“Would ya look at that,” Tommy said, approaching the mission, James in tow. “Sign’s gone. Guess they liked us after all.”

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The atrium, which was set up for screening new exorcists last time they were there, was empty. Just a handful of benches aimed at what probably used to be landscaping. Now dry earth.

James grumbled in response to Tommy’s declaration.

“You owe me ten bucks, Peach.”

“What for?”

“You didn’t think it would work. Remember?”

“So? I didn’t put no money on it.”

“You know the rules.”

James shook his head, picked up his pace. “Here we go.”

“Peach, the bet’s implicit. You know that. The ante’s ten bucks when you bet against me.”

“Says you.”

“Says everyone.”

James stopped, gave Tommy a blank stare.

“What?”

“Tommy, everyone’s us.”

Since the moment his underboss had caught him with his wife, in his own bed—bullets flying everywhere like hopped-up hornets, since jumping out the window, busting down James’ door for help, boosting that Town Car in Jersey, hopping the freight train, and all the rest—he hadn’t stopped long enough to realize what he’d lost.

And what he’d lost was a bunch of disloyal cucuzzas who’d sell him out in an instant if it meant sucking up to that good-for-nothin’ so-and-so. He’d have done the same in their place.

But he was better. More evolved. More—

“Peach, check out the smoke show.”

James rolled his eyes.

She sped past them and into the church without a word.

“I think we should get to work, Peach. Don’t you?” Tommy said, making for the door.

James shook his head and followed.

The father and sister were waiting for them.

“Fathers, welcome,” Ricardo said as they entered. “This is Sister Mary Maria. She’s your point person for exorcism cases.”

She was early thirties and pretty. No big, thick habit like the fellas were used to. Her knee-length skirt and button-down light blue blouse made her look less like an untouchable symbol of virtue and more like a prospect. Curtain bangs flowed out the front of a lightweight veil that just covered her hair. Plenty of neck for any vampires in the area to gawk at, or sink their teeth into.

Mary looked them over, one by one, with squinty eyes. “You said you are from the Vatican?”

“That’s right. The Pope and us go way back. I’m Father Spicoli—but you can just call me Tommy. This is my associate, Father Franco.”

“Associate, huh? You sound more like Mafia than Jesuit,” Mary said, deadpan.

Tommy let out a broken laugh, pulled at his collar. “Mafia? That’s crazy. I mean… that’s just crazy.” He glanced at James. “Right, Pea—Padre?”

“Insane.” James eyed the statue of Jesus on the altar.

Mary’s frown morphed into a grin. “You are too high-strung, Father Spicoli. I was only kidding.”

“I knew that,” Tommy said. “I mean, of course you were, because, why—”

“—would a couple of mobsters pretend to be exorcists in Demon Central?”

“Why indeed?” James said.

“Well, we usually provide a short training period for our new exorcists, but, considering your ample experience, and your glowing recommendations…” She sized Tommy up as she spoke. “…the bishop and Father Ricardo have agreed to send you right into the field.”

James turned and produced a flask out of Mary’s sight, took a long pull.

Tommy gulped. No booze necessary.

***

The homes in that part of town had seen better days. Or maybe they hadn’t. Cars up on blocks in front yards, old tires being used as stairs, planters, everything but wheels on automobiles.

As Mary drove, Tommy noticed another nun leaving a home with blacked-out windows. She glided as if on ice. Her veil hung low like an oversized hood, so he couldn’t make out her face, but her wimple hung loose around her neck, and her frame beneath the habit was too slight. He watched her, craning his neck, until she was just a speck in the distance, and when she was gone, he kept watching.

“Father Spicoli?”

“… Yeah.”

“We’re almost there. In case you would like to offer a prayer for protection.”

“That’s usually Father Franco’s thing.” Tommy turned, eyed James in the back seat. Help me out here!

James shrugged, mouthed, “No.”

“But, since you asked… uh, shall we bow our heads?” He glanced at Mary. “Not you, Sister. Keep those eyes on the road—God, this is a prayer for protection, so… protect us, You know, as we pray. Amen.”

“Profound,” James said.

Mary eyed him. “That was… interesting.” She pulled to a stop behind a late model tan sedan, left it running. “Well, here we are.”

“Who’s the cop?” Tommy asked, eyeing the chubby, mustachioed man in the sweaty shirt and loose tie standing in the driveway.

Mary gave him a side-eye. “That’s Detective Chamorro. The demoniac has been violent at times. The detective is here for your protection.”

The introductions were brief.

“So,” Detective Chamorro said. “You’re the new exorcists, huh?”

“That’s right. So, what’s the deal in there? This guy dangerous?”

“Only to himself so far.”

“Any open wounds?” James said.

Tommy grinned. “Right, Father Franco don’t do open wounds.”

“Not unless I’m makin’ ‘em.”

Tommy glared at James. “Well… I guess we should get to work. Come on, ya big joker.”

“God be with you.” Mary watched them go.

Chamorro offered a mostly convincing smile. “Just yell if you need me, and I’ll be right in.”

The fellas made for the door. When they were out of earshot, Tommy glanced over his shoulder. “You know what, Peach,” he whispered. “I truly and honestly want to bang that nun.”

“Whoa, Tommy. Nun’s is off the menu!”

“What I’m hearin’ is a dare.”

James peered back at Chamorro and Mary from the patio. The front door was slightly ajar. He leaned toward Tommy, lowered his voice. “Tommy, nun’s is married to God.”

“I already accepted the dare. Now, come on,” Tommy said, pushing the door open, craning his neck to peek inside as he entered.

James crossed his chest, looked to heaven, and followed.

“I bet this guy’s just fakin’ it to get out of a bad relationship or somethin’.”

“I don’t know, Tommy… I seen things. Things that make my little hairs stand up.”

“Gross, Peach.”

“Not my short hairs—the little ones.”

Tommy shrugged, moved on. “Please. We both know you were blitzed off communion wine.”

“It wasn’t the wine…”

***

“Sister Maria,” Chamorro began, walking Mary back to her car. “What’s the deal with these two?”

She reached out, placed a folded piece of paper in his hand. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

The detective opened the note and examined it. He glanced back at the house, then to Mary, concern in his eyes. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

I’ve spent a lot of time observing the dead. Like, way too much time, and I’ve noticed a bizarre truth. Some of these spirits are more alive than the living.

Not trying to dazzle you with a beautiful contradiction. It’s true. I just passed an elderly man sleeping under a piece of cardboard in a planter beside a donut shop, his arthritic fingers still grasping the meth pipe. There’s no other way to say it. He’s given up.

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On the other side of the coin, there’s a ghost named Iggy over on the east side of town, hangs out at Wolfskill’s Diner most days—unrequited love for a waitress, also it’s where he kicked the bucket. He’s never told me how he died, but I’m pretty good at deduction, picking up on subtle context clues, detective stuff.

There’s also the fifteen stab wounds in his back he doesn’t know are there. Butcher knife. Angry cook.

It’s one of those true urban legends. Happened back in the 80s far as I can tell. There are as many versions of how it happened as there are knife holes in Iggy, and I doubt I’ll ever get the truth out of him. And that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Most ghosts obsess over their deaths to the point it eventually sends them over the edge. Not Iggy. He’s got no time for the past.

Iggy was a broke loser in life. Gambling addict by day, security guard patrolling parking lots by night. But now, he’s worth close to a million bucks. You heard me right. See, Iggy’s figured out how to possess horses.

No, he hasn’t done anything weird with it.

He did, however, convince me to talk to his brother Ike on his behalf so he can place bets for him… on himself.

Turns out a man wearing a horse may have more motivation to win a race than the horse with no man in it. Don’t read into that. Somehow Iggy’s able to push them past their limits (only a few horses had to die for him to get it right). Think about possession cases where the host demonstrates abilities they shouldn’t have. Same thing, but with horses.

