The Night Chasers

By Wesley W. Walker

Betrayed by a trusted colleague and trapped in a manor corrupted by an unearthly evil, a band of survivors struggle to unravel a tangled, supernatural riddle kept in the cellar below. As hope dwindles, they must turn to a little girl to be the key to their salvation and save the world from a fate of fire and shadow. Halfway around the world, a p

• Language: English
• Publisher: Go To Publish
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647493752

Wesley W. Walker

Wesley W. Walker writes both fiction and nonfiction, with The Night Chasers being his debut novel. A self described iconoclast and classical idealist, he explores politics and the Christian ethical world view on his blog at libertyisftw.org. He and his wife live in Bentonville, AR.

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The Night Chasers

Copyright © 2021 by Wesley W. Walker

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

ISBN: 978-1-64749-375-2

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For my daughters.

For my son.

For my favorite reader and true north of my soul, my wife, Erin.

For my mother, father, and sister.

For my dearest friends.

For Rachel, Emily, Shana, and Lisa.

For my first fan, Bridget.

For my editor.

For Jesse. For Lee.

For all those who are lost hoping to be found.

01

The room at the end of the hall suffered from the same decades of neglect as the rest of the manor, reeking of accumulated dust, moldering carpets, and dry rot. Rich, sweet pipe smoke mingled with these entrenched odors, as it gathered in thick, swirling layers across the sagging ceiling before wafting halfway down the peeling wallpaper.

Rolling up his blood stained sleeves, a heavyset man stood by a window, puffing on a short, enameled pipe, and exhaled another long stream of smoke that joined the coiling waves above him. Somewhat shorter than average, with clipped, gray hair that had long ago ceded the crown of his head to baldness, he watched the truncheons carry another body into the stables by the light of their weapons.

He couldn’t help but wonder how many more bodies would be joining them, chalking these morbid thoughts up to exhaustion after a long night that had started with betrayal by an old friend and culminated in the grizzly scene outside. He was certain worse was yet to come, as the devil’s bargain he and his colleagues crafted for themselves would not be undone lightly.

The muffled ring of the antique grandfather clock downstairs in the foyer broke the still quiet of the manor, as the diffuse light of the rising sun blossomed on the eastern horizon, driving back the predawn twilight and casting the room in a rose glow. The old clock rang five times and was again silent.

He yanked a cloth dust cover from a wide, wooden chair that had been lined up against the wall then folded it a few times before tossing it aside. Dragging the chair across the bare wooden floor, he positioned it a couple feet away from a small, round rug lying almost precisely at the center of the room.

He pulled out a small lock of hair from his vest pocket and sat down, pushing all other concerns from his mind. He ran his thumb across the soft, brown strands wrapped with care in a thin leather cord, inhaling and exhaling in time with the unseen forces that coursed in on the first rays of sunlight finally pouring through the dusty windows in earnest.

Specks of dust flickered on swirling eddies of warming air. Both smoke and dust descended together from the ceiling in a twisting vortex that condensed into a formless nothing just above the surface of the rug. After a few more moments, it coalesced into vague outlines of thickening curls before finally taking on a recognizable shape.

She was young, certainly no older than six or seven, with short, brown hair hanging about a lean face. He waited until he could make out her tee-shirt, two sizes too large, brown corduroys, and pink running shoes. She yawned and rubbed her eyes before sitting up to stare at him.

He broke the silence with a gentle and even tone, careful not to bring her to full wakefulness. And where might you be, young lady?

She answered drowsily, A bush...

He said, A bush can’t be terribly comfortable. Shouldn’t you be at home with your mother?

Don’t wanna. She shrugged then yawned. I’ve seen you before. In my dreams.

I imagine you very well may have, he nodded, trying not to show his surprise. She still seemed a bit more lucid than he had anticipated, which made sense, given what her father had said of her abilities.

Who are you? she asked.

He replied, I am Doctor Goodkind, though please call me Charles. I am a colleague of your father.

She blinked and sat up. My dad? Is he there? Can I speak to him? Please?

Charles replied in a soothing voice to calm the girl down, as it wouldn’t do to worry the girl. I’m afraid he’s unavailable presently.

