Fade (Paxton Locke Book 1) Read online




  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  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

  Author's Note

  About The Author

  Fade

  Daniel Humphreys

  Copyright © 2017 Daniel Humphreys

  www.daniel-humphreys.net

  Twitter: @NerdKing52

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  ISBN: 1542571545

  ISBN-13: 978-1542571548

  Cover art by damonza.com

  First Printing March 2017

  For Jackson and Carleigh.

  May you always see the magic in the world.

  Prologue

  It’s a long story. But hey, it doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere soon, right?

  This is how it started.

  Chapter 1

  I knew this job was going to be a freebie as soon as I pulled up to the front of the house.

  In my line of work, there are two types of customers — the ones who actually have problems and the ones who are flat-out crazy. Unfortunately, the vast majority of my clientele consists of the latter. I don’t usually feel bad about taking their money. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. The folks crazy enough to think they need me when they don’t can usually afford to be stupid.

  That doesn’t mean that they’re any easier to deal with — I charge accordingly. Call it what you will. I look at it as a stupidity tax, like cigarettes or lottery tickets.

  As I stood in front of the house, the crawling sensation on my skin and the chill that ran down my spine told me everything I needed to know. This client was the real deal.

  The first few barricades to engaging my services are simple ones. I’m not in the phone book. Little of my business comes from referral. It makes sense when you think about it. Most folks aren’t liable to tell friends and family around the dinner table about the guy that came and freshened up their haunted house.

  That doesn’t mean that I don’t get my share of nut jobs. My best friend and business partner, Carlos, screens those out as best he can. He’s got a good gut instinct about most people, but if I’m being honest, the up-front deposit is just as effective a filter. It eliminates everyone but the crazies and those who are truly suffering.

  A palpable sense of dread came over me as I killed the engine and propped the Kawasaki Vulcan 750 on its kickstand. It was so ponderous that it was almost physical, like an invisible thumb pressing down on me from above. I took my time and folded my jacket over the seat before weighting it down with the helmet. Underneath, I wore a long-sleeved button down and khakis. Many people seem surprised that I’m not a priest, but that’s not what I am.

  I’m not an exorcist because I’ve never seen a demon.

  Call my job what you will. I keep it simple. My name is Paxton Locke and I banish the dead.

  The lady of the house opened the door just after I stepped onto the porch. She caught me as I raised my hand to knock and I lowered it awkwardly as she studied me. She was a slim, attractive older woman. She had the air of someone used to be being well-put together and wholly uncomfortable with her current frazzled state.

  Her eyes widened in recognition as she studied my face. “I know you! I mean, I’ve seen you before — on television.” Her voice shook. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I was expecting the gentleman from the telephone.” She attempted to keep her face calm, but the dark circles under her eyes and the slight tremor in her hands as she cradled the opened door betrayed the tremendous stress she was under.

  It’s a hell of a thing, questioning your own sanity. I could relate.

  “Are you . . . Mr. Locke?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “Are you Mrs. Jackson?”

  “Ms.” She made the correction automatically and without heat. She seemed accustomed to doing so — long divorced or long single, I guessed. Moot, in either case.

  “Ms. Jackson,” I hesitated on the threshold. “You don’t happen to have cats, do you?”

  She blinked in surprise. “Well, no,” she frowned. “Is that a hindrance to your . . . services?”

  I tried to keep the laugh out of my voice. “No, no, not at all. I’m just terribly allergic. Wanted to know if I needed any medicine before I got to work.” I patted the pocket of my slacks where I kept my nose spray. “May I come inside?”

  She nodded, tight-lipped. Wordlessly, she stepped aside to let me in. I hoped she hadn’t put two and two together and realized that I’d made the mental jump from ‘Miz’ to ‘cat lady.’

  Strangely, as I walked inside the house my sense of tension eased somewhat. The house was tidy, though sparsely decorated. What I assumed were tasteful art prints decorated the walls and the furniture was low and modern. It looked more expensive than comfortable. I glanced at the sumptuous white carpet and tried to ignore the urge to kick off my shoes.

  Ms. Jackson stepped back to a side table and retrieved a thick envelope. “The man on the phone said cash was best for the remaining balance.” She hesitated, holding it tight against her stomach with hands. “I’m sorry, I guess I expected someone . . .”

  I waited and gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile. This sort of reaction was more common than not and tended toward one of two assumptions.

  “When I saw you coming up the steps, I expected someone older,” she finished and laughed nervously. That’s an understandable sentiment — there aren’t many twenty-somethings in the world with bone-white hair, after all.

  “A lot of people do. A lot of people expect a priest, too, and I don’t claim to be that. But I am what they say, Ms. Jackson.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what you saw on the news, but they got the story mostly wrong. That’s why I tend to avoid attention as much as possible.” I hesitated, decided, then pushed. “I’m for real and I’m here to help you.”

