that this could be a serious issue.

Oh my, no, she explained, well, it’s a little embarrassing, but I think it might be a dead animal. A rodent or something.

A dead animal, he replied. He turned to Alex and Stuart, who seemed ready to depart the conversation. Bill held them there with a quick shake of his head. Where is your house?

Just there, across the street. Oh, I would be very thankful if you could help me, the elderly woman replied and again pointed in the general direction of her house. Bill’s shoulders sagged and he let out a small sigh.

"It’s not a problem, we can take a look," he said making sure it was clear to Alex and Stuart that they would be going as well.

"We?" Stuart Cole asked.

"Yes, we," Bill replied firmly.

Oh heavens, I don’t want to be a bother for all three of you. If you could just take a quick look, I would be ever so grateful, she said, hoping the other two would take the opportunity and leave.

No, it’s fine. We don’t mind, Bill told her. Please, after you.

She turned and, with a frown of disappointment, began walking back to her house, the three men in tow. She again hoped the other two would sneak away before they arrived at her house. The elderly woman could hear the whispered conversation going on behind her.

Why do we have to go? Alex asked.

You worried she might hit on you? Stuart looked at Alex and beamed.

Bill stopped, swung his left arm sideways and his large hand smacked Stuart in the stomach with a dull thud. Stuart grunted more from the surprise than pain.

Knock it off! Let’s take a quick look and leave. I have too many things to wrap-up, Bill stated.

They walked the remainder of the way in silence. The elderly lady paused at the porch. Perhaps this was not so wise a choice. She thought. Bill, interpreted the pause as a need of assistance, walked forward and held out his arm for support. She grasped Bill’s forearm with a firm and slightly painful grip. When he flinched, she relaxed her hold. Up the steps, she led them into the house, stopping in the kitchen. Bill looked around. It could be a museum, he thought.

A 50’s looking stand-alone stove and oven sat against the far wall. The washer looked even older and there was no dryer or dishwasher. The floor was wood strewn with a couple of threadbare rugs. They were standing next to a two-person table and next to that was a crude wood-slat door set into the kitchen floor. The elderly woman moved to lift the door.

The stairs are just under here, she said. That is where it smells.

Let me get that, Bill said. The door was not as heavy as it looked and opened easily on shiny, well-oiled hinges. He stepped back, peering into a well of darkness. Bill took a couple of experimental sniffs.

I don’t smell anything.

Yes, but you can in the cellar. Like a dead rodent. I looked, but I couldn’t find it. I can show you if you like, the elderly woman offered.

No, I will take a look. Um, is there a light I can switch on?

I’m sorry. It doesn’t work and I tried a new bulb. You can use my flashlight, the elderly woman suggested and handed Bill an old metal flashlight.

Bill took the flashlight that looked as old as the stove and washer. He thumbed the switch forward and a weak yellow beam penetrated the cellar’s darkness or tried to. He stepped onto the first crude stair and it wobbled under his weight. How the hell does she not fall? Bill thought. He stopped after two more steps and turned to stare at Stuart and Alex.

I’ll be right back, Bill stated with a look promising dire consequence should he return and find them gone.

He continued down the stairs and completely disappeared into the darkness. The weak beam of yellow light showed him little. There was a cellar window at the bottom of the stair, but it had been covered or was so filthy, no light could penetrate. Bill swung the beam left and right. There was a smell, but it was not any dead animal. It was coffee.

Why did she say it was a dead animal? Bill muttered to himself.

Immediately to his right was a series of wooden shelves. Dust covered everything including several odd-looking bottles with torn and faded labels. He tried to read one, but the original cursive writing was too faded. An old workbench occupied the opposite wall, littered with rusty tools and an equally tarnished assortment of nails, screws and nuts.

Bill turned again and spied the third wall with more shelves although these held little dust and debris except for six cans of coffee. He walked toward the shelves and noticed the smell of coffee strengthened. They were all five-pound cans and filled to the brim without lids. That explained the coffee smell. Ah, she was masking the odor of the dead animal, he thought. It seemed like an expensive way to do it and who had that much coffee. Not the last weird thing, I bet, he said under his breath.

