Itch

By Douglas J. McGregor

On an earth-size planet in the Centaurus Constellation, a paranormal investigator, his talking dog Hugo, and an abandoned orphan boy attempt to save Mankind from the deadly scourge of “Itch”.
“They wanted the kids,” Max said, “they wanted the orphans, they wanted the seven of us.”
“Why?” the dog asked, and looked at me, shaking his head in wonder.
“They wanted us for ‘Itch’,” the boy continued.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Taylor,” he admitted, and shurgged. “All they kept talking about was ‘‘Itch’,” and he shrugged again and added, “By the way they were talking, ‘Itch’ must be real important.”
Hugo jumped up in alarm and ran around the kitchen table. He barked shrilly few times and stopped in front of me, his expressions cold sober. “We have to talk,” he said sternly. “We have to talk now-in private.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532075612

Douglas J. McGregor

Douglas J. McGregor is the author of nine action novels: Going Down Ugly; Limbo, Mississippi; That Special Knack; Killing Time till I Die; 8 Crazy Moments in Time; Off the Beaten Path; Itch; and most recently, Roadtrip 41. He is also the author and illustrator of the popular children’s book, Alphabet Town. A new children’s book entitled; Calvin Babysits the Zoo is due out in 2024.

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Copyright © 2019 Douglas J. McGregor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-7560-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7561-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019906325

iUniverse rev. date: 05/28/2019

Contents

Prologue

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2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

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19

20

21

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23

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26

27

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31

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Prologue

T here are more stars in our observable universe than grains of sand on the planet earth. Roughly one fifth of those stars (suns much like our own sun) have orbiting planets that lay within the Goldilocks zone, the habitable zone where life, at least life as we know it, might exist. And that’s where I live, on an earth-size planet in the Goldilocks zone, orbiting the star Omega Centauri One in the Centaurus Constellation.

The planet is dubbed, for some strange reason, K2-501b. Not that the official name matters. Most of the planet’s thirty-five million inhabitants simply call the place, the rain planet—and for good reason.

It rains here a lot. Like every day. Every so often the rain will stop; but don’t get out the sunscreen, because you will soon need your umbrella again.

I like the rain. It keeps everybody inside and makes things green and lush. It also, oddly enough, attracts ghosts.

Yep, no lying on this one, rain attracts ghosts, or at least it would seem that way because the planet is overcrowded with ghosts. Most would be gravely concerned by such a thing, but not me; I’m happy about it because I hunt ghosts for a living, and business has never been better.

My ghost hunting enterprise is a two man operation: me and Hugo, the greatest dog in the universe.

He’s a beautiful purebred Corgi. Simply eye-pleasing, he has a thick, hard textured tan coat, a black nose at the end of a white snout, and the most loving brown eyes you could ever imagine. His underbelly is white and smooth and he stands low to the ground, his legs being only six inches long.

As an added bonus, he is a ‘paranormal sensitive’: in other words, he can sniff out ghosts.

Oh, and he also talks; sometimes too much.

Mind you, on the morning this all started, instead of waking me with a few gentle words, he stuck his cold wet nose in my eye.

A frighten yelp shot from my mouth and I bolted up into a sitting position, my heartbeat thundering, my brain trying to make sense of what was happening.

I turned on the lamp beside the bed and stared at the dog. He grinned sheepishly, and went to speak, but I beat him to it. Hugo! What do you want?

He looked me in the eye, and in a thick Welsh accent dripping with snooty arrogance, reported, We have a wee bit of a problem.

Wee bit? And I chuckled, Did you see a ghost?

Oh, you’re very funny. You should be a comedian, not a paranormal investigator.

Can’t you say ghost hunter like everyone else? Why do you always have to be so prim and proper?

I prefer that term, the dog said curtly, it gives us some dignity. Some class. Some nobility.

I rolled my eyes. Who cares? We are who we are.

He quickly reminded me, I have royal blood flowing through my veins.

I tried not to smirk, but did anyway, and returned with, My blood is as red as yours my four-legged friend.

Only a commoner would say that.

I was too tired to keep swapping jabs with him and instead focused in on the digital clock on the nightstand. After gruffly noting the time, I was back looking at the dog, who was now seated at the bottom of the bed. It’s not even five in the morning—what’s the problem, your majesty?

We have an intruder.

The news of this came as quite a surprise, and my train of thought stopped as though it had hit a brick wall. Could it be possible? I eventually decided the dog was wrong; and I ended the dilemma by saying You’re crazy, we’re in the middle of nowhere.

Be that as it may, the motion detectors are blaring.

I don’t hear a thing.

Maybe if you cleaned out your ears you’d hear it.

I ignored his insult and moved the conversation along, Are you sure?

I’m a dog—I hear extremely well, and even if I didn’t the siren is 120 decibels. At least that’s what it said on the side of the box when we installed them around the compound. I can’t believe you can’t hear it.

I listened for a few seconds, admitted that, yes, maybe far off in the distance through the sound of heavy rain a siren blared, and quickly concluded, The rain set it off.