Ike has two bank accounts, one for him and one for Iggy. They split the dough down the middle. No idea what Iggy’s got planned for his cut, and that’s fine with me.

The two of them have a standing meeting every Tuesday at Wolfskill’s with me. They offered to cut me in for a third when they cooked this up, but I’m content with my normal fee. My uncle Dennis—who was a medium to the rich and powerful in Southern California—left me his estate when he was murdered by a demon-possessed serial killer. The money won’t last forever, but for now, I’m happy to work for free if folks can’t afford my services. Guys like Iggy and Ike, I let them pay.

I’m headed back to the office downtown. I have a little apartment upstairs. My favorite watering hole is down the road. Great coffee spot across the street. Library’s two blocks south. And the hospital’s only a twenty-minute hike. The only problem with this stretch of the city is all the vagrants.

I don’t mean the donut shop guy. I mean transient spirits. See, the hospital’s basically the epicenter of death. People eat it there all the time. Some go up or down. Some stick around and never leave the room, or the floor, where they punched their ticket. Others, they want to get away. Can’t blame ‘em. So, they just start wandering. Back to their homes, their favorite haunts in life, to pick up where they left off. Some of the really well-adjusted spirits will try to catch their own funerals. A bold move that doesn’t usually work out as well as hoped.

Whatever. Point is, there’s a crap ton of ghosts in my neighborhood.

A sixty-something lady in a track suit jogs past me, her intestines trailing on the ground behind her, getting her steps in.

A pair of Cholos from rival gangs, one missing 2/3 of his head, brains hanging over the side of his skull like ramen noodles, try to beat the tar out of each other but they’re shadowboxing. Ghosts are immaterial. Even to other ghosts, they’re intangible. Usually.

On the other side of the street, an old-timey mailman sprints past B&H Music, a chihuahua hot on his tail. Yapping at the air as far as anyone else is concerned.

“It can’t hurt you anymore, Steve!” I shout. He doesn’t hear me over the barks.

Almost to the office, I notice a shadow in the corner of my eye, gliding toward me as if on a wire. Kind of amorphous but vaguely humanoid. Dark. Spindly. Flowing. But when I turn, it’s gone.

I take a swig from my flask, start in the direction where it had been, but only get a few steps.

That smell.

Artificially floral with undertones of feces and decay.

Very few spirits carry their odor with them into the afterlife. Some can produce scents they think will help them be remembered. Pipe smoke. Perfume. A ghost that hangs out in the cafeteria at Devil’s Corner High can fart on command. Silent but deadly indeed.

This particular bouquet is unique. It’s a spirit I know well, and I’ve got no time for her today. I have a client waiting. That is, if she hasn’t gotten fed up with waiting and stormed out yet. Based on our phone conversation, I’m kind of hoping she did, but I’m rarely that lucky. I have resigned to the fact I’ll probably end up on a wild goose chase for a young lady with an overactive imagination.

Before I even get to the door, Ben’s in the street, waving me down. A cherry Model-T plows through him. Not a ghost car. It’s just a remarkably well-preserved piece of history. Tonight’s Cruisin’ Grand, Devils Corner’s weekly car show that spans several blocks along Grand Avenue from June through September. I always get lots of walk-in business from it.

Ben’s full name is Benjamin Blackbird, but he’s always gone by Ben Black. He’s the smartest person I’ve ever known. And he’s my partner in the paranormal. Incidentally, he is the paranormal.

He’s a ghost.

Other important facts about him: he’s in his early teens. He’s half Kumeyaay, half Messianic Jewish. Well, his mom’s Messianic but I guess that doesn’t get transferred through blood. No religious beliefs do, actually, and Ben’s living—well, unliving—proof of that. Biggest skeptic since Scully. Even as a disembodied spirit, he’s still cynical about there being any kind of higher power. Every case we get, he’s full of naturalistic explanations.

“That girl’s still here,” he says.

“Dammit.”

Ben turns to follow me as I enter.

“She’s weird, man.”

“Weird how?” I say, her sitting one foot from me, right next to the door.

“What?” she asks.

“Oh, nothing.” I reach to shake her hand She stands, smacks mine.

“You said you’d be here half an hour ago!” She’s eighteen, maybe nineteen. Dirty blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Freckles. She’s wearing too much makeup for a girl that young and that pretty.

“I’m so sorry. I had an errand. Took longer than expected.” She continues to grimace at me. “Come on into my office,” I say, as I pull the door open, holding out a hand.

“Fine.” She stomps past me, oversized flannel flowing behind her. It’s open at the front revealing a t-shirt with cartoon characters on it. One of them has long, stretchy arms and a straw hat on. One looks like a raccoon-dog. I circle around and take a seat. She sits in the chair facing my desk.

“Mind if I smoke?” I ask, pulling a cigarette from the pack.

Her frown softens into a pout. “Can I have one?”

I reach over the desk with the pack. She takes one and places it between her lips, leans for a light. She inhales like it’s her first breath.

“Now, uh…” I forget her name.

“Alice,” she says, exhaling.

Ben’s standing behind her. He says it at the exact same time.

“Right. Sorry, Alice.” She waves off my politeness. “Can you refresh me on your situation?” I ask.

She takes another long drag, exhales in a sigh, meets my gaze.

“My boyfriend is gonna kill me.”

Tommy “Fast Times” Marino and James “Peach” Pappalardo puffed away on their cigarettes, waiting in line in front of La Misión de Rincón, along with a mismatched gaggle of spiritualists, New Age guru types, somber-looking men in monkish garb, and a handful of those filthy Protestants.

A beat-up four-by-eight sheet of plywood was propped against a pillar out front with the words “EXORCISTAS WANTED” spray-painted on it in black letters. Beneath that, written in thick Sharpie, “we pay in American dollars $$$.”

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James’ sweaty cassock was bursting at the seams and Tommy was swimming in his clerical shirt, but it was still the best they could hope for with borrowed garb.

The fellas had been on the run from the Family. They’d made a break for Mexico, met a couple of American priests in a dive bar somewhere south of Juarez who said they were exorcists.

“You’re what?” Tommy’d asked, knocking back his third lowball of tequila. “Like the old movie? You’re yanking my chain.”

“Serious! We’re headed to this crazy little town… uh, Rincón,” the fat one had said. “S’posed to be some bad juju magumbo going down.”

The skinny, little one had looked Tommy in the eye, stone-cold serious, said, “Demonic activity,” letting the words form real slow.

“Yeah,” the fat priest added. “And they’re paying American money for exorcists to come down and help out.”

Tommy had a plan in no seconds flat. Get the exorcists black out drunk, take their garb, forge some resumes at a copy shop, and head south. It went off without a hitch, which should have been their first red flag.

They’d gotten dropped off near a cemetery with an ‘87 Lincoln Town Car in the parking lot, unlocked. Owner nowhere to be found. Too good.

“How much longer, ya think?” James asked.

“Hell if I know.” Tommy was preoccupied, eyeing his phone.

A woman in a long dress and head covering peered over Tommy’s shoulder, scowling at his phone screen.

Holding it up for her to see, he said, “Research. Gotta think like a sinner to reach a sinner.” He noticed a bearded hippie with a tambourine, eyes glued to the screen. “This guy gets it.”

She scoffed and turned away.

“Hey, Tommy,” James said, low and slow.

“Yeah, Peach?”

“You really think this’s a good plan?”

Tommy snorted, blew smoke. “Would you listen to yourself? My plans’re always good.”

James took a long drag, shook his head. “The one that got us here wasn’t too good.”

Tommy clenched his jaw, held James’ gaze. Then sighed. “You got me there. But name one other time my plan wasn’t perfetto.”

