A Dark Night

Slowly rousing from your dead sleep, you first take notice of your wooden ceiling, smacking your dry lips as you stir within the confines of your bed. Bloated, you roll over and pull a pillow over your head. From beneath the pillow, you blink away the sleep from your eyes, staring at the clock beside your bed.

The Old Well, Part One

The old town well was cursed.

Not cursed in that it gave foul or polluted water, no. No, the water was fine and cold, and clear as could be. The seven families that composed the village of Remtusk depended on the well for their everyday chores: the woman needed it for laundry and cooking, while the men used it to quench their thirst after working with the animals in the fields. Even the children looked to it as a source of solace that they could find on a sweltering summer day.

Take My Breath Away, Part One

The bass thrummed in a steady beat through the smooth walls, making the very stone beneath my back vibrate from the sheer volume pouring from the PA system within the new club. Looking at the long line I was standing in, at the various people swathed in black leather and satin, I fight back a smile as I look for someone to bring home tonight. I haven’t gotten any in days, and the familiar itch was beginning to become bothersome.

The cure, this time, is from the Club of the Damned.

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors, Part Five

Previously

Reginald sighed as he cut along the sternum of the first victim, the delightfully charming Mary Ann Nichols. Well, she had been delightfully charming.

Now she was just a ragged corpse with holes sliced into it.

“What are you doing?” She asked from Reginald’s shoulder, hovering over him by a few inches to watch as he cut into her physical form.

Reginald sighed again, choosing to focus on his task at hand rather than look up into the silvery face of the dead woman who had yet to pry herself away from him! “I’m going to search your body for physical evidence before I search it for nonphysical evidence.”

“Nonphysical evidence?” Another ghost piped up, this one a portly male with a savaged stomach and three neat symmetrical incisions along his throat. His voice was as raspy as someone with a lungful of opium smoke, and his pallor was dreadful, as if he’d been drug from the bottom of a lake.

“Ghosts are a rarity good sir, a rarity that only occurs when there is a sudden and very violent death. The fact that I am speaking to three such beings at one time suggests something supernatural is killing people here in jolly good England, and I for one would like to discover what it is.”

“Well what could do something like this?” The spirit asks after a moment, glassy eyes reflecting nothing but sadness and confusion.

Smiling grimly as he folded back the outer layer of skin on the young corpse, exposing muscle and bone for all the world to see. Along with the maggots crawling about inside the dead flesh, wriggling between the sinewy cords and along the pink bones.

“That’s odd.” Reginald muses before looking up to Mary Ann for a moment. “And you said that you never saw what killed you, right?”

“That’s right,” Mary Ann said evenly, folding her arms over her translucent form. “It all happened so fast, all I remember is a flash of pain then darkness. And now just this endless cold.”

“Yeah well, the endless cold will have to do for the time being. You’re going to be like this until I get to the root of the problem, the problem being what exactly killed you.” Reginald replied with a somewhat genial tone before splitting the sternum with a pair of calipers. “Sorry you have to see this.”

“Not at all, it’s actually quite interesting.” Mary Ann said almost cheerfully, peering into her own ribcage. “I’ve always wondered what exactly makes us all tick.”

“Well this isn’t a very good representation of what keeps a normal person alive, just so you know.” Reginald moved a leather-clad hand into the slimy recesses of the chest cavity. “Besides the maggots, which shouldn’t even be here this quickly, you’re missing a few vital organs.”

“Like what?” Mary Ann asked, clearly interested.

“Like a heart. And judging from the arteries leading to it, the whole thing was torn out through those nasty little incisions along your stomach.” Reginald pointed out, pulling his hand free from the slimy interior of the body, flicking off a few maggots for good measure.

Bloody Mary

The frigid chill of the darkness is all that I seem to be. I cannot tell where I begin and the unknown begin, instead viewing myself as a horrid amalgamation of the darkness given the ability to think. The few times I can think, outside of my own endless existence… I don’t like it.

I open my eyes, the siren call ringing true through the darkness. Someone is calling me.

Tears welling in my eyes, I shake my head back and forth, my stringy black hair floating around me weightlessly. No! I think bitterly as I feel the darkness swirl around me. Not again, please not again!

The call grows stronger as a sliver of light pierces through the darkness, slowly chipping away to reveal an open doorway, full of light and warmth. Sadly, the doorway is too small for me.

They always are.

Bookworm

David sighed as he leaned back in his stiff-backed chair, stretching his aching muscles and popping his back in a series of sigh-inducing cracks. He’d been studying for his Mythological Creatures class for the last two hours now, a dismal flickering light barely keeping his small study room lit enough to read the numerous books by.

He’d signed up for the elective after hearing the class was essentially an easy A. This was before Professor Stocking retired and Doctor Vicks came on staff to take her place. The surly old polish professor was one of short stature and even shorter temper, demanding the utmost attention to detail in his class. Between the long and sundry list of books David was expected to read, he was told he had to research in the Miskatonic Library a minimum of three hours a week. The old coot had even left a sign in the roster at the front desk for his students to check in and out throughout their studies.

A Night in Ole' Paris

“I still can’t believe we’re in Paris!” Rhonda exclaimed, gushing over how fantastic her honeymoon was starting. She and Mike had been together for years, with no plans on marriage. Somehow that had changed a few months earlier, and now Rhonda was living the dream of officially being the wife of Scott Marche.

Scott was walking alongside her, holding her mitten-clad hand with his own, enjoying the strings of lights and the warm feeling the city gave off, despite the fact that it was winter. Paris was never cold, it seemed.

“Well you said you wanted a break from everything, and how often do you get married, you know?” Scott joked, earning a swat turning into a soft embrace. The two continued walking along the lone street towards their small hotel, snuggling to fight off the cold, when Scott’s ears first heard it.

He stopped the both of them, shushing Rhonda when she began to ask what was wrong. He looked around the old French quarter, the old buildings lined with a thin frosting of snow and ice, straining his ears to try and hear it once more.

There it was again!

The small whimper of a child, echoing from… somewhere.

“Hello?” He called out, knowing how horrible his American accent ruined what little French he knew.

