Red Tide: The Flavel House Horror / Vampires of the Morgue (The Ian McDermott, Ph.D., Paranormal Investigator Series Book 2) (8 page)

Clayton smiled. “Yes. Well, Ian, You can rest assured that I will not discuss your activities with anyone. That is, with one possible exception. But let me hear your questions before I decide if that might be a good idea or not. I will, if I can, assist you with what I understand on the subject.”

Ian had to suppress his instant curiosity to ask Clayton whom he was referring to. But he decided for the time being to remain silent about it.

“Clayton, I have heard that there are supposedly different types of vampires. Looking past for the moment the presumption that it’s all fiction, that is, other than role players and crazies.”

Clayton took a sip from his wine glass then replied, “Yes, well, there are ...” Clayton cleared his throat then continued. “Basically, in my opinion, they can all be pretty much placed into four categories.” Obviously having anticipated this question, Clayton reached into the pocket of his golf-style cardigan sweater. He retrieved a sheet of paper that had a list typed on it. Without saying another word, Clayton handed the sheet of paper to Ian and gave him sufficient time to read its contents.

1) Vampire – Psychic … (rubbish).

2) Vampire – Role-players … (real).

3) Vampire - Renfield’s syndrome/Porphyria - mental/physical illness … (extremely rare, though real).

4) Vampire – Sanquinarians … (?)

Before Ian could comment on the list he’d just read, Clayton commenced speaking again. “Ian, as you know, vampires in lore as well as in reality in one form or another exist throughout the world.”

Ian interjected, “You’re speaking of creatures like vampire bats and insects like mosquitos and fleas and such, I presume?”

Clayton grinned impishly. “Quite right. But of course, in essence we’re talking about something much different when we make the quantum leap to any sort of humanoid vampire.”

Ian paused, then began his questions, paper in hand. “What’s meant by a Psychic Vampire?”

Clayton sat back deep into his chair. “A Psychic Vampire is a person who believes they have the power to psychically, parasitically, draw from a human target, or donor, their energy. Their life force. This of course, like I wrote on that list you’re holding, in my opinion is utter rubbish.”

Ian nodded his head in agreement. “Okay. I’d say the role players … Well, that pretty much is self-explanatory. I assume some do it just for fun and some take it more seriously. Some get into that self-mutilation bit by cutting their wrists and arms with razor-blades and drink a bit of blood from a donor. Stuff like that?”

Clayton nodded slowly. Ian continued, “Then that takes us to the mentally ill. That I get. I’ve read of things like Renfield Syndrome, taken of course from the character Renfield from Bram Stoker’s
novel
Dracula
. It refers to someone who, due to some form of schizophrenia, believes whole-heartedly that he or she is a vampire. But you have here physically ill listed as well?”

Clayton interjected, “Ian, have you ever heard of a disease called Porphyria?”

“No,” Ian replied without hesitation.

Clayton let out a small sigh before continuing. “Well, without delving into a medical explanation beyond my depth, Porphyria is, in essence, a disease that can cause many of the symptoms which have been classically associated with vampirism. Blood lust. Aversion to sunlight. Some physical changes as well, like increased hair and fingernail growth. Even an aversion to strong scents from flora like, say, garlic. I subscribe to the theory shared by many scientists regarding a very plausible link in this disease to some vampiric conditions both mentally and physically. Some blood and flesh-coveting mass murderers have been diagnosed as suffering from Porphyria.”

Ian didn’t question that further. It sounded perfectly plausible – and explained some very serious human-vampiric phenomena. He took a deep breath. “Okay, then that takes us to number four, where I see you wrote a question mark. My guess is that the prior three types of vampires pale by comparison. No pun intended.” Both men laughed.

“Is that where you place Salizzar? In the number four question mark category?” Ian asked with nervous anticipation.

Clayton scooted forward in his chair. He looked Ian square in the eyes, then all at once, he became as serious as a heart attack when he answered, “Yes.”

Ian once again took a deep breath before continuing, “If that’s true on any level, then I’m going to need some help.”

