Doorway to Nightmare Episode One: Storm Season Pt. 2

The darkness was banished momentarily as the flickering light from the safety light on the end of the orange cord swayed back and forth, but reclaimed its territory as soon as the light passed by, to lose it and reclaim it again and again in a never-ending battle between light and darkness. At the center stood Victor Sage, staring at the concrete wall of the storage unit in front of him, and a massive piece of corkboard there with all manner of material hung from it. He was watching the patterns that the swaying light made on the material hanging there, as the safety lamp moved back and forth. Newspaper clippings, photos, index cards, all hung on the wall, some marked with red magic marker or highlighters, some with pushpins in them, and red yard connecting some of the pins as they held these nuggets of information to the wall.

The vibrations from the traffic moving overhead caused the hanging light to sway constantly. This storage unit was tucked away under an overpass in Bottom Bay, and the “Eye” ran overhead, and even the pre-dawn hours’ traffic on Interstate 95 was heavy enough to keep the safety light bouncing.

The single bulb only provided feeble light in the square cement storage bay that Sage rented out, but the property owners kept the other lighting in the storage facility on a timer in an effort to keep meth labs and other unsavory establishments from being set up in them. Sage used the storage area as his “off the grid” research facility, to keep his obsessions from the eyes of his friends and employers. A portable generator and an outdoor safety light meant to used by gearheads working on cars in their safe little suburban garages provided enough light for Vic to work by.

He sipped his now cold black coffee and continued to stare at the walls. No processed sugar. You never knew what they put in that, and it was more addictive than cocaine. No milk or dairy either. You did know what they put in that, growth hormones and other things not meant for human consumption, but lingering in our dairy and meat contaminating us. Yeah “they” did a lot, and Vic was struggling to find who “they” were here in Hub City, and had been since he arrived her a year ago, taking a job at the local network affiliate news program as an investigative reporter and weekend anchor.

The swaying light put each clipping in the spotlight for a few seconds before it was engulfed in shadows while the light completed its arc. Sage didn’t need to see the faces on the wall; he knew them and their stories by rote. Eidetic memory helped achieve that. But the pattern of the swaying light helped him look at them with fresh eyes, revealing new patterns, and new connections.

Top center. The Spencer family. Their roots in the Hub dating back to the Revolution, when the settlement was known as Casco Town. Old blood here, but they tried to move on, move into Boston and Newport in the early 20th century when they made their money. But something drew them back, only for tragedy to strike. The Corrigan affair. There was more there than most saw, and despite the tragedy, the family gained power and prestige in leaps and bounds after it. The mob was gunning for them when their scion was a Federal Prosecutor, but now he’s the governor, and people talk about his potential as a candidate in the next presidential election. Losing his daughter must have won voter sympathy, because everyone thought he was a right bastard before then. Tough on crime sure, but the kind of tough that gunned for petty crime and society’s victims to improve his conviction rates, the kind who cut deals on the tough cases and with those accused who had “high price lawyers” so he could avoid courtroom disappointments and acquittals. No, there was more to the Spencers, that was certain, but he didn’t have enough to put them in the “they” group just yet.

Down and to the right from the Spencers. Donald “Donnie Boy” “Sugar” Howard. Married to Sheila McGrath, daughter of one of the leading families of the White Hand out of Hell’s Kitchen, relocated to the Hub and founded an offshoot of that Irish mob here that came to be known as the Invisible Hand. Sugar got a lot of traction having lost his right hand and eye in the Second World War. Tough bastard, ninety-three and still kicking. He gave up the control of the mob to his grandson Donnie Jr. about 20 years ago, until Donnie and his family got themselves butchered about fifteen years back. Rumor has it Donnie’s eldest boy went nuts and carved all of them up, but that’s hard to believe. The boy was maybe ten at best, no way he could take out the don, his muscle and his family without help. Could have been an inside job though. Sugar took control again after it happened, and the boy disappeared before he could be taken into custody.

Sage’s eye followed the string that lead to both of them…a new player and someone Sage wasn’t familiar with. Not a Hub native-Professor Marc Brady, from the University of Chicago. A specialist in antiquities, particularly of an occult nature…but as Sage had discovered recently, someone who may have shadier dealings with the black market for such artifacts. Sage had uncovered that representatives of both the Spencers and the Howards had made inquiries to him of late, looking for something called the Ars Goetia…but he had no idea what that was. But he did know somewhere he could check.