  The Irish called it a geas. In folklore, it was a magical compulsion used on otherwise unsuspecting common folk. If someone had mentioned it to me ten years ago I would have dismissed it as a fairy tale along the lines of Bigfoot or the Easter Bunny.

  Now? I call it the push.

  Yes, on top of being able to speak to ghosts, I'm a wizard. Just go with it.

  The tension went out of her all at once. We went from strangers to friends in the space of a few heartbeats. She smiled and pulled the envelope away from her body. “Let me pay you, then, so you can get started.”

  I raised a hand to cut her off. “That’s all right,” I said. “I’m going to help you because you need it. You keep the money, all right? When I get done here, I’m going to reverse the charge on your deposit.”

  She blinked. This is the point when some people start smelling ‘scam’ and get suspicious. I don’t like to use the push more than I have to, but sometimes it smooths things over. There’s a natural, human suspicion when offered something valuable for
free. We don’t trust it because the universe has taught us that nothing comes without a price.

  Most of the time, that’s true, but I take quite a bit of pleasure in sticking my thumb in fate’s eye whenever possible. The lady in front of me was an imperfect being, as we all are, but she in no way deserved what she was going through.

  I broke the silence. “Ms. Jackson, can you tell me what signs you’ve seen or heard? Have any of your possessions moved, or gone missing?”

  “Call me Shirley,” she supplied, then continued, “no, nothing like that at all. If it was anything like that, I could have rationalized what I was going through. It’s just, these feelings. I can’t get warm. Even with every light in the house on, it’s just so dark in here!” She waved a hand. I saw for the first time that every light fixture in view blazed with light.

  If I focused on the lights individually, they were dazzling. I didn’t know what kind of bulbs she’d put in them, but I guessed she’d gotten the brightest ones she could find in an attempt to banish the darkness. As far as it being dark, she was right. Just outside the cone of light that each fixture provided, the light dropped off into shadow. The entire house seemed cloaked in gloom when there was no earthly reason why it should be. Her hallway featured several wall sconces, and the cone of light projected from each faded off into nothing before it reached the floor. If I not for the itch in the back of my brain, the oddity of the light would be confirmation enough that something was weird.

  “Okay. There is one other thing you can do for me.”

  “Absolutely.” A faint smile crossed her face. “Just say the word.”

  “I passed a Starbucks a few blocks away. Could you go get me a coffee? Black, three sugars.”

  She stared at me in confused silence for a moment before speaking. “Coffee?”

  “If all goes well, by the time you get back I think I’ll have your problem fixed. But I’m going to have a whale of a headache.”

  “All . . . right.” I could tell she was mentally prepared for, well, anything, but this simple request had her floored. “I suppose some fresh air will do me good.”

  She retrieved her purse from the side table, realized she still held the envelope of cash, and jammed it inside. Keys jingling, she stepped to the door and hesitated one last time. Uncertainty flickered across her face.

  “It’s going to be okay. I promise.” No push, just honesty. Maybe the initial charm smoothed the path for her to believe my words now, but I didn’t need to lay it on any thicker. It’s like that, with some people. They want to trust, so the push takes them further than the average person would find reasonable.

  She took it for what it was, gave me a silent nod and stepped outside. The click of the door behind her sounded as though it came from miles away.

  I watched her through the window until she backed her car out of the driveway and pulled away. As I turned to face the living room, I gave her carpet another glance. Even in the murk, I could tell that it was a brilliant, spotless white. I obeyed my initial impulse and kicked my shoes off before I walked over to sit on the couch. It was all chrome and leather, but surprisingly comfortable despite appearances.

  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pushed.

  “Come talk to me.”

  Chapter 2

  Using the push on a person is bad enough. To make the effect widespread requires effort an order of magnitude greater. As soon as I finished speaking, I gasped from the effort. My head was already starting to ache. I itched to pop a few Tylenol as soon as my coffee got here. The unexpected comfort of the couch seemed suddenly seductive but I resisted the urge to curl up for a nap.

  I forced the weariness aside and told myself to focus on the business at hand. As though in response to my words, the air in the home seemed to thicken. The sound in my ears became strangely muted, as though we’d been suddenly plunged to the bottom of the ocean.

  The light in the hallway flickered slightly. At once, in the space between blinks, the ghost manifested. If not for the muted and slightly translucent color of its skin and clothes, I could have convinced myself it was a living child.

  It was a young boy before it died. A part of me ached at what this child must have gone through before dying. Your garden-variety death rarely results in a revenant. It takes pain and brutality and terror to produce such a thing, else the world would be even more awash in the restless dead than it sometimes seemed.