Oh, the girl said and slumped back again.

I’m very sorry. Charles added, You know that your father misses you a great deal, don’t you?

I miss him, too, she wrapped her arms around her knees, sighing. She gazed past him, It’s morning where you are, Doctor Charles?

He nodded, Indeed. Just past five in the morning, if the old clock downstairs is to be at all trusted.

She asked, What are you looking for?

That’s an interesting question, he said, again genuinely surprised by the girl’s directness, as well as her unusual choice of words. He puffed on his pipe, Unfortunately, it requires a rather long answer, and I’ve not the time to properly explain. For now, it will have to suffice that I have been tasked with checking on you, as it gives us some comfort to know that you are well.

Why? she stared at him with her serious grey eyes.

Ah, another astute question for which the time we have now proves inadequate, but one for which you deserve an answer. The doctor took another stalling draw of his pipe and chose his next words carefully, Your father is helping us deal with a very bad man, who has put us into a bit of a sticky situation, and some of us believe you may be able to help us with. Sadly, that is all I am able to tell you for now.

Mmm... the girl tilted her head, And what do you think?

He said, I must admit that I still have doubts, though it is difficult to assess one way or the other, however I would like to believe so.

As the girl yawned again, Charles decided it was best to end the conversation before she would be in danger of remembering too much when she awoke, I don’t suspect your father would much like the idea of his daughter sleeping out of doors under a bush. You should go home and sleep as soon as you can.

The young girl nodded, her eyelids drooping. Okay.

Very good, then. Good night, he whispered and waved his hand, willing the connection closed.

It did not close, and the girl remained, her eyes fluttering open. She murmured, I won’t ever meet you.

A bit flat footed, the doctor stammered, I’m sorry?

I won’t ever meet you, she repeated. G’bye.

He replied quietly, Sweet dreams.

As the girl lay down and fell asleep at last, the doctor waved his hand again, and this time she melted back into a smoky apparition that floated into the shapeless haze overhead. He set his pipe back on his lips and mulled over the final words of a young girl halfway around the world.

There was a knock at the door.

Charles puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. It’s open, Ethan. Please, do come in.

02

The gunshot echoed about the alley with the unmistakable cadence of violence, and the thing that looked like a dog but smelled like a gas fire turned to face the man that held the gun. It growled with an ancient menace before collapsing into a pool of the black ichor gushing from the smoking wound behind its left shoulder.

One thousand one. One thousand two.

The sound of a gunshot travels a long way, and, even in a city as jaded by street violence as Chicago was, there was no telling how many people had heard the shot, or how many of them would then call the police. All things considered, it was simply safest to assume that someone did and would, so the shooter knew he was already on the clock.

One thousand three. One thousand four.

He was of fairly average height and, though not a pushover, wasn’t particularly heavily built, with dark brown eyes and hair just long enough to curl into an unruly wave. He knew the risks associated with rushing things, and he’d heard plenty of horror stories from veteran truncheons, much bigger than him, who learned the hard way that these beasts didn’t operate by the same rules that applied to living creatures.

One thousand five. One thousand six.

He approached the thing with slow, measured steps and listened intently to the angry rumbling still coming from the thing that was not a dog. The closer he got, the surer he was that he didn’t want to risk tangling with the monster - half again larger than he was - if he didn’t have to. Keeping his gun pointed at its center of mass, he pulled a stopwatch from his coat pocket.

One thousand seven.

He started the stopwatch and returned his hand to the grip of his gun, as he tried to gauge how much fight the thing had left in it. The gore drenched hound lifted its massive head, pulling blackened lips back from uneven rows of twisted, yellow teeth. It leveled a final feral glare at him before dropping its head back to the pavement with a heavy, wet thud.

Though it was almost certainly a waste of ammunition and practically ensured someone would call the cops, another shot would buy a degree of certainty he’d not have to wrestle the thing while exorcising it. Again, the gun jerked in his hand with a loud crack, making sure the beast would stay down for a good while or at least long enough for him to send it back to Hell where it belonged.