James didn’t skip a beat. “Frankie the Faucet’s wake.”

“Hey, that one’s on you. His nickname was The Faucet. What did you expect would happen when you twisted his nose?”

“You dared me.”

“And? Come on, Peach, you’re a grown man. You don’t have to take every challenge thrown at you.”

“You double-dog dared me.”

A long pause then Tommy relented, “Yeah, but man, was that funny,” he laughed.

James cracked a smile. He dropped his cigarette and stomped it out with his leather loafer.

“Looks like we’re almost up,” Tommy flicked his butt into the road. “You ready for this, Father Franco?”

“You know it, Father Spicoli.”

Tommy and James sauntered into the atrium. It was just them and those brazen Apostolic Protestants behind them now. And the New Age girl burning sage around the place, but her minutes there were numbered the moment she lit that thing.

On one side of the courtyard, a short, wiry man with a potbelly and an intense energy stared at the fellas from behind a mottled card table. He was sweating through his off-white guayabera, priestly collar turning yellow. An older man, taller, more relaxed sat in a folding chair next to him. His cream guayabera was decorated with a large metal cross dangling from his wrinkled neck. A small electric fan rested on the table, blowing his silver hair back.

“I think we have smelled—uh, seen enough,” the shorter priest said, eyeing the smudging woman’s companion and waving him to collect his crazy lady and leave. The New Age weirdos trudged out into the heat, sage smoke trailing behind them like a steam engine.

“What’s her deal?” Tommy whispered to his pal.

James shrugged.

The priest in the white shirt pointed at the fellas. “You may come forward.”

“Finally, de los nuestros,” the old man said.

“Welcome, brothers. I am Father Benito Ricardo, párroco here. And this is Bishop Miguel Casa Azul del Cielo.”

“Your Excellencies,” Tommy said, marching up to the table. “Look no further. We’re your guys.”

“That remains to be seen, uh…”

“I’m sorry. I am Father Thomas Spicoli, and this is Father Jim Franco.” He leaned in. “Listen, fellas, this ain’t rocket-surgery. You’ve clearly blown through the competition and gotten no luckier than usual.” Tommy elbowed James, sent him a wink. “Now, it’s down to my associate and I, and these freaks—” motioning to the Apostolics. “—who don’t even believe…” Eyes to heaven, he made the sign of the cross—badly.

“Believe what?” Father Ricardo said.

Tommy bowed low, between the two men, cupped his mouth, whispered, “They don’t even believe our blessed Mother was a virgin.”

Father Ricardo and Bishop Casa Azul del Cielo repeated the sign of the cross, eyeing the Protestants. James glared, disappointed, shook his head.

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen, keep your collars on. There’s no problem. You have Father Franco and me. As long as we rid ourselves of these…” He glanced back, disgusted. “These perverted Philistines—”

“Perverted?” the woman shouted. “I was not the one looking at harlots!”

Tommy spun, placed a guiding hand on her shoulder, one behind his back, began ushering her out. “Sweetie, you’re no harlot.” Looking her up and down, underwhelmed, he whispered, “Not hot enough.”

The father and the bishop watched, bewildered as Tommy rushed the woman out the atrium. He motioned, “come on” to the rest of her crew.

“You too. Beat it, ya bums. On your way now, you blasphemous little Protestants, you.”

The rest of them hung their heads, followed Tommy out.

James, sweat pouring from his face and neck, soaking his collar, smiled at Ricardo. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

Fanning his face with a pamphlet, Father Ricardo glanced, confused, at Casa Azul del Cielo. The bishop shrugged, continued enjoying his fan.

Returning to the table, Tommy clapped his hands together a few times. “Father, Bishop. It has been a pleasure. We’ll see you Monday morning. Can’t wait to get started.” He glanced over at James. “Can we, Father Franco?”

“I’m pumped,” said James.

The fellas turned to leave.

Father Ricardo looked to the bishop for silent direction, then to the fellas. “Now, wait a second. We don’t know the first thing about you two.”

Tommy turned, pulled a folded envelope from his pocket, opened it, and dropped a thin stack of papers on the table. “Go ahead, have a gander.”

“What’s this?” the father said.

“That’s all the information you need. Our resumes. I trust you’ll find them more than satisfactory.”

Ricardo narrowed his eyes at Tommy, then James, then the papers. He picked them up and started looking them over. Shocked, he ducked to show the bishop. “You two worked for the Pope?—And Bono?”

“That’s what it says, don’t it?” Tommy said, grinning at James, who rolled his eyes.

Father Ricardo squinted, finishing the first page, flipping to the next. “I don’t know…”

The bishop chimed in. “Now, Father Ricardo, if these two young men served under His Excellency, then who are we to turn them down?”

Ricardo gave the bishop a concerned look.

“You know Beautiful Day is my jam,” the bishop said.

Deal sealed.

James grinned at Father Ricardo. “We’re an asset.”

“That’s right, we are!” Tommy turned, heading for the door. He called back to James who followed. “See ya Monday. Alright if we’re in a little late? Long day. You get it.”

The door slammed, leaving Bishop Casa Azul del Cielo and Father Ricardo alone.

The bishop grinned at Ricardo, hopeful. “Let’s give these boys a shot, Benito. They’ll do fine.”

Ricardo eyed the bishop. “And if they don’t…” he asked, his expression grave.

“And if they don’t—”

The bishop looked at the door.

“They will die like the rest.”

Keep reading!

You’ve met Aaron and Ben from Spirits, and Tommy and James from How to Whack a Demon. In a couple of months, you’ll meet Gnash and Marvin from Penance of Gnash. Tonight, you meet San Demonio.

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Mexico City.

The birthplace of Lucha Libre.

It is mi hogar.

But it is also home to evil, great and small. Weak and powerful. Natural and—

We will come back to that, but now, it is the small and weak who pretend to be something more who have drawn my attention.

The people of this city, they call me San Demonio. I am savior to some, devil to others. To all, just.

This mask I wear is a harbinger.

It is not just worn. I become it. And through it, I become fury, and hope.

From this rooftop, I can see all the way to Arena México—the Cathedral of Lucha Libre. Many worship at the altar of luchadores. Others worship a darker god. Or goddess, as is the case in this place.

Below, in an abandoned warehouse, men who serve La Falsa Santa are selling women to other men who worship only money. They will all beg their gods for mercy this night.

It is nothing to sneak past this escoria guarding the door. His clumsy hands fiddle with a karambit as I pass through the window above him, left open by some idiota.

Necios.

Inside, I find the two men I am here for: The trafficker—his cheap tan suit a pitiful attempt to dress for the job he wants that will never pay off, and his cliente, a round man in sweatpants and an ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt over a stained wife-beater. The former grasps a young woman by the wrist. A prostituta by her appearance. The latter examines her like livestock.

The buyer and seller are each flanked by two protectors, only slightly more capable than the imbécil guarding the door.

She’s drugged, but still aware. Weeping softly. Resigned to her fate.

“This is all you have for me?” the cliente scoffs.

“You do not like her?”

“No. Look at her… she is fiero. Homely and spent.”

One of the guards laughs. He will regret that.

Her tears cut lines through dirt and blood on her face. Her left eye is swollen, cheek cut, but she is precious. A thing of infinite worth—as we all are, though we often choose to be less—being peddled for filthy wads of paper.

“Are you blind? She is guapisima, and you know it. She is going to make you a lot—”

“Hola.”

I speak from the shadows. My voice low, inhuman. It echoes around the cavernous space, rattling broken glass.

“Who’s there?” the enganchador holding the girl shouts, his voice frantic, sweat beading up on his forehead.

“You know,” I say. Calm. Reverberating. Dust rises from nearby shelves.

