Malefic

  Malefic

  Ambrose Ibsen

  Copyright © 2018 by Ambrose Ibsen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and events are the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Thank you for reading!

  About the Author

  One

  I seldom pick up the phone after dark, but on that rainy night in June when my landline started ringing off the hook, I felt compelled to answer it.

  Phone calls in the night tend only to bring three things; juvenile pranks, wrong numbers or bad news. However superstitious it may seem, I thought I heard in the phone's ceaseless ringing the menacing promise of the lattermost and rose from my easy chair to pick up the receiver.

  I'd only just put Astrud Gilberto on the turntable for a little spin and had to bring the volume on “Aruanda” down before answering. I carried the phone back to my chair, back to the glass of unfinished whiskey sitting on the table beside it, and finally uttered, “Hello?”

  The rain seemed to slacken for the first time in hours as I waited for the caller to respond. “Hey, Uncle Marcel,” the words eventually came. “It's me... Joseph. I-I'm sorry to bother you... I know it's late....” His words were all broken up, sounded like they were being dragged out of him forcibly.

  At any other time, I'd have been very happy to hear from my only nephew, Joseph. I'd spoken to him just recently, in fact; he and his family had moved into their first home and he'd called just after the closing to tell me about it. It was clear from the shakiness of his voice that he was troubled however, and I wondered if something had happened to his wife or daughter.

  “It's no bother at all,” I said, kicking my heels up onto the ottoman. “What can I do you for, Joey?” I snuck a small sip from my glass.

  He was slow in replying. “I'm calling because... well, because I need your help. I need someone's help.” He cleared his throat, though it did little to minimize the childish sway in his voice. “When we last spoke, I told you about the house, right? We'd just closed on it and were getting ready for the move.”

  I was puzzled. Why was my nephew calling to discuss his recent move at a quarter after eleven?It sounded to me like the sort of conversation that could wait till morning. Despite my confusion, I didn't interrupt him. “That's right, yes.”

  “Well, there's... there's something wrong with it.” I heard him suck in a deep breath, and he didn't release it for a good ten seconds.

  “There's something wrong with it?” I echoed. A dozen scenarios flashed through my mind, each increasing my apprehension. Was the house filled with asbestos? Infested with bedbugs? Sitting on a bad foundation? Stricken with mold? “What's the matter?”

  His next question for me was more illuminating than any straightforward answer would have been, and I began to understand the reason behind his call when he asked, “Uncle Marcel... I know you read about them a lot, but... do you believe in ghosts?”

  It was my turn to sit in protracted silence. Fidgeting in my chair, I emptied my glass and set it aside with a thump, feeling as though I needed immediately to pour myself a refresher. I took the black fountain pen I carried always in my breast pocket and tapped it against my thigh. “What's this about, Joey?”

  My nephew's reply rushed out like water from a sputtering tap. “There are things in this house. I don't know how else to explain it. Melissa, Megan and I have all seen and felt... something. Heard things, too. I'm... I'm at wit's end... Do you believe in them, uncle? Do you... do you know how to get rid of them?”

  I glanced at the bookcase beside the rain-splashed window, its shelves teeming with old books—most of which dealt with the subject of the supernatural. Leaning forward, I pulled a legal pad from the side table drawer and set it on my lap. With a grunt, I popped the cap from the fountain pen and prepared to take notes. “You think your house is haunted?” I came right out with it, had tired of his pussyfooting.

  With evident shame, he offered me a pained, “Yes.” Before I could question him further, he continued. “I know that after Aunt Constance died, you got really interested in ghosts. Do you believe they exist? Can you get rid of them—ward them off? I've never believed in this kind of thing before, to be honest with you. But since moving in...”

  At the mention of my late wife, I stared at the pen in my hand, admiring its weight and the glow of the gold trim in the low light. “I believe, Joseph, that there are more things in this world than we can account for through mere smell, sight, taste, touch and sound. We possess other senses, and there are things, entities, that may be said to stimulate them.” I paused, chuckling lightly. “But I can't say for sure whether they're in your house.”

  “OK, then... suppose they are here. Suppose I'm not going crazy—that Melissa and Megan are sane, too. How else can I explain the shadows in this place? The voices we've heard—the footsteps?”

  “Too often, the unexpected is taken for the supernatural, Joey. In a dozen cases of so-called haunting, you're lucky to find even one that has any merit.”

  “You're not hearing me,” he insisted. “I know that there are frauds in the world... or that people mistake things for ghosts. I just want to know if there's any way to get rid of the real deal. If my house is really haunted, what can I do about it?”

  “There are ways to break up a genuine haunting,” I assured him.