Bill turned again, swinging the feeble beam of yellow light toward the wall behind the stairs. He took a couple of steps towards it. There were no shelves, but there was a door, another crude, wood slat door without a doorknob or handle. The hinges looked new like the door leading into the cellar but had massive springs. It could be an auto-close mechanism, he thought.

Hoping to see if anything was inside, Bill walked to the door and was struck by an unbearable stench. He gagged and backed up to the coffee cans, trying desperately not to throw-up. He stuck his face over a can and breathed in deeply. What the hell? He thought. That is no dead rodent. He froze when a soft, trilling whistle rolled across the cellar and then stopped. Bill held his breath, straining to listen, but only silence roared back.

He stepped forward enough, so the flashlight beam shone on the crude door. Bill stared at it as if waiting for something to erupt from behind the door and drag him inside. He wanted to run, but his feet felt rooted in place. As he raged at the lack of control, trying to will his feet to move, he heard a scraping sound beyond the door like something metallic raked slowly across stone. Bill watched as the door flexed outward, nails and wood protesting the pressure from the other side. He tried again to move, but his feet refused.

The whistling began again, then changed register several times, high then low. It suddenly shifted to a deep thrumming tone. The door flexed outward again, and a purplish-brown ooze seeped between the wood slats. The smell was like a physical blow forcing him to lean back as his feet remained rooted. The tune, yes it was a tune and not random notes, increased in volume.

His body reacted to the tune and felt as if some long-buried, instinctual switch flipped. He ground his teeth and his forehead dripped with sweat. A chill fired up his spine and his hands began to tingle. Bill clenched his fists, driving his fingernails into his palms, hoping the pain would free him. Just when he thought he would scream, Stuart bellowed from the opening above.

You okay down there? he asked. Bill stood still for several long seconds before he realized he could move again. He wiped his forehead, and his hand came away damp with sweat. He looked around and all appeared relatively normal. The coffee smell returned.

Yes. I will be right up. Bill replied finally. He returned to the stairs wondering if he had imagined it. He put a foot on the first step when something odd struck him. The position of the stairs in the kitchen in coordination with the exterior wall meant that the room beyond the door must be well outside the perimeter of the house’s exterior walls. Shit, he thought. That’s all for me. He looked up and saw Stuart looking down at him as he began climbing back up the steps.

What happened? Did you see something? Stuart inquired.

Bill did not reply. About halfway up, one of the wood-slat steps shifted downwards like a slide. At the same time, the cellar door tried to swing closed, striking him on the shoulder. Alex rushed forward, pushed the door back and grabbed Bill’s arm. If not, he would have been flung back into the well of darkness.

What the hell! Stuart said.

Are you alright? Alex asked.

Bill remained silent. He climbed the remaining stairs two at a time and handed the flashlight to the old woman. Not stopping to say anything, he walked quickly through the house and out the front door. He picked up his pace after stepping off the porch step. By the time he hit the street, he was at a dead run.

Stuart and Alex ran alongside him, peppering him with questions, all of which he ignored. None of them looked back at the house where the elderly woman had returned to the porch, staring at them. Bill finally stopped at the medical tent. He looked around the tent as if seeing it for the first time. Still ignoring Stuart and Alex, he grabbed a small container of apple juice and sat down on a cot. He popped the top off, downed the entire bottle and wished it were something stronger. The med tech walked over and asked if he was okay.

Alex said he was. He had a bit of a scare. Ran into a dog.

The med tech looked over Bill’s hunched form and suggested he looked to be in mild shock.

Bill finally spoke up, I’m fine. A dog chased me. Must have conjured up some childhood scare. I, I feel better now, thanks.

Is it loose? I should let someone know. The med tech said.

No, no, it was on a chain, but I didn’t know until it stopped. That’ll teach me not to shortcut a corner. Thanks for asking.

Okay, let me know if you feel different, he replied and returned to his table. Stuart started to say something, but Bill held up a hand.