The odd coincidence, and Sage never believed in coincidences, was that Brady was coming to the Hub for an academic conference at Arkham University, hosted by one Dr. Kent Nelson. Whose wife ran an occult bookstore called Tower Books, a tiny little shop tucked away in University Hills, Sage mused as he pulled a business card for the bookstore out of his pocket and watched the swaying light play over it. He slid the business card back in his pocket and reached up to click the light off…



Kim Liang sipped her favorite oolong tea on the cold autumn morning as she made her way up the sidewalk towards Corrigan Investigations, where she worked as Jim Corrigan’s secretary and girl Friday. She was not looking forward to today at all. Jim had been in a foul mood all day yesterday, and had tried to sneak in a bottle of Scotch without her noticing. Except she noticed everything, well most everything. He was a surly bastard on the best of days, but add in a hangover, and Corrigan was just about unbearable. But it was a job, and close to home, so she could get away to check in on her ailing mother when she needed to. Not that Corrigan’s office was ever busy enough to keep her there when she needed to leave.

Kim sighed and took another sip of the hot aromatic tea to warm herself and steel her nerves. She hoped she could get in before Corrigan and get the office cleaned up at least before he arrived. Jim was good people down deep, he just rarely showed it. She didn’t want to take the job, but her mother’s friend, the fortune teller Madame Xanadu who owned the shop below Corrigan’s office, had arranged it so Kim could keep paying the bills and her mom’s medical expenses while she took a break from law school to take care of her mother. She had hoped to be able to get back and at least take a few courses at night this semester, but her mom had taken a turn for the worse late in summer and that hope had been dashed.

She owed her mom for all she had done. Her father had been one of the protesters killed by Chinese soldiers in Tiananmen Square protests, and her mother had fled the country still pregnant with Kim to escape the repercussions. She had given up her home and family to give her unborn daughter a chance at a better life. Kim was first generation born in America, but her Chinese roots were deep, and her mom had settled here in Chinatown in Hub City. Xanadu had befriended her mother and helped her settle in here, often joking she knew Kim’s great-great grandmother when she had spent several years in China before the Revolution and owed her a favor, whenever someone asked her why she went out of the way to help a stranger. But Xanadu was far too young to have been in China before the Communists took over, Kim grunted a laugh, resenting the joke and the dodging of the question it represented. She wasn’t overly fond of Xanadu herself, but her mother adored the fortune teller, so she put up with her for mom’s sake.

Kim stopped and shook her head. She had a bad habit of getting lost in her own thoughts at times, and forgetting what she was doing. Taking another sip of tea, she realized that she was almost at the doorstep and began to reach for the keys in her purse, but stopped short. There was a body laying in front of the door to Madame Xanadu’s shop, the doorway next to the office door to go upstairs to Corrigan’s.

She gasped when she saw the body move, and Kim realized it was someone huddling in the doorway, not a corpse. She looked more carefully, it was an African American man, dressed only in sweats and a tank top, barefoot, clutching drenched newspapers for warmth and cover. Not dressed for the cold rainy weather they were having, that’s for damn sure.

“Look you can’t squat there…” Kim called out to the squatter, whom she was sure was a homeless man.

“I need help…” coughed Todd Bailey looking up at Kim as he huddled in the doorway for warmth. “I need to find Xanadu…”

Kim felt a swirling gust of wind behind her and then heard the throaty Romani accented voice.

“All who seek Xanadu’s help need merely ask and I will come…”

Todd looked suddenly behind Kim as she spun to see Madame Xanadu standing calmly behind her. Kim could have sworn the street was empty just the moment before.

Xanadu walked to the doorway and offered a hand to Todd Bailey, helping him to his feet, and then drew a key and unlocked the door to her shop.

“Enter freely and of your own will, Todd Bailey,” Xanadu said as he held out her arm indicating he should go in.

Todd started as the woman knew his name without him having told her and shivered. He looked at Xanadu over to Kim and the street and back to Xanadu again, unsure what to do. Sighing loudly, his shoulders slumped and he walked in the shop.

Xanadu stepped after him and called back to Kim without looking at her.

“Corrigan needs you upstairs. He tried to crawl into a bottle again last night and never left…” she said, closing the door behind her before Kim could answer.

Kim stared at the door for a moment and swore under her breath, then used her keys to open the door to the stairwell up to Corrigan’s office and slammed it shut behind her as she went up the stairs.

***

The chauffeur leaned on the rail near arrival gate six at Casco International airport, and fidgeted with the ill-fitting suit she wore. She blew upwards trying to keep a lock of her blonde hair from covering her eye. She tapped the placard with the name of the man she was here to pick up nervously on the railing and looked over a the people seated nearby before checking the posted flight information. The big digital board said his flight had arrived from Chicago, but the passengers had not disembarked yet. She adjusted her cap, tucking the wayward lock of hair under it and tried to smooth out the suit again, hoping no one noticed it was a man’s cut uniform and not tailored for her curvy female frame. She pulled a photo out of her pocket and looked at the middle-aged pictured in it, making sure she was familiar with the features of the man she was here for.