Moving quickly and efficiently, he pulled a stained cloth bag from another pocket. Brushing the cord over his goatee, he loosed the knot holding the bag shut with his teeth. The beast had fallen closer to one side of the alley, near a pair of garage doors, but there was enough room between it and them that he wouldn’t have to worry about dragging it anywhere to draw a circle around it.

He had just knelt down with his bag of chalk in one hand when he felt an all too familiar chill run all the way up his spine and sit at the base of his skull. A cold gust wound its way through the alleyway, picking up bits of trash and dirt in its wake. Soiled newspaper inserts, burger wrappers, and sticky grit whirled about his face.

There wasn’t time to run and nowhere in the alley to hide, so he put some distance between himself and the fallen hound, his eyes darting up and down the alleyway, searching for whoever - or whatever - was crossing over. He wheeled to his left and then to his right, his finger wrapped around the trigger of his gun. The air darkened, shifted, hissed, and then boomed.

His sights fell on a slender woman, average height, dressed all in black as if she’d just come from a funeral. A silver chain ran from her right ear to a ring in her nostril, one of many piercings dotting a thin face framed by shoulder lengthed hair, dyed black. Boo, she said and lit a clove cigarette as the air settled around her.

Damn it! The gunman scowled and quickly retrained his weapon on the monster laying in its growing inky puddle, You’re going to get yourself shot one of these days. You know that, wayfarer?

She huffed and walked over to the beast, watching as the gunman reopened his bag and poured chalk in a circle around it, Demarcus sent me to get you, truncheon.

He finished the circle and cinched off the bag before replying, Call me Roach.

Roach? Seriously? She snorted and flicked the ashes from her cigarette, What kind of name is Roach?

He pulled out a box of matches and said, It’s better than truncheon, isn’t it? That’s what you people have me doing. It’s not my name.

She exhaled a stream of smoke from her nose, And Roach is? What? Did your parents hate you or something?

It’s a nickname, he struck a match and threw it into the oily blood pooling on the uneven pavement. Low flickering green and orange flames spread over and around the black shape within the circle. He looked at the woman, Are nicknames against the rules too?

Whatever, Roach, she said, rolling her eyes, We have places to be. She flicked her wrist and focused her simmering annoyance into a short, blistering construct, and the thing that was not a dog tore itself apart in a towering column of fire.

Shit! Roach shouted and stumbled away from the roaring inferno that had come within inches of his face. Brushing glowing embers from his leather coat, he glared at her, Are you crazy, lady?

She was already halfway to the end of the alley.

He shouted after her in disbelief, Seriously? You’re just going to walk off with this thing still burning?

Yup! she yelled without looking back.

Yeah, he muttered to himself, She’s crazy, alright.

Roach shook his head and turned back toward the fiery remains of the hound. Its skull stared back at him from within the flames. The teeth were always the last bit to burn. He didn’t know why, but something about how the thing’s jaw was fixed somewhere between a grimace and a grin made the whole thing feel like murder.

He glanced back up the alleyway and the woman’s retreating back, and, standing alone in an alleyway beside a burning hellhound, Roach had a sinking feeling that it was going to be another long night.

03

A tall man with messy, brown hair and restless, blue eyes stepped through the door. He glanced at the rug in the middle of the room, to the window and the last motes of power floating away on the morning light pouring through it. He picked a chair from the wall and started to pull off the dust cover off of it, then, glancing down at the muddy, blood splattered clothes, he thought better of it and left the cover on the chair.

Ethan stretched first one leg then the other in front of him, Well, the good news is that the professor’s new associates won’t be getting into the manor, at least. Caleb, Thomas, and Red are handling the security about the property. We’ve done all we can for the injured and put the bodies in the stables. It’s the best we can do for now.

The doctor nodded absently, his thoughts still on the girl’s parting words. They had carried with them a certainty that he wished he could simply dismiss as the child being precocious, but she didn’t seem the type. Regardless, it left him feeling deeply unsettled.

So what do you think, Doctor?

Doctor Goodkind shook his head and refocused on Ethan, I’m sorry. What do I think about what, Ethan?