Not here. All three moved to the comfort tent that was mostly empty. Bill grabbed a banana and ate it quickly. They all sat at a table far from the tent’s other occupants. Both Stuart and Alex were opposite him trying to make eye contact, but Bill just stared at the discarded banana peel in front of him. They waited expectantly.

Stuart, ever impatient, started to talk. What happened down there?

Um, I just had a scare that’s all, Bill offered.

Bullshit! You didn’t just look scared. You ran out of there like something was chasing you, he said. Bill’s gaze flitted around the tent.

Shut up, Stuart! Alex exclaimed. You’re not helping.

Bill, Alex said. Bill! Bill finally looked at Alex. What happened?

Bill peered around the tent again, not out of fear, more to see who was within ear-shot. He took a deep breath and began talking. He covered everything, the coffee, the smell, the door flexing and the tune. Alex kept Stuart from interrupting, so Bill was able to cover the whole encounter without distraction. When he finished, he placed his palms on the table as an indication, he was done and being honest.

Alex jumped in before Stuart could say anything, So, what do you want to do?

I don’t know. What can I do?

You can call the fucking cops for starters, Stuart interjected.

And tell them what? Alex challenged. That he thinks there is a creature in that old lady’s cellar? They’ll have him blowing into a breathalyzer before he could finish.

I didn’t say anything about a creature, but the smell could indicate something is wrong.

I am not talking to the cops, Bill said resolutely. Stuart slapped the table in frustration.

Don’t be a pussy, he yelled but regretted it immediately. The other people in the tent looked at the three of them for a moment then returned to their conversations.

Bill said in a harsh whisper, "Fuck you, Stuart. How about you pop over there and have a peek in that cellar. You’ll wet your pants before you are halfway down those creepy-ass steps." Stuart stood up and left the tent in a huff. With Stuart gone, Alex asked Bill again.

What do you want to do?

Nothing. Just forget it happened. Whatever is going on in that cellar is the old woman’s problem. I think she is aware of it, Bill said, then stood and walked out of the tent.

Several minutes later, the elderly woman reappeared on the front porch. So unfortunate, the elderly woman thought and sat down to watch the thinning crowd in the park as the afternoon moved towards the twilit hours of the day. It was nearly dusk when she smiled again as the piping started once again. She exited the porch and approached a solitary cyclist walking his bike out of the park.

After a few moments, both headed back to her house. She suggested he leave his bicycle in the side yard so nothing would happen to it while he was helping her. He leaned it against the side of the house, then swapped his bike shoes for sandals and his riding shades for his normal glasses. Back around the corner, he climbed the steps and followed the elderly woman to the door. He sneezed once and wiped his nose.

Oh, do you have a cold? She asked.

No. Just allergies. They flare up sometimes after a ride.

I am so grateful for your help. Are you sure I am not keeping you from getting home to your family? she said.

No, nothing like that. I was just going to ride to the train station to catch the train south for another ride in two days. I still have a couple of hours, so I have some time, he explained. She led him into the kitchen and stopped at the small table.

Wonderful. I haven’t taken a train in quite a while. And you can bring along your bike and backpack. That is very convenient.

Yes, very. Saves me a lot of gas as well, he replied. This is the door?

Yes. The light doesn’t work, but here is a flashlight. She handed him the same flashlight from earlier. He looked it over.

Wow, this might be an antique, but it looks brand new, he said.

Oh, I’ve had it for years and years. I just don’t use it too often.

He lifted the door and stepped down into the darkness. He inspected the shelves and coffee cans before heading to the door. He sniffed twice and could catch just a trace of something foul, but his hay fever was on high. He stepped right up to the door and heard a scraping sound followed by very high-pitched whistling. Maybe she had put her teapot on the stove to offer him some tea.

He tried to open the door, but there was no handle and the gaps in the boards were too small to provide purchase. He stepped back and turned to find something to pry the door open. His eyes began to water followed by the familiar burning sensation in his nose.