  Despite that, the boy gave me a calm stare as I studied it. I spread my hands wide and said, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  When it comes down to it, getting rid of a ghost is surprisingly simple if you know the right buttons to push.

  I don't do exorcisms. It's more of a thoughtful discussion. I tell the ghosts the truth of what they are.

  The boy’s forehead wrinkled and his lips moved silently. I ‘heard’ him in my head. The first few times that happened, I spent a long time wondering if I’d finally slipped a gasket.

  Of course I am. I knew you’d come. I felt you.

  “Okay,” I allowed. “That happens, sometimes. Your kind are sort of, I don’t know, attracted to me.” Internally, I grimaced. The last few days, I’d been chilling out, catching a few movies in the theater and waiting on some parts for my Kawasaki to come in at a local shop. When Carlos had sent me the details of Shirley Jackson’s haunting, I’d shrugged my shoulders and put the proximity down to luck.

  Was the boy here because of me? If so, the freebie was the least I could do.

  She’s looking for me, the ghost offered, into the silence.

  I frowned. That was new. “She who? Ms. Jackson?”

  She. The Edie.

  “Never heard of her. Listen—” I began the push, but the boy growled in silent frustration and walked a tight circle in the center of the living room. The lights flickered, on the cusp of going completely out. I shivered despite myself. It was a warm night outside, but the air in here was rapidly turning frigid.

  Please. Help me. She’s bad, mister. She killed us, and then . . . The ghost shivered. A look I could ironically describe only as haunted passed across his face. Whoever Edie was, she was bad news on toast. Which meant that this house call had just turned into a much bigger situation.

  I swallowed past a suddenly tight throat. “What’s your name?”

  It stopped in the middle of the floor, pondered, then said, Bobby.

  “Bobby what? You’ve got to give me more to work with.” It’s a double entendre to say that ghosts aren’t all there, but they aren’t, really. They’re faded reflections of the people they once were. Often, they don’t remember much of what they were before, other than the trauma that created them.

  A long moment of consideration later, it supplied, Gennaro. I was Bobby Gennaro. Can you keep me safe from her?

  I hesitated before answering. No matter how many times I do this, it still hits me in the feels. Logically, I know that I’m not hurting anything, but it still feels like I’m stomping on a kitten or something.

  “You don’t have to worry about that.” I pushed, “Hear me now. You think that you’re Bobby Gennaro. You’re not. What Bobby was, is gone.” It opened its mouth to speak, or to argue, but the push has transfixed it. “I promise you, I’ll try and find out what killed Bobby, but that shouldn’t matter to you. You’re a memory, a psychic Xerox. Energy that thinks it’s a little boy. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

  The truth hit it like a fist. It shook slightly at the implication. The dawning understanding never lasts long. The truth and the push force them to accept the fact that they’re not real, after all. For something made up mostly of fear, pain, and anger, the only thing keeping it together is a hollow imitation of human self-awareness. Lacking that, there was nothing left to bind those effects together.

  There was no sound or fury. The thing that thought it was a boy didn’t move on to another place. He just faded away. The only sign that anything had actually occurred was a swirling, localized breeze that ripp
led the carpet.

  Without its — Bobby’s — presence, the lighting in the house was suddenly overwhelming. White afterimage spots clouded my vision. I blindly made my way to the door and stepped outside. Blinking my eyes, I sat down on the top step of the porch and thought about what had just happened while I waited for my client to return.

  I hung around long enough to drink my coffee and let Ms. Jackson do a walk-through of her house. By the time that I’d drained the cup to the dregs, she’d made her way through the entire place and stood, beaming, on her front porch. The smile made her look a decade younger. I adjusted my mental estimation downward accordingly.

  “It’s just wonderful! I know you said you didn’t want anything, but how can I ever repay you?”

  It was probably rude of me, but I said little and made a fast exit despite verbal offers of a nightcap and nonverbal offers of far more. Shirley Jackson was a settled issue. I had other things on my mind. I typically wouldn’t complain about a job being too easy, but, well. That had been too easy.

  I’m not used to ghosts going quietly into the night. Maybe it’s a side effect of whatever process creates them, but they’re usually more pissed off than Bobby Gennaro had been. Even with the push, it’s a literal battle of wills to get them to listen to the truth. Once they’ve heard it, there’s wailing and gnashing of teeth as they try to hold onto their foothold in this world. The stronger, or more traumatized examples will tend to try and physically attack. They can’t touch living flesh directly, but there’s a crescent-shaped scar on the side of my neck where a glass knick-knack came in too hot.

  I pulled out my phone and tapped out a quick text message to Carlos in regards to a refund. He’ll grumble, but he knew and understood my reasoning. He may complain, but he’ll take care of it. Before he replied, I tucked the phone away and started the bike. The sun was getting low in the sky. I wanted to get back before dark.