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Clifford Engram’s Paranormal Investigation Guide

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 18, 2015

Posted in: Character Bio, Clifford Engram, Fantasy, Serial. Tagged: Associated Worlds, Black Dust, Broken Glass, Chaos Magic, Clifford Engram, Clifford Engram Says, ebonstorm, Motus Vita, paranormal investigator, Rules to Live By, Thaddeus Howze. Leave a comment

Hey New Guy,

If you’re planning on making a career as a PI (Paranormal Investigator) particularly if you’re planing on working with The Agency, you might want to keep some of these rules in mind. They have a three hundred page handbook of operational procedures but this is my short list of things I have found most useful for staying alive. RTFM if you have the time.

Freelancers have a bit more wiggle room but not much (nor do they get paid as well, I might add).

The most important rule is this one: Magic, the energy which is the foundation of Creation, is real and entirely self-aware. And it’s not user-friendly.

It wants to break into our world and ravage it, consuming the souls of everyone who uses it, and dining on the energies of everyone who can’t. It hides behind the veil of the Second World and uses the inhabitants of that World to breach the boundaries between all the Shard Worlds. Yes, there are more than Two Worlds. Read the manual, newbie.

ufo

Our job is to promote the disbelief in the existence of and use of magic. We are to discourage citizens of the Second World from revealing their presence, without being bastards about it. In that regard we don’t have to work hard, most Second World citizens recognize the destructive capacity of an aware Humanity and keep the secret without much help on our part.

But Magic is real and wants to be used. It will manipulate anyone it can to make itself manifest.

Most Magi (skilled magic users) know this and take great pains to protect themselves and the world around them from the use of their magic. It’s the unskilled and uninitiated who lack of knowledge regarding the tools, rituals and techniques to “safely” manipulate magical energies. Note the quotation marks.

Your job is to promote the general disbelief in magic, investigate possible sightings of magic and magical phenomena and debunk them if possible, neutralize them if necessary.

With that in mind remember these as guidelines in your work. Yes, while I am recommending these guidelines, I have been known to break one or two of them from time to time. Sue me.

Rule 0.

Never neglect your body or your training. An Investigator is only as good as his skills. We don’t advocate the life of an ascetic, unless that helps you maintain your skills. Continued mastery may mean the difference between life and death. (Yes, I stopped smoking. Mostly.)

My advice: Train until you die.

RULE 1.

Use a light touch. Be polite. Be civil. Force is a last resort. Never use more force than is necessary to disabuse someone of the existence of magic. Collect their tomes, replace them with fakes. Remove their terrifying artifacts and replace them with replicas. The Art and Replica Division has entire copies of most of the worlds most destructive magical tomes, without all of the inherent magical threat.

While magic is real, it is the failure to manifest it which keeps the world disbelieving in magic and safer in its disbelief. Promote disbelief in magic whenever possible.

RULE 2.

Plan ahead. No one can plan for every contingency especially where the Second World is concerned. But there’s no reason to neglect the simple things that might keep you alive and are easy to pack… A blessed, cold iron knife with a silvered edge is standard procedure in almost every culture. Keep your gear close.

Pack according to the myths of the culture you’re in. Research is your friend.

RULE 3.

Trust no one. Yes, they look like your friend, but they could also be: a powerful shape-changer, a well-cast illusion magic, a well-trained spy with plastic surgery, a drug-induced hallucination or possessed by a malevolent spirit, you get the idea.

Our world is a complicated one. Make no assumptions about the people you interact with. Verify before you turn your back on them.

RULE 4.

Pay attention to your surroundings. When you enter someplace you didn’t already clear, take time to remember where the exits are, note the windows, and watch the wait-staff. It is too easy to take a waiter for granted and forget they are there. Then they shoot you.

Be focused. Be mindful. Be in the now. You life depends on it.

RULE 5.

Trust your instincts. Your ancestor noted the grass moving against the wind and wasn’t eaten by the hungry lion. You are the product of million years of evolution. Act like it.

If something in your unconscious says no, go with it. You can always be embarrassed later if it’s just a surprise party.

RULE 6.

Arrive early to any meeting, a day ahead if possible. Scope out the lay of the land. Monitor lines of sight. Do a historical check to be sure it isn’t the site of a legendary battle or a Native burial ground. If you’re on good terms with a seer or medium, make the call.

Never go anywhere you haven’t had the chance to investigate fully. If you can get help, don’t be proud, take the help.

RULE 7.

Learn the operating procedures of the culture you’re visiting. It’s the little things that get you in trouble. In Japan, never put a business card in your back pocket. Bow and use the proper honorifics. In India, never eat with your left hand. If you’re left handed, you will drop a lot of food while you learn to eat RIGHT-HANDED. Speaking of food, know when it’s safe to actually eat food. Some cultures use hospitality as a weapon, to force you to stay somewhere (See: the Sidhe or Fey), others use it as a means of keeping the peace.

If you aren’t sure what the rules are on local hospitality, refrain from eating too much (if anything at all…) until you know the ramifications of doing so. Most hosts will relay their expectations (if you’re lucky).

RULE 8.

Everything is a weapon. In addition to guns, knives, swords and the traditional improvised weapon made of almost anything, accessing the magic of the Second World allows you to use a variety of dangerous effects to turn nearly any object into a weapon. With the proper ritual, a weapon of mass destruction could be a soft and friendly teddy bomb.

Remain mindful of places you’ve never been and strangers handing you anything you didn’t ask for.

bomb

RULE 9.

Avoid crowds. Being a PI means avoiding large crowds which might hide potential threats, monsters, assassins, kido masters and other assorted monsters.