He let loose a tremendous sneeze propelling him forward. His sandal caught a crack in the cellar floor, flicking it off his foot. Adjusting his glasses, he bent over to pick up his sandal, setting it next to his foot. Before he could put it on, his sinuses began to crackle and opened. He took in a full breath and the smell caused him to bend over and wretch.

He stopped and wiped his mouth, deciding it was time to leave. Behind him, he heard a snap, a squeak of springs and a bang. At the same moment, the door above him slammed closed. Before he could turn around something struck him mid-back and he felt a warm, sticky liquid seep through his shirt onto his skin.

He was pitched forward, then yanked backward off his feet. The force dislodged his glasses, the flashlight and his other sandal. The speed was incredible, like falling sideways attached to a horizontal bungee cord. After a millisecond of acceleration, he was through the wood-slat door and it slammed closed immediately after he passed through. He came to an abrupt thudding stop only to be engulfed within something soft and slimy. The piping began a moment later, drowning out the muffled screams of the man.

When dusk gave way to a dark moonless night, the elderly woman pushed an expensive looking bicycle across her backyard heading towards the garage. It was a pleasant consolation to the missed opportunity earlier today. One is easy enough, two is manageable, but three presents problems especially if they are too far apart. In the end, it was easier to just let them return to the park.

Once inside, she began dismantling the bike. They were so much easier to dispose of as parts. Despite the basement’s sealed windows and the piles of dirt covering the exterior opening, she could hear the melodious piping coming from the cellar. Each component was removed by hand, spinning wrench-tightened screws and nuts with her bare fingers. She smiled and began humming in tune with the Piper’s song.

The Men of Yuul

By Martin Walker Brown

Prologue

Two figures huddled next to a truck. The rain fell as little more than a drizzle, but even in the night, all it served to do was to make things humid and miserable. An older man handed a younger man a package and spoke to him in Spanish using hushed, but harried tones.

I have included a letter to the Professor. Take the road over the mountains to Champerico and book passage on a ship. Many freighters stop there to pick up goods bound for the United States. You should be able to find one that will take you to San Francisco or Los Angeles. If you make it to San Francisco, you can take a taxi to Palo Alto, but if you dock at Los Angeles, you will have to hire a taxi to a train station and buy a ticket to Oakland. From there you can hire a taxi to Palo Alto. Do you have your passport on you? Do you have enough money?

The younger man replied, "Yes, Doctor, I do and between what you have given me and what I had already, I should have more than enough money to make it to Palo Alto, but Doctor, you should take this to the Professor, you know more about this than I do."

"No, I will take Flores and Gavilan with me to Mexico City in the other truck. It is my fault this has happened. I will make them think I still have it in hopes they will follow me."

But, Doctor-

No, you must listen to me. Get to the port and book passage to the north. If all goes well, you can send a telegram to me from Palo Alto. And whatever you do, speak to no one unless you absolutely have to. Also, remember to keep your sunglasses on as much as possible. Do not open the box for any reason and do not lay it aside. Keep it with you. You must reach the Professor with it or there will be no place on earth safe from the terror that will surely follow.

Yes, Doctor. I will do as you say. Go with God.

You as well.

With that, the young man got into the driver’s seat of the truck, started the engine and drove off into the steaming night. The older man walked a few steps to the door of a small building. He opened the door and looked inside.

Flores, Gavilan, get your things, we are leaving for Mexico City immediately!

After some small commotion of activity inside, two young men emerged with a few bags; carrying holstered pistols. They all got into another truck parked nearby and drove down the road in the opposite direction in which the first young man had just departed.

Four figures appeared as if congealed out of the nearby shadows. They wore gray-green suits, with hats set low over their eyes. They watched the receding lights of the last truck and then looked in the direction that the other truck had gone. There was an exchange of words in a language known but to a few.

Afterward, two figures moved down the road following the truck with the trio inside, while the other two moved down the road that the first truck had taken. They did not appear to walk, but instead they looked as if they glided along the road. Each pair continued on their own paths until they were seemingly re-absorbed by the shadows of the evening darkness.