Scott grabbed Rhonda’s arm to stop her, pointing down a narrow alley to where a small form was huddled, swathed in dirty rags and covered by a threadbare blanket. The minute frame leaned against a mound of garbage bags.

“Hello?” Scott called down the alley, frowning as the tiny figure flinched upon hearing his voice. “Do you need help?”

“Please… it hurts…” The tiny voice, a young boy, sobbed.

“Oh my god…” Rhonda muttered as she rushed to the child’s side, pulling the blanket back to take a look at him.

 “It hurts… please…” The boy said, coughing and once again falling into a series of sobs.

“Scott, we need to take him to the hospital.” Rhonda said, feeling the child’s forehead. “He’s freezing, and he feels so strange… like wet meat.”

Scott reached into his jacket to grab his cell phone, quickly scrolling through the options to find the saved number for emergency services. As he pressed the button, he nearly dropped the phone as Rhonda moved to scoop the child up.

As the blanket fell away, one could see the child bore no legs, only a thick coil of veiny, translucent skin stemming from where his hips should be. With his hood pulled back, his face was as pale as death, his eyes glassy and dull. Black, dead veins stood stark along the boys temples and face, even as his mouth continued to move and his hands moved to loop around Rhonda’s neck for support.

Before he could say anything, the coil of flesh whipped up, revealing that it went deep beneath the trash bags at the boys side, which surged up like a great worm, a tooth lined maw dangling beneath the shimmering black plastic.

“It hurts…” The boy said one final time, before the strange coil of flesh rose, dragging Rhonda by the boy’s vice grip around her throat closer to the drooling maw of the strange beast. Rhonda began screaming, a gurgling, half-choked shout as the “boy” bit into the side of her neck, a thick spray of blood spouting from her throat as the lamprey like mouth of the garbage beast descended upon her, shredding her arm to ribbons as she tried to battle it away.

“Rhonda!” Scott shouted, rushing to tackle the side of the garbage beast, tearing into its elastic flesh only to reveal a hardened shell beneath, glimmering yellow eyes staring back at him with malevolence. A tearing sound wrenched through the night as the plastic bag tore of its own accord, a sharpened scythe-like limb cutting its way free and burying itself deep into Scott’s stomach.

The alley went silent save for the wet sucking sounds of one draining juice from a carton, the crunching of bones and pulpy, wet smacking of meat being chewed. The creature, the fleshy tendril extending from its forehead, began reburying itself within the garbage bags as its puppet began pulling the blanket back over itself. The alley was clean of any remains save for a discarded phone with a cracked faceplate.

And so the snow continued to fall, the alley growing cold and silent once more, save for the silent sobs of a little homeless boy, wrapped up against the cold with a threadbare blanket.

Plague

Peter was not a man of the cloth, at least from what you would guess by looking at him. Old far beyond his time, the young Norsemen was a recent convert to the Church, following his Fief’s wide swept conversion lead by their “benevolent” king. Olaf was many things, but kind was rarely one of them; he had issued commands throughout all of the North that all of his followers were to accept Jesus as their spiritual lord, or face the figurative fires of Hell, and the literal fires of Olaf’s wrath.

The conversion had little effect on Peter’s life, truth be told. He was still a soldier in the name of his Fief and King, he was still a mountain of corded muscle and tribal tattoos, face worn dry by the bitter winds of the northern seas. The only real difference was that he had more work now, as he was offered up by his King to the priesthood, as a token of goodwill.

Peter snorted at the very thought. Goodwill… Olaf was wise in sending Peter south, far from the beautiful peaks of his homeland. Peter’s father had been a strong rival of Olaf, been one of the last of the Fief lords to oppose him. He hadn’t surrendered in the face of Olaf’s larger armies, nor his exotic soldiers from the far-flung edges of the Christian world… he had stayed true to the way of the North, to remain as stalwart and strong as the mountains that bore them. A mere handful of Peter’s clan survived, and only due to the fact that the Christians were inclined to take captives.

Not as slaves mind you, though they had a fair share of those amidst their ranks, but as converts. Among the survivors had been Peter, a score of women and children, and Peter’s uncle Ulag. Olaf had offered Ulag the throne to the newly conquered Fief, on the condition that the region would convert to the new religion, and that they would pay large sums of tribute annually. A final, smaller note amidst the wheeling and dealing the weasels Olaf had sent as emissaries and his cowardly uncle had been to send Peter to the Church, to become a priest.

So here he was, clad in his traditional furs and leathers, strolling down the paved streets of Sankt Veit an der Glan, the home of his new patron and master, and of the church he would be serving. Peter did his best to console himself with the changes, though the wide eyed stares from the truly miniscule people surrounding him did little to ease his temper. Whereas he wore several layers of wolf pelts over a set of boiled leather armor, these doddering German fools wandered the streets in thin layers of wool and silk, their only armaments thin black sticks that seemed more for show than any real purpose.

Peter tightened his grip over the haft of his axe, the wide double-edged instrument fully covered by the aged bear pelt he wore as a cloak, his first kill as a man some ten winters earlier. His hand had yet to stray from his blade, something he merely shrugged off as a warrior’s instinct, choosing to ignore the small voice in his head telling him it was because he was afraid of all of this, of his new future as a man of God.

After asking for directions (as best he could, with what little German he actually knew) he was finally able to find his destination: Rabe an Basilika, loosely translated to be the Raven’s Basilica. Lovely name, Peter thought sardonically as he shoved his way through the crowd of dwarves meandering about the street, much to their consternation. Why these slovenly barbarians have to come up with such silly names is beyond me…

While the rest of the city was crafted with thick slabs of stone and darkened wood, the looming figure of the Raven’s Basilica was one of dark iron and polished black marble, a high tower rising above the wooden roofs and columns of smoke that glinted faintly from the setting sun. Easily visible from the moment Peter had caught sight of the city, he had not even known what the building could have been, but upon learning that it was the home of the local clergy, he had let out a burst of deep laughter, so amused by the revelation. The very idea that the spirits would require such a luxurious home would be almost insulting back home, yet here in the so-called civilized lands, the Living God demanded tribute in such odd ways. What did he need such large buildings for?

