The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons, page 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
DEDICATION
Dedicated to Tom Sweeney and Joseph Fusco,
with whom I experienced some of the adventures
that inspired this novel
Published 2009 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2009 by Gregory Lamberson
Cover Illustration by Dan Plumley and Adam Mock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Jenson Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-160542072-1
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Personal Demons started as a screenplay I wrote in 1987 called The Forever Man. About 90 percent of the material in that script survived the translation to novel form, but it comprises only half of the story you’re about to read. In the wake of 9/11, while still living in New York City, I realized I had a much bigger story to tell.
This novel is dedicated to two friends, Tom Sweeney and Joseph Fusco, with whom I experienced some of the events fictionalized in this book. Drunk and impatient to reach our Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, apartment one night, Tommy and I actually made a subway tunnel trek like the one Jake Helman makes in Personal Demons. A train did blast through the darkness toward us and we really did survive, only because we miraculously stumbled into an empty storage cellar. Joe and I survived an even more frightening experience together: a one-year tour of duty in corporate America, in a high security office building. Two years later—and shortly before 9/11—I had another corporate gig in a building where the obsession with security reached even greater levels of paranoia.
I gratefully acknowledge the invaluable advice given to me by three authors who generously read the first draft of this manuscript: Paul G. Tremblay, Kathy Ptacek, and Nick Mamatas. They pulled no punches, which is what every aspiring writer needs. Robert Craig Sabin, the star of my first film, Slime City, provided me with excellent advice as well.
I wish to thank T.M. Wright, one of my favorite authors, for selecting Personal Demons as the winner of the Anubis Award for Horror, and Jeff Schwaner of Broken Umbrella Press for publishing the novel as a Limited Edition hardcover and small press trade paperback. I also wish to thank the readers of those obscure editions who wrote to tell me how much they enjoyed my story; your support fueled my desire to see this work reach a wider audience.
Thank you to the folks at Medallion Press for making that possible: Helen A. Rosburg, Adam Mock, James Tampa, Ali DeGray, Christy Phillippe, and Paul Ohlson. With their continued support, I hope to write additional Jake Helman Chillers.
Thanks, as always, to my wife, Tamar, for understanding how much work is required to see a novel through to publication.
And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.
And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother’s keeper?
And he said, What has thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.
—Genesis 4:8-10, The King James Version of the Holy Bible
1
Perched on a bar stool with her legs crossed, Shannon Reynolds sipped her Tom Collins and played with the fluffy, spotted tail of her costume. Around her, young Americans in colorful getups hoisted pints of beer to their lips and threw back Jell-O shots, their loud voices giving way to drunken laughter. Jack-o’-lanterns leered at her from the lacquered bar top, the candles within them flickering whenever the front door opened, and a giant spiderweb made of orange and black crepe paper dripped from the ceiling.
In Ireland, Shannon had celebrated the festival of Samhain with her family each year on this night. The ancient Celtic and Druid ritual marked the end of summer and the start of a new year, and spirits walked the earth. Her mum cooked the traditional Colcannon dinner of broiled potato and curly cale cabbage, followed by Barnbrack cake, and at bedtime, each family member cast an ivy leaf into his personal cup of water. According to legend, those whose leaves remained unblemished at sunrise were destined to enjoy a prosperous year. But if any leaf developed spots during the night, its bearer was destined to suffer a dreadful fate.
Shannon smiled at the memory of her favorite superstitious tradition. Here in the States, Halloween had become nothing but an excuse for shop owners to sell garish costumes and candy corn, and for television stations to dust off lame sequels to bad horror films. She’d been looking forward to the exotic parade in Greenwich Village, but her employers, the Smythes, had forbidden her from exposing their children to the “sexually deviant behavior” associated with the pageant. Instead, she took her charges, Evan and Paige, trick-or-treating within the safety of their luxury apartment building on the Upper West Side. Evan had dressed up as Captain America, and Paige had gone as Wonder Woman. Later, while the kids watched black-and-white monster movies on TV—no Jason or Freddy for them—she inspected their sweets for razor blades and other signs of tampering.
Bloody insane world.
“The Monster Mash” came over the speakers for the second time since Shannon had arrived at the pub, and the costumed drunks singing along still couldn’t manage to get the lyrics right. Shannon looked at her watch: midnight, the Witching Hour. Her roommate, Meg, must have gone to the flat of her new boyfriend, Ronald or Donald or something, a cocky investment banker. Stroking the gold crucifix suspended from a chain around her neck, she gazed at its reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Orange candlelight flickered on the crucifix’s polished surface.