Chapter 1

It was hot. It’s always hot in Los Angeles in August, but that year it was also muggy. It had been muggy all summer. There’s nothing like it being hot and humid for crime. You’d think people would take the opportunity to sit back and try to stay cool, but no such luck. It just seems to bring out the mean in people. Normally, I don’t have a problem dealing with the mean in people. I made... I make my living doing that. I’m a shamus, a private investigator. I used to be a cop, but I had to give that up. I’m not good with authority.

I was sitting in the brand spanking new Union Station, pretending to read a folded newspaper. A client of mine had some jewelry stolen from her and I was waiting for her old boyfriend to show up and meet a potential ‘buyer.’ Ordinarily, he could have unloaded the merchandise on one of a number of fences in town, but I spent some money and couched a few threats so the local fences weren’t going to touch the stuff. Instead, any of those he went to would tell him that the jewelry was as hot as the sidewalks and that they only knew one person who might buy it. That person was me and that’s what happened.

I was doing this by the numbers. I told my old partner on the force that I was going to bring in the guy that snatched the jewelry from the heiress to the Baker Sand and Gravel fortune. He would take the guy in after I made the collar and earned my fee. The client would have to wait to get her things back until after the trial, but at least she would get them back.

I had been there since five o’clock. The ex-boyfriend was supposed to meet me at six. I wore a tan double-breasted suit with a yellow carnation boutonniere. It was how the guy was supposed to know it was me. It was cliché, but it was effective. I marked him the minute he wandered into the main lobby. Trench coat over what had to be a black silk suit; he wore his hat low with the brim almost over his eyes. He couldn’t be more conspicuous if he were wearing a clown costume.

It took the guy what seemed like forever to recognize me as his buyer. He moved slowly around the edge of the room and worked his way to me. Like I said, he looked conspicuous. I had to keep from grinning. Soon he sat down next to me.

Pretty hot today, said he.

All summer, I said, not looking at him.

Good time to be working in an ice house, he said, as though he had come up with something clever.

Personally, I’d rather buy some jewelry, I said, coming to the point, setting down my paper and finally making eye contact with him. He blinked, startled.

That’s a bit direct, he said.

Relax, who’s here to eavesdrop?

There are people all over the place, he said with a look of fear and annoyance.

Yeah and none of them that give a damn about you, I said, calmly. Just speak normally; no one will pay any attention. Did you bring the goods?

He seemed a little put-out at first, but he reached into his coat, pulled out three flat jewelry cases and handed them to me. I took them and pulled out a loupe. I then opened each box and made a show of inspecting the pieces. My client had given me color photos so I could identify them. There was a ruby pendant with diamonds, a couple of sapphire earrings and an emerald brooch that had a stone that should have been mounted on a golden crown. They were the genuine articles. Satisfied, I closed the cases.

Looks like you weren’t exaggerating.

Okay so, it’s a deal? he asked, apparently eager to be paid so he could be on his way.

Yeah, it’s a deal, I said and handed him a small leather briefcase I had stashed beside the chair in which I had been sitting. He tried to open it, but it was locked.

Hey, what’s the big idea!? he said, menace and panic fighting for control of his voice.

Keep your shirt on, I said. You don’t think I run around with that much cash without taking some precautions? Here’s the key.

His demeanor immediately changed. He took the key and unlocked both clasps. He opened it and stared inside. His demeanor immediately changed again. Among the phone books in the briefcase was a piece of paper on which was written in large capital letters:

‘THE JIG IS UP’

It sank in a few moments later and he slammed the lid shut and stood up. He was holding a .25 caliber automatic vaguely in my direction.

Give me the jewelry back! he hissed frantically. The barrel of the gun was near my head. He wasn’t very smart. In a flash, I had my hand on the gun with my little finger between the hammer and the firing pin. I took it away from him.

You should find another line of work, you aren’t cut out for this, I said. Now, sit down and shut up. His legs folded up on him and he dropped back down into the chair.

What are you going to do? he asked, his face a picture of misery.