Peter smiled as he drew closer to darkened building, shaking his head at the sheer audacity that these Christians showed; he had read their supposed holy texts, something that surprised many he encountered. Most assumed that since he was from the North, he was nothing but a ravaging marauder of men, more beast than human in the finer of arts. But Peter’s father had made certain he could read, so that should he ever find a need for it, he would have the proper skills readily at hand. He could distinctly remember reading in the texts how their prophet had warned against greed and opulence, insisting that if his followers wished to truly emulate him, they would divulge themselves of all worldly possessions and dedicate their lives to helping their fellow man, as God wished for them to do.

The gigantic structure before him was anything but humble, and absolutely reeked of wealth and power. Great metal doors, embossed with thousands of tiny birds in mid-flight, ascending to the heavens, stood before him, set into black marble walls and above marble steps. Twin gargoyles loomed overhead, both essentially gigantic Ravens carved with absolute care from a single piece of Obsidian. A slight layer of frost had already begun to settle over the doors as Peter pushed them open, the darkened skies above promising a cold night for any unfortunate enough to stay about to experience it.

The interior, a dark hall full of cold stone pews lined before a high crucifix set along the far wall, a morbid display of prolonged death, suffering and apparently salvation. Thick wax candles glimmered softly, a thousand glowing lights piercing the darkened cathedral, casting long, flickering shadows against the thick marble columns. A short line of robed monks, heads bowed in prayer, knelt before the tall relief of their Lord, their hushed prayers echoing along the high walls like the low buzz of marsh flies.

“A new convert, perhaps?” Came a low, grumbling voice from the shadows. Peter half drew his axe from beneath his cloak before a thin hand stopped him, resting along his forearm. “Ah, you must be Peter then?”

He merely grunted in acknowledgement, readjusting his axe and its sling beneath his furs, eyes locked on the arm that had snaked from the shadows, along with the man it was attached to. Obviously a man of the cloth if the numerous crosses sewn into his leather armor, though from the way he moved, as well as the strength he exhibited beneath his leather-clad hands, he was also clearly a warrior. Dark-dyed leather allowed him to blend into the shadows of the Basilica, the carefully stitched material covering every square inch of his body, hugging it like a mother would a child. While not as tall or broad as Peter, he was nowhere near as small as the insects praying to their false god, nor the dwarves wandering the streets of the barbarous city. His face was a mystery, trapped behind a full-mask wrapped about his head, a thick hooked beak drooping from his face in lieu of a mouth, a pair of glinting glass covers over his eyes acting as his only portal to the world outside his leather-bound bodice.

It was what plague-doctors wore, men and women who went to regions stricken with the Black Death, a horrid sickness that supposedly seeped into your very soul, corrupting you from within until your mortal flesh couldn’t handle the darkness within, bursting with a sour-smelling black ichor like an over-stuffed turkey. Odd that a priest would dress in such a fashion, but then again, all of the people in the South were odd to Peter.

“I had imagined you as a giant, but the reality is far greater than the idea!” The man crowed delightfully, slapping Peter playfully upon the shoulder, beckoning him to follow him into the darkness. The man disappeared through a darkened doorway that had so far remained hidden to Peter’s well trained eyes, another thing about this horrid structure he could add to the list of reasons it should be burnt down.

The hallway was narrow and lightless, a dim glow in the distance serving as their only guide. The man chattered on like a gull at low tide as they walked, speaking of the many adventures they would be sharing and of the lives they would save. Peter groaned internally at the very thought and cursed Olaf and his cowardly uncle once more… sending him to some distant church full of religious lunatics to become a healer for the damned! What a waste of his hard-earned skills and labors from years of military training. They’d probably ask him to even hand up his axe… what a thought!

The light at the end of the tunnel was from a large hearth, roaring flames instantly suffusing Peter with healthy warmth he had not even realized he’d lost. The room itself was circular in nature, with four smaller cubicles branching off to form small bedchambers that, while open to the center of the room and it’s hearth, were able to provide a notable amount of privacy for those lying down to rest. The walls between the bedchambers were lined with shelves, crammed full with tomes and scrolls, jars and artifacts. Several small globes hung from the high ceiling, all rev9olving slowly about the largest one along thin wires. Several small tables lay strewn about, artificer’s tools and books laid out haphazardly between them. Two other men stood in the room by the high flames, drinking deeply from simple wooden bowls. Both were dressed in the typical priestly vestments: flowing white robes decorated with red finery. One was older than most Peter had ever met a stooped vulture of a man that leaned heavily on a small cane. The other was a younger man, probably younger than Peter, and seemed to defer to the older priest as if he served him.

“You’re late.” The Vulture drawled, a thick accent almost making the butchered German completely useless.

The Raven bowed deeply, sweeping a thin cape that seemed to be connected to his elbows back dramatically, a long string of light, musical words filtering from his mask in a language Peter had never heard before. Great… he though miserably, am I going to have to learn yet ANOTHER one of these horrid tongues?

The younger man took the older’s elbow and helped him move to sit by the hearth, murmuring in the same lilting tones as the Raven in a way that seemed to calm the Vulture’s sudden spike in ire. The Raven continued speaking to Vulture, soothing tones mixed in with his garbled words as he handed him a wooden cup, pouring him a small measure of wine from a stoppered decanter. After a few slow sips, the Vulture once again turned his milky eyes onto Peter, a scowl gracing his thin lips.

“So he is to be your protector then? A heathen?” The Vulture spat, glaring at Peter as if he were some useless cow. “I suppose he could have his uses, but his Grace would still prefer it if you were to have a few Schweizergarde along with you as well; a measure of intellect can go much further than mere muscle can.”

“My dear Cardinal, I assure you he will be more than I truly need, and appreciate your concerns. I have only taken him in, as it were, due to his Grace’s wishes.” The Raven replied cheerfully, dropping to a nearby stool with a casualness not often displayed before such high-ranking officials. “I barely operate within the bounds of the Church, and while I know that is irksome to you, I would suggest you get used to the idea.”

The Cardinal scowled even further, heavy lines creasing his face as he set his cup down to the side with the deliberate movements of the old and infirmed. “If you choose to ignore our most gracious of offers once more, who am I to say anything over it? Always be aware that the offer stands, and that I could have three of our finest soldiers here within a fortnight to assist you in your… endeavors.”