“Go!” he says, pointing at the shadows where I dwell. His two chuncos draw their pistols, begin to creep past piles of old boxes and broken crates. They split up. The one nearest me holds up a lighter, hoping to catch a glimpse.

Regret for that decision will haunt him the rest of his short life.

He screams. Two quick muzzle flashes.

Then silence.

The shadows receive me again as I wait.

“Jorge?” his partner manages to breathe out as he draws near, his voice hushed.

“Jorge está dormido,” I whisper back.

He begins to unload into the darkness, but with a single tug from my clawed hands, his arm breaks free from his shoulder like pulling apart carnitas. It fires two more shots. The final obedience of muscles severed from their source.

The arm and pistol land at the feet of the remaining pieces of human basura. They do not wait to find out what’s happening. They already know. Every worthless malandro and tratante in this city knows of San Demonio. They pray to their bony lady for protection. They hope she will be enough.

And if she cared, she would be. More than enough. But she does not weep for them.

All of the scared little alimañas rush for the door. The man with the karambit peeks in, knife shaking in his hand, and is plowed over like a bowling pin by the first two. The fat man who called her “fiero,” he throws the trafficker aside, and almost makes it out.

I take him by the hair, and drag him back in as the rest look on, his screams echoing through the alley and out into the night.

His bulbous form vanishes, replaced with a visage. A crimson face with black horns and glowing yellow eyes staring at them from the darkness.

“Run,” I say.

They obey.

And then I go to work.

As the blood flows, as the flesh rips and the bones break and the screams turn to whimpers, I can’t help but smile. These men who treated women as disposable are flowing down the drain, into the sewer, like waste.

***

I think about that moment when I left her outside the Hospital de Jesus as I saunter down the catwalk in Arena México.

The girl will be safe now.

I had watched from the roof as nurses rushed to her. One pushing a wheelchair.

“San… San Demonio… he saved me,” she mumbled, the drugs beginning to wear off.

“She is delirious,” one nurse said.

“No, he… he is real…”

They shook their heads in pity as they wheeled her in.

“…and he is a hero.”

Perhaps, but not here.

10,000 lucha fans jeer at me, show me their middle fingers, spit in my general direction.

My demonic mask replaced with a false mustache, sombrero, and a plastic smile.

“Boooooooo,” they shout.

Out there, I may be a héroe.

Here, I am only a rudo.

I am…

Mal Mariachi.

I hate hospitals.

Down the hall, a woman with no face is screaming at the top of her lungs that she can’t see herself in the mirror. I wish I could tell her she’s better off, but she’d never listen. Never has.

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Even though I hate hospitals, I’m here every week. In this room with the same old friend. Been here a long, long time.

I take a swig from my old flask.

Today I’m celebrating my birthday. 34. So this is kind of a party.

I saw a ginger teen named Pezz on the way in who got wasted and drove his girlfriend’s Honda Civic into a water park. Plowed right into the main attraction, a slide called Terminal Velocity. It filled the car with water with such force and speed, kid never had a chance.

“How’s things?” I asked him.

He looked at me with shock and relief all at once. Like he always did. “Oh, I’m doing fine. Just wet is all.”

“That’s good.” I smiled at him. “I mean, not the wet part.”

He laughed, wrung the front of his t-shirt out on the floor. It featured A.C. Slater grinning, saying, “Hey mama, wanna wrestle?”

I asked him once where he got it. He said he couldn’t remember. I knew though. His mom bought it for him at a thrift store. She’s still there.

I thought about asking how his girlfriend was, because that’s the kind of small talk humans seem to enjoy, but it triggered something dark in him last time I asked, and I like Pezz light.

“Help me. Someone help me, please,” says a sweaty middle-aged woman as she passes the room. Not the faceless woman. This one has a face, and I kind of wish she didn’t. Hers is gaunt and covered in sores, dirty blonde hair matted to her head, eyes vacant, hopeless.

I don’t just hate hospitals because of the funky, unholy odor of absolute sterility, or the fact that loads of people die every year from infections they caught after admission.

“Sir, please, can you help me?” Ignore.

It’s not the depression-inducing atmosphere of bland decor and terminally neutral colors.

“Sir?” She steps into the room.

She knows.

What was it?

A microsecond of a glance, a shudder at the sight of the exit wound. That exit wound…

I screwed up. Somehow, this dead meth-head has figured out my secret. Not good. See, if they realize I can see them, and then find out I’m making like I can’t—

Her eyes turn black, face long, hair goes wild like there’s a million volts of static electricity rushing through it. She leans in, her yellow and black tweaker teeth so close I’m thanking God I can’t smell her breath.

I’m trying to celebrate my birthday, lady.

The temp drops 30 degrees.

She’s frozen, staring through the side of my head from less than an inch away, waiting for me to react. I won’t.

I let out a lazy yawn, fake but everyone believes a yawn.

She drills into me with those empty voids. Even just catching that face in my peripheral, my skin crawls like it’s made of worms, or spiders. It’s everything I can do not to jump out the window and flee, but she’d never leave me alone.

And I could never come back here again.

I hate it here, but I need to come back.

I do something someone who can see her would never do. I turn my face into the animated death mask. I pretend to look through her, out into the hall, but it’s just darkness.

I’m inside her head.

If someone flipped a switch in here, I’d see brains.

Another nonchalant head turn, and I’m out. Thank God, I’m out. I glance down toward my phone.

“Heeeeeeelllllp meeeeeeee,” she wails.

She cocks her head, shifts her weight—if she had any—crouches, animalistic. From below, she snaps her head up to face me, studying my eyes.

My focus is locked. I was never actually looking at my phone anyway.

Still, my heartbeat’s gonna give me away.

She rises, gets right in my face.

Hold it steady.

“Help me,” she whispers.

Steady.

Silence.

“Help me!” This time short, snappy, loud.

Cool as a cucumber. On the outside. Inside, I’m on the verge of a stroke.

“HEEEEEEELLLLLP…”

She could swallow a watermelon whole.

Don’t look away.

“…MMMEEEEEEEE!!!!”

A basketball.

Calm.

Too many teeth.

She pushes in, lips to my ear.

“helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme,” she breathes, in staccato. Like an out-of-tune violin.

Another confused look at me.

In a flash, she pulls away, straightens. Her hair, oily and flat again. Her eyes empty but not bottomless.

I almost let out the titanic sigh I’ve been holding in.

She didn’t catch it. So fixated on my eyes, she didn’t even notice I wasn’t breathing. I sure didn’t.

Or maybe she’s just so used to not breathing she forgot that’s something we’re supposed to do.

Oh, she’s still here, watching the television.

I follow suit. Reruns. Larry just introduced himself and his two brothers, Darrell.

Sure, ghosts watch TV. What else do they have going on?

I pull out a cigarette and light it, take a long drag, and exhale.

Alcohol brings them into focus. Nicotine gives me some peace.

It’s an unhealthy juggling act.

“Sir, you can’t smoke in here,” someone barks from the hall.

“It’s my birthday.”

Meth-teeth turns and studies the nurse.

“Put it out.” This guy.

“You got it, officer.”

I drop it into my coffee with a quick sizzle. I was done with it anyway.

I kiss my friend on the forehead—“Bye, pal. See you next week”—then drop my cup in the trash in the little bathroom. I feel bad for stinking the room up, so I crack the window before I go.

The tweaker woman follows the male nurse into faceless lady’s room. She’s still screaming.

No, it’s not the dying that make me hate hospitals.

It’s the dead.

The Tall Man pulled himself through the desert, one fistful of sand after another, like a dying reptile, his fancy suit in ashy tatters, skin charred and tender. His flesh screamed in pain, but still he dragged himself across the coarse sand. He was parched and at death’s door, but he had an appointment to keep.