Me? I’m going to let your ex-girlfriend know I’ve recovered her jewelry and Detective Sergeant Bumpus here is going to give you a lift to police headquarters. My old partner stepped up, seemingly out of nowhere and put his hand on the ex-boyfriend’s shoulder. Bumpus was a big guy with rapidly receding sandy-blonde hair, currently covered by his hat. I handed him the pistol.

Lover boy’s roscoe, Bob, I said. Bumpus took it, cleared the round in the breech and pocketed it. And here are the goods. They are definite matches for the photos of the pieces she gave me. I stood up and handed over the cases. He took them and waved over a uniformed cop who had been waiting in the wings.

Hook this criminal mastermind up and take him to Central Division. I’ll meet you there, Bumpus told him. The cop pulled the unhappy man to his feet, handcuffed his hands behind his back and walked him out of the building.

Thanks, Bob, that’s one I owe you, I said, giving Bumpus a pat on the shoulder.

That’s one of many you owe me, Ski, Bumpus said. Don’t forget to come in to give your deposition.

I won’t forget. The last thing I want is for the Captain to have an excuse for pulling my license. Bumpus grinned, nodded and left.

I picked up the briefcase and then stopped at the pay phones to drop off the phone books I used. While I was there, I called my client to let her know that the jewelry was recovered and reminded her that it would be a few weeks before she would get them back. She didn’t care; she just seemed to be over the moon about the prospect of her former beau doing some serious jail time. Hell, hath no fury like a woman scorned; boy ain’t that the truth?

The sun was well below the horizon, but the air was hot and still; like a heavy blanket of steam. Only a sense of style prevented me from removing my suit coat as I strolled to my car. I had parked out in the sticks so my baby wouldn’t get scratched. It was my pride and joy; a 1939 Packard Super 8 convertible. I bought it with my second big fee after I started my business. It was black and I had it polished like a mirror. The top was down and a balmy evening drive back to my office beckoned.

I tossed the empty briefcase into the back seat and was about to get in when I heard someone speaking in a fearful voice. I looked around and at the far end of the parking lot, near a wall of oleander bushes; I thought I could make out three figures. The old copper in me kicked in and I decided to be nosy.

As I got closer, staying out of the glow of the parking lot lights, I could hear the voice, a male voice, pleading. At first, I couldn’t tell what for. As I got closer, it became plain. He was pleading for his life. I heard the other figures’ voices, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying.

The figure doing the pleading was backing away slowly from the other two, who did not move forward at all. They seemed to be speaking either English so accented I couldn’t understand them or weren’t speaking English at all. They were so quiet compared to the city’s normal noises and the pleading man; it would have been hard to understand them in any case.

The pleading figure held what looked like a package under his arm and fiddled with something in his hands and while I couldn’t understand them, it seemed clear the other figures wanted whatever he had under his arm. I rushed forward, calling out. They looked at me and then back at the person they were trying to rob. The air had a foul scent like the worst cesspit imaginable. I had to suppress the urge to gag, it was so strong.

Suddenly, there was a brief flash of green light and the pleading figure fell. One of them stooped to take the bundle from the stricken man’s hands. I grabbed the shoulder of the stooping man and with a growl, he swung up with a knife. I danced back but not before the blade had cut the sleeve of my jacket. I couldn’t help but notice his complexion was jade green. I drew my pistol in an instant and I ordered the man to drop the knife.

His buddy got involved at that point and started saying something unintelligible. I briefly turned my attention to the other man, who also sported green skin, but the man with the knife had stepped closer to me. Then, two things happened; I turned my head toward and took a step back from the knife-wielding man. From the direction of his jabbering buddy, a green light flashed.

Out of the corner of my eye I was sure I saw a snake, mouth open, fangs out, hanging in the air. At that point I staggered back to avoid both the snake and the knife; firing several shots, unable to focus enough to draw a bead. There wasn’t a snake when I turned my head to see it more clearly and when I returned my gaze to the knife guy, he was gone. I must have missed him by a mile.

The side of my face burned painfully and I felt a little woozy. The two green guys, which was the only way I could think to describe them, had disappeared into the darkness. The bundle was still on the ground next to a pair of sunglasses.