The larger the crowd, the greater the threat potential. If you must be in a crowd, make it one that will help you remain anonymous and able to follow your target surreptitiously.

RULE 10.

Remain unpredictable. While Chaos is an enemy, it can also be a tool you can harness. Keep your enemies off balance when possible by doing the unexpected. Deception can be a valued tool.

If you’re doing it right, you may even surprise yourself.

RULE 11.

Stupid people are everywhere. While the greatest threat will come from those with the intellect to master the most powerful magics or create the most sophisticated technologies, often it will be the stupidest people who will use those magics or technologies, not understanding the consequences of their actions.

You must remain on your guard when confronting stupid people, often they know not what they have done, until it’s too late for all involved and you’re left cleaning up.

RULE 12.

Everyone can be a monster. Some look like it on the outside, others only on the inside, but with the right incentive, when pushed, everyone can become a monster capable of unspeakable things. Threaten her grandchild and Granny can become Jason.

If you work for The Agency, you are likely a monster yourself. Remember if you lose control, The Agency will not hesitate to put you down.

RULE 13.

Ki-do is dangerous. While many Agents don’t use Chaos Magic, many do use Ki-do. Ki-do does not use the Chaos energy of the Universe to perform magical feats, it draws its power from the user’s Ki or inherent lifeforce energies. Ki, Chi, Qi, Lifeforce, Mana, it has lots of names and they all mean one thing. You are burning your personal energy to perform those effects. If you aren’t a mage, kido can be handy in a pinch. Be careful, too much kido and you’ll be doing your enemy’s work for him.

Because of its utility, it’s easy to become overly dependent on Ki-Do in the field. Be mindful you don’t kill yourself while using it.

RULE 14.

If you aren’t sure you’re going to get permission to initiate a particular plan, just do it. Better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission from someone who isn’t on the scene and isn’t likely to know more than you do. Know Thyself. You are responsible for every decision you make, everything you’ve said or done.

When you’re in the field, you get to make the call. If the consequences are high, and you’re successful, expect a reprimand, you’ve earned it. If your unsuccessful, the upside is, you’re probably already dead and can skip out on the reprimand.

RULE 15.

The most important rule of all: Protect your friends and allies. The First and Second Worlds are long on enemies and short on allies. If you can make a friend, do so. Retention matters. Keep your friends safe. Turn enemies into friends, if you can. Occasionally friends become enemies. That’s life. Realize, some people are irrational and cannot be turned into allies.

Protect your friends. They are the most important asset you can have. Over time, your friendships can make or break you as an PI.

MY PERSONAL LIST

RULE 1.

Respect the seen and the unseen. The invisible world of spirits, gods, and animus, are just as real and should be respected (and maybe feared just a little).

Your life may one day depend on what a particular rock thinks of you…

Rule 2.

Being an Investigator does not mean you are cruel or monstrous to your enemies. Respect your enemies, treat with them both fairly and honestly. Many Second Worlder’s (and more than a few First Worlder’s) value honor and integrity above life itself. A reputation for integrity may one day save your life.

If you give your word, keep it.

Rule 3.

Protect the Innocent. Our job is to make the world a place where the young and innocent never have to fear Wild Magic.

Never give up; take whatever risks are necessary to make the world safe.

Broken Glass debuts Clifford Engram, a harried agent of the Paranormal Investigative Unit, commonly called The Agency. More secretive than the FBI, more informed than the CIA, more dangerous than the KGB or the Mossad, the Agency is the front line to a secret most governments can still scarcely believe. Earth had been resisting invasion for almost two thousand years. Many of our wars, both covert and overt were often covers for repelling invasions from alternate realities.

Every tale of magic, every story of super-science, every horrifying monster, every legendary hero, were all interactions with quantum-dimensional mirror realms called Shards. These parallel worlds are often filled with diverse life-forms, alien technologies, and in many of them, that technology is indistinguishable from magic. Some of these aliens have taken up residence on Prime Earth and are too entrenched to remove. Compacts have been made with these species to keep them under control.

Click on the book cover below to know more. Available in Kindle format from Amazon.com!

A Man Who Wasn’t There (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on July 21, 2013

Posted in: Chapter, Clifford Engram, horror. Tagged: ebonstorm, horror, mall, mirror, mirror-verse, New Orleans, Paranormal, paranormal investigator, Thaddeus Howze. Leave a comment

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away…

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door… (slam!)

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away

— Unknown

My wife, Nina, kidnapped me to go shopping pretty much every time we visited a new city.

Her job as a prominent sales executive kept her traveling and as a book translator, my work and my laptop meant I could be anywhere to do my job. Still newly married, she insisted on me taking her latest business trip to New Orleans. We found ourselves eventually in the Midtown Mall, one of the largest and oldest malls in the Big Easy.

The mall was an old building, easily from the turn of the century, rebuilt, modernized twenty five years ago; now too bright, filled with expansive mirrored surfaces in the strangest of places, supposedly to give the mall a sense of added dimension. To me, it still felt a little too small. I simply had no idea what lurked beneath its ancient skeleton.

It would have been a historical eyesore anywhere else but here; its monstrosity was muted, almost able to be hidden in the strangeness that is New Orleans; gilded and gaudy like an overworked and too old lady of the evening bristling with a surplus of makeup and cheap jewelry. My wife regaled me of its history but I was hot, tired…crabby. My attention wandered. I could not be bothered with making the effort or the time to listen.

A decade later I sat in the darkness, listening to my heartbeat, the only sound left to me. I had a surfeit of time now.

Back then, after a lunch in a restaurant that made me wonder about the health codes, serving food just a touch spicier than my out of shape body and powerful antacid could handle, we returned to the tiny, often twisted avenues of the French Quarter pretending to be tourists. I hated travelling and in particular wandering.