“Ian, based on years of research on the topic of vampires, werewolves, and all manner of things that go bump in the night, so to speak, I believe in some rare instances there may be a more demonic explanation far beyond anything modern science is willing to accept. Possibly tracing its roots all the way back to the Garden of Eden, if you believe your Bible stories. I’ve come to somewhat subscribe to the notion mentioned in Jewish mythology that Adam had a wife named Lilith, who preceded his wife of mention in the Bible, Eve. Lilith was cursed by God because she thought herself Adam’s equal, refusing to be subservient to him. She further rebelled and defied God’s law by procreating with the archangel Samael. Satan.
And later, having been cast aside by Satan, she procreated with Carnivean, a much lesser demon. Whereby creating two related yet distinctly separate species of immortal nephilim, the spawn of devils, resulting in her being condemned by God and transformed from human into the first female demon. Lilith is revered by her followers as The Unholy Mother, the antithesis to the Holy Mother Mary to Christians. Her procreations created a sub-species of human-demon hybrids, if you will. Vampiric blood-lusting, soul-gathering, demon spawn of Satan, and lycanthropic, cannibalistically-carnivorous, demon spawns of Carnivean. Whose supernatural gifts, or curses, depending on your point of view, vary. But they share one commonality; their powers all tend to grow stronger, and in some cases more diverse, the longer they live, which for some could amount to be a very long time indeed. But that’s all topic for discussion another time. Oh, but one more thing, dear Ian. Never invite or accept an invitation to enter any room from such a creature. It has been said, and I speak of course of Carpathian and European gypsy folklore, that should you invite such an entity into your domicile or willfully accept such an invitation to enter theirs, that that would enhance their influence over you, leaving you potentially powerless against them. Or at the very least, you would be more vulnerable than you would be otherwise to their bloodlust-driven cravings!”

Ian had a hard time not telling Clayton right then and there what he had personally encountered. That he knew too well of the existence and truth to at least one such supposed myth regarding demonically-contrived, shape-shifting creatures of the night. But rather than talk about that now, if ever, Ian decided to change the subject.

“Clayton. You mentioned earlier that there might be someone you’d discuss this with. To whom were you referring, and why?”

Clayton glanced out the window for an instant, then looked back at Ian. “Ian, I did some checking on the computer about you. I was genuinely sorry to read of your wife and daughter’s tragic passing.”

Ian smiled slightly as he nodded his appreciation for the sentiment.
So much for establishing any level of anonymity or cover. Maybe I should have given Clayton an alias when I first met him? Of course it makes sense that he would have checked me out, especially after inviting me to his home and all. Well, too late now. I guess I’ve got to trust someone besides Officer Ned Parker.

Clayton continued, “You’ve probably noticed by looking around my home that it’s sadly lacking any female touch. My ex-wife left me a few years back when the money-train in the form of royalty checks stopped arriving to this station. But I do still have one family member who lives on the peninsula here. My deceased brother’s adopted daughter, Zoey. She lives with her friend, Todd, in downtown Long Beach. They own a small hairstyling salon and live in a two-bedroom apartment upstairs. I made the point to say two bedroom so you’d understand that Todd … is … well, other than them being just friends, women aren’t his cup of tea, so to speak. Anyway, Zoey … She just might be very resourceful, especially regarding helping you to not look so … How should I put it? Provincially conventional.”

Ian silently agreed with Clayton’s idea.
A hairstylist would be perfect for helping me effect the visual-demeanor of a Goth clubber
.

Ian had in fact noticed that Clayton’s house was furnished more like that of a man-cave than a place shared by a woman. Lots of nautical furnishings. Items like a beautiful ship’s wheel above the fireplace. Dark brown leather couch with matching loveseat, and Lazy-boy rocker-recliner. Some beautiful antique sea-chests. It was true, the home was obviously lacking anything even remotely feminine on the walls, tabletops, or anywhere about the place.

Clayton continued, “Though she’s young, twenty-seven, she’s as smart as they come. But well, let’s just say she’s been around the block and back a few times if you know what I mean. She speaks her mind, I can tell you that. A real no-holds-barred free spirit, that one. Regardless, if willing, I think she could be of some real help to you. Anyway, she’s got the look. Like I said, she’s a hairstylist. Well that, and she’s a massage therapist as well. You know the look. Nearly anorexic with arms covered with Asian-stylized tattoos. Multiple piercings. Short, jet-black, cropped, red-streaked hair. Say, Ian, while I’m thinking of it, you should probably stop using your real name. Being a writer, might I suggest you stay with your first name and only change your last? How about Ian McBride? Most of the time, people only mention first names. You won’t be apt to screw that up. And the last name McBride is also believable. It keeps with your ancestral roots and facial bone structure.”

Ian smiled and nodded his head in agreement, then replied, “You of course have my permission to contact your niece on my behalf. And the name … McBride … I like it. Tell her that’s my name. Tell her … Tell her that I’m an ex-cop turned private investigator or something like that, and that I was hired by the family of one of the missing persons regarding what’s been going on over in Astoria. I’m sure she’s heard about it. Go ahead if you want and tell her I’m interested in checking out Salizzar and his nightclub. That too should come as little surprise. That’s all close enough to the truth. I appreciate you being so helpful and informative.”