  “Excellent. C-Can I ask you a favor, then?”

  I already knew what was coming.

  “Will you come visit us?” he asked. “Will you come to the house, stay with us? Maybe, if you experience what we've experienced, you'll believe me. If there's any way you can help us with this problem, I'd appreciate it. Otherwise... I think we're going to have to abandon the house.”

  I sat upright. “Come now, Joey, that's unnecessary. Don't be silly—you just bought the thing. Of course I'll come visit. It's been too long anyhow, and you know I'd love to spend some time with you and your family. But in the meantime, I don't want you doing anything rash. Walking out on your new house is a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?”

  He didn't answer that question, which told me he thought it a completely appropriate remedy. Instead, he expressed great relief at my willingness to visit. “When can you be here?”

  As a retiree, I had nothing like a regular schedule to adhere to. If I'd wanted to, I might have driven to the airport at that very moment. “I can be there in a day or two,” I said. “Let me plan my tr
avel and I'll get back to you. The house is in Detroit—near the train station?”

  “It is,” he replied.

  “Good. I could take the train out of Buffalo Grove and meet you at the Detroit station. In fact, if I get to bed soon enough, I might be able to light out tomorrow morning. How does that sound?”

  “That would be excellent. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Uncle Marcel.”

  “I'll call you tomorrow when I've got a ticket and an exact time,” I said. “Are you free to pick me up from the station?”

  “Absolutely. I'll clear my day.” At the start of the call he'd been fearful and awkward; now he seemed on the verge of joyful tears. “We'll get our spare room put together for you and everything. Thank you so much.”

  “It's nothing at all, my boy. Say hello to the wife and daughter for me. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

  The call ended. Massaging my temples, I set a few notes down on the legal pad. Joseph believes his new house is haunted. Seems at the end of his tether, and threatens to move out. Mentioned shadows, voices, and more. I've agreed to visit him in Detroit. Then, standing, I asked aloud, “What do you think, Constance? Can we do anything for the poor lad?”

  I crossed the room, returning the phone to its dock. I then stopped by the kitchen for a spoonful of peanut butter. I'd planned to listen to more music and dig a bit deeper into my liquor cabinet, however plans had changed. I now had an early morning to prepare for.

  From the living room, I heard a short burst of scratching, followed by the dull thud of a pen dropping onto paper.

  I returned to my chair, and found that a reply to my earlier question had been scrawled upon the pad.

  Maybe we can.

  Two

  The train attendant nudged me awake. “We're close to the station, sir,” she said as she walked down the aisle.

  I sat up with a start and spared her a groggy thanks. Since I'd dozed off, the sky had brightened a good deal, and the view outside the window had transitioned away from pastoral Midwestern scenery to the concrete cityscape of downtown Detroit. Stretching for a moment, I gathered my things.

  The messenger bag was slung over one shoulder, and I retrieved my valise from the overhead compartment. The valise proved especially heavy, since I'd packed a number of books along with my clothing and toiletries—mostly volumes focused on the subject of spirits. Nestled in with my things were the letters of Pliny the Younger—Firth's English translation from the turn of the last century—and a handful of other hardbound classics from my collection. At a Barnes and Noble near the Buffalo Grove station just that morning I'd also acquired some more contemporary materials—J. Kelly Thompson's Practical Ghost Hunting and the oft-recommended Confessions of a Ghost Hunter by Harry Price. These I had intended to dig into on the almost five-hour train ride to Detroit.

  Not that I'd managed to read even a single page.

  In the minutes before the train came to a halt, I visited the bathroom to check myself out in the mirror, and was dismayed to look exactly as I feared I might: Like an old man who'd fallen asleep on a long train ride. It was by no little effort that I managed to smooth out the wrinkles marring my slacks and blazer, and the silvery cowlick that'd sprung up over the course of my nap proved especially stubborn. I washed my face with cold water and then toweled myself off, running a fingertip along my bristly mustache. It was patchy, very much a work in progress.

  Ten minutes later, I was following the other passengers out of the train and onto the platform.

  Tugging my valise along, I passed through the terminal and into a well-lit lobby crawling with visitors. Some were preparing to board the train, which was on its way eastward, while others had gathered to meet the newly-arrived. I paced slowly through the crowd, studying faces and searching for my nephew. Five minutes of staring at strangers yielded no sign of him.

  Though the two of us had spoken semi-regularly over the past few years, I hadn't actually seen him outside of photographs in quite some time, and it was perhaps for this reason that I did not at first recognize the small, nervous-looking man standing near the exit, nor in him the sturdy jaw and aquiline nose that are the hallmark of our family line. I hesitated in approaching until I'd noted these features, masked beneath a mop of unkempt black hair and a rough coating of stubble, and when I did begin towards him, it was with a forced smile.

