Shadow Detective Supernatural Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (Shadow Detective Boxset) Read online

  "I caught a brief glimpse of the spirit toward the end. I believe it was the ghost of Frank Engelman."

  The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  "Engelman was the serial killer executed on the night the fire broke out," Benson explained.

  Now I remembered. My mind snapped back to the chilling string of murders which had terrified the city three years earlier. Engelman was one of the really bad ones, a killer for the ages, the type around which the True Crime genre was built. Thirty victims, each one tortured and horribly disfigured. The press had nick-named him “Lucifer’s Disciple” because he marked his victims with demonic sigils. If anyone had ever deserved the death penalty, it was Engelman.

  “Engelman’s spirit was drawing on Cormac's psychic powers. I think it took possession of his body.”

  This was bad news. Clearly Engelman’s spirit must've used poor Joe Cormac’s life force to manifest. People like him were basically walking psychic batteries.

  "Who is this Cormac she’s talking about?" Benson asked.

  "A medium who recently joined her team of ghost hunters."

  "And where is this psychic now?" Benson didn’t bother to hide the skeptical note in his voice.

  Dr. Gould began sobbing, still moaning that it was all her fault, and I guessed what had happened. Engelman must've hitched a ride in Cormac's body. Most ghosts were bound to the place where they perished. But a medium could change the rules. Some psychics could channel spirits but normally only for brief moments. A ghost would inevitably drain them, leaving a mummified body behind. Only a rare few could harbor another soul for any length of time. Skulick called these gifted individuals “Soul Catchers.” Unfortunately, Joe Cormac appeared to be one of them.

  I balled my hands into fists and my eye twitched. Blackwell Penitentiary had been Engelman's prison both in life and in death, but he’d used Cormac to escape.

  Tricky bastard.

  Thankfully most of the other entities that lingered in the ruins of the prison seemed not to have followed Engelman's example. One monstrous spirit out in the world was bad enough.

  It was time for Skulick to look deeper into this freak show. Hopefully, he could dig up something that would help me track and bind Engelman before he did too much harm.

  As I pulled away from Gould, I sent my partner a quick message. Need intel on serial killer Frank Engelman ASAP, my ominous text read. I had a feeling Skulick would appreciate a chance to get back into the swing of things. I trusted Skulick to take care of the research back at the loft, but I wasn't going to leave until I took a closer look at the room where this spook show had begun. "I want to take look at the execution chamber," I said.

  I could tell Benson was dying to bombard me with questions, but he kept them to himself for now. Experience had taught him to let me do my thing first.

  He escorted me down a hallway and into a room that felt like a freezer. I shivered and tried to visualize myself on of some hot beach on a tropical island. Mind over matter, right? Unfortunately, my attempt at staving off the cold brought back memories of the Volcano Demon and Fire Goddess Pele and her band of fanatic followers that I had battled on Kona six months earlier.

  I circled the ominous death chair. This is where Engelman had exhaled his last mortal breath. Too bad riding the lightning hadn't been the end for the infamous killer. A part of him had remained in this plane of existence, unwilling or unable to move on.

  I touched the chair. It was a simple wooden structure, blackened slightly by the fire yet miraculously intact. Its shape was horribly familiar. In some ways, the image of the electric chair was as American as Coke and apple pie. Kneeling before the chair, I noticed a series of glyphs and other symbols etched into its surface. The markings radiated an ancient purpose, and I swiftly took a few shots with my cell phone.

  "Any idea what it could mean?" Benson inquired.

  I shook my head. One thing was for certain— these additions weren't industry standard nor were they the work of squatters. If anyone, Skulick might be able to decipher some of these occult markings.

  "We've come across similar occult symbols all over the prison," Benson said. He leaned closer and added, "Are you going to tell me what the hell's going on here?"

  "There are ghosts in this prison. Most of these spirits are the echoes of the inmates who died here, weak and unable to affect the world of the living. But you throw a psychic into the mix and a determined spirit might find a way to feed off his abilities and take possession of his body."