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Pain and exhaustion too much, the man they called Esqueleto collapsed, body pleading to let it surrender, spirit resigned to its infernal fate. He always knew his end would be in fire. He just didn’t think it would be this soon. And in such a bizarre manner.

One last look at the sky before he—wait, there it was. The small shrine divided the horizon from his low vantage, separating the setting sun’s flaming orange wake on his left from the deep indigo ocean dotted with thousands of burning stars the size of pin pricks on his right.

Salvation.

The next twenty minutes were hell. Maybe there was a better description considering that would have certainly been his next stop if he’d let the desert take him.

He reached out, touched the splintered plywood floor with his raw fingers, the aromas of tobacco, chocolate, and rotting fruit filling his nostrils, his eyes taking in the painted skull, the scythe and scales, bottles of liquor for none but her, and the globe—her rightful lot. If this beauty was to be his final sight, so be it.

His consciousness left him.

For an instant he dreamed of power. Absolute power. Of armies of rotting corpses marching at his command, of a horizon thick with the sulfurous smoke of the burning masses. He dreamt of La Madrina.

And then he awoke to a new world of pain.

The lightning earlier that day had been excruciating. His bones on fire, skin dissolving, sloughing off in globs, teeth like tiny coals burning his lips from the inside. But this… this was worse by magnitudes.

His skin and muscle tissue knitting itself back together, his seared nerves springing to life like streams of lava running through his body, and coagulated circulatory system melting like wax, blood rushing through his veins. His heart thumping in his chest. His lungs filling with air still damp from the rain.

The rain.

The storm.

That kite.

It had almost taken his life, but She had saved him. He would live to see his vision become reality. Santísima Muerte would finally have her dead world, and he would be at her side.

And in the meantime, the Cartel would carry on under his command. With his former boss now a steaming pile of flesh and bone in the sand, they would look to him for leadership, and he would accept.

He stood, bowed his head.

“Señora de las Sombras… gracias.”

Six rifles raised at once.

Clicks and clangs followed.

I’ve seen enough revenge flicks to know that clicks and clangs are the banshee wails of firearms.

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But there’s something more unsettling than staring down a half dozen gun barrels. And that thing was hanging above my would-be killers, steadfast, unmovable in the wind and rain, so eerily still it looked like a portal to a red dimension had opened up in the sky.

And then there was the boy.

The gunmen were quickly losing their nerve, rifles dropping, aimed at the wet earth. They were taking hesitant steps backward, muttering in panicked tones, most of it unintelligible.

“¡Es el morro del parque!” one said, pointing up at the kite.

I doubt I’ll ever forget that sentence. It was the last thing I heard before—

The Fat Man stumbled backward, holding his hands up as if he could ever have stopped what was coming with meaty palms.

Ben’s eyes were fixed, filled with fascination and awe.

The Tall Man was the only one not terrified, and that terrified me a little.

Then light.

Impossibly bright.

It seared the photo negatives onto my retinas.

Images I still see when I close my eyes.

Lightning arced from sky to kite, exploding into hundreds of blinding streaks, showering the earth, lighting up the desert floor, a dome of luminescent death that rained down on the Fat Man and his men, broiling them from the inside out.

By the time I could see again, they all lay on the baked sand, fingers crooked, still twitching, smoke pouring from their mouths, nostrils, eyes, ears. Safe to say, every hole they were born with.

Charred flesh, burnt hair, scorched fabric, all of it mixed with the smell of damp earth and ozone the storm left behind. I’ll be smelling it for weeks.

It was hard to tell who was who, aside from the Fat Man, but I thought I saw the Tall Man’s body spasming, maybe trying to crawl. But I wasn’t about to go check. There was no way anyone could have survived that.

I was sure I was dead too, but I looked down and, instead of my steaming corpse, I saw wet sand. Not a single scorch mark. I knelt, ran my fingers through it. Still cold. Somehow, I was sucking air.

Ben stood next to Lucha Libre Kid, and we all watched as the tattered and singed remains of the kite drifted down to the earth, settling on the Fat Man’s remains.

A little further out, the spirit of the boy from the photograph, from the park, was walking away. Ahead of him, two more spirits took form. His parents. They embraced.

I watched as the three of them evaporated into thousands of points of light, drifting up through the pouring rain, spiraling into the sky, and then they were gone.

Thank God the Lobo survived, or we would have been stranded.

On the drive back, Ben had commented on the tragedy of it. Even though there had been some justice at the end, a young family had been killed.

“Such a short life,” he’d said.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t understand. It’s so unfair.”

“Reminds me of a friend of mine. Gone too young. Also unfair,” I told him. The two of us made the rest of the trip in silence, and now we’re back at the cemetery, chatting with one more new friend.

Detective Chamorro watches me carefully. I can’t tell if he believes me and he’s really invested in the story, or if he’s trying to decide whether to call the men in white coats. “Quite the story,” he says.

The sky’s clear. Clouds retreating, drifting off to the east. The cemetery’s wet and fragrant. Sweet, earthy smells. The sun hangs low, a brilliant ball of light set against a copper sky. The undersides of the once-dark clouds now erupt with color from within—tangerine, magenta, and an electric violet so special I can’t bring myself to come up with a mildly humorous comparison.

Ben and I came to put the photograph back and say goodbye to our new friend who took us on the ride of our lives. Sure, almost got me killed, but I’ll let it slide.

Detective Chamorro had somehow gotten wind of the incident at the cartel compound and came for the same reason. We got to talking, and he wanted to hear the full story.

I figured, what the hell.

“Are you gonna tell him about the lucha libre kid?” Ben asks.

“Doubt he’d care.”

Chamorro gives me a puzzled look. “Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, no one. No one at all.”

“Gee, thanks…” Ben says.

A long swig from my flask. I offer Chamorro a pull, but he refuses. “You mind?” I ask him before lighting up a Morley.

He smiles, waves away my concern.

“Thanks.” I inhale deep, blow it out my nostrils. I’ve already seen how I die, and it’s not lung cancer or emphysema or anything so mundane.

“Can I ask you one more question?”

Chamorro’s been holding this one for last. “Shoot.”

“You’ve mentioned Ben a lot. Be honest. Are you crazy or did you lose someone along the way?”

I take another drag, give him a warm grin.

Exhale.

“Un poco de ambos.”

Spirits: Alice - Chapter One coming 06.18

Click here for How to Whack a Demon - Prologue: “ESQUELETO”

We’re riding in the back of a beat-up old Ford Lobo, probably on the way to my execution, and all I can think about is this dude sitting on the side panel like he’s freaking Evil Knievel.

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“You’re making me nervous,” I shout over to him. “Would you get off the side and just sit in the bed before you fall and kill yourself?”

He just stares. Not my fault if he tumbles out and cracks his skull open.

Ben bows, shakes his head.

The Mexican kid’s still talking about lucha libre.

Up in the cab, the Tall Man rides shotgun. It’s a misnomer, though. He’s only packing a pistol. Surly-looking fellas sit on either side of me, smoking cigarettes. My cigarettes. Another guy reclines against the tailgate, and then there’s the Fall Guy on the wall, giving me an ulcer. All four of them are rocking semi-automatic rifles. Not a single shotgun in sight.

“Aaron, you have a plan, right?” Ben’s concerned. He should be, because I have no plan.

“Sure do, buddy.”

“What is it?”

I lean toward him, a suspicious glance to each side. “I don’t want them to hear,” I whisper.

“I don’t think they even speak English,” he says.

“Can’t be too careful.”

The Mexican kid, sensing a lull in the conversation, picks right up where he left off. “Una vez, el Terremoto le acomodó un sillazo en la cabezota al Bufón Sucio y ya casi se acababa la lucha, pero el Mal Mariachi salió de la nada y le metió un lazo al cuello tan cabrón que el Bufón dio como tres vueltas en el aire.”