The dog snorted out his annoyance, It’s not the rain.

Then it’s an animal, I fired back, The forest is teeming with animals. Why do you think we have a fence around the compound?

The Corgi threw up a paw in exasperation. The motion detectors are state of the art—they are programmed to only detect the heat signature of humans.

The weight of evidence was mounting in his favor, still…Don’t believe everything you read on the side of a box.

Something is in the forest, he concluded, and it isn’t the rain and it isn’t wildlife. This is human.

I try not to swear in front of the dog, but I did this time, and yeah, he was most likely right, and damn, why does this happen to me? I’m a good person.

I climbed out of bed and picked up the shotgun from off the nightstand. This double-barreled bad-boy was eighteen inches long and black as the night. It shot a special pellet that would destroy energy. It worked great on ghosts, and though I’d never had the need to try it, it works even better on humans, or so I’ve heard.

Hugo eyed the weapon with dark suspicion. Maybe the intruder will be friendly.

"Maybe he won’t be.

With that said, I left my warm cozy bed and room behind and marched down the hall toward the front door. Hugo walked beside me, his rear end wiggling from side to side. I have to ask, he began, his warm brown eyes finding mine as we trudged along the hall. You’re a wanted man…right?

Whether he had royal blood or not, (and no way, not at the price I bought him at) I didn’t care for the accusation; and I let him have it with, I’m not wanted…I’m squeaky clean, just like you on bath day.

He ignored me and, with utter certainty, said, The law is after you.

The law is not after me.

Then how come we never work in Central City? He sighed heavily with regret and continued with, You’ve never even taken me there for a visit, and they have beautiful dog parks. At least that’s what I hear.

I don’t like Central City. It’s crowded and dirty.

It all makes sense now, Hugo continued, nodding as though he had just discovered the meaning of life. We live in the middle of nowhere and we only work for cash.

I like living in the middle of nowhere—it’s quiet, and we work for cash for a reason.

Let me guess the reason, the dog said, You’re a criminal and you don’t’ want any record of payment that might lead back to you.

You’re wrong—Mister Smarty-Pants, I shot back, now standing in the tiny foyer by the door. I’m doing it for the government. If we filed paperwork on every job we do, the government might have to employ more people and that would cost money.

I see, Hugo said, and looked off in thought. As he pondered that tidbit of reasoning, I pulled my gray raincoat from the closet and shrugged into it. I dug a black wool cap from the pocket and pulled it over my bald head. I kicked off my bunny slippers and put on my black rain boots with the orange heel and toe.

Hugo was back looking at me, and he had a coy smile plastered on his face. So if I understand you correctly, we take cash because you don’t want to pay taxes.

Well don’t say it like that, you’re implying that I’m the bad guy in all this, and I’m not.

You are the bad guy, the dog stressed, you’re cheating on your taxes.

‘We’re not paying any taxes, so how can ‘we’ cheat on them?

The dog thought about this revelation for a moment. You know, that kind of makes sense. It’s logical. Then he added, Oh, I noticed you’re using the word ‘we’ in your sentences.

You’re in the middle of this too, remember?

The dog thought some more. Okay, I’m going to go along with you on the whole not paying our tax thing. I probably shouldn’t, but okay we’re saving the government money. It still doesn’t answer who’s out in the woods.

I cocked the shotgun. We’re going find out right now, and I opened the door to a cold steady rain.

* * * * * * *

Our planet’s star sat on the horizon like a dull yellow bloated soap bubble. Angry gray clouds diffused a great deal of its light and hid our seven orbiting moons. There was, however, sufficient light to see and we wandered across the muddy compound in the direction of the siren.

Why I had fastened the motion sensors to trees out in the forest and not onto the fence posts was a question I tried to answer as I walked across the compound with my trusty dog. I eventually decided that I was just plain stupid that day because if I had fastened them to the fence posts they most likely wouldn’t be ringing right now and I’d be snug and warm in my bed. Such is life, right?

The constant blare of the sensors jangled my senses but it was the lush rainforest completely surrounding the rectangular compound that was downright unnerving. Thanks to the pelting rain the forest looked alive. The green and brown of the leaves and tress shook and moved as though it had a mind of its own.

I’m going need a bath once this is over, the dog announced, his short stubby legs completely coated in mud. I think I’d like the strawberry bubble bath this time.

Whatever you say, your eminence, I grumbled.

Oh, Taylor, by the way, the Corgi pushed on, and after a short laugh, asked, Can you hear the siren now?

Ho, ho, ho, maybe you should be the comedian, I shot back and, because of the early hour and bitter cold rain stinging my cheeks, decided to speak my mind, This is stupid. I’ll bet you fifty bucks the rain set off the detector.

You’re on! the dog yelped with excitement. It’s a bet, and I know you’ll pay up because we don’t pay taxes so you must have lots of money.

I wish, I said, and added, I’m more worried about getting cheated by you.