Bollocks, she thought, draining her tall glass. Too late to make other plans. She pulled on her red leather jacket and tossed back her blond hair. As she slid from the stool, her eyes locked on those of a man sitting in the shadows at the far end of the bar. Sitting alone, he appeared to be in his midtwenties, clean shaven, with short, sandy brown hair. His charcoal gray business suit blended with the shadows, which explained why she had not noticed him nursing his bottle of Heineken.
But she noticed him now, and he’d obviously noticed her. How long had he been watching her? Holding her gaze, he smiled at her and then raised the green bottle to his mouth. Shannon’s body tingled with nervous excitement. Raising her glass to her lips, she used her tongue to separate the maraschino cherry from half-melted ice cubes. Then she set the glass down and sucked on the cherry between her teeth. Perhaps the night would not be a waste of time after all.
With the gin in her bloodstream emboldening her, she took a deep breath, detached herself from the bar, and circled it on numb legs. Had she already had too much to drink? Clearing the costumed bodies in her path, she zeroed in on the empty seat beside her target. In the dingy glow emanating from a neon beer sign, his features appeared delicate, almost feminine, his Brooks Brothers suit tailored for his slim frame. Stepping before him, she felt his liquid blue eyes measuring the curves of her body.
“Nice costume,” he said over the music and drunken chatter.
She had almost forgotten about the feline ears clipped to her hair, and the tail pinned to her miniskirt. “And what are ye supposed to be?” Following Meg’s advice, she played up her brogue.
“A Hell’s Angel.” He said this without even a hint of irony.
She summoned an appreciative laugh.
“Actually, I’m a CPA.” Smiling, he raised a black leather briefcase into view. “I had a late business dinner with a client and thought I’d have a drink before cabbing it home to Brooklyn. I completely forgot about Halloween.”
Shannon leaned against the bar, offering him a glimpse of her cleavage through the flaps of her jacket. If only Meg could have
His eyes dipped to where she desired them. “Just an adding machine and a worn-down Number Two pencil, I’m afraid.”
“I’m Shannon.” She held out her left hand instead of her right, and when he shook it she saw no wedding band on his finger.
“Byron.” He paused. “What’s a pretty kitty like you doing alone on a night like this?”
Shannon shrugged. “‘Where’s Old Nick?’” The phrase had become a common response to unanswerable questions ever since Nicholas Tower, the world-famous billionaire, had gone into self-imposed exile three years earlier.
Byron’s smile widened. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Only if I can buy the next round.”
“It’s a deal.”
Lou Reed’s “Halloween Parade” blasted over the speakers.
Inside the vestibule of Shannon’s building, she and Byron rubbed their hands together for warmth, laughing as the wind howled at them from the other side of the glass door. Their footsteps echoed in the stairway as they climbed to the second floor, and Shannon felt warm anticipation rising from her thighs. She unlocked her apartment door and flipped the switch for the overhead light, and they entered the long, narrow kitchen, large by Manhattan standards.
“Nice place,” Byron said as Shannon closed the door and twisted the locks. Steam hissed from a radiator in the darkness beyond the kitchen.
“It’s not worth half what we’re paying for it, and I’m told we got a sweet deal. But what can ye do? This is New York City, as everyone insists on reminding us.”
She led him into the darkness, the heels of her pumps clacking on the hardwood floor. She switched on a tall halogen lamp, and bright light bounced off the living room ceiling. A solitary window faced a brick wall close enough to touch, and framed photographs of smiling faces and rolling green hills obscured the titles of paperbacks nestled in a wooden bookcase.
“This is my suite,” she said, sweeping her arm like a game show hostess, “and that’s my bed.” She pointed at the foldout sofa on the other side of a chest that served as both a dresser and a coffee table. “I must seem like an orphan in a Charles Dickens novel, but Meg moved here first, so she got the bedroom.” Cocking her head to one side, she smiled. “But it’s all ours tonight.”
Pushing on the door beside the modest television, she led him into the dark bedroom. A white shag rug muffled Shannon’s steps as she circled the queen-sized bed. Two windows on either side of the headboard overlooked the street, and drunken laughter rose on the wind. She clicked on a small lamp with a red shade, which glowed beneath her like a small fire. Returning to the spot where Byron stood, she closed the door, shutting out the living room light. The sound of his even breathing made her smile.
Stepping to one side, Shannon pressed the PLAY button on the CD player atop Meg’s bureau, and Bono launched into a live rendition of “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” She hummed along with him as she removed the cat ears from her hair and set them down. Seeing Byron’s reflection in the mirror, his eyes appraising her body from behind, she felt a surge of impatient desire. “Are ye going to keep your coat on all night?”
