Stone-Cold Alibi: The Summoning Circle, #1

By W. B. Biggs

Step into a world where the lines between reality and the supernatural blur in an electrifying new thriller: "Stone-Cold Alibi."

In the heart of New Orleans, a chilling murder rocks a local diner, thrusting Detective Joseph Seraph into a realm where angels, demons, and spirits intertwine with mortal lives. As the body count climbs and cryptic symbols point to an otherworldly presence, Detective Seraph embarks on a relentless quest to unmask a killer unlike any he's encountered before.

But in a battle where conventional methods fall short, Detective Seraph unveils an unexpected arsenal—summoned spirits that lend an edge to his investigation. As he navigates a shadowy underworld and uncovers long-buried secrets, he races against time to halt the malevolent schemes of a mastermind.

With each turn of the page, "Stone-Cold Alibi" takes you on a roller-coaster ride of supernatural intrigue and pulse-pounding suspense. Can Detective Seraph decipher the cryptic clues, bridge the gap between worlds, and confront the darkness lurking beneath? Or will he become entangled in a web of mystical forces beyond his control?

Prepare for a mind-bending journey that will leave you questioning the boundaries of reality and the depths of human darkness. Are you ready to face the unknown?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaos Forge Press LLC
• Release date: Apr 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224811595

W. B. Biggs

Born on a lonely outpost nestled among the far reaches of the stars, W. B. Biggs grew up searching for cosmic space wizards. Looking for magic, he found it nestled safely between words. His wife and children remind him of the majestic magic that binds all reality together in a complex weave of beauty. He currently resides on an obscure branch of the great tree Yggdrasil which roots burrow deep into the Mississippi soil.

Book preview

First Victim

The body lay like a crumpled marionette, limbs splayed against the grimy plaster.

Life had abandoned him, leaving behind a broken figure slumped against the wall. The wall itself wore the scars of time and violence; its surface was etched with a bouquet of cracks and blood that covered the wall like graffiti. Beneath my shoes, the floors felt greasy, and the smell of fryer fumes filled the air.

The food at this sorry excuse for a diner must have been a toxic concoction, a real death sentence. No ordinary food could bring down a man like this. His innards spilled out, resembling a tangled mess of discarded spaghetti, as if some deranged beast had torn into his very core. The sight churned my insides, threatening to expel whatever remnants of an empty stomach I had left.

Damn, what a way to kick off this godforsaken journey. At least, the rain had finally ceased, but the air weighed heavy with humidity, a relentless suffocation that clung to every breath. The thick, muggy atmosphere wrapped around me like a swamp’s embrace—humidity high enough you could almost swim through it. In the midst of it all, I imagined that I could hear the contemptuous thoughts swirling in the minds of the officers present, their unspoken words dripping with cynicism, mocking my initiation into this wretched corner of the world: Welcome to fucking New Orleans, Bud.

Instead, a grunt slipped from one cop’s mouth, accompanied by a dry remark, Welcome to the city of sin. Hell, I always thought sin had its roots in the neon-lit playground of Las Vegas. Shows you how much I know. Or maybe it was just a warm welcome from the seasoned wolves, ready to prey on the fresh meat that was the new detective.

Forensics sauntered in, lugging their suitcases like schoolkids toting lunchboxes, off to some twisted cafeteria of crime. It’d be a damn while before they unearthed anything substantial, assuming they found a shred of evidence in this mess. Needing some space and a break from the pungent stench that clung to the air, I stepped out into the oppressive heat.

My shoes squelched in a brown puddle of standing water, and the sound of water dripping from the rusted awnings created a backdrop of off-beat music. Above and behind me, the faded sign of the restaurant read: The Big Easy Diner.

Even though a wet, muggy heat hung in the air, it was a reprieve from the suffocating scent of blood and decay that haunted the crime scene. Above, dark clouds gathered, as if the heavens themselves mourned the loss of another soul. My trusty steed, a black unmarked cruiser, rested awkwardly parked outside the grim diner. A cop swaggered out, dripping with arrogance. He sauntered over, standing by my side, left hand clutching something, his expression a blend of smugness and mischief.

Got a name for you, the cop said, extending his hand to reveal a driver’s license. The worn card bore the name Matthew LeBlanc, a man whose existence had just met a brutal end.

LeBlanc’s address became my next stop. Sliding into my car, I dialed in the license details, eager to uncover any hidden connections to the unfortunate victim. As I navigated the city’s unforgiving streets, the crackle of static on the police radio provided a dissonant soundtrack to this waiting game. Five minutes later, I found myself parked in front of the LeBlanc residence, their secrets about to be laid bare. It was only a matter of moments before I received the intel on the late Mr. LeBlanc, his family tree unraveled before me. A wife, a daughter—innocent bystanders left holding the empty bag of a life gone wrong.

