American Demon Hunters_An Urban Fantasy Supernatural Thriller Page 4

  “Sorry,” Lori said. “I’m not good with this grieving shit. You know she was my best friend. I miss her, too.”

  “This isn’t about Michelle,” Hank said.

  Lori tilted her head sideways and huffed.

  “It's not,” Hank said.

  She leaned back and waited for Hank to explain.

  “Something with Corey,” he said.

  “Is he okay?” Lori said.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  The bartender appeared and pointed at Hank’s bottle of beer. Hank shook his head and waited for the bartender to walk away.

  “He’s not right.”

  “He was struck by lightning, Hank. He almost died.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “I think he knows stuff he shouldn’t.”

  “What makes you say that?” Lori asked.

  “A hunch. A feeling.”

  “Whoa. What are you talking about?”

  “He can see things that aren’t in the same room. He knows stuff he shouldn’t. Stuff he couldn’t possibly know,” Hank said.

  “You mean he can feel things? Like he has extra senses?” Lori smiled and then leaned in further, her voice low and soft. “Your son has ESP?”

  “ESP?” Hank asked. “Who uses that term any more?”

  “Whatever,” Lori said. “You telling me he’s psychic or something?”

  “There are case studies that—”

  “There we go. I knew you’d bring this back to an academic exercise.”

  “What do you know about ‘non-local consciousnesses’?” he asked, ignoring her comment.

  “Nothing. But I know enough about you to realize I’m about to get educated.”

  Hank smiled and for the first time since Michelle’s death, he felt somewhat comfortable in the presence of a woman.

  “Let’s grab a booth.”

  Hank spent ten minutes explaining how he found the studies online, while Lori finished her vodka. She resisted the temptation for another, believing the story she was about to hear would be more entertaining than a drink. She knew Hank since college and discovered he was one of the most genuine, altruistic people she ever met. If it hadn’t been for a silly bet, it might have been her walking down the aisle to him after grad school instead of Michelle. Lori brushed the thought aside.

  “The studies said the key was ‘intentioned focused awareness.’ You can achieve it with meditation, yoga, martial arts, prayer, whatever. The idea is it's a skill we all have but some are better at using it than others. The possibility of tapping into this trait falls along a normal bell curve over the general population.”

  “In layman’s terms, please. I’m not a professor in your department.”

  Hank nodded and took a swig of beer before continuing.

  “Have you seen The Matrix?”

  “Duh,” Lori said. “Keanu Reeves? Are you kidding me? Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  “Well, it's like that. People that have this power, this perception, they see things like a daydream.”

  Lori waited.

  “Sometimes, a traumatic experience triggers a heightened awareness of non-local consciousness that then lasts for an entire lifetime.”

  “Like getting struck by lightning,” Lori said.

  “Exactly,” Hank said. “It's not psychic or paranormal in the Hollywood-sense. It's more about another level of consciousness.”

  “The hippie shit you don’t believe in.”

  “Hear me out, please,” Hank said.

  Lori leaned in, tuning out the bar and her vibrating phone.

  “There are two ways this awareness can manifest itself. The first is called ‘non-local perception.’ This is when people know shit they shouldn’t. Like, if I asked you where Dominic is right now, you’d be able to see your husband’s physical location as if you were daydreaming.”

  “Ew,” Lori said. “He’s probably sitting on the toilet with a finger up his nose.”

  Hank laughed. “Right. So you’d just know that’s where he was and what he was doing. You don’t see it like a movie in your head but you’d know.”

  “Got it,” Lori said.

  “The second kind of awareness is ‘non-local perturbation,’ which is the ability to remotely heal or harm another individual. This is like the healers on television who cure people at home. Or on the other side, people who claim to have the ability to curse others.”

  “Witchcraft.”

  “Not really,” Hank said. “These people can do the harm or healing through space and time. Witches need a lock of your hair or a fingernail, don’t they?”

  Lori shook her head and giggled, waiting for Hank to yell “gotcha” and for Dom to come out from around the corner with video rolling on his phone.

  “I don’t know the basic tenets of witchcraft, Hank. Sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is this awareness is a gift, an ability, and some people discover it after a traumatic incident.”

  Lori sat back and stared into Hank's eyes.

  “I think Corey has it. ESP, psychic abilities, non-local consciousness. Whatever you want to call it, I think he has it.”

  “Has he told you so?”

  “No,” Hank said. “He still doesn’t say much, or I should say, write much. But I sensed a change in him.”

  “When?” Lori asked.

  “When we moved to Cleveland Heights.”

  Lori snickered and rolled her eyes. “And when you started driving past Lake View Cemetery on the way to Corey’s therapy at the clinic. I’ve got to go. Thanks for the drink.”

  Lori stood up and grabbed her purse. She slapped a five dollar bill on the table.

  “Leave that for the waitress. I always hated it when the cheap bastards stiffed me on the tip.”

  Hank’s mouth was open, his goatee surrounding what looked like a dark cave. He looked over both shoulders to see if someone in the bar spooked Lori. Everyone in town knew each other. A widower and a married woman having a drink together might be enough to kick start the rumor mill.