  Benson stared at me for a long moment. "So you're saying Engelman is out there."

  "It appears that way. Now we need to figure out what an infamous and very dead serial killer might be after."

  "I can answer that. The bastard is out for revenge."

  "What are you talking about?"

  The detective scratched his jaw. "I bet Engelman is going after the person who put him in that chair in the first place."

  I suddenly had a bad feeling about where this conversation was headed.

  Even though I’d already guessed the answer, I had to ask. “And who would that be?”

  "Detective Jane Archer.”

  7

  Blood roared in my ears as I slipped behind the wheel of my ride and mashed the gas, the engine roaring to life. I white-knuckled the steering wheel, my reality reduced to one objective—I had to reach Archer before Engelman did. All my attempts to contact the detective by phone had failed. There might be plenty of reasons why she wasn’t answering my calls. Perhaps she’d left her cell phone in a gym locker while she went for a quick workout. Maybe she was at the movie theater catching a flick with a good friend. Or, the most likely explanation, she hated my guts and never wanted to talk with me again.

  I refused to entertain the sinister possibility that Engelman might’ve already gotten to her. At least I tried to refuse, but I was failing miserably.

  Over and over, my mind’s eye offered up visions of Archer as a mummified corpse. The image made me groan inwardly. I reached up to rub my temple, and the Equus’s wheels screeched as I momentarily lost control of the vehicle. I was driving at least thirty miles above the speed limit. At this rate, it was just a matter of time before I would find myself in some high-speed chase with the police. Getting arrested wouldn’t help Archer in any way. I told myself to stay calm, hoping logic would win over the mad panic I was experiencing.

  Even though my mental pep talk failed to turn off the rush of nightmarish images in my mind, I managed to ease my foot off the gas and the needle on the speedometer began to tick downward. I switched on the radio and prayed some grinding hard rock would prove distracting. The right combo of Queen and AC/DC worked its calming magic, and I somehow reached the city without being stopped or veering off the road. Traffic grew denser as I fought my way through busy downtown streets.

  An hour had passed by the time I finally arrived at Archer’s prewar apartment building. The three-story walk-up stood on a quiet, semi-private side street lined with trees. Miraculously, I found a parking spot. Dark clouds were gathering in anticipation of an imminent downpour.

  As I ran toward Archer’s building, a few stray drops pelting my face, an elderly lady walking her beagle emerged and gave me a long, suspicious look. The expression on my face probably didn’t exactly inspire much confidence. I caught the door before it could fully swing shut and entered the building. A creepy, dimly-lit hallway awaited me. My eyes zeroed in on a winding staircase flanked by an ancient, poorly maintained elevator.

  I let out a sigh of relief as I surged up the stairs toward the third floor. So far, my scar wasn’t setting off any alarm bells. There didn’t appear to be anything amiss in the building, and I kept my fingers crossed. God knows I hadn’t done anything to deserve a break, but Archer was one of the good guys.

  My mood darkened when Archer’s apartment door jumped into view and neither the cheesy carpet nor the walls in dire need of a new paint job were to blame. Being here brought bac
k the memories of the night we’d spent together—and the regret I’d felt after slipping out of her place at the crack of dawn. Hey, I got scared, so sue me. Losing your parents at an early age can lead to attachment issues. In the end, I’m only human. Nevertheless, returning to the scene of the crime was a reminder that I’d blown a potentially great thing and that I deserved every dirty look I’d gotten from Archer since. It also made me feel a bit like some pathetic stalker who couldn’t let go. What was I going to tell Archer if indeed she was home? She already suspected I might be crazy, so warning her that she was in danger from the ghost of a psycho killer was probably not going to go over well.

  Archer wasn’t a novice when it came to supernatural cases. Most cops in the cursed city had encountered the forces of darkness in one form or another since the Crimson Circle weakened the barrier between our world and the world of darkness beyond. Still, coming to Archer with the story of Engelman’s return might be misconstrued as some weak, creepy attempt on my part to get back into her good graces. Or, even worse, as a misguided attempt to get into her pants.