  Forced, because he looked to me rather unwell.

  Despite my retirement from medicine, it was impossible for me to unlearn the art of patient assessment, and it was through that lens that I appraised him. The dark circles beneath Joseph's eyes bespoke a lack of sleep. The inattention to his personal appearance—the baggy t-shirt, tattered jeans, shaggy hair and stubble—implied a distraction with other, more pressing matters. Indeed, some of the homeless cycling through the throng in search of change looked more presentable than did my nephew.

  When our eyes met and he drew away from the wall to meet me, extending a hand to shake, I couldn't help noticing the stubbiness of his nails. He'd taken to chewing them lately, and his fingertips were frayed and raw. “Hey, Uncle Marcel.” It was a cough more than a salutation.

  “Joey, how are you, my boy?” I asked, bringing him in for a hug. It probably wasn't appropriate for me to refer to him as a boy these days, nor to call him “Joey”, as I'd done throughout his childhood, for he was cresting the latter half of his twenties now, and had a wife and daughter. Though, as I beheld him in the lobby, he looked rather more advanced in age than that—he appeared a haggard thirty-five or forty, easily.

  In a shaky voice that would fool absolutely no one, Joseph replied, “I'm good, real good. How are you?”

  I set a hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “The ride was about as exciting as a dental cleaning,” I chuckled. “I hope you weren't waiting long.”

  Joseph shook his head, mumbled something about the car being parked nearby. He couldn't seem to maintain my gaze, instead scanning the scuffed-up floor.

  I looked down at our feet and nearly asked him, “Is there something interesting down there?” Instead, I nodded towards the exit, fiercely curious—and not a little concerned—about what was eating him. “What's good around here? Let's find a table somewhere and get a meal in us, yes? You can tell me all about this house trouble you've been having when we're fed.”

  “There's, uh... there's a great Mexican place not far from the house. The realtor took us there before we bought the place, and it's just about the only good thing to come from this entire move,” said Joseph, toying with his keys. “Sound good?”

  I was interested enough in the prospect of tortilla chips and margaritas to ignore my nephew's dire tone right then, and agreed. “Perfect. It'll be my treat. Vamos!”

  Three

  The décor was more vibrant than I'd expected.

  The tables were topped in painted clay tiles and set with napkin and silverware holders in the shape of small cacti. The lamps over the tables were coppery, and had simple, circular designs hammered into them. The bar was festooned with garlands of flowers and mini sombreros. They were nice, festive touches, all of them. But far and away the most eye-catching bit of décor was to be found on the walls, which were covered in large, detailed murals. The work was rather good, but the subject matter of these paintings hardly seemed suitable for a casual eatery.

  I pointed to a prominently-painted figure near the kitchen entrance as Joseph and I were guided to an open table by the hostess. The figure was evidently a Mesoamerican warrior—open-mouthed and bare-chested—and he looked to the heavens, clutching a still-beating heart in his fist. In the figure's other hand was a curved blade, and at his feet was sprawled the armor-clad corpse of what I took to be one of Cortés' men. “I'll have what that fellow's having!” I declared.

  The hostess offered a polite laugh, probably having heard that same joke a dozen times before.

  We were seated in a booth across from an enormous painting of a Mayan step pyramid. Depicted at the base of the o
minous structure, behind which hung a golden sun, were Mesoamerican warriors and conquistadors locked in combat. These battle scenes were lent an eerie reality by the amber mood lighting that drifted about the room from the warm hanging lamps.

  A waiter came by within moments, allowing us to order beers before the silence of the preceding car ride had a chance to re-engulf us. I remarked on the scenery when the waiter returned with a pair of frosty Tecates, and asked him about the pleasant mariachi tune chirping overhead. “Is that Pedro Infante?” I queried. The waiter wasn't sure, but promised to be back soon with a basket of chips and salsa.

  Joseph, devoted to his silence, picked up his menu and examined it disinterestedly.

  “What's good here?” I asked. “Anything you'd recommend?”

  He shrugged. “It's all good. The carne asada tacos are my favorite. The tamales are really nice, too.” With that, he set about putting a sizable dent in his beer.

  “Carne asada it is.” I took a pull from my bottle and offered him a smile that he barely returned. Joseph had never been an especially talkative person; even as a boy he'd been rather reserved. The man sitting across from me now was practically mute, though. His insistence on freezing me out with curt half-replies was getting old. I tried a different tack. “So, how have things been, Joey? How's married life? And parenthood—I'll bet Megan has sprouted up like a weed, hasn't she? How old is she now? Seven?”