The sky remained a somber canvas of ash-gray, threatening another downpour. A neatly trimmed lawn, recently tamed yet longing for the meticulous touch of an edging tool, welcomed me to the scene. Not that I could boast about my own yard—grass growing wild and defiant, resembling a forgotten jungle. Who has the time to tame nature’s unruly greenery when they’re out safeguarding the lives of the oblivious masses, right? The house stood solitary, a modest single-story abode, perhaps two bedrooms and a single bathroom, judging by its size.

Approaching the light blue front door, reminiscent of a calm afternoon sky, I rapped my knuckles against it three times. In a momentary lapse of judgment, I had contemplated a little jingle, a touch of dark humor to lighten the heavy air that clung to this house of the departed. Yet, such levity would be ill-suited in the presence of mourning. Although, if I lingered much longer, my next knock might have been laced with a hint of spite. No, I never claimed to be a saint.

The door opened a crack, revealing a woman, not quite young, not quite old. Her face, like overripe fruit, bulged against the edges of pretty, time’s cruel thumbprint smudging its once delicate lines. Time has a way of beating the pretty out of all of us.

My name is Detective Seraph, I announced to the woman, my voice holding an air of authority. Her eyes scrutinized me with a mixture of wariness and suspicion, an understandable reaction given the circumstances that had led me to her doorstep.

Has something happened to Matthew? she asked, a storm of concern darkening her features.

May I come in? I deflected, evading the weight of her question for now. I had my own inquiries to make, pieces of this puzzling narrative that needed to fall into place.

The door swung wide, granting me passage. I followed her into a living room adorned with fragments of their shared life. Photographs of Mrs. LeBlanc and her husband adorned the mantle of a fireplace that seemed untouched by warmth, collecting dust and memories. Amongst the frozen moments captured in those frames, the LeBlancs stood united with a young woman, the family bond unmistakable in their features.

I settled onto the worn-out couch, facing the soot-stained fireplace. Across from me, Mrs. LeBlanc sank into a weathered armchair adorned with a faded floral print. I didn’t want a seat, but I figured taking a more relaxed approach might coax her into divulging something useful.

Draped in a shroud of black, Mrs. LeBlanc sported an ensemble that screamed of toil and servitude. It was the kind of outfit a waitress would wear, concealing the stains and filth accumulated during a grueling day’s labor.

Mind if I inquire about your place of work?

Work at The Big Easy Diner, she murmured, her words drifting like smoke. My husband runs the joint, gets up at the crack of dawn to set things in order. I show up later, after he’s already opened shop.

How many others work at the diner with you and your husband? I inquired, my gaze fixed on Mrs. LeBlanc.

She took a moment, her mind waltzing through the dimly lit corridors of her memory.  There are five other waitresses. We usually have two or three of us working at a time. There are two cooks in the back. she revealed, her words accompanied by a weary sigh.

I leaned in, my elbows resting on my knees, ready to delve deeper into the murky waters of her husband’s disappearance. This was the moment, the pivotal turn in our conversation where the veil of uncertainty would be lifted. Mrs. LeBlanc, I probed, does your husband have any enemies? Someone with a score to settle, perhaps? A thug lurking in the shadows, itching to make him pay?

Her response came in a trembling voice, laced with fear and desperation. Has something happened to him? Speak, damn you! she exclaimed, the words piercing the air like a siren’s wail, a damsel in distress caught in the clutches of uncertainty.

Your husband was found murdered this morning, I said, unable to skirt the grim question any longer. The words hung heavy in the air, casting a shroud of sorrow over Mrs. LeBlanc. In that moment, her anguish erupted like a volcano, tears streaming down her face, smearing the layers of her meticulously applied makeup. Her sobs pierced the silence, teetering on the edge of a gut-wrenching wail. I couldn’t help but wonder if this display of raw emotion was genuine or if Mrs. LeBlanc was merely a masterful thespian.

Rising from my seat, I smoothly slid my business card across the slightly wobbly coffee table, leaving it in plain sight. With a solemn nod, I made my exit, leaving the newly widowed woman to navigate the treacherous depths of her grief. As I stepped out into the unforgiving world, the bleak sky loomed overhead, showing no signs of reprieve. The street lay deserted, except for my solitary parked car, surrounded by an eerie stillness. Even the air itself hung lifeless, as motionless and stagnant as a corpse lying in the city morgue.

The dark, dreary day grew darker still, mirroring the somber tones that painted the cityscape, as a relentless drizzle resumed its melancholic descent. Casting one final glance at the house, a shiver slithered down my spine. The encroaching shadows transformed the gnarled trees behind the building into furtive figures, their silhouettes dancing silently in the murky abyss.