The figure on the ground was a young man in an old-style suit. He had reddish-brown hair, brown eyes and the look of a college boy about him. His face was pale and in the gloom; I couldn’t tell if his lips were turning blue. He lay upon his back and struggling, he picked up the package. His breath was shallow and weak.

I looked around for someone to call an ambulance and the cops. As it happened a couple of uniforms were trotting my way from Union Station.

Please, the kid said, in a voice that was hard to hear.

Try to take it easy, I’m going to get you to the hospital, I said, holstering my gun. I tried to help him sit up.

No, no time, you must take this, he said with a Spanish accent and with what seemed like more strength than he should have at that moment, shoved the package he had been holding into my hands.

What is this? I asked. The package was heavy and it was well wrapped in brown paper and bound thoroughly with twine.

It must get to Professor Noel of Stanford University without fail... darkness, he began to gasp for breath. I couldn’t find any obvious wounds. What the hell was he dying from?

Darkness? I asked hoping he would finish his statement.

Yes, darkness, the terror, it will… it will eat us all! I couldn’t help looking shocked at what he was saying. I wondered if he had been poisoned and was experiencing delirium, but he was staring at me, his eyes still focusing.

What is this? What can the Professor do to stop, I paused, the terror?

Knowledge, it is knowledge. That is the only weapon we have now. At this point, I could hear police sirens.

I should give this to the police and they can see the Professor gets it, I said.

NO! he looked at me in wide-eyed desperation. You must take it, trust no one, it can’t be lost and it can’t be delayed. Professor Noel must have it as soon as physically possible. At that point, the kid passed out. I couldn’t tell if he was dead. I couldn’t get a pulse from his neck, but I swear I heard his shallow breathing.

I realized that if I gave the cops this bundle, they would want to open it up and look at it and puzzle over it, put it in the evidence locker in LAPD headquarters and if it made it to Stanford at all, it would take weeks or even months.

Something about what the kid said rang like a bell in my head. I didn’t know what the hell the consequences were if the Professor didn’t get this thing right away, but a dark thought in the back of my brain told me I didn’t want to find out. I quickly took off my suit coat and folded it around the bundle just in time. I could hear the heavy footfalls of the approaching coppers.

What’s going on here?! the first cop demanded loudly. I knew him, his name was Mike Sweeney and he recognized me.

Gulczynski, what’s going on here? he repeated himself. Abruptly, he winced and waved his hands, What’s that god-awful smell and what’s wrong with him? indicating the kid.

I don’t know, Mike. I saw a couple guys mugging him and I chased them off. They did something to the kid, don’t know what, but he’s in a bad way. Call him an ambulance, will ya?

He nodded and trotted off back to the station. The other copper, whom I didn’t know, remained with me and the kid. I looked around the area to see if there was anything that might give me a hint as to what had happened.

It was curious. I could see the stricken young man’s footprints in the soft ground near the bushes, but I couldn’t find a sign of our assailants. I again took note of a pair of round wire-frame sunglasses. I figured that was what the kid was fiddling with when I ran up. I pointed them out to the cop to keep him from focusing on my rolled-up suit coat.

The sirens got louder and Mike returned. Then the squad cars showed up. I explained the same thing to them and why I fired my pistol. Since there were no obvious gunshot wounds in the kid, they believed it.

An ambulance arrived about ten minutes later. They put the kid on oxygen and took him away. I finished explaining things to the police detectives that had arrived. I knew them and they were satisfied they had the story. I told them I was heading over to LAPD Central Division to file the jewelry theft report. Thankfully, they let me go without searching me.

I put the bundle on the front seat of my car and drove to my office. I needed some coffee, some cold water and bourbon; not in that order. It only took fifteen minutes to get there. It was on the second floor of an old brick building that provided a place for shysters, gumshoes and quacks to ply their trade.

I parked in the back. I always did. My office was on the alley side of the building and it gave me a sense of security to know I could look out my window and see my car. I put the top up and locked it before I unlocked the back door to the building and trod up the stairs. I still had the mysterious bundle wrapped up in my suit coat and I tucked it under my arm.