He smiled in the dim light. “That could prove awkward.”
“Spot-on.” Her words came out sounding slurred. Unpinning the cat tail from her miniskirt, she twirled it as she faced him.
Byron set his briefcase down on the bureau and slipped off his coat, which he laid over the back of a padded chair. “I’ve never made love to a cat before.”
A cat in heat, Shannon thought, suppressing a giggle as she closed in on her guest. Purring, she ran her painted fingernails up the front of his shirt and loosened his tie, leaning close to his face. His lips parted, and she teased them with the end of the tail. His nostrils flared and she dropped the tail on the floor.
“Meow,” she said, closing her mouth over his. Their lips pressed against each other, their tongues meeting. She breathed in his cologne, a subtle brand she failed to recognize, and her heart beat faster. Pulling the jacket from his shoulders, she threw it on top of his coat. She circled the bed once more, swinging her hips, and faced him from the other side. Drawing the tab of her jacket zipper down inch by inch, she allowed the fringed leather to slip to the floor. Stepping out of her shoes, she watched
Byron pull his tie over his head like a noose and toss it on top of his garments. She pulled her top over her head and discarded it on the floor. Unhooking her lacy black bra and tossing it aside, she exposed her pale, freckled breasts to him, the crucifix gleaming between them. She hooked her thumbs inside her miniskirt and wiggled her hips free of the tight fabric, then stood before him in black panties, her breasts rising and falling as she waited for him to catch up to her.
Byron unbuttoned his shirt with methodic deliberation and stepped over to the bureau with his back to her. He thumbed the tabs on his briefcase and the latches snapped open.
Shannon stood on her toes, trying to see inside the case as Byron raised its lid. “What are you doing?”
“Just getting ready,” he said under his breath.
She scrunched her eyebrows together. Did he carry condoms in his briefcase? American businessmen were so anal!
Byron moved his hands in the darkness, and Shannon heard the elastic snap of latex. When he turned around, she saw that he wore opaque surgical gloves. He whipped off his shirt in a fluid motion and flung it at the chair, the sudden motion causing her to flinch. Even in the dim light, she discerned the taut muscles on his wiry frame. She squinted at the colorful tattoos covering the upper half of his torso, and confusion clouded her eyes. He had seemed so straightlaced in the pub, hardly the type for such elaborate needlework. Her instincts told her this made no sense, that she had miscalculated his makeup.
Byron reached into the briefcase behind him. Raising a pocket-sized digital camera to one eye, he squeezed its shutter button. The flash made Shannon blink, spots dancing before her eyes, and she heard a whirring sound.
“What the fuck?”
Without making a sound, Byron returned the camera to the briefcase and took out a second object. As he moved around the corner of the bed, closing the distance between them, Shannon’s mind registered the details of the tattoos on his chest and gasped. Then she saw the long blade of the knife in his hand and her eyes widened.
This isn’t happening, she thought, sobering as panic coursed through her veins. She backed against the bedside table and the lamp crashed to the floor. The flickering bulb projected her shadow over the stranger she had brought home. No, wait; her real home was far away, in Ireland …
“Get the hell out of here right now!” The outburst strained her vocal cords as she scanned the dark room for something with which to defend herself. Why couldn’t Meg suddenly walk in with Ronald or Donald, or whatever the hell his name was?
Byron raised the knife high above his head and brought it down in a broad, diagonal stroke. First the blade sliced through the darkness, then through the soft flesh of Shannon’s throat, jerking her off balance. Hearing something spatter the wall to her right, she flailed her arms, struggling to maintain her balance. Blood jetted out from beneath her jaw, painting the floral bedcovers.
Sweet Lord Jesus! She gagged on hot fluid rising from within her, and she knew it was not bile.
Byron rotated the knife and slashed upward with a backswing, severing her jugular vein. More blood spattered the mirror behind him.
Shannon tried to scream, but only a strangled gurgling escaped her throat. The hot liquid filled her mouth and she saw her reflection in the spotted mirror: blood sprayed out in opposing directions from the gaping wounds in her throat, which opened and closed like small, screaming mouths.
That isn’t me, she thought, collapsing onto the rug, her body tingling. She tried to support herself on her elbows but fell back. Her head rolled to one side on the rug, blood pumping out over her bare shoulders and breasts. The wet sounds of her own breathing filled her ears as she gazed up at the ceiling. The swirling pattern in the plaster inspired images of clouds in heaven, and the flickering lightbulb suggested lightning. Footsteps vibrated the floor and she dropped her gaze. Byron had returned to the bureau, his naked back to her. No tattoos there. He set the bloody knife inside his briefcase and removed something else.