I preferred to know where I was and where I was going so after the claustrophobic streets I didn’t recognize, filled with sights and sounds the locals had learned to ignore, the crowds of the mall were almost welcome. It was at least clean, light and airy and the bustle was comfortably familiar in that unpleasant way a family reunion is familiar. You know the people but you’re not sure you like all of them.

She shopped seeking specialty stores she’d discovered online and I dragged behind her, hating every minute of it. I loved my wife, but I disliked her intense dedication to shopping. To be fair, she was the big earner in our household so, as long as she could cover the cost, I shut my trap, enjoyed her company and kept my complaints to myself. When I could.

The time came, as it inevitably did, that she looked at my clothing and declared “You need a wardrobe update.” She said my clothing was too monochrome, too colorless and for me to lighten my mood, I needed to lighten my color palette. This is a variation of a conversation every time we head out the door to her latest mall.

My response to Nina’s efforts was to agree with the appropriate man-mumbling, grunts, and disapproving sounds until I found an item of clothing that was least offensive to my earth-tone preferences and overall don’t-really-care-about-how-I-look fashion sense.

Don’t get me wrong. I kept myself clean and neat, a side-effect of my OCD, but since we got married, she’s decided how I looked needed to evolve to what she thought was appropriate for me. In a way, I had become a fixer-upper project. My mother kept telling me to pick my battles. So I waited until her arms were full and headed off into my fashion purgatory known as a men’s dressing room. As I made my way through the mall, I had the impression someone was watching me more than once. Ex-military, having served two terms, my paranoia stayed with me even after a decade out of the service. I never saw anything or anyone so I chalked it up to travel anxiety, fatigue or a lingering effect of my sour stomach.

But the feeling came back strongly as I walked into the dressing cubby. The standard issue, eight by eight space, beige walls, tiny bench, two hooks, filled with unreturned clothing casualties which didn’t make the grade strewn wildly around the room.

Focusing, I could see the tiny slivers of straight pins everywhere from highly packaged dress shirts, scattered as if rained down from a neglectful pin heaven. Looking at the shirts in my hand and realizing there was no particular place to put the two dozen pins from my own shirts, I overcame my inner neatness compulsions and added my contribution to the pin-pocalypse at my feet.

And that’s when I saw him. Out of the corner of my eye, only for a moment, I had the impression I was not alone. I jumped, startled and turned but no one was there.

I checked the door, clicked the latch again suffused with a momentary burst of paranoia but no one was there. I listened, frozen still and all I could hear was the crinkling of a shirt being released from its paper and plastic and an allergy sufferer two cubes over wrestling with his overproduction of phlegm. Putting on the first fuschia collared shirt, I winced as I turned back to the mirror and finished buttoning it.

And there he stood. A Black man who was not me, apparently unaware of me, in the mirror. Inside the mirror, within the frame of the mirror.

As a man of science, degreed and educated, my first assumption was I was seeing polarized glass and a room behind this one for security. But when I got close to the glass, the second thing dawned on me. There was no reflection of me. So caught up in the man, this oversight became apparent when I drew close to the glass. It was more like an LED screen than a mirror.

He seemed unaware of my interest in him, he continued to look at himself in the mirror moving ever so slightly. He continued to dress and turn and style as if it was as normal as could be. Then I smiled and looked around for hidden cameras. I figured, now someone had to be trying to punk me and catch me looking crazy. I searched the frame, looked at the ceiling for those black camera balls. Searched for sprinkler-based fire extinguishers which can have cameras hidden within them.

Did I mention I was paranoid?

After a thorough search, I decided I just wasn’t sure what I was seeing. And decided to pack up and go to another booth. I might be crazy but I was certain, crazy was sure to be localized to this particular booth.

Hurriedly, I gathered my collection of brightly colored shirts and attempted to flee the company of the man in the mirror. As I grabbed the latch I discovered the booth door would not open. The slide didn’t work, no matter how hard I pulled on it. The lights in the room began to flicker.

Panicked I called to my wife. Sometimes she would stand there waiting for me to come show her how great her decision was. “Nina, are you out there?”

I turned to look at the mirror and for the first time, his eyes locked mine. An intense stare, filled with a hunger that was palpable. I felt exposed, the scrutiny was painful, every pore and aspect of my being was being taken in, as if he were trying to understand all that there was to me. Then he turned his face away from mine when a hint of sadness appeared in his eyes.

The light in the room flickered, longer this time. When the lighting stabilized something was different. I could see myself in the mirror.

No, let me rephrase that. I could see me through the mirror. I was trying on the shirts. But I could feel myself and I wasn’t moving. I watched myself get dressed. I leapt forward hitting the mirror with my face. I screamed my wife’s name but there was no sound. I looked at the dressing room I was standing in and there were clothes, piles and piles of them. But this wasn’t just the dressing room. From my side there was the space of the room and a door behind me. Just like the one in front of me. In front of my body.

There was only one thing hanging up in this other dressing room. A suit. A beautiful suit like something my grandfather used to wear. He might have called it a zoot suit. It was still pristine, crisp, the only thing not crumpled on the ground, not torn, not shredded. I realized most of the clothing I could see was torn savagely, again and again.

I watched my body get dressed again and again and banged against the mirror impotently. When I, er, he was done dressing, my body, he was in my body, had decided to wear the outfit my wife had chosen out of the dressing room.

He turned to the mirror, made an expansive gesture, part bow, part salute and with a wink he left me. Nina smiled, pleased with my transformation and he grabbed her, pulled her close to him, drank her in, patting her ass and disappeared into the store.

I sat on the bench and turned toward the door in my room. Where did it go? Could I leave it? I was terrified but I couldn’t just let him leave with my body.