“Ian, I am happy to help you all that I can, but understand I do this not totally unselfishly. I suspect this is not your first rodeo when it comes to this sort of thing. I also expect there is a great book in all this. I’m hopeful that you will graciously allow me to write it. Of course, names and locations will be changed to protect the living.” Ian noticed a sly, impish grin on Clayton’s face. Ian then grinned himself as he nodded his agreement.

Ian’s head was swimming as he tried to digest all that Clayton had told him. But for the moment, all that he could think of without further deliberation had been said, asked, and answered. This had been a very successful first meeting. Ian stood up, leaned over slightly, and shook hands with his host. “Clayton, I can’t thank you enough for all your insights. And I’d be honored for you to use … to base some of your works on my exploits, for lack of a better word, as catalysts for your tales of fiction.” Ian found it even more noticeable than before that Clayton had an unusually cold, clammy grip.

Clayton remained seated. He began to stare blankly out the front window, off towards the horizon and the surf beyond.

“Well, Clayton, you’ve got my business card with my cell phone number. You or your niece Zoey can call or text me any time. The sooner the better. Um, well, I’ll just see myself out. Thanks again.”

As Ian began to leave, Clayton continued staring out the window, not saying anything further. But just before Ian opened the front door, Clayton blurted out, “Take great caution, Ian, of whom you accept invitation to enter of your own free will.”

CHAPTER
9

Alliance (II)

Ian drove straight back to Oscar’s on the Ocean. When he opened the door to his trailer, Scout was as glad to see him as he was to see Scout. “Hiya boy, miss me?” Scout’s tail was wagging wildly as he barked three times.

Ian kicked off his shoes as he glanced over at his travel clock on the shelf. It was 4:37 p.m. He sat down in his small, swivel recliner chair that was bolted to the floor. It was one of the few aftermarket additions he’d purchased and had installed around a year ago from an RV dealership in Coos Bay, Oregon. Ian put his feet up onto the small, built-in dining table. He then slipped on his reading glasses, opened his recently-autographed book, and began to read the prologue.

Not ten minutes into his reading, Ian’s cell phone began chiming. He retrieved his phone from his shirt pocket. “Hello. Yes, I recognize your voice. Mention no names, no specifics. Okay. Right, I understand. Yeah, I’ve been doing some groundwork. Yeah, it’s progressing.” Ian paused to catch his breath and to hear more before replying, “Yeah, okay. Right, tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. will work. See you th—” Ned had already hung up his phone before Ian could finish his sentence.

Ian wondered for a moment why Ned needed to see him again so soon. But he quickly let it go and began once again reading his book. After twenty pages, Ian began to get bleary-eyed. Moments later, he was snoring.

It was 5:45 p.m. and very dark out when Ian’s cell phone began chiming once again, waking him from deep sleep.

Ian answered his phone. “Yeah, this is Ian. Um, hi, Clayton.” He
Ian
was fighting back yawning and desperately trying to clear his head as he listened.

“Ian, I hate to ask you to drive all the way back here, but my niece is gonna be here in a little over an hour. She gets off work at 6:00 p.m. I’d like to have a little more face-time with you before she arrives. I haven’t told her anything other than I’m going to order pizza. She’s coming for dinner. Ian, what kind of pizza do you like? Assuming you like pizza.”

Ian replied, “Uh, yeah . Pizza sounds good!”

“What kind to you prefer?”

Ian, still a little groggy, cleared his head before answering.
“
Um, what kind? I pretty much like any kind. But since you asked, how about something with sausage and mushrooms and some olives and pepperoni?”

Clayton fired back, “Perfect! ‘The Combination’. That’s our favorite. I’ll order a couple of them. I invite her over to visit in the evening now and again. I’m not much of a cook, so usually we either go out for dinner or order pizza or Chinese take-out to be delivered. I think she takes me up on it mainly because she appreciates a free meal more than my company.”
Clayton laughed just a little.

Ian interjected, “Clayton, I’ll get cleaned up a bit and come over as soon as … I can be there in around a half hour. Thanks.” After the call was concluded, Ian set his phone down on the table that had previously held his feet.

Ian looked over at Scout, “How about that, boy? Things are beginning to move fast now. Hopefully not too fast.”