“Rest assured, my endeavors will always be aligned with the goals of the Church and his Holiness. By your leave, I offer you a home for the evening before you wish to return to Italia; travel by night is rarely as safe as one would hope.”

The Cardinal waved away the suggestion with a disgusted face. “Bah, I will be fine. I’ve had enough of the cold North.” Turning a gimlet eye upon Peter, the elderly priest let out a dry wheeze. “How your kin survive in climes such as this is beyond my comprehension, especially without the grace of our Lord for so long. Truly, a miracle if ever there was one.”

Peter chose not to respond, merely staying silent as the two priests slowly made their way from the comfort of the hearth and into the darkened hall. Raven, reclining now along the low table with feet propped high upon an overturned cauldron, lolled his head to the side to look at peter through his rose-tinted lenses. “The Church has been hounding me for months to take on an apprentice, someone to aid me in my war against the darkness that has been consuming Europe these past few decades. They keep trying to foist onto me some of their own, someone that they can depend upon to report back to them about my actions and my methods. I have to thank the fates that you were sent to me at this time, to help me in my hour of need.”

“You can thank my treacherous family and their silver-tongued advisors…” Peter grumbled as he pushed Raven’s feet from the cauldron and dropped down upon it, snatching the cup that the Cardinal had left half-empty and taking the last swallow. “Blech, even the spirits of this land taste horrible.”

Raven chuckled, a low reverberating echo from within his hood. “It does take some getting used to, but we’ll have plenty of time for that later. Now that you’re here, we have some business to attend to.”

“Business?” Peter asked, already bored with the line of thought.

“Yes, we are needed in a small town due south of here, near the border of the Black Forest.” Raven said, rising to his feet with a practiced fluidity. “Relmut has been struck by the Plague it would seem, and we’re needed there as soon as can be.”

The Abyssal Maw

From darkness it rises,

All enveloping

Twin crescent pools of pitiless silver

That rest

Above an Abyssal Maw;

Needles and knives shift along

Chitin and bone,

Set deep back into a skull

Like so many men past

After years of six-deep rest.

The moons judge

Quivering yet unwavering

Seeking an answer to a question

Not yet asked.

The skull drifts closer, slinking along the warm current

A curtain of shimmering hair hovering silently in it’s wake.

The Abyssal Maw widens,

Teeth pulling back as the jaw creaks

A silent scream echoes through the water

The question now asked,

I try and find the words to reply.

The Abyssal Maw drifts ever closer,

A sinuous body of dreadful scale

And hardened bone that

Lazily

Push it ever closer to me.

Closer to an answer I do not have.

This flower of the macabre is now close enough

For the moons to be mirrors

Showing me what I truly am

And for what I can be.

I have my answer, as does it.

If by the way the head rears back

Into a cloud of beauty can show me.

Like an arrow fired

Into a starless

Sky

The Abyssal Maw darts away into

The

Void

A rush of warmth

And shame

Washing over me

As I watch it swim away

The Abyssal Maw

A creature as old as it

Is young

Has judged me

And I have

Failed.

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors, Part Four

      Previously

      “…So I tells the bloke, why not just put the bloody ting on the mantle an’ call it yer mum!” Charles finishes his story with a snort and a laugh, on shared by everyone at the table save Reginald, who was nursing the last of his Absinthe with both a look of bliss and disdain.

So far he’d been slumming it with these magical dock workers, all clearly descended from Troll or perhaps even Ogre stock, and he’d yet to have even gotten a bit of lip service to the murders within Whitechapel.

Oh, he’d gleaned a few things here and there. The murderer was targeting magical people, specifically women. The murderer was removing organs after the fact, but was particularly brutal in his methodology, generally slitting the throat of the victim in a fashion that O’Donahue referred to as a “Chelsea Grin.” So far the public, and indeed Reginald himself, had been convinced those targeted were mere ladies of the evening.

That was what all of the clues pointed to, in any sense.

Sipping from his second bottle of Absinthe, Reginald steeped his fingers before himself as he pretended to listen to the boisterous workers as they told their bawdy tales and sordid deeds. He’d already woven a subtle charm over himself to make those around him merely “forget” he was there, and in doing so was learning more and more about the London underground.

The only victim reported to the police so far had been dear Mary Anne, who had inde3ed been a prostitute.

She’d also been part-Succubae, a descendent of a fiend that fed off of latent sexual energy from their string of lovers. For a being such as her, a profession such as that of a working girl seemed appropriate. There had been two other deaths that hadn’t been reported due to their… sensitive nature. One was a Witch from Nottingham that had come to town with the intent to sell a good deal of treated opium, her liver and spleen cut from her body with unique precision.

The third victim was the daughter of a local Hedge Wizard, a sort of magical repair man for the supernatural community. Emily Schroeder had died a horrid death to say the very least, but she’d at least been able to put up a fight. She’d been found dead, her throat slashed and neck broke, numerous organs missing from a savaged chest cavity… but a few feet from her lay a silver knife with what Charles had described as “charred goo.”

With that tidbit of information, along with the knowledge that the killer seemed to prefer hunting those of the supernatural community, Reginald had a good deal to begin his case with. Now all he had to do was wriggle his way onto the case itself…

***

            Sitting in perhaps the stiffest wooden chair in all of London, Reginald quietly picked the smallest pieces of lint from his black silken clothes as the Detective Inspector looked over his documentation citing him as an “outside source called in to aid the local Police with the rising rate of crime in Whitechapel,” or some other such nonsense. He’d merely glamoured a newspaper to reflect impressive qualifications, along with a message proclaiming him to be the Metropolitan Police force’s newest forensics expert.

            Perhaps the only thing not to be a bold faced lie upon that paper was his self-proclaimed title of forensics expert. Over the years Reginald had discovered that the budding world of science was in no way an enemy to the ancient world of magic, but more of a complimentary tool that could be used side by side with his esoteric forms of investigation, providing him not only a new perspective with which to look at a crime, but evidence he could present to normal people without having to resort to such… petty trickery, like some common street magician.