I ran to the door and opened it. Darkness. At first, completely dark, then I could see flickering in the distance. A flicker akin to shadows falling on a window.

I ran. I heard the door slam behind me. There was no light now but the flickers before me.

The first shimmering field brightened in front of me. As I reached it, it had the same cold feel as the mirror in the dressing room. I pressed my face against it, straining my eyes. It was another mirror in a different part of the mall. I could see the echoes of people passing by, but it was smoky, diffused, difficult to see through. I had to concentrate to see anyone.

Except for him. I could see him, he passed out of my field of vision. Turning around I found the next patch of light and ran as fast as I could. The ground was smooth and had a strange give in it but I could run and that was all that mattered. I reached the next surface and it was long, fifteen or twenty feet. It was the mirror outside the store.

I could see him. He was laughing with her. She was the most animated I had ever seen her. I banged on the glass but no one seemed to be able to hear me, except for one woman who was leaning against the wall. She jumped as if startled and then walked on.

I followed them to the edge of the mall.

He cast a knowing glance in my direction every time I changed mirrors. Gloating. Laughing at me. I chased them until I was right behind them at the entrance we first came in.

They stood at the entrance to the mall for a few minutes. He seemed nervous. This was the most like me he had looked since he’d stolen my body, tired, angry and anxious. He stood near the doorway as if he wasn’t sure he could leave. He told her to wait and ran back into the mall. I followed him as best I could, never letting him get too far out of sight.

He stopped at a flower store and gave the young woman behind the counter a smile while ordering a particular flower arrangement. While she worked he stepped outside and stood in front of a mirror. He was looking at himself and then he turned his gaze into the mirror-verse, towards me.

I was surprised to hear him, the last sound I would hear besides my own voice. “I would say I am sorry, mon ami, but I am not. I have spent sixty years where you are now. The air is fresh and filled with promise.” Even while he said it, I realized the voice was in my mind. His lips weren’t moving. To anyone watching he was just a particularly vain idiot posing in a mirror. But his face was clearly not benign.

I could feel the connection between us. Something almost tangible. I tried to reach out and touch it, pulled on it, but it’s was like a rope covered in oil, no place to grip, no way to hold it. There was a hint of sadness but I could feel another thing. A feeling of disconnectedness, a hidden rage, a burning hatred unable to be expressed until now.

His face tightens. He clenched his teeth and his eyes narrowed. “I will never go back, but more importantly, you will never leave there. Get comfortable, my body is old, you may find it a bit achy from time to time.”

I was speechless. What did you say when you found yourself in my situation? I spoke and wrote five languages, and knew half a dozen others better than passably and there was nothing in all of those languages for what was happening to me. While I could not find my voice, my rage was palpable, almost visible between us.

“Now, now. Do not think harshly of me. I shall enjoy your young and beautiful wife and I will make your body the temple it should be. Did you know I was winded just climbing a flight of stairs? I barely have the strength to engage in my favorite activity…but it has been so long, I will find a way to make it work.”

He stepped away from the mirror and went back into the flower shop. I lost sight of him and looked around for another mirror to see him with. Across the mall, I raced until I could look into the flower shop. He paid for his flowers and then the young woman came from behind the counter. He pointed at a number of other items inside a cabinet and after selecting one the young woman went back to the counter.

He slipped off my belt and followed closely behind her. There was a moment of surprise as he skillfully whipped the belt around her neck and pushed her down behind the counter. I lost sight of him again. Frantically I looked for something closer. I saw a mirror behind the counter on the ceiling. I ran to it but the mirror was higher than I could reach. I saw a blurred surface, another metallic cabinet behind the counter. I knelt down and strained myself to see through its imperfect surface.

I watched the light go out in her eyes. I wanted to scream and the mirror-verse trembled as I watched my body in muted horror. He stood up and smiled into the shiny cabinet, skillfully slipping his belt back on before he picked up his flowers. He walked out like any other customer and headed back downstairs. I dived to the next shimmering interface heedless to the physics of this place and followed him to the very edge of the mall and my wife. The two of them passed one more long mirror before leaving. He turned, giving Nina the flowers, adjusted his tie, and my mind echoed with his final taunt, “Au revoir, monsieur, we will surely never meet again.”

They strode out into the humid afternoon, mosquitoes buzzing hungrily after them. I banged on the mirror, screaming wordlessly until the lights went out in the mall. Then the outside of my prison matched the inside, a complete and total darkness.

Anger without Enthusiasm (3)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 21, 2013

Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Clifford Engram, Short Story. Tagged: barghest, Ben Fisher, Clifford Engram, Daughters of the Dust, Paper, paranormal investigator, Rock, science fiction and fantasy, Scissors, Thaddeus Howze. 2 Comments

Part 3

“Mister, hey mister. Wake up…”

Waking up was the last thing I expected to be doing. I felt like about fifty miles of bad road. I tried to open my eyes but only one of them complied. The other was swollen shut. I tried to sit up but my rib cage let me know lying down was simply the better choice. I assessed my injuries based on the pain each caused.

Right arm, possible fracture, three ribs, hairlines, two dozen serious contusions, head injury, possible concussion but nothing I would die from right away. This mission had been a disaster so far. Now all I can smell is a trash can that is two weeks past a good time to empty. I focused my attention on the man speaking to me and realize it’s Ben Fisher, the host of the Barghest. “Mr. Fisher, pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Clifford Engram.” He knelt down beside me and began gingerly washing the blood from my face. He gave me another towel to wipe my hands free as well.

“I had the strangest dream and you were in it. There were these monsters with tentacles who grew nine feet tall and they were attacking me…” His voice got softer as he tried to reconcile his dream with this apparent reality.