The younger man leaned forward and began wringing his hands, Well, you saw her? Talked to her? He nodded to the rug then asked, Do you actually believe a little girl is capable of what we’re likely to ask of her?

The doctor hesitated then nodded, She certainly appears to be as competent as her father believes. Apparently being a wayfarer imposes a personal maturity that her tender age might otherwise suggest.

Rubbing his face, Ethan stood up, crossed the room, then pacing back again, Is this really what we’ve come to? She’s a little girl, for pity’s sake. There has to be someone else of age who we can ask.

You know I don’t disagree, the doctor puffed on his pipe and sagged into the cushions of his chair, This is a dreadful mess, and, should any other way present itself, we must pursue it.

Ethan sighed, dropping his hands to his sides, However...?

However, Charles replied, as undesirable as it may be, this solution is currently the only one we have, and - all things considered - we are lucky to have it. More experienced invokers we could find with time, perhaps, but we don’t seem to have that luxury. We’re limited to the very few people we can reach through sympathetic methods. And, of course, there is the matter of wayfaring.

Ethan pulled his hair back from his face, Damn it all! I should have known. All the bloody secrecy. His ridiculous security protocols. I should have suspected something!

Now, that line of thinking will do no one any good, least of all you. We were all taken in. All of us. So if you seek someone to cast blame upon, you needn’t keep all the blame for yourself, because there’s plenty to go around.

Ethan exhaled, Yes, Doctor.

Rising to his feet, the doctor took Ethan’s shoulder, Ethan White, I’ve known you for well over a decade now, and much of what happens now will depend on you, which gives me some comfort. I, for one, have never doubted your faculties, and I’m not about to start now. We both know how cocked up things can become if one allows emotion to cloud one’s thoughts. That would simply be playing into the professor’s hands. Just keep your mind on the business at hand, not on the passing doubts of the moment. All hope is not lost, my friend. We’ll see this through, one way or another.

Ethan nodded again, saying nothing.

Doctor Goodkind frowned, Speaking of the Devil, what did you end up doing with our once esteemed professor?

We put him in the grounds keeper’s shed at the bottom of the hill, Ethan said. Last I saw him, he was still shrieking like a lunatic about the end of the world.

Well, it seems interrogating him will be of little use, at least for the time being. The doctor puffed thoughtfully on his pipe while rubbing the stiffness from his hands, We can only hope he regains whatever sanity he has left to him soon.

Ethan crossed his arms, What then? Do you truly believe he’ll be willing to help us after all he’s done?

Doctor Goodkind thought about it then shook his head, No, but we’ll still ask, won’t we? I’m afraid that we’ve little choice in the matter unless the American can find some crack in the professor’s barrier. He sighed, The others will probably have questions of their own by now. Let us go downstairs and tell them how things went.

Ethan followed Charles into the hallway that ran the length of the eastern wing of the manor. The bare wooden floor once had a sprawling runner but only a pale silhouette remained, and Ethan couldn’t tear his eyes away from it as the two men walked past doors with cracked paint and walls with aging wallpaper turning varying shades of brown and peeling at the molding seams.

He stopped when they reached the top of the stairs, wringing his hands nervously, Doctor, before we talk to the others...

Doctor Goodkind paused and turned toward Ethan, What’s on your mind, Ethan?

Ethan gathered himself, I appreciate your faith in my abilities, but I don’t want to give the others any false hope. At present, I really have very little idea as to the extent of the professor’s betrayal, no more so, at least, than anyone else at the moment.

Charles lowered his eyes, nodding, You’re right, of course. We must be honest, particularly on that count. So how do you wish to proceed?

Ethan shook his head, I don’t know. I’m not the best with people, as you know. What do you recommend?

The doctor pulled his pipe out from his mouth and replied, Whatever we do now, we must do with faith and honesty. With faith and honesty, my dear boy.

Ethan sighed, Is it really so simple?

Charles replied, It’s no longer a question of simplicity at this point. If we’re going to get through this at all, it will be directly. We’ve had enough deception in this whole affair, so it’s best to carry on and put our best foot forward from here on out. Agreed?