I made the second-floor landing and turned to go down the hall. It was dark and most of the other offices were closed. I could hear the cut-rate dentist upstairs working on some cheapskate with a low threshold for pain. Laughing gas costs extra. As I walked further down the corridor, the whines and occasional screams of dentistry being practiced faded a little. I could hear the typewriter banging away in the lit office of Jack Gulczynski and Scott Morgan, Private Investigators.

My secretary, receptionist and confidante, Elizabeth Cavanaugh shot me an evil glance as I walked into the waiting room. It looked like she had nearly completed the lengthy report I had to submit to LAPD. She was a whiz at cracking my hastily scribbled notes and pulling something coherent out of them. Elizabeth or ‘Betts’ as her friends called her, was a widow, mid-thirties, lovely, smoky eyes, brunette. She currently wore her hair pulled back.

It’s after seven o’clock, she said, I thought you were treating me to dinner and drinks. I turned the deadbolt on the door. When she saw my face and didn’t hear the usual wisecrack, she looked worried.

What is it, Jack? she asked as she stood to follow me into my office. My partner’s office was dark.

I’ll give you the dope in a minute, Betts, I said. When did Scotty leave? I unrolled my suit coat and placed the bundle on my desk. I tossed my jacket on the leather sofa near the door. Her eyes fixed on the bundle.

About an hour ago, what’s tha- she began.

I interrupted her, Get him on the horn. I need him here, pronto! She nodded and went back to her desk to place the call. I went into the little bathroom Scotty and I shared and washed up. I shut my office door and did a quick change into a fresh shirt and a black suit, one of a few I keep in my office for when I need a change of clothes. I could hear Betts on the phone.

I don’t know, he just said he wants you here now. Something’s up. I don’t know what. Okay, I’ll let him know. See you soon, she finished. I could hear her hang up the phone. A moment later, she rapped on my door.

C’mon in, I’m decent, I said and sat down at my desk and pulled the bundle to me.

Yeah, but do you have your pants on? she said and walked in then turned to close the door.

Leave the door open, I said. And do you have a pistol on you?

I’ve carried one every day since I was twenty-five, Jack, she said and smiled grimly, put one foot on the chair in front of my desk and pulled back her skirt enough to show a holstered snub-nosed .38 strapped to her thigh.

I knew I loved you for a reason, I said, but I didn’t say with the panache of my usual, glib self and she could read it like a billboard. She removed her foot from the chair.

That’s not love, Jack. It’s lust, but that’s fine by me, she said. Scotty’s on the way. What’s going on?

I bagged the boyfriend in the Baker case, but on my way back to my car I got myself tangled in something really odd, something I can’t even easily describe, yet I have a terrible feeling that it’s something very dangerous and not just for us.

I gave her the rundown on the things that happened in the Union Station parking lot. I could tell they gave her the same feeling about the situation as they had me. She sat down in the chair she used to flash me her pistol and waited for me to say more.

I put the bundle aside and scribbled some notes on the conclusion to the Baker jewelry theft case and handed them to her.

That should give you everything you need to finish the deposition on the Baker case.

So, what is it? she nodded at the bundle. I looked at the bundle again and pulled it in front of me.

Don’t know, Betts. I pulled out my pocket knife and held it in my hand with the intent to open it, but a feeling of dread settled on me. Ever since I was a rookie cop, I learned to trust my gut. It had saved my life more than a few times. Right now, I was enveloped in fear, but it was saying, Open the box… damn, treacherous gut.

I have no idea and to be honest, Betts, I’m not sure I want to. I was trying to work out what I was going to do and in what order. I knew I had to go over to LAPD headquarters to file my deposition and that I could do it in the morning, but my gut told me I needed to get out of town as soon as possible.

Betts went back to her desk to finish the deposition with the last bit of information from the night’s collar. About twenty minutes later I could hear tires squealing in the back lot. A few minutes more and the sound of footsteps in the hallway got