“Mr. Fisher, that was not a dream. Those creatures were real. They are called the Daughters of the Dust.” The answer came to me while I was being flung around the battlefield, too late to help me win the day. Our guesses and brute force had worked well enough, for the moment.

“What about the fiendish dog? What do you call that?” He took the towels back to the sink and I looked around his modest apartment. It lacked a woman’s touch. Clothes strewn everywhere, dishes piled high in the sink, garbage filled to overflowing, this room showed the signs of complete neglect. This was depression in inaction. I guessed I should have considered myself fortunate. There was only one thing I couldn’t figure out….

“How did I get here?”

“That’s the part I am trying to figure out myself. I woke up after that nightmare and found you on the floor in my flat, bleeding all over my carpet. As soon as I tried to clean your injuries, you woke up.” He started back with another round of towels and I waved him away. The towels didn’t smell too fresh and I figured I had soaked up enough tetanus in his flat already, no need to rub it into the wounds. With some meditation, I would be able to close up the smaller wounds and speed the healing of the others, but there was no way I could handle this level of infestation alone.

“You still haven’t explained the dog…” He went to his fridge and took out a beer, some low-budget brand I never heard of. He brought one back for me and popped the tops and handed me one. Thank the gods it was cold. Cheap beer never has the bite of the good stuff. After spending the evening being bounced around like a pinata, any beer went down smoothly.

I tried to figure out how to tell this man he was cursed with an affliction he would never be rid of…unless he died. “It’s not a dog. It is partly a manifestation of your depression and part a possession by an entity needing a place to live. Depressed humans are the perfect host for these spiritual entities. It is called a Barghest. Local legends call them….

“The Black Dog. Winston Churchill was said to have been afflicted by it.”

I continued, “The Hounds of the Baskervilles were supposedly another manifestation of the phenomena documented in 1889 and written about by Sir Conan Doyle. The truth was altered so it appeared to be a fiction not worthy of pursuing. The Agency I work for does that kind of work. We investigate and reveal the horrors of the world, destroy them, confine them, dispel them, banish them or kill them, as a last resort.

“Are you here to kill me?” Ben Fisher’s brown face had a look of resignation about it, as if he had finally heard the other shoe dropping after the death of his wife. He figured things couldn’t have gotten much worse.

I looked around his flat and noticed a phone cord. My cell was still in my pocket, its pieces rattled around in a way that let me know, it wasn’t going to be making any calls for a while. “No, but after tonight I think we are going to need some help. Can I make a call?” Ben roots around the apartment, finding the cord for his phone first and dragging it around, he revealed the phone beneath a pile of paper on the table in the bedroom.

“Haven’t had much use for it.” He handed it to me and sat back down across the room from me. The light in the room must have been playing tricks with my mind. I thought I saw a pair of red eyes sitting at his side, in the shadows, squinting menacingly at me.

I called my office. My coded serials bounced my signal around preventing me from being traced. “I expected your call forty-eight hours ago. What do you have for me? Did you secure the property?”

“What, no how are you? No, do you still have all your limbs? Engram, your expense accounts look padded again?”

“That bad, huh?” Carol knows when I joke like that, it’s more than serious.

“I’ve secured the Barghest. I believe he will be an asset with some training. Do we have anyone local we can task to this? I will need some real backup. The suspicions were correct, we have an outbreak of the Daughters of the Dust.”

The line crackled with static for a moment. This meant she was thinking. “I will send the closest agents to your location. They will be there at dawn. Get some rest.” She hung up without saying goodbye.

“Mr. Fisher, I suggest you get some rest as well. You are now, for the duration, a member of the Agency. I will need you to do one more thing for me. Do you remember a dream you had a few days ago which included some policemen?” I sat down on the sofa, too tired to be concerned about what might lurk within its folds.

“Yes. Did I do something?”

Explaining to people that they have become a monster is part of the job description. It’s always best to just tell them straight. “The Barghest is a supernatural entity. A dangerous one. Even a casual interaction with it can be lethal to the uninitiated. The policemen it attacked, while it didn’t kill them, they are now dying slowly. They are alive right now, because a priest stands over them fighting its influences. You have to release them. Whatever it is you believe they have done, you have to forgive them.”

“Or?” He raised his head across the room and the eyes of the Barghest appeared right next to his, as if it were sitting up like a loyal puppy.

“Or they’ll die.”

“So. They didn’t save her. They deserve to die.”

The accident where his wife died. The reports said she was struck in a hit and run. The police arrived on the scene and bystanders had managed to drag the driver from the car. When the police arrived, the man had transformed and battled the officers as a Creature of the Dust. The CCTV video showed them getting thrashed before the creature ran off. He’s held them responsible.

This must have been when the Barghest formed as part of a confluence of forces. “Don’t blame them. They didn’t know what they were dealing with. If you want to blame someone, blame me. I was investigating the earlier indications of the infestation but I was a day or two behind the creature that killed your wife. Let the policemen go. I am far more responsible than they are.

Tears rolled down his face and he turned toward me. “She didn’t have to die?”

“No. If I had been faster, maybe she would never have had to have an encounter with the Dust in the first place.” An unpleasant truth but true none the less. The Barghest stood, slowly growing. The window darkened for a second as a strange blackness suffused the room. Then it was gone.

“They’ll be fine. If we don’t find the thing that killed my wife and kill it, I’m gonna satisfy myself with your death, do you understand me?”

“Perfectly.” I couldn’t have asked for a better response. I needed him to be crazed with rage. It was the only chance we were going to make it out alive assuming our help came through. He got up and went into his bedroom. The door slammed behind him and I sank into his aging sofa, trying to find what sleep would come.