            “So… Master Reginald,” The Inspector said, clearing his throat as he folded the magically enhanced newspaper in half, placing it gently atop his paper strewn desk next to his lukewarm cup of tea. “I must say it is something of a relief to be getting a man of your qualifications at such a time as this. I’m sure you’ve heard of the recent killing in the Whitechapel district, no doubt?”

            “Of course,” Reginald replies, bobbing his head as in ascent. Reading the man’s aura, Reginald could tell he was a ball of nerves string far too taut, with too little rest. His words rang true to say the least: he was glad to have someone of the visiting Wizards supposed skills around. “I know I am from America, but my skills are among the finest in the western world I assure you. Allow me a chance to take a crack at this killer and perhaps I’ll uncover a stone as of yet unturned.”

            He waves his hands in front of him, leaning back in his far more comfortable chair with a smile upon his moustached face. “By all means, please do. The poor girl is still in the morgue, the poor lass; the clergymen have been up in arms at my refusal to release her remains for a proper burial, but with the recent advances in medicine and forensics…”

            “You wanted to wait for an expert to examine her before turning her over for burial.” Reginald finishes for him, nodding in understanding. “Well I happen to be such an expert, so let’s get this unpleasantness undone, shall we?”

Both men stand up, the portly detective grunting as he gets to his feet, tugging at his vest to smooth out the wrinkles. Reginald ran his thumb over the head of his walking stick, activating an enchantment that made those around him seem to disregard him, making them suddenly remember something of great importance or that they’d forgotten something instead of noticing the magical detective.

“That’s alright Detective Inspector, I know where the morgue is and already have the clearance granted by you to perform the autopsy.” Reginald said with a kind smile, allowing a bit of energy to flow into his walking stick to empower the confusing aura it gave off. “Just give me the papers and I’ll be on my way. I imagine you have more important matters than watching a yank cut into a stiff, eh?”

The detective stared at Reginald for a moment before shaking his head, muttering to himself how he did have a notice that needed to be addressed. He leaned over his desk and grabbed a small stack of papers, as well as a golden badge that would allow him access to restricted areas of any police stations. Accepting them with a kind smile and firm handshake, Reginald allowed the heavy set man to drop back into his chair, a relaxed sigh escaping his lips.

Reginald made his way from the office towards the morgue, a room set in the basement of the Metro Police station. Walking past several officers at a brisk pace, he quickly shuffled through the papers that the befuddled Detective Inspector, magically altering certain portions to grant him further access here, allowing him certain privileges there.

Descending the stairs two steps at a time, Reginald quickly made his way to the morgue with a sense of familiarity. All places that housed the dead were of course more attuned to the magical world due to the passage of the souls from this world to the next. Stopping at the door to the morgue, Reginald straightens his coat, reaching into his pocket for a small tool kit bound with a leather thong.

Knocking on the door hurriedly, Reginald waited to see if anyone was within the morgue at the moment.

“Come in!” A woman’s voice called out, hollow and watery.

Smiling grimly, Reginald pushes the door open into the dimly lit room holding five bodies on metal push tables, along with three specters hovering about, all bearing horrendous wounds they’d sustained in life. One familiar ghost drifted down from her perch atop a cabinet, her clothes silvery where the blood spattered wounds had been inflicted upon her in life. Her throat was savagely torn to utter shreds, whereas her abdominal wounds were neat and precise.

She lunged forward, her sunken features seemingly elated at the very sight of him. “You came after all!” She cried her voice watery as silvery fluids seeped from her opened wound. She wrapped herself around him in what would have been a hug had she been solid, but was more of a chilling wind combined with the slimy feel of ectoplasm seeping through his clothes.

Today was turning out to be as bad as he thought it would be. 
Next

Stanton Creed Pt. Two

Stanton moved over to the cooler, squatting down to examine the various bottles of liquor arrayed before him. Despite the rot betwixt his ears, he could hear the girls murmuring between themselves, the remaining two boys muttering dark mutterings. Scooping up a heavy glass bottle of rum bearing an image of a cocky pirate, Stanton looked over his shoulder.

“Negro? You got a name?” Stanton asked, preferring not to have to call him by his race the entire game.

“It’s James you racist motherfucker.” The man replied through gritted teeth, a fist clenched at his side. “And you can’t just make us do this! What if we just run?”

Stanton let out a wicked laugh as he burst into a puff of black sand and shadow, reforming between the two men holding the bottle of rum, both arms slung around their shoulders. “I’m cursed to roam these lands boy,” Stanton said, stressing the last word with amusement before shoving the bottle into the older boys hands. “Since we’re getting along like a circle with a peace pipe, let’s hear some names so I don’t have to call you by what I think of you.”

The older boy, holding the bottle and looking a tad confused, merely said his name in a single word as he moved to grab shot glasses fro his backpack. “Jesse.”

“Jesse and James,” Stanton said with a thick chuckle, taking a moment to hawk and spit a globule of mud and roaches from his lungs, wiping his mouth on his dirt encrusted sleeve. “I knew a Jesse and a James back when I was more flesh than bone. Good fellas, honest through and through.”

“I’m Jessica,” A blonde girl in a two piece swimsuit, sitting next to a girl with similar hair and facial features. “And this is my sister Becky.”

Stanton merely waved at them with a cocky grin before turning his eyes as cold as death upon the last two women, Jesse walking amongst them passing out shot glasses, one by one.

Stanton smiled as his shot glass bore a small drawing of a devil on it, along with the words “South Padre” across the creatures furry ass.

“I’m Sara,” a thin brunette said, her hands in her lap and eyes on the bonfire. Girl’s in shock… Stanton thought, looking down at the corpse of the man he’d shot for being difficult. Toeing him with his muddy boot, Sara winced as he did so bringing a horrid smile to Stanon’s wrinkled features.

“And I’m Jackie,” Said a thicker girl that, if Stanton’s rotten eyes weren’t mistaken, was of injun blood.

“And who’s this lump,” Stanton asked, kicking the warm corpse soaking in it’s own bloody sand.

“Jay,” Sara said with a choke.