Ethan nodded, Yes, I suppose that’s so. Thank you, Doctor.

Charles asked, Anything else?

Ethan shook his head and shoved his hands into his pockets, No, that’s all.

The doctor set his pipe between his lips again, Alright, come along, then. We’ve kept the others waiting long enough.

04

Foul, green smoke boiled out of the fast dying flames, and Roach waited until only flickers remained across what had become an unrecognizable lump of crumbling ash on oil stained concrete. Shaking off his coat, he ran to the end of the alley and stopped his stopwatch at just under five minutes.

Though he was relieved that he didn’t hear any approaching sirens yet, the wayfarer was already almost a block away and cutting across an intersection. Roach jogged across the street and ran down the sidewalk to catch up with her.

Her clove cigarette blazing between her lips, she tossed Roach an impatient glare, followed by a snort of sublime irritation as he fell into step beside her.

Roach met her stormy gaze. What?

She shook her head and muttered, Nothing.

They continued to the end of the block in silence, then she took a left, and Roach followed. The crosswalk light flashed red at the next corner, forcing them to stop under the street sign. He pushed the crosswalk button while she took another long drag from her clove, leveling another icy glare at him.

Roach sighed, So what’s this all about?

I told you, Demarcus told me to find you and bring you to a meeting, she looked up at the street lights as they changed.

What meeting?

Don’t know, she said and hurried across the street. You always ask so many questions?

He did his best to keep pace, Only when I need to know something.

She huffed and flicked ashes from her cigarette. Where you parked?

West Adams, he replied.

Seriously? We’re taking my car. They walked two more blocks, crossing halfway down the next street. She pulled her car keys from one of the deep pockets of her jacket and climbed into a black sedan, You need to learn how to park closer.

Kicking aside the collected trash covering the floorboard, Roach slid into the passenger seat, his comment lost in the wail of depression and rage set to electronic music that came pouring from the car’s speakers as she pulled out into traffic.

Roach asked, So where is the meeting?

No answer.

He sighed and asked louder, Where’s this meeting?

Again, no answer.

It was clear he wasn’t going to get one as she stared broodily at a red light, so Roach turned his attention to the contents of the car. Starting with the passenger side visor, he pulled out an impressive stack of parking and speeding tickets. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her fingers flexing, but she said nothing.

After he leafed through the tickets, ranging from weeks to years old, he tucked them back above the visor and opened the glove compartment. It was surprisingly empty, save for a long, slender medical case, bound in worn leather. He set the case on his lap, carefully unfastening the clasp on the case, pretty sure of what he’d find inside of it.

The music stopped.

The fuck are you doing! She yelled, snatching the leather medical case away from him and shoving it back into the glove compartment, Are you a cop or something!?

Roach replied, Yeah, actually, I am.

Oh, fantastic, she growled as the light turned green, Ha ha ha, Demarcus, you’re so very fucking funny. Look, officer, unless you have a warrant, I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands out of my shit!

Relax, I’m homicide. Not traffic. Not narcotics. And I’m obviously off duty. He gently closed the glove compartment and held up his hands, See? All better. So, wayfarer, now that we’re talking, where are we going? Please?

She slumped broodily in the driver’s seat, Whatever.

Roach sighed. Look, wayfarer, I’m not-

Jazzlyn, she interrupted. My name is Jazzlyn. Okay!?

Roach nodded, Okay, Jazzlyn. My name’s Richard.

Jazzlyn glared at him, And you go by Roach?

Roach shrugged, It’s better than Dick.

Jazzlyn rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the thin traffic. Merging onto the Kennedy Expressway, she couldn’t think of anything else to say, so, Whatever.

Roach looked out the window at the passing lights, resigning himself to a long wait for her answer.

Jazzlyn glanced over at Roach then back at the road, Rosemont. Chamberlain owns an old movie theater there.

Roach turned his head back to Jazzlyn, Chamberlain?

Wow, Jazzlyn snorted, looking at Roach incredulously. You seriously don’t know who Chamberlain is? Demarcus doesn’t tell you anything, does he?

Roach said, Guess not.