Dawn arrived too soon for my tastes. I woke him up and we went downstairs after a beer for breakfast. Our help had arrived. Three of the craziest Agency operatives known.

One was behind the wheel of a large black van of indiscriminate pedigree, but the purr of the motor told me there was more under the hood than it appeared. The driver was a white-haired blond whose right eye had a long cut over the flesh. She was ghostly pale, an albino. It did not stop her from being beautiful. She draped her hair over that eye so the scar was less noticeable. The Redhead, over six feet stood smoking a cigarette in a long black coat and combat armor underneath it. She wore an outfit similar to my own before it was chewed on yesterday. The side door opened and a tiny dark-haired woman got out. Two machetes handles were visible over her shoulders. Small throwing knives covered her extremities, and even her teeth were sharpened. Her smile gave me chills. She wore her hair long and braided in the back. Something sharp glinted in the ball at the end.

She sent me Rock, Paper and Scissors, three of Europe’s deadliest Agency operatives. Now, we might have a chance. Might. I’m tempted to tell my boss to just bomb London. It would be more merciful.

The redhead, Rock, blew a smoke ring as she turned around and gave me a grin that reminded me why I was happy to be a man. “You need something killed?”

I hobbled into the van. Scissors gave me a hand. I counted my fingers after she let go. Ben climbed in behind me. “Daughters of the Dust.”

Her smile faded.

Paper gunned the engine. We raced toward oblivion in the early London morning.

Anger Without Enthusiasm (2)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 13, 2013

Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Chapter, Short Story. Tagged: barghest, black dog, Clifford Engram, contract, dog, ebonstorm, fantasy, gaming, Investigator, London, mental-health, monster, mystic, nature, New Age Pulp, paranormal investigator, pulp, Qi, Thaddeus Howze. Leave a comment

The Barghest, as large as a bloody calf, seemed even more terrifying up close. Clifford Engram questioned the decision to offer it a job so soon after finding himself flat on the ground with the brute standing over him. No matter, he needed the help and the creature and his master were uniquely qualified.

Engram kept his hands out and clearly visible. No sense in antagonizing the creature. At this point, the man behind the monster probably didn’t understand how dangerous it was. The eight police officers it attacked while they were not dying, they were not getting better either. Their wounds refused to heal, no matter what treatment was applied.

Doctors called it cellular necrosis. Unfortunately for them, this was a side effect of wounds created by creatures from the Second World. Injuries caused by malice by creatures from the Second World had to be forgiven, blessed or a greater entity would have to command the creature causing them to release those poor bastards from the effect. That was his task today. Without his help, those men would die in a few days from a slow rotting of their flesh.

“Ben. I know you can hear me. I need your help. I know what you’re doing.” Or at least I suspect I do. Things seemed so much easier a week ago.

Up close, the Barghest seemed more terrible than it had at a distance. As Engram stared at it, the creature grew larger, spiny growths appeared on its back, moving in the same direction as its fur. The jaws grew wider and when it bared them, Engram felt a bit sick. A physical reaction which emanated from the creature, a fear reaction as unnatural to him as flying without wings. Is he trying to intimidate me using magic? Engrams’ curse mark agreed and burned as it resisted the glamour.

The wolf turned his head as if he smelled something. He sniffed twice and released an ear-shattering howl. This sound drove Engram to his knees and caused his nose to start bleeding. Then the beast turned in the direction it gained a scent and leapt into the murk of a nearby alley.

When Engram’s ears stopped ringing, he wiped his bleeding nose on a handkerchief and shook the sound out of his head. That’s when he noticed a scraggly group of stray dogs standing in front of him; an unexpected group of unfriendly-looking dogs. While they were a fraction of the Barghest’s size, their number did give him pause. If nothing else, he would have to fight his way through them to give chase. Yes, his reinforced coat would offer some protection, but it wasn’t as if they were only going to chew only where he wanted them to. Right here lads, only on the arms, eh?

As he tried to back up, he looked around him and noticed all avenues of easy escape were covered by six or seven other strays of varying shapes and colors. At least two of them were mastiffs or pit bulls, both known for their biting prowess. Engram, more a cat than a dog person, remembered the first rule of predator-prey relationships. Don’t run. They like that.

Putting away his handkerchief, he took out a no-brand sucker, he used as a cigarette substitute. The animals did not react when he reached into his coat. They ceded no ground, nor approached any closer. Their job is to keep me here. Sorry boys, I can’t allow that. Can’t count on being able to find Fisher again if he remembers anything of this encounter.

Reaching back into his coat, he pulled out three small packets. He picked them up at an Italian restaurant earlier. Crushing the packets his hands, he ground the powder into a fine dust splitting it between his two hands.

“Come on, lads, haven’t got all night.” He ran into the alley and the dogs sprinted after him. Swirling the powder into the air behind him, he used the tiniest bit of Qi, to spread the dust into the faces of the slavering hounds.

The yelps and whining disappeared into the distance along with his pursuers. For the next few minutes the detective ran purely on instinct. Easiest path following the direction of the wind. A random dog might appear, one who didn’t get a chili powder surprise but a swift kick usually resolved the issue and he escaped with little more than minor injuries.

Then he heard the howl, the howl he heard the night of the attacks. A howl which chilled the blood and froze it in men’s veins. He stopped and oriented himself. Less than two blocks. He reorder his Qi into the elemental fire and ran toward the melee. He marshaled his breathing and could feel the heat building in his breath. Engram wasn’t sure what to expect when he arrived, but Fire manipulation was his strongest Qi mastery, and the growling and shouting indicated a full out struggle. It was even stranger once he could see it.