  “What?”

  “I told you I only had an hour. I have to go get the kids.”

  Hank flicked at the calendar app on his phone.

  “How’s Friday look for you?”

  “Please, don’t. I know where you’re going with this and it's only going to end in pain. Corey was struck by lightning. He lost his ability to talk. The boy then lost his mother to a drunk driver. Don’t you think he’s been through enough?”

  Hank felt tears welling in his eyes and a flush of heat filled his cheeks.

  “Fuck. What the fuck am I doing, Lori?”

  She leaned over and placed a kiss on the top of Hank’s head.

  “I’ll tell Dom you said hello.”

  Hank watched Lori weave through clumps of people starting to gather at the bar for happy hour. She left the Winking Lizard and did not look back at Hank through the front window.

  Hank sighed and closed his eyes, unable to see the unusually long gaze leveled on him by the man at the end of the bar. The man was sent by Dr. George Singleton to follow Hank and keep track of his son, Corey.

  Chapter 7

  “I told you not to call me at home,” Fred said.

  “I think he has it,” Dr. Singleton said.

  Fred peered out from the island separating the kitchen and dining room. He had not heard Hank come home, but he couldn’t be certain.

  “What?” he said.

  Doctor Singleton sighed and waited.

  “If Hank has already picked Corey up and he’s not here yet, you have less than twenty minutes to explain. Quit playing games with me.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of kids, Fred.”

  “Get on with it.”

  Fred could almost see Singleton’s expression over the phone. Not because Fred had the awareness, but because he spent the majority of his life dealing with the man. Singleton’s eyebrows peaked and met above his nose, his white hair wispy above his ears. George wore the
same white lab coat since 1984 and it no longer hid his growing paunch. Despite the advent of the PC, the laptop, the cellphone and the tablet, Singleton never went anywhere without a disheveled clipboard that smelled like vinegar. Fred could hear the back of it rubbing against a stethoscope George had longer than his lab coat.

  “I’ve interviewed over twenty-five thousand subjects.”

  “Spare me your credentials.”

  Singleton laughed before continuing.

  “The boy has non-local consciousness for sure. I don’t know whether that was enhanced by the lightning strike or revealed by it.”

  “Same thing,” Fred said. He had one ear on the receiver and the other listening for Hank’s truck in the driveway.

  “Not really, but I’ll save that for a publication.”

  “Please do,” Fred said.

  “Corey can definitely see beyond the corporeal plane. He has an awareness of them.”

  “Is he a seer? A guardian? A hunter? C’mon, Doc. The Order is going to need all the help it can get if the portal opens again. We’re getting too old to deal with demons.”

  “The boy could possess all of those skills.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Fred said. “We’ve never seen that before.”

  “And it might not be the case now either. I need another six to nine months of tests to make the determination.”

  “Michelle’s anniversary is in less than four months. You don’t have that kind of time. Hank will eventually find the information. He’ll do his best to attempt a summoning before her one-year anniversary.”

  “It might take longer—”

  “It can’t,” Fred said. “I see it in Hank’s eyes. He’s going to try to bring my daughter back from the dead. Through the portal at the observatory.”

  “The warnings we gave in the past were never enough to stop someone. The portal can’t be destroyed and we can’t simply lock him up. We’ve tried both. Whatever force powers the portal also protects it. We have to let him see that the portal uses us, that we have to allow it all to happen so we can grow the Order. But God help us if Hank is successful.”

  “God doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Fred said. He hung up the phone as the headlights from Hank’s truck swirled across the living room wall.

  Corey ran through the living room and bounded up the steps to his room while Hank dropped their backpacks on the floor.

  “Martha’s going to lose her mind if she sees that,” Fred said, smiling and shaking his head.

  “I’m exhausted. I promise I’ll pick them up after dinner.”

  Fred whistled as Martha emerged from the kitchen holding a spatula and pot holder.

  “How’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes?” she asked before noticing the backpacks on the floor.

  “Beautiful,” Hank said.

  “How was therapy?” Martha asked.

  “Fine. I guess,” Hank said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Fred walked down the hallway and into the family room.

  “It's not like a broken bone. You can’t measure the healing in any significant way,” Hank said.

  “What you mean is he isn’t talking and you don’t know if he ever will.”

  Hank nodded and waved a finger at Martha. There was never any doubt where Michelle got the ability to cut through the bullshit.

  “Right. He’s not talking yet and the doctor really doesn’t know if he ever will.”

  “Dr. Singleton?” Martha asked. She avoided looking Hank in the eyes.

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “Fred went to school with George about four hundred years ago. I know who he is.”

  “He’s experienced,” Hank said.

  “You mean old,” Martha said.

  “Got me again. I’m concerned he’s not up on the latest techniques or research. How do I know he’s best for Corey?”

  “I’m sure the man is qualified.”

  “Corey has special needs,” Hank said. “He’s not like other kids.”

  Hank caught himself, feeling as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff.

  Pull it back.

  “My meatloaf is burning,” Martha said.

  She walked back into the kitchen and returned with armfuls of dishes and platters, setting them down before sitting at the table.