Still feeling a tiny bit hazy from his interrupted nap, Ian left Scout in the trailer and walked over to the shower house. The park was more than adequately lit by a handful of well–positioned, pole-mounted flood lights, eliminating the need to carry a flashlight. As Ian stood at the sink washing his hands, he began to splash a little water on his face. As he looked up from the sink, Ian began staring into the mirror, which somehow sparked an unconscious mental metaphor, triggering his mind into reflection. He began running back over what he’d discussed just hours ago with Clayton, closely examining point by point the details of their conversation, trying to concisely formulate what questions he still might have for Clayton and which ones he’d already asked, but felt were not fully expounded upon.

Now somewhat refreshed and certainly more awake, Ian walked briskly back to his trailer.

“Scout, I’ve got a feeling you’re not gonna like this, but I’ve got to leave you here one more time. I’m going back to see Clayton and to meet his niece. She might be able to help with …” Ian began laughing at himself. He just noticed that he talked to Scout as if he were more human than dog. Ian further mused to himself on the subject as he gazed affectionately into the eyes of his best friend.
You do understand, don’t ya, fella?
At that very instant, Scout barked once and began wagging his tail.

Suddenly surprised by the timing of Scout’s barks, Ian thought to himself
, Jesus. Bark once for yes and twice for no, won’t ya? Ha.

Ian changed into a nearly clean pair of jeans and an equally almost clean blue flannel shirt. The fresh socks and underwear he’d put on were the last ones he had.

“Scout, we’re gonna have to seek out a Laundromat, and I mean soon.”

Ian then put on his fleece-lined denim jacket and grabbed his wallet and car keys. Before exiting the trailer, he checked to see that Scout still had plenty of dog food and water.

Just as Ian was getting into his Jeep, his phone began buzzing. Not the sound of an incoming call but that of an incoming text message. Ian looked at his phone and scrolled to new messages.

CAUTION!!!
Regardless of bodies in river eaten by sharks or no – F.B.I. suspects black market ring – blood products/organ trafficking (drugs 2 likely). Bodies exsanguinated + missing organs: heart, liver, kidneys = sophisticated organization.

After reading Ned’s text, Ian thought to himself,
Holy shit. I’m so in over my head. I wish Charlie was here. I’m gonna need help.

Ian made the drive north up the peninsula in good time, but arrived a little later than he’d planned. Clayton was standing on the front porch with his cane in his left hand and a lit cigarette in his right as Ian pulled his Jeep into the driveway and turned his ignition and headlights off. Ian climbed out of his Jeep and walked up to Clayton, who flicked the remains of his cigarette into a small, sand-filled bucket adjacent to his front door. Both men smiled at each other and cordially shook hands.

“Ian, so good of you to return on such short notice. I just decided to step outside for a smoke. I deplore the smell in my house. All information points to the seemingly undeniable fact that those things will eventually kill me. I keep asking myself ... when?” Clayton and Ian both laughed.

Clayton continued, “The young man who delivers for the pizza parlor said he’d be here, well, by now.” He glanced at his watch and frowned slightly as he spoke. “I thought I’d meet that delivery boy out here on the porch on his terms rather than invite him in on mine. Good delivery boys are so hard to replace nowadays.” Clayton suddenly laughed as though what he’d just said was very funny. Ian also laughed in response but thought to himself,
I don’t get it
.

It was a particularly chilly evening, and it had begun to rain a little. “Well, let’s go inside Ian, before you catch your … death.” Clayton said as he glanced up at the sky. Without further hesitation, he headed towards his front door as he exclaimed, “That pizza boy’s not going to receive much of a gratuity if he doesn’t happen along shortly.”

Once seated inside the house, Clayton in his usual chair and Ian back on the couch, Clayton took a deep breath then let out the air from his lungs with equal enthusiasm before he spoke. “Ian, I did a little more Googling
regarding your background. Seems you are somewhat re-defining your previous vocation of cryptozoologist.” Ian smiled and nodded his head once.

Clayton slapped, then rubbed his knees once with his hands as he spoke, “That’s good. A man needs to change with the times. I’ve tried changing many times. I hear that now more than perhaps ever in the last century, a man needs to reinvent himself, evolve as it were ... often time and again, lest we lose our edge, our very relevance. I often fear that my commitment to not sell-out, some would say, is fruitlessly stubborn. And by some, I mean my literary agent and numerous publishing houses. Anyway, my quite possibly self-destructive commitment to preserve the darker side of horror fiction could ultimately make me as obsolete as the video cassette recorder that was left in the wake of always-evolving video technologies.”