“Ah… young love.” Stanton said with a sneer. “You beat me in this contest girl, I’ll bring him back for you, healthy as a horse. But old Stanton’ll want something in exchange for this extra bet.”

“What do you want?” She asked, tears welling at the edges of her eyes.

“If I win, I get your soul nonetheless, as well as his, but I also want two additional souls. Don’t care how you get them. You just gotta kill two people before offing yourself.” Stanton said, smiling as he face went a further shade of pale. “You win, I’ll bring the boy back. Simple enough?”

“Now wait a minute mister!” Jackie said suddenly, standing and pointing down at the dead man perched atop a comfortable mound of sand. “Who the hell do you think you are to do this to us? What do we get if we win other than what we already had?”

Stanton stared at Jackie with his dead eyes for a moment before a wry smile cracked his face. “My oh my, a woman with sense! Alright then, you best ol’ Stanton Creed in the game of Drink and toss my body in the well at the top of the hill, you’ll find buried beneath my headstone a sack of gold. Don’t ask me how I got it ‘cause you won’t like the answer, but suffice to say it should make you all plenty happy.”

Quiet murmurs broke out around the camp at the sudden addition of not only living past this night, but possibly being richer. Only Sara remained silent, staring across the bonfire into the glimmering dead eyes of Stanton Creed.

“We’ll play your little game cowboy,” She said in a low voice, “and we’ll beat you too. We have to.”

Stanton just smiled as Jesse began filling up everyone’s shot glass one by one.

The game was on.

Stanton Creed

Stanton Creed blearily opened his eyes, a sickening series of pops and clicks as the desiccated corpse began to move from his fetal position at the bottom of the dried well. His dirt-caked leather jacket and moth eaten short shook free a variety of vermin as the skeletal ghoul rose to his feet, his body slowly rejuvenating as it did every year. Blue veins followed by grey muscle swelled and pulsed along his skeletal frame, filling his clothes with the body of a man who’d been prime physical condition before his death.

Letting out a rattling breath, a chilled fog seeping past his rotted teeth, the reanimated outlaw coughed, clearing his lungs of the dirt and spider webs that had filled them over the past year. Turning to the crumbling stone wall of the well, Stanton Creed began his yearly ascension from his barren grave. His ears picked up the sounds of laughter, of men and women celebrating close by, a sneer spreading across his face, shallow and dirty. As he began to pick-up speed in his ascension, the familiar hunger spread through his body, tingling in his limbs and rattling deep in his bones.

One leathery hand grasping the lip of the well, he heaved his fully fleshed body over the rim, landing on his half-rotted boots. One hand checking his holster for his pistol, he smiled a wicked smile as he made his way down the hill towards the bonfire set up on the beach. Dancing around the fire like the injuns of old, he could make out seven people in total, along with a bright red cooler full of bottles of liquor.

Stopping at just the edge of the light that the bonfire offered, he stood for perhaps five minutes before one of the scantily clad youths caught sight of him.

“Holy shit!” The shirtless man said, pulling a pair of girls further away from him, as if her were about to pounce upon them. “Dude, what the fuck? Get the fuck out of here, invitation only!”

In a voice as thick as mud, a burst of cobwebs blasting past his lipless mouth, Stanton Creed looked to the lad. “This here be my hill boy, I think that be invitation enough.”

One of the other man, a bald, muscular negro, let out a sudden gasp as a large yellow and red centipede curled out from a hole in Stanton’s chest, curling and crawling up to a hole in his neck, burrowing into the leathery flesh with glee.

“What the fuck are you?” The negro asked, the girls moving back to put the bonfire between them and the walking dead.

“A man who was just sleeping before being woken by a band of stupid boys and girls,” Stanton said with a sharp his, taking a moment to quickly take a snort and a bite, spitting out a solid inch of the invading centipede as any other man would spit out chewing tobacco. “Now that you woke me up, one of you has to put me back to sleep.”

“Or we could just fuck you up,” the first boy said, stomping up aggressively towards Stanton, only to realize the ghoul was armed and ready for him, quickly drawing from his holster and emptying three rounds into the boy’s sculpted chest. The boy dropped to the ground, dead, while the girls screamed and the remaining two men stood up, as if they were going to do something about it.

“You could try boys, but old Stanton Creed has an aim as dead as his body,” the corpse boasted, blowing at the end of his rusted six shooter before slipping it back into his holster. “Now just settled down with your womenfolk and get out your liquor, we’re gonna see if you folks can put me to sleep or not.”

“What?” The negro asked, looking at Stanton with a weary eye.

“Simple,” Stanton began, a chattering rasp echoing from his body as a series of spiders came spewing forth past his teeth. “Old Stanton is a man fond of the drink you see, and proud to say that not many can drink him under the coffin. We all take shots of whatever you folk have, the last one standing being the winner. If one of you win, I get to go back to my grave and rot until disturbed again. If I win, I get to bring your souls down to Hell with me.”

“Why the hell would we play against you?” The other man, an older one with a spiked ringlet of ink around his bicep asked.

“Because refusing me means I get to use my gun on you like I did your friend here, a fate that guarantees a good time with Lucifer himself.” 

Authors Note: Inspired by this song, a tribute to the band that has now been added to my playlist for when I write.

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors, Part Three

Previously...

Reginald rolled with the vicious strike, tumbling haphazardly into a bin of rubbish. The creature scuttled along the wall, hissing as it grew ever closer to his prone form. Another leaped from high above, jumping from the opposing wall to the one Reginald was propped up against, clambering down the wall with sinister intentions glimmering behind its twisted visage.

“Is there a reason you’re attacking me, or should I take this as a breach in the Treaty of Thames?” Reginald blearily asks aloud, rubbing at the side of his head where he’d been struck. Both creatures, their boneless arms stretched out with tentacles spread out to grasp at him. “So I assume this isn’t an attack?”

“Oui…” One of the creatures slowly exhales, pulling back its offensive limb to better perch itself upon the wall. “’Ow is eet dat ‘ou speak?”

“With my mouth for the most part, though I do know how to do so with my hands should the need arise.” Reginald replies as he pushes the accumulated garbage away from him, pulling himself to his feet with the aid of the wall. “Do I need to speak with my hands gentlemen, or shall you explain yourselves to me?”