Ben grabs his ears and buries his head between his knees.

The guy to my left stares at me like I’m made of cocktail weenies. I wonder if I have a boogie hanging out, so I take a deep breath and exhale out my nose. Sure enough, like a bullet from a gun, it soars into the wind and lands in tailgate guy’s hair. I don’t have the heart to tell him.

We’ve been on the road about an hour. Nothing but desert on all sides. It’s starting to feel like one of those dig-your-own-grave scenarios you hope to never find yourself in.

“Where we headed?” I ask the guy on my left. Blank stare. I go to ask the guy on my right, but I’m struck by his mustache. What is it with mustaches in Mexico? I don’t think I’ve seen a single respectable one in Devil’s Corner in the past month, but they seem to grow on trees down here. This guy’s isn’t as sweet as the Tall Man’s, though. Makes me wonder if there’s some kind of facial-hair-related pecking order in this particular cartel.

“I dig your ‘stache,” I tell him, pointing at the waxed hair above his upper lip. Nothing. These guys cannot take a compliment.

“Hey Ben.”

“Yeah?”

“Check out this guy’s ‘stache.”

“What?”

“His mustache. Not too bad, right?”

I think he’d rather listen to Lucha Libre Boy than put up with my coping mechanisms.

My stomach drops when I take a look ahead. A dull yellow military compound from ages past is coming at us fast.

“Think they’re taking us to the embassy, Ben?”

Nothing.

I catch fence-sitter telling booger-hair I’m “loco.” Says the guy putting his life on the line to look cool for his buddies.

Just a few minutes later, we arrive. All the way through the gates and courtyard, up the stairs, and into the head honcho’s office, I can’t help but wonder where all the landscapers are. This place is barren. Nary a Ficus, or whatever survives in this climate. A succulent, probably. Not even a cactus, aside from the ones outside the wall. I mean, almost every landscaper I’ve ever seen is Mexican. And then it hits me. There are none here… because they’re all back home.

“Where are you from?” the Fat Man asks, blowing cigar smoke into the air above him like a chubby little chimenea.

“California. Devil’s Corner to be exact.”

He scoffs. “No. Which agency?”

“Oh,” I say, reaching into my pocket. Every gun in the room is suddenly trained on my center mass. Easier to hit, they say, than the face. “Whoa! I’m not armed. I’m just going to get my card.”

“Your card?” he says.

“Yeah, it’ll answer all your questions. You’ll see this is just one big mix-up.”

He takes another drag from his cigar, thinks, exhales, and motions for the guns to come down and for me to continue.

I reach into my jeans pocket and retrieve a small stack of business cards. I pull one off the top and drop the rest back into my Levi’s. I hand it to a goon who takes it to his boss. He reads it, squints, and reads again.

“You’re a… paranormal investigator?” He laughs.

Rude.

“It’s an important job. Just last month, I helped an attractive young woman determine that the UFO she’s been seeing outside her window at night is just some pervert’s drone. Can you imagine if she went on thinking it was aliens? Ridiculous.”

Blank stare.

I regroup. “Maybe there’s a better example. Back in March, this guy, Crazy Mike, he calls me up, says he’s got Critters in his basement. Like from the 80s cult classic film. Anyway—”

Another hand raise. “No more.”

“But I’m not even to the good part.”

With a careful glance, the guns are back.

He holds up my card so I can see it. Waste of time. I already know what it says. “So, you’re, like… Zak Bagans?”

Now I’m the one scoffing. “I mean, not to split hairs but—” Hold on. Where’s Ben?

He stares, puzzled.

Steel barrels on all sides.

“Ben?” I call, but he doesn’t answer.

“Who?” the Fat Man says.

“Ben. He’s my—oh, you wouldn’t understand.”

He stubs his cigar out in the ceramic ashtray on his desk. It’s a cocobolo. This guy must have seen Better Call Saul. “Señor, whoever you are, you are in the wrong place asking the wrong questions about the wrong people. And for that, I’m afraid you must die.”

Stupid reason to kill someone, but I’ll admit, I am in a foreign land. Different customs.

Another quick trip in the Lobo, this time to hell—if hell was a stretch of land south of the border with too many freshly buried holes. Six goons all piled into the bed with me, Ben and Lucha Kid nowhere to be found.

I’d really like to see him again, you know, before I… Ben, not the other kid. I don’t know. I guess he’s cool too.

“Any last wishes…” He waits for my name. Dude, it was on the card.

“Aaron. And yes, can I please have a drink from my flask? I think mustache guy has it.”

Tall Man looks to Fat Man for approval. A nod. He approaches the guy with my flask, retrieves it, and walks it over to me.

“Haven’t you had enough?” he says, handing it to me. Kind of judgmental for a child murderer.

“Thank you,” I mutter. I untwist the cap and pour a big gulp into my mouth. It flows past my teeth, hits my tongue like honey, goes down warm and smooth. Liquid courage, they call it. I’d like a refund.

“Aaron,” Ben says. He’s looking at me like I’m about to be murdered and buried in the desert. “What’s the plan? You said you had a plan.”

I look up.

There it is.

A tiny red dot.

The clouds are about to burst.

Lightning arcs from one end of the sky to the other.

The wind picks up.

Thunder rolls.

“Aaron.”

“I lied,” I tell him. A tear. A single cursed drop of moisture escapes down my cheek. “I’m sorry, man.”

He hangs his head, lets out a sigh.

“Gringo?” the Fat Man says.

I meet his eyes. “One more drink.”

He nods.

The kid’s over with the Tall Man now.

I swallow the rest.

“Ben,” I whisper.

“I don’t have a plan, but I do have a hunch.”

Click here for No. 5 - A Little of Both

Turned out, away was already our destination.

The kite was on the move.

Fast.

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My lungs are on fire, beanie’s soaked, cobblestone’s killing my feet, and on top of everything, I’m out of smokes.

Probably better, considering.

Residential streets fly by, a blur of terracotta walls and red-tiled roofs. We blow past more Catholic churches than I bother to count.

A sip of whiskey to keep me hydrated. Ben comes into focus.

“You doing okay?” he calls back from way up ahead.

I nod, trying to appear capable of moving at speeds faster than a light jog without passing out, but let’s face it, even a brisk walk would have me winded. This. This might just kill me.

Way, way up, the red diamond soars beneath heavy, deep purple thunderheads. The occasional neon vein pulses within. The air is thick.

“Where do you think it’s going?” Ben shouts.

I shake my head with absolute uncertainty, both in answer to his question and to the entire concept of asking me anything right now.

As we explode into the heart of town, carried on the wind, the earthy, damp air filling my nostrils gives way to the inviting smell of fresh tortillas, al pastor roasting on spits, and not much else. Townsfolk stare suspiciously as I huff and puff my way through their downtown plaza.

Just when I start to see that tunnel of light that’s all the rage among the dying, the kite stops dead. It hangs like an omen over a little bar. Flickering sign above the door reads “El Rinconcito.” I double over, gasping for air, wondering if they sell Morleys here.

A quick glance up at our airborne tour guide. It’s so high I have trouble finding it.

Why a bar?

I look at Ben. He just shrugs.

“Hello,” someone says from behind me. It’s a low, gravelly voice with a strong accent. I turn to see a tall, well-dressed man with slick hair and a handlebar mustache. Beside him, a teenage boy about Ben’s age, 13 or 14, stands, staring at me. The kid whispers something to me in Spanish. I tuck it away. The man smiles warmly as he passes, pulling the door open for me. “Going in?”

I look to the sky for approval, but it’s gone.

“I guess so.”

“What about the kite?” Ben asks.