Ian smiled as he nodded slowly in total understanding. He had often worried about much the same thing. He understood too well the dreaded fear of becoming hopelessly irrelevant, inconsequential, obsolete.

“Well, Ian, that’s a worry you need not share with the likes of me. And perhaps mine is not founded either? That is, beyond the current, hopefully short-lived literary fad of sparkly-vampire fodder. The world may think it wants to read about sexy pseudo-monsters, ones we need not fear much more than perhaps catching a cold or a venereal disease. The truth is, I believe that most humans have an inherent need to have the hell scared right out of them. A nice thought, anyway. Such basic fear of the unknown lets many, I understand, feel truly alive. That they’re not just going through the motions of living out their bleak, tasteless existence. It’s a good thing humans have an inherent fear of the dark, Ian. It’s good to fear what may be lurking in the closet or under one’s bed, for darkness abides when the lights go out.”

Clayton took a deep breath, then continued, “Parents are wrong, Ian. When they tell their children there’s no reason to fear the dark. It’s that basic, instinctual fear that keeps most humans alive. There is much darkness in the world, Ian. Great and terrible darkness. Dark forces more cunning and malevolent than all of the depraved lunatics akin to the likes of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, or Charles Manson combined. Darkness far beyond the scope of any fiction writer’s feeble attempts to depict ... including myself of course.”

Ian was beginning to get a little uncomfortable. Clayton was starting to get a bit …way out there.

“Ian, your recent vocational paradigm shift, so to speak, couldn’t be more necessary or timely. Given the obvious constraints of traditional law enforcement, the world will always need its Van Helsings. Its monster hunters.” Clayton said with a sly grin on his face.

Ian decided to change the subject to hopefully reel Clayton back in to the topic at hand. “Clayton, if you don’t mind, I have some more questions I’d like to ask before your niece gets here.”

Ian wondered for a brief moment if he should go on. But he decided to throw caution to the wind. “Clayton, not long ago, I personally experienced something … something that, to the best of my understanding, could only be explained by what you described this afternoon as being caused, or created, by some form of demonic phenomena. I’m not at liberty to discuss what I’m referring to any further at this time. But suffice it to say that I’m predisposed to accept much more than most at face value unless proven otherwise.” Clayton gave Ian a look that Ian regarded as one of genuine intrigue.

“Clayton, unless I grossly misread you, you really believe what you were telling me earlier today. I mean, you really believe beyond it being just the genre that you write about in your stories.” Clayton raised his eyebrows but didn’t say a word. Ian continued, “Well, again, unless I’m way off the mark. Under that assumption, in your opinion, what are the typical characteristics, or ‘powers’, for lack of a better term, that they – your vampire type fours – possess? I mean, aside from what we’ve all seen in movies or read in books.” Clayton once again lifted his eyebrows and started to speak, but he was instantly interrupted by Ian. “And besides powers and such, exactly what in your opinion would it take to destroy such a creature, supposing for a moment that they actually exist?”

A huge smile suddenly engulfed Clayton’s face. Ian immediately surmised that Clayton was about to open up and speak of things that most people would automatically discount as utterly ridiculous. And that he was deeply pleased by the opportunity –perhaps due to a conscious or unconscious need to really open up without the threat of men in white jackets showing up at his doorstep wanting to fit him with a straight jacket and feed him applesauce from a tiny white Dixie cup, clandestinely containing a double dose of Thorazine.

“Like minds sharing the same madness. Folie à deux, Ian. Folie à deux.”

Upon hearing Clayton speak that phrase, Ian immediately experienced an intense episode of déjà vu. He couldn’t remember who’d spoken that phrase the last time he’d heard it, as it referred to a shared psychosis or delusion. It might have been Charlie Redtail, or it could have even been uttered by himself as a descriptive phrase regarding the situation he and Charlie had found themselves in. An attempt to colorfully reference the large French population that lived in and around Harmony Falls. Either way, Ian knew this much for certain. If that was where he’d last heard that phrase, it just showed how crazy he and Charlie had been to attempt to understand and ultimately deal with exactly who, or rather what, Jean-Chastel Gevaudan was.

“Okay, Ian. I’m going to tell you something I probably wouldn’t tell another living soul, but I think you of all people just might believe, at least in part. I say ‘part’ because much of what I’m going to tell you is based on research, interviews, and a lot of my own conjecture, connecting the dots as it were, which can be very subjective. Subject to each person’s interpretations of what are pseudo-facts at best.”

Clayton was right about Ian. When it came to any sermon regarding the supposed supernatural, Clayton was preaching to an experienced choir boy.