The second of the creatures, these Chokers as they’re so well known, are the twisted forms of orphans that have been kidnapped and transformed under the full moon. All of them are generally considered male, though they are actually genderless; they breed through their twisted kidnappings and witchcraft. Servants to those that bend the universe to their will, they generally act as protectors ever since they made a pact nearly two centuries ago stating as such: they protect the practitioners of magic, and they don’t get hunted down for the abominations they are.

“We… we though you was a Dead ‘ead milord… thought we might make a bit ‘o coin off ya, heh heh…” The first one answers, chuckling nervously as he extends a snake-like arm, tentacle fingers spread wide. “Me names Abner, and ‘e be Francois... we guard the alley, we do.”

I shake his hand in greeting, dusting off my coat as I do. The rain is dripping from the awnings overhead, and the trash had been hiding a rather nasty puddle of water tainted with the stink of past meals and rot. Reginald grimaced as the dampness soaked through his coat to his sensitive frame, and made a sweeping gesture with his left hand, forcing the water out of his clothes drop by drop.

Both Chokers wince at the sight of Reginald using magic, confirming their fears over what they had just done. Reginald let go of the offered tentacle mass, stooped low to gather his pipe from the ground. “We be nothing but full of shame, dear sir… we never meant to put the hurt on one so distinguished as yerself! It’s just…”

“I look undead; yes I get that quite a bit.” Reginald finished for the Abner, relighting his pipe and taking a few puffs from the treated tobacco, sighing once more as the relaxing chemicals entered his bloodstream. “But no worries gentlemen, I see no need to mention this to anyone so long as you don’t need to either. The very notion of telling this tale… it sickens me, I daresay.”

Both Chokers faces broke into horrid grins as they looked at each other in glee, before turning back to Reginald. “No, no need at’all! Go right on in, and tell Lucy the Abner says ‘ello. She’ll grant ye a spot of spirits, she will.”

“Lovely,” Reginald replies, stalking up to the door, knocking on it three times, “I’ll be certain to pass on your regards.”

A small window slides open on the door, revealing a pair of beady eyes beneath a heavily wrinkled brow. “And you are?”

“A man positively giddy upon hearing the Queen’s English spoken as it should be,” Reginald muttered before clearing his throat, “A fellow walking from the East, hoping to meet a fellow from the West. And you?”

“A fellow from the West well met.” The man replies from behind the door, sliding the window shut as a series of locks could be heard being lifted from the other side, the door finally opening after a minute of work, revealing the door to be heavy and thick, with numerous dangling locks and chains hanging from the side. The man was stooped and old, wearing a green cardigan and a thick woolen sweater. “Come on in then, out of the rain.”

Reginald stepped through the doorway, tingling as a wave of magical barriers and protections passed over him, making his way into the brightly lit pub full of men and women of all stripes and sizes. The entire room was kept warm by a central hearth, over which several spit pigs slowly turned on their own, filling the room with a delicious aroma that made Reginald smile a rare smile. The bar, low and set along the far wall, was bustling with patrons and servers alike, all laughing and drinking from great glass steins.

Taking off his coat as he moved into the light, he sighed as he heard a collective gasp come from those around him. “How in the world did one of them get in?” He heard someone ask from the gathered crowd.

“I assure you, I’m in no way one of them, whoever they are.” He said allowed, annoyed at being forced to defend himself once again. “And I must say, I don’t think I like the attitude I’m receiving from you lot. I thought the English were polite?”

“And I thought the Americans to be handsome!” A voice called out, creating a great stir of laughter throughout the entire pub. A large man, heavy set with a broad jaw and even broader shoulders sidled up to Reginald, throwing an arm around him to pull him closer to the fire. “We’re just playing around is all, no harm innit. Now, what’ll ya have?”

“Abner told me Lucy would provide me with some spirits on his behalf, and to send her his regards.” Reginald replied a bit stiffly, lowering himself into a seat at a table with the large man, along with two others. “Now who might you be?”

“Oh, so sorry then! The names Charles Clooney,” The gigantic man said with a gap-toothed grin. “And this ‘ere be Bill O’Donahue and Mickey McNully. We all work as porters down on the docks for Lucy o’er there.”

“Well my name is Master Mystery,” Reginald replied, ignoring the stifled laughter coming from O’Donahue, “And I am a detective, of sorts.”

“A detective are you now?” Charles said with a wide grin, slapping the table with his hand as his two friends both break out laughing. “And wot brings a Yank detective to the sunny side o’ England, praytell?

“The Whitechapel murders, actually.”

That brought silence over the three, as well as the surrounding tables that had apparently been listening in. An older woman with a long blond braid and a wide midsection marched up to the table with a tray of drinks, three glass tankards full of a dark frothy beer and one small bottle of green liquid, cork firmly stuck in place.

“Here ya go gents, one bottle of Absinthe for the stranger and three drinks for my own boys,” the waitress said with a smile, passing the drinks out. “I hope Abner didn’t do anythin’ too embarrassing sir. ‘E only offers to buy someone a drink if’n he does something embarrassing.”

“No Lucy, he was a perfect gentlemen.” Reginald replied, picking up the bottle. Snapping his fingers to shrink the cork, he took a long sniff from the rising air of the bottle as it let out its first breath, savoring the sickly sweet smell as if it were a fine wine. “Ah, a fine bottle. My thanks to you and your pub.”

Perhaps this wasn’t such a terrible day after all…
Next Time

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors Part Two

Part One

Today most certainly was not a good day.

While Reginald had suspected this day would be like so many bad days, it was confirmed upon entering the Pink Swan to find himself grappled from the sides by a pair of young giggling girls, squeezing his thin limbs between their scantily clad breasts in a way they assumed he found enticing, cooing their greetings into his ears.

This lasted as long as it took for the girls to get a good look at him in all of his ghoulish glory, swathed in his black cloak and black silk clothes with ashen skin and sunken eyes; they leaped back with girlish shrieks, his appearance terrifying them into a mindless stupor as they began to make a scene. Reginald glowered at the cabbie and an older busty redhead who were both laughing at the scene, while the rest of the bar all stared at him in abject horror.