There were eight maybe ten men attacking the wolf creature. Their arms were replaced with longer tentacle-like appendages which they whipped though the air with devastating speed. As their blows struck ground or nearby buildings, splinters of rock flew up and ricocheted around the small courtyard where this confrontation was taking place. The Barghest was fast, flickering in and out of existence seconds before each tentacle landed. It jumped backward and howled in the direction of the most hideous and malformed of the young men attacking it.

The hybrid man-monster vibrated, trapped within the sonic wake, his flesh tearing itself asunder under the assault. Seconds later, the hybrid was blown apart, raining chunks of steaming flesh skyward in the cool London evening. Seconds later, the chunks of flesh started to smoke and disappeared. Each creature, once dispatched, turned into a puddle of noxious slime.

Two of the men turned when a young man exited the building and ran toward him with startling speed. Channeling fire gave Engram the speed of a wildfire, at the cost of burns he would need to heal later. He firestepped and disappeared from the alleyway. An instant later he reappeared in front of the two creatures. He shoved the boy back through the closing door. “Run! Don’t look back.”

The boy who had been distracted by his phone didn’t notice anything until he thrown bodily back into the building. Engram finished his movement by releasing the fire, the price of his movement in the direction of the two unknown creatures. It shot down his arms and onto his hands, before flowing over the beasts just out of reach. His flesh sizzled and he ground his teeth.

The Qi flowed languidly and crossed the short distance like foxfire, bathing them in a wispy flame. Engram pulled his arms back toward himself and sealed himself to the Earth, borrowing its resilience and durability. His arms were crossed in front of his face as the foxfire erupted into a bonfire.

The other monstrosities paused as the screams of their comrades tore through the small space. The Barghest, took advantage of their momentary distraction and chewed off the head of the closest horror which had managed to enshroud it in one of its tentacles. The smoke-like form of the Barghest had a purple burn where it was touched. Its fantastic speed was diminished though it was still appeared more than a match for the remaining three. Their human shapes seemed to be breaking down, they were sloughing off human flesh in green glistening chunks. They were breaking out of their clothes, as they were shedding their human forms completely.

The mystic investigator was unable to move as long as he channeled the Earth’s power. Flames swept over him as the burning corpses fell about him draping him in their ignited flesh. Two of the remaining three turned away from the Barghest and squealed a terrified sound. One vaulted into the sky and vanished in the darkness. The other became a swollen and bloated thing, dripping liquids as it grew, becoming nearly eight feet tall.

The Barghest dispatched the last one who had not moved away quickly enough with a howling burst of sound. Engram was grateful he had not dropped his Earth shield since the creature did not seem to care who was affected by its power. It’s zeal and bloodlust were evident. Even injured, its ferocity was undiminished. It let loose another howl and a response from all around echoed in the distance.

The giant strode toward Engram, turning its back on what it deemed to be the lesser threat of the Barghest. A mistake. The wolf did not consider itself the lesser threat and launched itself through the air toward the giant back. Without a backward glance, it whipped its tentacle through the air and with a cracking sound struck the Barghest right in the chest.

The powerful snap knocked the Barghest back at half the speed of sound. It crashed into the building behind it and disappeared into the rubble of the old brick structure. Engram could no longer see or hear it through the lingering cloud of dust. The dogs who responded to the call, roared onto the scene each slavering and wild. There were more of them than the creature could turn its attention to and soon it was covered in dogs, tentacles being chewed on. Its roars of rage rebounded off of every wall, and coupled with the howling and barking, it was more of a primal hunt in the wild than in the center of London.

Engram looked at the burning forms of the two creatures in front of him and transferred his Qi toward the mastery of flame, a second too soon. The creature managed to whip one of its tentacles, dogs locked in a death grip around his body.

This is going to hurt… He called the fire still roiling around on the ground and whipped it into a frenzy as he heard his ribcage beginning to crack. His Qi swept through the fire and bound it to the giant. Its legs ignited. Engram felt the conflagration even as his long coat began to smolder. The beast, afire threw Engram through the air.

He didn’t remember hearing his arm breaking his fall as the ground rushed up to meet him. He turned over bonelessly, barely capable of movement. The fire swallowed the creature, dogs and all and Engram felt a momentary pang of regret for their passing. The Qi based fire burned brighter as Engram watched, willing it to be as hot as he could make it. He only had a few more seconds of consciousness. He had to make it count.

He never even heard the sound of the Barghest as it came out of the building and stood over him, blocking the light from the burning creature. It stood over him and its jaws came toward him.

“Damn, so close.” Engram’s eyes closed as he released his Qi. The glowing red orbs filled the sky above him, then darkness.

Part 2

Anger Without Enthusiasm (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 12, 2013

Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Short Story. Tagged: barghest, black dog, Clifford Engram, contract, dog, ebonstorm, fantasy, London, mental-health, monster, New Age Pulp, paranormal investigator, pulp, Thaddeus Howze. 1 Comment

“I haven’t been able to sleep.” Ben whimpered to his psychiatrist who doodled in the margins of his pad. The doctor stopped listening five minutes ago as his client went into his usual rant about his neighbors and their part in his overwhelming depression.

“I tell you, they talk about me behind my back since me wife died. She was the soul of gentility. Not a mean bone in her. I see them whispering about her on my way home from work.”

Dr Grumman considered his patient, trying to find a way to help him back from the brink. Ben was a decent man, his upbringing in a modest township in Cornwall meant his education was humble but serviceable. Despite that, his social charm allowed him to find his way into London and get work in the food service industry while he finished school as a chef. He met his wife during his time in school and fell tragically in love with her.

With only a few months left to finishing school, his wife was killed in a traffic accident and he had a nervous breakdown. He was unable to finish his schoolwork and forced out of his apartment. Since then, the man has lived without zest. A perfect example of the idea of depression as anger without enthusiasm. He seemed to repress all of his emotional energy becoming paranoid in the process.