  All these thoughts were rushing through my mind when the door to Archer’s unit suddenly swung open and a muscle-bound hunk emerged from her place. For a beat, my mind went blank. I knew Archer wasn’t some nun pining for that one magical night we’d spent together. A woman like her had a million options. I was just surprised she’d go for the macho meathead type. The man studied me for a beat, initial curiosity turning to suspicion. The situation turned even more embarrassing a beat later when Archer’s voice cut through the hallway.

  “Raven, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Hercules Junior arched his eyebrows and turned to the door, where Archer was standing with one hand on her hip and a surprised expression on her face. “Jane, you know this guy?”

  At least he hadn’t called her honey or baby.

  “Raven, is a special consultant at the force,” Archer said. “But that doesn’t explain why he’s here now.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and managed a sheepish smile. “I know this looks weird, but I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour.” With a glance at Muscle Boy, I added, “I guess you’ve been, uh, busy.”

  “Why should I pick up your calls when you ignore everyone of mine?” Archer had a point. She’d been trying to get ahold of me ever since the massacre at the Horne estate, but I’d steadfastly ignored all her attempts at contacting me. Partially because I didn’t want to relive Morgal’s rampage, but also because I was still processing what had gone down that night.

  “Listen, I’m here for a reason,” I said, my voice bristling with urgency. “There was an incident at Blackwell Penitentiary.”

  Archer stiffened at the mention of the old prison.

  “What happened?”

  I scratched my beard, not quite sure how to bring up the topic of ghosts with Archer’s special friend hulking over me. She must’ve picked up on my hesitation because she shot her friend a quick look.

  “Charlie, Raven and I’ll have to talk in private.”

  He frowned at her, still not quite sure what to make of me. “Cop stuff,” Archer added to emphasize her point.

  “Alright, no problem, you know how to find me if you need me.”

  With these words, Charlie turned away from us. Five doors down, he entered one of the other units. The door had barely snapped shut when the words tumbled from my lips. “Who is that guy?”

  “My neighbor. What’s it to you?”

  How friendly was Archer with her neighbor? I sort of doubted he’d just stopped over to borrow some sugar. And why should I care? I gave myself an internal push to focus on the real reason that had brought me back here.

  “What happened at Blackwell?” Archer asked.

  Before I could offer anything resembling an explanation, the lights in the hallway flickered. There was a series of pops as, one by one, the bulbs blew out, drenching the corridor in near darkness.

  I swallowed hard. Could have been a coincidence, but in my line of work, you stop believing in the random nature of events. The phrase everything happens for a reason sort of becomes a guiding mantra when battling demons and supernatural beasts.

  My scar started to itch, too. If I needed more confirmation that something weird was up, I had just received it.

  My hand reached for Hellseeker as the air at the end of the long hallway shimmered, charged with bursts of paranormal energy. A black silhouette peeled from the darkness. It slid across the floor, shifting and bulging, rising up to six feet.

  A human shape lurched toward us. A shadow come alive.

  There was no sign of Joe Carmac so Engelman must have abandoned the psychic’s body for now.

  “What’s happening?” Archer wanted to know, her eyes wide with growing terror.

  “Engelman is here,” I said and drew my blessed pistol. As soon as I uttered the undead fiend’s name, the entity unleashed a bellowing shriek and rushed toward us at breakneck speed.

  8

  Judging by the confused expression on Archer’s face, she still couldn’t see the incoming killer ghost. A small mercy, all things considered.

  Engelman moved in jerky jump cuts, his bony features changing with each step, turning into the faces of other men. They looked nothing alike—some bald and others wild-haired, some tattooed, some with biker beards and others clean-shaven—but all oozed an air of raw violence and desperation.

  My gut told me these had to be some of the other Blackwell inmates. Mass murderers. Rapists. The grotesque, terrifying faces of some of the most evil men to have walked this earth. Psychopaths and predators, their souls merged with Engelman’s spirit somehow. A few seemed vaguely familiar, like I might’ve read about them in the news at some point or seen their ugly mugs staring back at me from a true crime documentary.

