Those Who Fight Monsters: Tales of Occult Detectives

Stone flopped back onto the sofa. “Because it fucking worked, that’s why. My luck changed. Everything turned around. Everything. My partners dropped their lawsuits, some former clients who still owed me money decided to pay up, a guy from Microsoft called with an offer to buy a couple of my software patents, my wife and I got back together — six months later, it was like my life had done a complete one-eighty.”

“So you decided that your good fortune meant that your bargain with the Infernal must have been real, after all.”

“Yeah, eventually. It took me a long, long time to finally admit the possibility. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, you know what I mean?”

“I do, for sure.”

“But the bill comes due at midnight, and I’m scared, man. I have to admit now that I am really, big-time terrified. Can you help me, Mister Morris? I mean, I can pay whatever you want. Money’s not a problem.” Stone snorted in disgust. “Money’s the least of my problems.”

“Well, I’m not sure what—”

“Look, you’re some kind of hotshot occult investigator, right? There’s a story about a bunch of vampires, supposed to have taken over some little Texas town.” Stone stopped, and sat studying the palm of one hand for several seconds. “Vampires. Jesus.” He shook his head a couple of times, slowly. “I didn’t use to believe in vampires — but then, I didn’t use to believe in demons, either. The dude who told me about that Texas business, a guy I’ve known and trusted for years, said you took care of it in, like, four days flat.”

Stone leaned forward, and Morris could see panic moving just below the surface of his demeanor, like a snake under a blanket.

“And, yesterday,” Stone said, “I talked to a guy named Walter LaRue, he’s the one told me how to find you, finally. He said you saved his family from some curse that was, like, three centuries old, but he wouldn’t tell me any more about it. Christ, you must deal with this kind of stuff all the time! There’s gotta be a way out of this fucking box I’ve got myself in, and if anybody can find it, I figure it’s you. Please help me. Please.”

Morris studied Trevor Stone in silence for almost a full minute. Unlike his unexpected visitor, Morris was dressed casually, in a gray Princeton Tigers sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sandals. The once coal-black hair was shot through with streaks of gray that made him look older than his years. The black hair came from the Morris family tree. The gray was put there by the family profession, begun over a century ago by a man who died in the shadow of Castle Dracula.

Getting to his feet, Morris said, “You’re probably pretty thirsty after all that — how about something to wet your whistle, before we talk some more?”

Stone asked for bourbon and water, and Morris went to a nearby sideboard to make it, along with a neat Scotch for himself. There was precision and economy to his movements that Trevor stone might have found mildly impressive, under other circumstances.

Morris gave Stone his drink and sat down again. “You know, my profession, if you want to call it that, isn’t exactly regulated. There’s no union, no licensing committee, no code of ethics we’re all expected to follow. But my family has been doing this going back four generations, and we have our own set of ethical standards.”

Stone took a big sip from his glass, but said nothing. He was watching Morris with narrowed eyes.

“And it’s a good thing too,” Morris went on. “Because it would be the simplest thing in the world for me to go through a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, recite a few prayers over you in Latin, maybe splash a little holy water around. Then I could tell you that you were now safe from the forces of Hell, charge an outrageous amount of money, and send you on your way. You would be, too.”

Stone blinked rapidly several times. “I would be — what?”

“Safe, Mister Stone. You’d be safe, no matter what I did, because you were never in any danger to begin with.”

After a lengthy silence, Stone said, “You don’t believe I made a deal with the Devil. Or a devil.”

“No, I don’t. In fact I’m sure you didn’t.”

Hope and skepticism chased each other across Stone’s face. “Why?” he asked sharply. “What makes you so goddam certain?”

“Because that kind of thing — a deal with the Devil — just doesn’t happen. It’s the literary equivalent of an urban legend. I don’t know if Chris Marlowe’s “Doctor Faustus” was the start of it or not, but bargaining away your soul to a minion of Hell has become a … a cultural trope that has no basis in actual practice. Sort of like the Easter bunny, but a lot more sinister.”

“You’re saying you don’t believe in Hell?”