“If it has more to show us, it’ll be back.”

I catch the tall man giving me a sideways glance. He motions for me to enter. I wave him off with a grin.

“You coming?” I ask Ben as the door begins to close, only to be caught by the wind, then slammed shut.

Ben’s backed up into the street, neck craned, looking for it. He shoos me. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

“Don’t get lost.”

Another quick glance skyward. The kite’s visible again, still stuck in place, effortlessly fighting the intensifying wind.

It’ll wait.

I head inside. It’s a ghost town. Folks around here must not have gotten the memo on pre-lunch binge-drinking. Well, besides this guy. An elderly man with a white comb-over hunches over a table along the wall. Above him, a Neon Bohemia beer sign hangs, bathing him in unflattering red, white, and yellow light. Not that there’s a combination of colors that could make an old man getting drunk before noon attractive.

The tall man sits at the bar, smiling just a little too much. I give him an awkward grin as he waves me over. I’m really just here to grab a pack of smokes, but my flask could use a refill, so I take the stool next to him.

“American?” he asks.

“Caught me.”

“We love Americans around here.”

I smile, sheepish.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

This happens to me all the time.

“Flattered, but I’m not into dudes.”

“Oh, no. You have misjudged me, amigo. I, too, enjoy the company of a woman. I simply wanted to talk. We do not get too many Americanos in this place.”

Well, that’s a relief. I catch Ben come in and sit alone with a view outside. He keeps his eyes fixed on the sky.

“Now, would you like that drink?”

“Whiskey.” I take another look at his suit. Expensive. “Double. And since you’re being so generous, how about throwing in a pack of those,” I say, pointing behind the counter to a small rack with my brand of smokes.

The tall man grins and motions for the barkeep. When the plump, middle-aged fella in a fully unbuttoned flannel shuffles over, chest hair like a rug stapled to his flabby chest, my new friend places the order in Spanish. I catch “wee-skee” and “do-bleh,” and of course “tequila.” The latter for him, I guess, but I wouldn’t turn it away. He points to the Morleys without explanation.

He hands me the cigarettes before getting our booze. I take one out, and the tall man offers me a light. Good thing because mine must’ve fallen out of my hoodie pocket on the way here. This is why I only run when chased.

“I’m feeling a real friendship blossoming here. We’re both handsome fellas with teenage sidekicks. We both love booze—”

He gives me a puzzled look, checks behind him. The boy’s sitting with Ben, talking at him with the speed and intensity of a Gatling gun.

“Antes me mamaba ver la lucha libre. ¿A ti te late? Mi fav es Mal Mariachi. Ya sé que está medio raro irle a los rudos…”

Ben looks at me, shaking his head, exasperated. “I don’t understand this kid,” he says. I smile and wave him off.

Returning my attention to the tall man, I take a drag and exhale, “You wanna be pen pals?”

He nods with a big smile—too big. He hasn’t touched his tequila.

“You’ve been so kind,” I say. “I wonder if you can help me out with something.” I pour the rest of my whiskey into the flask using a curled up coaster as a makeshift funnel as he speaks.

“Of course,” he says. “What is it?”

I reach into my pocket, swap the flask for the picture from the graveyard, and unfold it. Another quick look over my shoulder at Ben, but his head is buried in his hands. The Mexican kid is still talking right through him.

I hold up the photo.

“Do you know what happened to them?”

His smile flattens.

Words are unnecessary.

I was right about him from the moment I saw him.

Oh, and the kid telling me the tall man killed him was also kind of a dead giveaway.

Click here for No. 4 - The Six Gun Mustache Boogie-Hair Ride to Hell

Death.

It’s one of the two inevitabilities in life. The other isn’t taxes though. Plenty of people get away without paying taxes.

It’s actually disappointment.

Think about it. Can you think of a day without it?

Hell, most things we think are gonna fulfill us end up letting us down. Can’t escape it anymore than you can your final day, which is itself kind of a bummer. At least that’s how it feels on this side of the veil. I’ve been through my share of both in this life, and I’m positive there’s more to come, but today things are looking up.

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I was promised something unique.

Something paranormal that would blow me away.

A mysterious object in the sky.

No, not a flying saucer.

A kite.

And that promise did not disappoint.

A few days ago, I got an email with a link to a video. There was a kite in this small town in Mexico, floating over a cemetery. No one holding the string.

Hell, no string at all.

I was between investigations with nothing better to do, so I told Ben we were taking a road trip. Didn’t tell him where. Would’ve just worried about cartel violence the whole way.

We spotted the thing from outside town. A bright red kite, ribbon tail, just hanging in the sky like God pinned it there.

We’ve been standing here for several minutes now, neither of us speaking a word.

Cemetery’s small and overgrown, tucked behind what could be the very first Catholic church. Crosses and crucifixes mingle with the standard fare in grave markers. A sea of stone monoliths, monuments to lives lived in a dash.

Several larger, more prominent headstones, much older, sit in the center of the graveyard, almost entirely covered in vines.

“What do you think?” Ben asks, head craned up, eyes on the kite. Above it, heavy, dark clouds loom.

“Isn’t that your department?”

Ben’s kind of a whiz kid. It’s not the only reason I keep him around, but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt having a genius on the team.

He doesn’t take his eyes off it. “I—I don’t know.”

That’s a first.

“Take a wild guess,” I say.

“Isn’t that your department?” He’s also kind of a smart ass.

I take a swig from my flask, keeping my eyes on it. “Psychokinesis,” I say with confidence.

Ben scoffs.

“You told me to take a wild guess.”

“Take another one.”

A quick sip.

“Reverse-engineered alien kite technology?”

Silence.

No wisecrack?

“Aaron….”

“Yeah?”

“Look.”

I follow his index finger. “It’s lower, right?”

“Oh yeah. Still dropping.”

Both of us watch as it sinks, down, down, down.

It hovers just out of reach for a full minute. Like it wants to make sure we’re watching.

“What do we do?” I ask.

Ben keeps quiet.

We stare, waiting.

Finally, it drops like it’s made of lead onto a simple wooden grave marker. Ben approaches, leans in to get a good look. I let him do his work. I usually learn more watching him investigate than I do trying to figure it out myself.

A framed photograph sits next to it, resting in a bed of little white flowers. They’re all over these grounds.

I pick it up. A young couple—mid-twenties—and a boy about five or six.

“Hola,” comes a warm, feminine voice from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder as an elderly woman hobbles in our direction.

Ben smiles at the lady.

“¿Como estas?” I say.

She beams. “Muy bien, muy bien.”

“¿Habla inglés?”

“Si. Pequito…” She pinches the air.

A strong wind blows in, almost taking my beanie. The kite doesn’t move.

“Great,” I say. I hold up the picture. “Do you know what happened?”

She hangs her head. “Si.”

***

Her story was told in broken English, but we got what we needed.

A strong gust lifts the kite, pulls it up.

It dips back down. Hovers.

At first, we don’t move. We just watch. Then Ben looks at me.

“It’s waiting,” he says.

I take a step toward it. Wind fills the kite, pushes it further away. Another step, another gust.

Ben and I exchange an excited glance.

“Well, let’s go.” I say.

We leave the car in the lot and follow on foot. It grabs onto the wind again, takes off, hugging the path of the road.

A few streets down, it banks to the right. Soars over power lines.

We follow. Run-down homes and beat-up cars fly past us.

Two more blocks, another turn. This time diving to the left, again staying above the road.

Still, we follow. Locals stare puzzled as we sprint down their streets, across their lawns, through their parking lots.

By the time it stops again, we’ve been tailing it for close to fifteen minutes. It’s fixed in the sky over a small park. An acre of grass. Pair of trees. Basketball court.

Four chalk outlines on the cracked asphalt.

One, child-sized.