While looking back at the LeBlanc residence, a sudden thud echoed from the roof above, disrupting the desolate tranquility. It was the sole warning granted to me, an ominous herald of the danger lurking in the shadows. And then, without further ado, the day’s first attempt on my life was unleashed.

Naught but Mud and Wood

Aheavy thud tore through the silence, ripping my gaze skyward toward the gentle slope of the roof. Perched there, a solitary figure awaited, gender and identity concealed by the veil of distance. The figure wore a tattered, dirty green hoodie, and stone-washed jeans that seemed to have weathered only a single wash in their sorry existence. The attire reeked of neglect. Gripped in their hand was a jagged piece of broken wood, evoking unwanted memories of the deceased diner owner, slithering through the corridors of my mind. Could this be the killer, emerging from the shadows to finish what they had started within the greasy confines of the diner?

The scent of ozone hung heavy, like the tang of fear after lightning strikes, and in one swift motion, the figure leapt from the rooftop, landing with an eerie grace, crouched low, before hurtling across the lawn in my direction. There was an unnatural quality to their movement, an unsettling aura that seeped into my bones. Perhaps it was my jaded past, bearing witness to countless aberrations, that sharpened my senses, or perhaps it was something more inexplicable. Either way, instinct screamed within me, warning that this relentless pursuit was fueled by a malevolence aimed squarely at my own existence.

I swiftly drew my trusty Glock from its holster, a modified piece with alterations that danced along the blurred lines of legality. Shouting futile commands for the assailant to halt, my words drowned amidst the downpour, dissipating like whispers in the wind. Frustration surged through my veins, fueling my resolve. Without hesitation, I squeezed the trigger, unleashing a symphony of thunderous roars that harmonized with the rhythmic cadence of raindrops.

Fiery justice found its mark, each bullet striking with merciless precision. I witnessed the body convulse with the impact, a telltale sign that my aim had rung true. But the assailant, undeterred, carried on with unrelenting determination, hurtling forward in my direction as if invincible.

In that moment, an unsettling revelation took hold. This was no ordinary man or woman; it was an abomination, a golem to be precise. It wasn’t the bullets’ feeble effect that unraveled its true nature; no, I had witnessed drug-addled brutes shrug off projectiles like moviegoers munching popcorn, deriving pleasure from the pain. Instead, it was the proximity that unveiled its hideous visage formed from slick mud, its eyes mere pebbles of onyx, and a crude mouth, perpetually agape, locked in a silent outcry of wrath. It was a face only a mother could love, though even that sentiment seemed doubtful in this wretched case.

A surge of realization washed over me, compelling me to take decisive action. I needed a heavy hitter; unfortunately, it lay in the glove box of my car, just out of reach. However, there was a silver lining in this unfortunate circumstance—it perfectly aligned with my latest decision: to run.

I bolted, each stride a calculated maneuver, not fueled by sheer fear but by strategic necessity. I needed time to formulate a plan, or at the very least, conjure a semblance of one. Golems, as legends would have it, proved maddeningly resilient. There was a way to render them lifeless, though—it involved extracting the parchment nestled within their grotesque mouths. That parchment, inscribed with a spell that breathed existence into the golem, was my ticket to its demise. A peculiar twist of fate, the spell itself was scrawled on a humble, yellow Post-it note, caked in mud. The note, yellow and frail, lay like a butterfly against the bottom of the golem’s mouth cavity. Retrieving it would hardly be a task the golem would willingly permit. And, of course, the haunting images of the late Mr. LeBlanc, his disemboweled form sprawled across the diner floor, didn’t exactly serve as motivational fuel.

Casting a fleeting glance over my shoulder, my fingers strained for purchase on the passenger-side door handle. The creature loomed in the shadows, an embodiment of darkness itself, lurking inches behind me. Thick, brown tears of mud streamed down its countenance, further soiling its already filthy hoodie—a macabre tableau etched in filth and despair.

The jagged wood that passed for the golem’s hand jabbed at my midsection. The fact that I like my midsection as is, gave strength to my legs as I jumped sideways and landed on the hood of my car with a thud. Sliding off the rain-slicked surface, I crashed unceremoniously to the ground, the clash of wood against metal resonating in the air. A cacophony of impact.

Bathed in a puddle of grimy water, I lay there, momentarily winded by the sudden communion between my body and the unforgiving earth. Waiting patiently, I braced myself for the golem’s inevitable assault. My grip tightened around the gun, hoping its mere presence would impede the creature’s descent. Seconds stretched into an eternity as I remained poised, ready to defend myself. Each tick of the rain on the pavement was a hammer blow on my skull, each breath a rasp against sandpaper lungs. Where was it? The silence screamed louder than any roar. But the anticipated attack never came.

Gradually, I rose from the drenched ground, my clothes clinging to my body like a