  “Bless us O Lord for these gifts we are about to receive through your bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

  Hank smiled at Martha, his hands in his lap. Corey sat to his left, Fred on his right. They gathered around the kitchen table, the same one Michelle used to sit at every morning before school. Martha scooped a heaping load of mashed potatoes and dropped it on to Corey’s plate. The boy grinned.

  The aroma of cream and butter made Hank’s mouth water.

  “Best loaf in the Heights,” Fred said. “Been that way since 1974.”

  Martha tucked her chin down and rolled her eyes at Fred.

  “How was therapy?” Hank asked Corey.

  Corey nodded while shoving a forkful of meatloaf into his mouth. Even after eighteen months of dealing with the effects of the lightning strike, Hank struggled to find the rhythm of conversation with his son. Things changed after Michelle’s death. Hank hoped Dr. Singleton and the Cleveland Clinic would change that, give him some remnant of a relationship with his son.

  “Do you feel like you’re making progress?” Hank asked, this time giving the boy the opportunity to answer.

  Corey nodded.

  “Good. Any bit of progress gives us hope.”

  Fred pushed the meatloaf around the plate. He glanced at Martha and then turned back to face Hank.

  “How did things go down at the university?” Fred asked Hank.

  “As can be expected. They’ll find me a spot, I’m sure, but for now there are a lot of political hoops I have to jump through.”

  Fred sighed.

  “Damn politicians.”

  “Not quite what I meant, Pap,” Hank said. “But, yeah, politics suck.”

  “Watch your language,” Martha said, winking at Corey.

  The boy smiled and pointed at the bowl of mashed potatoes.

  “Of course,” Martha said.

  “What did you do with the rest of your afternoon?” Fred asked Hank.

  “Drove around. Ended up in Lake View Cemetery.” Martha dropped her fork and Fred stared at Hank.

  “Really?” he asked. Fred raised his eyebrows along with the tone of his voice. “What were you doing there?”

  “Driving through. Been there a few times the past couple of weeks.”

  “How’s her site look? Are they keeping it clean?”

  Hank looked at Martha, unsure of an answer and more confused by the questions.

  “It looked like all the rest, I guess.”

  “What do you mean, you guess?” Fred asked. “Was it clean or not?”

  “I don’t know because I wasn’t at her grave. I didn’t see Michelle.”

  Corey stood up from the table and carried his plate to the sink. He dropped it in and a lump of potatoes slid down the inside of the basin, coming to rest over the drain. Before Hank could say another word, Corey walked past them, through the living room and up the steps.

  “Corey, wait,” Hank said, beginning to stand.

  Fred grabbed his shoulder. “He'll be fine.”

  Hank eased back in his chair, still looking toward his son. Corey slammed the door to his bedroom, shaking the rest of the house into silence.

  “Now, why were you in Lake View if you weren’t visiting her, Hank?”

  Hank looked through a veil of tears at Michelle’s parents.

  He shook his head back and forth as the drops fell to the tablecloth.

  “I don’t know. I was driving past and I felt pulled through the gate. I got out of the truck, I was walking around and I’m still not sure why. I ended up down in the valley, near the old crypts. You guys know those?”

  “No,” Martha said.

  Hank
tilted his head sideways awaiting an explanation for her curt response, but Fred spoke before she could.

  “We’re worried about you. Michelle meant the world to us and now you and Corey are everything. Can we help you find someone? You know I have connections at the Clinic.”

  “Thank you, Fred. I’m starting to think maybe I do need some help. There are thoughts, things in my head since we returned to Cleveland Heights that feel raw. Sometimes it's like my feelings are being peeled back and then ripped off like an infected hangnail. There just isn’t a book for this, no mathematical equation to bypass the grief. I want to support Corey the best I can, but I can’t do that if I’m all twisted myself.”

  Fred reached over and put a hand on Hank’s shoulder. Martha had her hands covering her mouth, her chest hitching with silent sobs.

  “I’ll call Doc Singleton in the morning. He’ll be able to recommend someone good.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate that. Martha, that was an incredible meal, like always. I know it's a bit early but I’m going to bed. Take care of Corey if he needs anything?”

  “Of course,” Martha said.

  Hank stood and walked through the kitchen and to the staircase. Fred and Martha sat in silence until they heard the squeaking of the bed springs coming from Hank’s room on the second floor.

  “I feel like we’re losing him and I’m not sure Singleton can help,” Martha said.

  “I know,” Fred said. “But we have to try something.”

  “I can’t go through it again. I can’t stand in the observatory and watch our dead daughter walk through the portal.”

  Fred looked into his wife’s eyes and nodded. “Me neither. Let’s pray it won’t come to that.”

  Chapter 8

  The Next Day (August 21, 2014)

  Hank pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. The Dakota rumbled and then came to rest while the engine block pinged beneath the hood. He looked down at his phone to verify the address.

  The building sat back from Mayfield Road with room for two rows of parking between the sidewalk and the main entrance. Hank scanned the sign listing to the side, a victim of an overzealous snow plow during the last winter. Sonya Lisander’s name was listed in office 3S.