A few fast moving travelers began to trickle out of the gate, so she took a deep breath, slid the photo back in her pocket, moved into an easily seen spot, and held up the placard that read Prof. Marc Brady. Within a minute, a massive rush of passengers disembarking poured through the gate, but Brady was easy to spot among the first to go through, those from first class. He walked like he owned the place. He was a not quite handsome man with graying temples, obvious hair implants to obscure his receding hairline, average height and build. He wore a tailored Armani suit that cost more than most college professors made in a year, and he slowly sauntered through the crowd, ogling some of the female passengers. He had a trench coat and garment bag draped over one arm and carried a leather satchel in the other.

“Professor Brady,” the chauffeur called out, waving the sign to get his attention.

Brady looked annoyed to have his ogling interrupted, but took one look at the blonde beauty in the chauffeur outfit and smiled broadly, as he walked towards her.

“Ah, you must be the one here to give me a ride,” Brady said suggestively.

The chauffeur kept her features carefully neutral. “Yes, sir,” she said with a polite smile. “I can get your bags from baggage claim after I show you to the car if…” she started.

“I only had these carry-ons,” Brady interrupted.

“Oh,” the chauffeur said, seemingly confused. “My employer told me you would be travelling with some baggage.”

Brady looked at her curiously and arched an eyebrow. “Must be some confusion, I told Kent I would be travelling light…”

“Kent?” she asked, uncertain.

“Dr. Nelson at the university,” Brady said exasperated, concluding her brains did not match her beauty.

“Oh, right sir,” she said trying to cover her confusion. “If you’ll follow me to the car sir, I can take your carry-ons then…”

“Yes of course,” Brady said and handed her the garment bag, but hanging on to the satchel and sliding his trench coat on.

The chauffeur turned and walked towards the exit, swaying her hips as she walked. Brady admired the view from behind as she walked, and never noticed the hand signal she gave the woman sitting in one of the nearby seats playing on her smartphone. Another blonde curvy beauty with the same hairstyle as his chauffeur that would have certainly gotten Brady’s attention had he been paying attention. After the chauffeur and Brady had passed, the blonde in the seat quick dialed a number sand waited for the line to pick up.

“The package is in doubt. Passenger arrived but may not be bearing gifts,” she spoke into the phone as soon as the line opened and hung up before there was any response. She quickly stood up, and walked towards a different entrance at the opposite end of the airport.

Brady followed the chauffeur to the exit and to the limousine waiting outside. She opened the door and held it open for him as he climbed in. She closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in and started up the limo. She noticed the chauffeur license/identification card hanging from the visor with a picture of the man who was supposed to be the driver, the man now trussed up in the trunk, and quickly snatched it down, hiding it from Brady’s view.

She looked back through the window separating the driver seat from the rest of the limo. “Straight to University Hill, Professor Brady?”

“Oh no, the accommodations the university made are far too bourgeois to be acceptable,” he said with a touch of disdain in his voice. “I made my own reservations at the Plaza in the in Lighthouse Hills….you’ll like the luxury accommodations there…”

“Of course, sir,” she said as she slid the window closed cutting him and his innuendo off. She sighed and started to put the car in gear, waiting for an opening in the flow of departing traffic to pull out, and eased the car out into traffic.

Inside the limo, Brady set his satchel down and reached for the decanter of brandy in the bar to pour himself a drink. He took a sip and set it down. When he looked up, he jumped startled as a starkly beautiful woman with raven black hair, pale blue skin, an ornate eye patch over her right eye and a finely cut man’s suit appeared in the seat next to him as the air there seemed to shimmer.

“I am afraid your reservation has been cancelled Professor Brady,” she said sharply as she plunged the syringe in her hand into his neck and pressed he plunger injecting the sedative into his system.

Brady’s eyes rolled back in his head and slumped over unconscious in a matter of seconds. The blue-skinned woman set down the syringe, picked up the brandy Brady had poured and took a sip, before leaning forward to slide the window to the driver open.

“Good work, Brunhilde. Take us to the rendezvous point. Surtur and Ymir are waiting for us,” the blue woman spoke crisply, but seemed completely poised and relaxed.

“Yes Wotan,” the pretty blonde chauffeur said as she clicked her turn signal on and changed lanes as Wotan closed the window and sat back, crossed her legs and smiled…

***