I waited for a response, but I never got one, for the dog stopped abruptly beside me, sat his behind in the cold mud and lifted his snout to the light breeze.

Uh-oh, I thought, for I’d seen this look before. Hugo had a great nose, and he had caught the scent of something.

What are you smelling?

I’m not sure, and he paused for a few seconds, it could be you I’m picking up.

I’m sure it is, I snapped. You got me out of bed for nothing. Maybe we bought a defective motion sensor, you ever thought about that?

I expected a witty retort from him, instead he was back sniffing at the wind. That worried me, so did the look in his eyes. Something, something human, was in the forest and though I already knew the answer, I asked the question anyway, You’re not smelling me, are you?

Before he could respond, the foliage directly ahead of us rustled violently. Wet green leaves flew everywhere. I backed up from the fence and aimed the shotgun in the general area of the commotion. I waited, and I didn’t wait long.

A boy no older than ten broke free of the forest. He was thin with a narrow face, blue eyes and long blonde hair that fell to his shoulders. His clothes were wet and muddy and his pants had holes in the knees. Even with his clothes covered in mud, I recognized the navy blue jumpsuit he wore. So did Hugo.

He’s from the orphanage, the dog yelped in shock.

The kid saw us, ran up to the fence and, with both hands, clutched the wire mesh tightly. Desperation shone in his cold blue eyes and he breathlessly asked, Are you Taylor? His eyes then shifted to the dog. Are you Hugo? Are you the ghost hunters?

I thought Hugo might correct him with, we’re paranormal investigators, but mild shock still clung to the dog’s face, and all he managed was, You have found us, young man.

Tears welled up in the kid’s eyes and he blurted out, I’m from the orphanage. Barbara sent me.

Without even thinking, I swore; so did Hugo, and the dog looked at me and questioned, What does your ex-wife want?

I walked up to the fence, right up to the young boy and looked through the mesh at his cold wet face. Where’s Barb? I asked, and braced myself for bad news. Why didn’t she call?

They took her, the boy revealed through his tears. They took everyone but me.

I didn’t know what question to ask first, and lamely decided on Who took everyone?

Men, he answered. They wanted me, but I had time to hide.

As I considered my next question, Hugo cut in with some common sense, Maybe we should go inside out of the rain. Then he looked at me. You owe me fifty bucks.

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T he boy’s name was Max and, as I predicted, he was ten years old—soon to be eleven. He was also hungry from a three day trek through the woods so I brought him into the kitchen, sat him at the table and started making him a peanut butter sandwich at the counter.

Hugo got him a towel from the cupboard and the boy toweled off his wet hair and began his story.

They came late at night, he informed. I should have been asleep in bed like everyone else, but Barbara and I were up late watching a movie in the rec-room so we heard them coming. We heard the gunfire.

Gunfire, Hugo cried out and felt the need to stress the point that, It’s an orphanage. Who shoots up an orphanage? He shook his head in dismay and asked the obvious question, Who were they shooting at?

Poor old Charlie.

Fear sizzled through me and I stopped making the sandwich, turned, and looked Max in the eye. Is Charlie dead?

Without hesitation, he nodded.

In an instant, a blanket of thick sorrow tightened around me like a noose. For what seemed like a long time, no one spoke; the only sound came from the drip drip of rain dripping off the dog’s hide onto the kitchen floor tiles.

I fought back tears and looked away; when I looked back Hugo sat in front of me, a serious expression etched on his face. You know this Charlie?

We were good friends, I revealed, He worked at the orphanage since the place was built. When he got too old to work, Barbara kept him on as the guard.

I’m sorry, the dog said, and he looked away and sadly muttered, This is not good.

I had to agree with him. Not only were we dealing with kidnappers, we were also dealing with murderers.

I caught the kid’s attention. Please continue.

Barbara told me to hide in the crawlspace under the house because it’s a dead zone for heat sensors.

Splendid, the dog commented, that Barbara knows her stuff.

She told me not to come out for any reason, he pushed on, and she also told me to go find you and Hugo. She said you two would know what to do.

The dog nearly choked after hearing that. What are we suppose to do? We’re ghost hunters. We’re not in law enforcement.

If not for the gravity of the situation, I would have snidely called him out on his use of the term ‘ghost hunters’, but instead I turned to the kid and said, I know where you hid. I’ve worked in the crawlspace. I remember I could hear plenty…What did you hear?

They wanted the kids, the seven of us. They kept asking Barb where I was. She told them I had died, and was buried in the graveyard out back. I guess they believed her, not that it mattered, cuz they said because she was still young enough, they could use her in my place. They said if she had been any older they would have snuffed her out like Charlie.

What was she young enough for?

For ‘Itch’, he answered, and shrugged. That’s what they all kept talking about—they all kept talking about ‘Itch’, whatever that is.

Hugo jumped up in alarm and ran around the kitchen table. He barked shrilly a few times and stopped in front of me, his expression cold sober. We have to talk, he said sternly. "We have to talk now—in