“Are you sure they are talking about you? Perhaps you are still adjusting to coming home to an empty house. Death can be quite traumatic. Adding the loss of a job you’ve had for a long time and I could understand your feelings.” The doctor while appearing to not listen was still involved with his patient for at least three more sessions and his insurance ran out. With his wife’s death, Ben’s new job didn’t offer coverage for this type of therapy.

“Tell me how the new job is working out? Are you settling in okay?” This will probably keep him talking for another ten minutes.

“Crimey, I hate that place. The kids, those homeless bastards, drive me flippin’ nuts. I am not cut out for watching a homeless shelter, halfway house, or whatever the bloody hell they call the place in polite company.” This was the most emotion Ben had shown since he’d come into the office. His doctor stopped doodling and paid more than cursory attention. Emotion meant he was feeling something. This was a good sign.

Dr. Grumman sat up and looked at Ben more closely. Ben was a middle-aged black man who had lived in Cornwall most of his life until he married and moved to London. His wife, an insurance agent was their primary breadwinner and while he talks about her sainted nature, he admits to her being a bit overbearing from time to time. “Isn’t there anyone in this new job you like? I mean you prepare food for the entire place, their staff, the students, there isn’t a single person you have taken even the slightest bit to?”

“It’s not like that. The kids seem to be an okay lot but when they come together they lose any manners they seem to have individually. When they do that, I become the butt of their jokes since I am the only person dealing with food and preparation there. The kids have to do some time in the kitchen and I am stuck training training them. When they don’t listen, I end up having to talk to the floor manager. And him, if he were run over in traffic I wouldn’t miss ’em.” Ben’s face got tight and he stopped talking. His wife was killed the same way. His statement cut him deeply.

“Since we are almost out of time, I am going to renew your prescription. I want you to stay on your dose and keep going to work. I want you to make an effort to work with the young person in your kitchen. You don’t have to be friends, I just want you to be friendly. I know it’s been hard for you. But put yourself in their place and see if you can find it in your heart to expand your perspective. Think about someone else for a change and I’ll see you again next week.” The doctor got up and reached out his hand. Ben stood up, noticed the doctor’s hand, and shook it perfunctorily.

“Doctor, I wanted to tell you about a dream I’ve been having.” His face was as serious as Grumman had ever seen him.

“Ben, can it wait? I have another patient outside?” Grumman hated putting him off like this, he genuinely liked this simple and pleasant fellow.

“Sure thing guv, I’ve sat on these dreams for a couple of sessions, I figure they will work out just like everything else. We can talk about it next week.” Ben smiled painfully and slid past the doctor on his way out the door. He wished he could have remembered to talk about the dreams earlier in the session. They were vivid and disturbing. Right now, nothing a pint wouldn’t handle. Ben Fisher went to a local pub and put the dreams out of his mind.

A man in a long coat with wide-brimmed hat walked in behind him and took a table a few feet from his. Their eyes never met, but he never stopped watching Ben for the entire evening. He noted his drinking habits, his speech, the fact his eyes would look at women and then turn away painfully; lust in his heart, shame on his mind. He never spoke other than to the young waitress who served him. Though the pub was crowded, no one intruded on his table. He gave away the other seats to patrons and drank quietly until Ben Fisher decided he needed to go home.

He followed him, staying out of Fisher’s sight, though in his current state, he would not notice much. His apartment was a modest place was off the main road. He passed through a close and piss-soaked alley, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the narrow passage between two aging buildings. He remembering how much he hated visiting London, it reminded him of his claustrophobia.

Ben Fisher reached his apartment unmolested. And then the man in the hat waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

A black dog appeared on Ben Fisher’s apartment steps. One second he wasn’t there, and then he was. He was a massive specimen, square in the chest with a large head and powerful jaws. With only a momentary sniff in the wind, the dog took off at a brisk pace down the street. The Man in the Hat turned his collar up and followed as quickly as he could.

The dog moved soundlessly up the street and turned into a section of town best left by decent people after dark. It stopped and smelled the air and trotted with purpose, as if it were on the scent of a particular target. People who saw it jumped out of the way, surprised at its soundless approach and massive size. A few people even got on their cellphones to report the animal especially since the recent news.

Imagine their surprise to note the animal disappeared from sight in the time it took for them to make their call. Flustered, half hung up in embarrassment, the other half continued their report determined to have someone take them seriously. They never noticed the man who followed the hound, who slipped equally smoke-like between passersby amazed at the animal’s speed.

The man was grim and determined. He had failed to stop this creature for two nights in a row. It had already claimed three previous victims. The police assumed it was a man who used a large dog for a weapon. The victims were always young toughs, often homeless, found savaged and robbed in poorer sections of town. The only witnesses were unreliable, claiming a dog of immense size and strength killed the men and vanished in a mist.

Last night, the police were able to confront the creature. It did not go well for them. Though none of them died, most were savagely mauled and two of the eight were in critical condition. The Man in the Hat had arrived too late to stop it. He didn’t know what to look for. Now he did. Tonight would be different.

The dog had vanished. In his moment of reverie he had taken his eyes off the beast. Damn.

A blow struck him from behind, something massive, slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground. The weight stayed on his back and he could feel the cold breath of the animal as it stood there and growled menacingly. He could feel his cursed mark pulsing with anticipation.

The beast walked around toward his face and kept within inches of him. It made eye contact and held it. Feral, wild, unbridled rage coursed through those eyes.

The man fixed his hat and stood up, never breaking eye contact. “Ben Fisher. I would like to offer you a job.”

Part 1