Ben and I exchange a glance.

I look up at the kite. It hangs over the scene of the crime.

A couple of teenage boys play basketball on the court. Neither notice the kite.

The thought that anyone could play games, or do anything trivial where people died is wild. At least it feels that way for a moment. But we do it all the time without even realizing it.

Road rage near the site of a hit-and-run from a few months back. Buying smokes where a gas station clerk was murdered last year.

Eliminate time, and it’s all the same.

Ben and I watch them play while the kite hovers overhead. One of them looks over, says something I don’t understand. Holds the ball up, gestures toward the hoop. I shake my head, smile. He grins, goes back to his game.

The kite takes off.

***

I was hoping for a longer break after that first chase. My lungs are still burning, heart racing. I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with the smoking.

This time, it picks up its pace. Thankfully, we only have to follow it a couple blocks. When we catch up, it’s stationary fifteen or twenty feet over a small home. Not much more than a shack with a tiny patch of uncut grass for a front yard. A worn old tire hangs from a skeletal tree, swinging in the wind.

Feels like those thunderheads are about to burst. Static in the air. The smell of damp earth in my nose.

We slow down, walk over to the home. As we arrive, the kite drops, almost eye level. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

Considering what I’ve seen that’s a high bar.

It starts flying around the yard, up over the shack, back around the tree. It’s like a paper plane running on just a little jet fuel.

If a kite can be characterized as being happy, that’s what we’re seeing.

A glance at Ben. He’s having about as much fun as that kite, watching it, grinning. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch someone in the window next door. They close the curtains the second I notice them watching.

Leaving Ben with the kite, I take a pull from my flask and cross the lawn. Rap on the neighbor’s door. No answer.

I knock a little harder. Ben notices.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“Being ignored,” I yell over my shoulder.

A quick look over at my partner. The kite hangs on the wind, just a few feet over his shoulder. Like the two of them are waiting on me.

A few more rapid-fire knocks, then I call through the door, “Come on, I know you’re in there. I just want to ask—”

“Estan muertos,” a man shouts through the thin door.

I wait. Maybe there’s more.

“Aaron, I think it wants to go.” Ben calls over the wind.

“Shut up for a second!”

No reply.

“I’m sorry, man,” I say, looking over. He’s pouting. “Just hang on, please.”

Crap. How do you ask, who did it?

No idea. My Spanish is choppy.

“¿Quien?” Context should fill in the rest.

Silence.

“¿Como?” I ask. It’s the last word I can think of.

Nothing.

The door cracks. The fear in his eyes doesn’t undercut the irritation filling out the rest of his face.

“Hi, uh, I’m Aa—”

“Narcos,” he whispers and slams the door.

I raise my hand to knock again, but my knuckles don’t hit the wood before he shouts one more message.

“Now go away!”

Click here for No. 3 - Tall Man in a Little Bar

A storm’s brewing.

They look pretty much the same here in the desert of central Mexico as they do up north—storms, that is. The biggest difference from this to the last one I experienced in Devil’s Corner, California, where I’m from, if I had to put a finger on it, is this one comes with a fat, cigar-chomping cartel boss right out of crime cinema, his tall, spooky sidekick, and a half dozen goons with rifles.

And the kite.

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“This is bad,” Ben says, eyeing the sweaty sicarios, but I’m fixed on the kite. It’s red, with a tail of white ribbons, and it’s way up there. So high I’m the only one who notices.

Ben and I are paranormal investigators, not rogue Interpol agents or undercover cops who went too deep.

The too-deep part is real enough, though.

I lower my eyes. I can still make out the old yellow military compound on the horizon. This guy likes to keep his skeletons close.

“Cheer up, gringo. It is a beautiful day to die, no?”

I suppress an eye roll.

“No.”

I’m no fashionista, but a suit worth that much deserves better. He’s sweating right through it, and I just know he’s not going to bother to get it cleaned. He’ll probably have these guys shoot it and bury it next to me.

He laughs a bit too warmly for a man who’s about to kill me, punctuating it with a phlegmy smoker’s cough that drags me back to reality. The Tall Man rushes to his side with a handkerchief, sunset orange. He’s sporting a respectable handlebar mustache and a black cowboy hat, the kind with a brim that’s a flat circle, lined with brass medallions, like a true villain. His suit may be less expensive but not by much, and it’s roughly half as sweaty.

He glances up where I’d been looking a moment ago, then meets my gaze. His eyes are cold, like a reptile, like something that wants to feed me to its babies.

I can’t be sure, but the kite looks a little lower now.

The Fat Man tucks his cigar under a curled index finger, resting it on a knobby knuckle, wipes his chubby lips and says, “You know, my mother, whenever I was sad she would say to me, ‘Cheer up, mijo, it is a beautiful day for…’ you know, whatever was getting me down.”

The Tall Man glances up again, this time at the dark clouds. He readies an umbrella for his boss.

The Fat Man continues, “You know, like if Ernesto, this piece of basura bully from the barrio, had given me a black eye, Mama, she would say to me, ‘Cheer up, mijo, it is a beautiful day for a black eye.’”

“Aaron,” Ben says, “I don’t like these odds.”

“What are they?” I whisper back.

Ben closes his eyes briefly then looks at me. “About one in ten to the sixth, multiplied by—”

“Forget I asked.”

The Fat Man waddles up close, blows smoke in my face. “It never cheered me up, you know?”

A raindrop lands on his hat. Another on his suit. A third on the cherry of his cigar with a sizzle.

“You don’t say?”

He chuckles, turns and meets the Tall Man with his umbrella already open. The two take their place between the rest of his men.

“My mother, she was… un poco loco.”

Ben and I share an uncomfortable look at that line.

A few drops turn to hundreds turn to thousands.

The sky is falling.

It’s the end of the world and I feel… ambivalent.

“You know what did make me feel better?” he asks, and I don’t think I’m going to like the answer.

“After school one day, I followed Ernesto home and gutted him in his back yard while his mother prepared Pozole.”

He should pitch that to Hallmark.

The gunmen fixate on something in the sky.

“Well, beautiful day or no… it is time for you to die.”

“Aaron!” I turn and see Ben’s gaze is also skyward.

The kite is fixed about two stories off the ground, impossibly stationary, though the wind fights to dislocate it and the rain batters it mercilessly.

The air tastes like metal.

From beneath the umbrella, the Fat Man breathes a word carried on thick smoke as it pours out into the humid air.

“Mátalo.”

Click here for No. 2 - The Cemetery Kite

Name’s Logan.

These characters have been causing chaos in my mind for close to half my life. Most of them live in and around the quirky Southern California town of Devil’s Corner, where the veil is thin and the townies are often stranger than anything that bumps in the night.

A paranormal investigator who drinks to see ghosts.

A Nephilim biker doing penance by slaying monsters and rescuing their food.

A prepper kid going through a crisis of faith, who left the compound and met a girl whose family hunts things that challenge his shaky worldview.

A pair of former Goodfellas who fled the mob by posing as exorcists in Mexico and use their Catholic school education and a knack for fast-talking (sometimes pistols) to outsmart demons and cartels.

And a few more freaks and weirdos who’ll be sure to win your heart… or sell it on the demon black market.

First up, Spirits—Paranormal investigators Aaron and Ben take a road trip from Devil’s Corner to central Mexico to investigate a kite that flies without a string over a cemetery.

Distilled Spirits will post every Saturday at 8:00 pm Thursday at 10:00 am Eastern.

If you like what you read, do me a favor and tell someone. A friend, an enemy, a frenemy. The local fishmonger. A mailman. Your uncle’s haberdasher. Any old person will do.

Lastly, every story and piece of art is created by me, for this publication.

Till next time.

Click here for Spirits No. 1 - A Good Day to Die