“’E’s the Ripper! The Rippers ‘ere!” One of the girls, a younger blonde in a slinky green dress, shrieked as she backed away from him, pointing a shaky finger.

The rest of the working girls all began screaming as well, their various clients rising from their seats, menacing looks etched upon their faces. Before things could get ugly, the older redhead fired a gun into the air, sending broken pieces of wood and plaster showering down around her, but effectively silencing everyone. Looking up, I could see the ceiling dotted with so many holes, so this was apparently commonplace.

“He’s no Ripper more than I am, ya lot of wankers an’ poofters!” She bellows across the wide bar, a tightly bound corset forcing her prodigious assets up and almost out of her tight dress. “Robert here jus’ brought ‘im in from tha’ docks, a travler from America. ‘E’s been trapped on a damned boat fer tha’ better part ova month, so ‘e ain’t killed anybody!”

Reginald’s head hurts from both the gunshot’s loud clamor to the matron’s horrid grammar, but he merely sniffs once to show his disdain for all of this… indignity he must suffer through. He tugs his coat forward with both hands and walks over to the bar, keeping his face as stoic as he can as every pair of eyes in the room follow him.

“One room, madam,” He says to her with a slight bow, before bending over in search of a guest registry, “Under the name of Master Mystery.”

“Wot kind of name is that?” She asks with a bit of skepticism, leaning over the counter to get a good look at me.

“The same kind of name as your manner of speaking; a silly one.” He replies curtly, snapping his fingers towards the cabbie, Robert, and his pile of luggage. “Nevertheless, I shall require one of your more spacious rooms for the time being and am willing to pay for it. Tell Robert which room is to be mine and he’ll bring my belongings up forthwith.”

“Uhm… I ‘spose room numbah four Robbie, the last door on tha’ left.” The madam says, tearing her eyes away from Reginald for the briefest of moments. “An’ how will you be payin’ fer this room Mister Mystery?”

“Master Mystery,” he corrects her before pulling a thumb sized emerald from his pocket and sliding it across the bar to her, smirking as her eyes widen at the sight of the sparkling jewel. “That should cover my stay so long as I don’t stay longer than a month, wouldn’t you agree?”

She nods mutely, snatching the gleaming gem from the countertop the moment my fingers leave it. “M’lord, for this you’ll be gettin’ the royal service fer this, you will!”

“How charming,” He replies before turning towards the door and making his way out. “I’ll be returning in the wee hours of the morning. I trust my room will be prepared by then?”

“O’ course! It’ll be as spick and span as a freshly scoured chamber pot!” The madam said with an enthusiastic nod, motioning for the two girls that had flanked him (bouth still quivering like leaves in the wind). “This ‘ere is Sara,” she said, motioning to the blonde, “an’ this be Annie! They be the help I ‘ave running this place when they ain’t working the floor or the streets. Jus’ ask ‘em for anything at all and they’ll get it for ya.”

Delving his mind into the Ethereal, Reginald quickly wound a few chords of stray energy around the two girls so he could find them should he be in need of anything, the protective ward he’d cast over the structure still settling into the nooks and crannies of the old building. Pulling a small pocket watch from within his cloak and flipping it open, he gazed at it with his eyes full of ethereal vapors, the long minute hand spinning about wildly in search of the nearest concentration of magical energy.

South, more South East, and from the way the arm was twitching it was actually rather close considering the size of London in general. Flipping the copper top closed he tucked the wind-up trinket into his cloak once more before wordlessly pushing out the door and back into the dismal grey skies of London, curtains of foul smelling rain pounding the cobblestone roads as if they were beneath a waterfall.

“Lovely,” He muttered to himself, fishing in his coat for his dark wooden pipe, standing beneath the awning over the brothel’s wide doors to remain warm and dry, well drier. Packing the pipe with a special blend of tobacco he had personally steeped in several medical solutions, he lit the pip with a casual wave of his hand over the bowl, smiling as the feeling of a warm blanket wrapped about his frame ever so snuggly. To everyone else it appeared to be a thin gentleman enjoying a pipe while walking through the rain.

To a Sorcerer like himself, it would look like a man using a brand of Indian folk magic to ward away the rain, allowing it to slide off his gaunt body like water off a frog’s back. “And to think we call them savages,” He muttered to himself around the pipe, puffing a few times to get the relaxing effects of the tobacco into his system, “The have cities bigger than London dating back a thousand years ago that thrived on a barter system, we have cities that destroy the rivers that we drink from with our own waste.”

Walking down the street with his shoulders hunched over and his wide brimmed hat pulled flush over his head, Reginald headed South along the river, occasionally pulling his pocket watch from his coat to get his bearings, trying to find the largest concentration of Ethereal energy in the area.

After an hour of sloshing through the flooded streets of Whitechapel, he finally found the damnable place, cursing his own stupidity over having literally walked over it at least a dozen times, usually while cursing at his own device for being broken. A drainage grate just outside of Dorset street revealed the large concentration of supernatural activity beneath his feet, forcing him to walk down the darkened alley looking for an entrance that would lead him down.

The alley was dark, the overcast skies doing little to help him see the litter cluttered alleyway, several barrels of trash overflowing next to one another, great swarms of flies and gigantic rats happily gorging themselves on the leavings of man. Heaving a sigh, Reginald closed his eyes and pulled himself into the Ethereal, leaving his physical form to stand in the pouring rain.

The world, once dark and grim, was now grainy and bright, colorless with great swathes of black and white to contrast one another. Walls were translucent, as was the ground, showing Reginald the various doors and tunnels leading about the darkened alley, one door in particular bearing an invisible marker above it, labeling it a safe haven for the supernatural.

Sadly, that would have to wait as he could see three sparkling souls descending down the walls towards his deserted body, their souls writhing and pulsing with hunger and need. Pulling himself back into reality, he opened his eyes just in time to make out the blazing red eyes and glistening teeth of a creature the size of a small boy, its arms twice the length of a tall man ending in thick serrated tendrils, the elongated head letting out a low screech as it whipped one of its arms out towards Reginald faster than one could see
Today was turning out to be a terrible day.
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