  Not every spirit had escaped from Blackwell by hitching a ride inside the psychic. But Engelman had managed to bring along a small army. And all those souls appeared to be under his command.

  Great.

  “Raven, what the hell is going on?” Archer’s voice was shaky, picking up on my fear. She knew I didn’t scare easily. Her panicky voice brought me back to reality, breaking the unholy spell Engelman’s spectral freak parade had cast over me.

  I brought up Hellseeker and unleashed a volley at the fast-approaching ghost army. Bullets streaked down the corridor and tore into Engelman. He roared with pain but kept coming at me. The sanctified lead was unable to stop him, only slow him down.

  Apparently, Hellseeker was no match for Engelman and his legion of the damned. Why was the blessed weapon failing me? Only one explanation came to mind: Engelman had fused with the others ghosts, becoming more powerful than a single spirit in the process.

  Powerful enough to overcome my magical weapon.

  “Oh my God!” Archer shrank back against the wall. Judging by the sudden terror in her voice, Engelman must’ve shifted into the visible spectrum, probably triggered by Hellseeker’s bullets peppering his spectral form.

  Without thinking, I snatched Archer’s hand and pulled her toward the elevator. She yanked her arm away from me, glaring, not used to playing the role of the damsel. Glock drawn, she unloaded into the specter, but her bullets passed through the ghost, pockmarking the walls behind the entity. Screams and muffled voices grew audible from the other apartments. No doubt the helpful citizens were already dialing 911.

  Hellseeker was almost as useless as Archer’s ordinary Glock. Nevertheless, I pumped another round into the incoming ghost for good measure, and Engelman let out an inhuman roar. It seemed that even the dead experienced pain. The souls of the other inmates trapped within the mega-spirit screamed out in unison and momentarily lost coherence, breaking apart. For a split second, I spotted two familiar faces among the dead inmates—the writhing souls of Dr. Gould’s two dead assistants. Their cadaverous, haunted faces suggested they hadn’t voluntarily joined Engelman’s supernatural chain gang. Engelman’s spirit had bound thei
r souls to his own when he murdered them at the prison, absorbing them somehow.

  Soul Catcher!

  In this case, the term applied equally to Joe Cormac and the super-entity I was sighting down. What was I up against here?

  The answer would have to wait as the entities reconstituted themselves, shaking off the effects of Hellseeker’s bullets.

  I kept squeezing off more shots, struggling to keep my growing terror in check. Engelman and the entities whirling and undulating within him recoiled, his form bending and twisting under the impact of each blessed bullet. The continuous barrage seemed to do the trick. There was a final beat as Engelman’s midnight-sun gaze bore into us before Hellseeker erased the fiend from reality. Engelman was gone…but who knew for how long though? My itching scar was a clear indicator that his evil remained. He and his undead minions were still around, lingering in the air. Weakened but waiting. Biding their time to strike again.

  There were innocent people in this building. I might have been a cowardly jerk when it came to women, but I did my best to protect those who couldn’t fight back against the forces of darkness. I needed to draw Engelman away from this place. “Let’s get out of here!”

  For a change, Archer didn’t fight me on my latest suggestion. As we rushed down the staircase, she fell in step with me. For a moment, it felt like the old days again, before our working partnership had given way to our growing attraction. Even though some crazed killer spirit was on our tails, a strange sense of happiness gripped me. It was good to have Archer on my side.

  Somehow we made it down the stairs and out of Archer’s building without another run-in with murderous ghosts. It had started raining and I blinked the drops away. My eyes locked on my wheels. Magical wards protected the Equus Bass and should keep Engelman and his dark horde at bay. At least I hoped it would. The spirits were far more powerful than the ones I was used to dealing with. My hand closed around the handle of the passenger door, and I whisked a still-stunned Archer into my vehicle. As soon as the door slammed shut, our spectral pursuer made his move.