Jazzlyn looked back at the road, Sebastian Chamberlain is the Steward of Chicago. Demarcus is his favorite pet, and we’re meeting at an old movie theater in Rosemont that Chamberlain owns. Happy now?

Yeah, he replied. I am. Thank you, Jazzlyn.

Whatever, she huffed. You’re welcome. She drove in silence for a long while, tapping her fingers impatiently on her steering wheel.

Roach settled back into the seat and pulled his handgun from its holster and ejected the magazine. Pulling a handful of cartridges from his pocket, he replaced two white tipped rounds and slid the magazine home. Dropping the spare bullets back into his pocket, he decided to try more conversation with Jazzlyn, So, how long have you been involved in all this?

Jazzlyn glared at the road, slowing as they exited the expressway. She gave up on finding something clever to say and decided to turn the tables on her nosy passenger, How much do you know about all this? Anything?

Roach checked the safety on his gun then holstered it, The basics, I guess. I’m supposed to be a guy with a stick who helps people like you fight demons, like that thing I put down in the alley back there. Cults are usually behind them. I took it that things had been relatively quiet for a while until a couple of years ago. That’s about all I know, most of which I’ve had to piece together on my own from what the other truncheons have told me.

Great, so basically nothing then. Jazzlyn rolled her eyes impatiently. I’ve been involved in all this since I was a kid, but, not that it’s my problem, thankfully, I don’t have time to tell you any more, because... we’re here. She pulled into an overgrown parking lot behind a movie theater that had closed along with the rest of the strip mall years ago.

Roach looked at the collection of cars for any he might recognize in the otherwise empty lot, committing the plates to memory out of habit. Doesn’t look like Demarcus is here yet.

Jazzlyn pulled into an open space at the end. She pointed at a black limousine parked right by the entrance, But Chamberlain is...

Roach glanced at her, You say that like it’s unusual.

Because it is. She frowned, Let’s go.

05

Ethan and Doctor Goodkind walked downstairs and made their way to the dining room where the others were already waiting. While Charles walked along the dining room table to the far end, Ethan sat down in his usual chair near the fireplace and silently noted the disposition of the others in the room.

The six surviving truncheons stood beside the kitchen door at the far end of the room, talking among themselves, their exhaustion plain on their faces. Red sat near them, focused on rolling a cigarette, while Victoria and Mabel chatted quietly over their cups of tea across from him.

Leaving their places by the fireplace, Caleb, Thomas, and Johannes took their accustomed seats opposite Ethan. Beside them, Brandon leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the table, and stared up at the ceiling. Doctor Goodkind returned the lock of hair to Red before returning and taking a seat next to Ethan.

As the others settled in, It was Mabel who first spoke up, Good morning, everyone.

Good morning, madame, the butler replied politely as he walked out of the kitchen, bringing with him a fresh pot of tea and a brief semblance of normalcy.

Brandon dropped his feet from the table and sat up. So I suppose we best get this right out the way. What’s the shape of the mess we’re in, exactly? He glanced down the table at the others then back at Ethan and the doctor. Anyone?

Ethan cleared his throat, looking at the worried and exhausted faces at the table, I’m afraid it’s as bad as we thought. Worse, really. After we locked the professor up in the shed, I went out past the gardens toward the pond and then past the stables, and, true to his word, there are barrier wards, just beyond the bushes.

Victoria brushed her blond curls from her face and asked, And the road?

Yes, there too, I’m afraid. Just on the other side of the front gate, Ethan answered and rubbed his temples. While our wards should hold him in the shed for the time being, it seems the professor means to keep us captive as well, which explains why we’ve not heard from anyone outside for so long.

Ruddy stalemate, Brandon scoffed. Well, that’s promising, inn’t? So what’s the bad news then?

Johannes slammed his hand on the table and growled, Why is it always the jokes with you? Are you completely incapable of being serious even for a moment?

Sorry! You’re right, Herr Meier! Brandon shot back, Let’s break out the cyanide pills now. That’ll show the devils who’s bloody boss, won’t it?

Victoria stood up from her chair, Gentlemen, please!

Johannes folded his arms, his jaw clenched.

Brandon sighed loudly and