Because they were squirrels…

Real squirrels. (And there were thousands). This isn't some kind of metaphor.

Hey, how you doing?

Me? I’m fucking angry. Steve Albini died and it makes me want to punch someone. Instead I’m introducing the neighbours to some of the best engineered music in the world.

I may circle back to this later, but the news comes too close to Paul Auster and I don’t want this thing you’re kindly reading to turn into a weekly morose rant where I challenge Death to a game of chess and then knock his fucking teeth out with the board.

Onwards and upwards.

So the big news is that Fetch Book II: The Rescue is out imminently via the Stormking website and comic book stores. I think it ships via Amazon in a week or so. We had a bunch of early reviews come in that made me smile and I’ve done a few interviews about it, but I’ll do a proper roundup and talk about the book in the next newsletter.

Speaking of which, my slightly wobbly plan is to make this a weekly thing that should hit your mail box around midnight every Wednesday. Be warned that I’m still working out what exactly it’s for so it may mutate a little as I kick it around. Right now it’s a little purposeless and that’s fine. No one unsubscribed and it was nice to pick up a few new subscribers last week. Special thanks to those of you that decided to pay for this nonsense and bravely paying a year in advance means I now OWE you a pile of these.

I’ll do my best.

Work wise I’m still throwing together the new book, Panic, which is a lot of fun. As usual I’m running ahead of the team who are, as we speak, bringing our next Halloween short story to life before going back to the next full-on horror book.

Here’s a sneak peak of the short:

That guy there? He’s a dick. But don’t worry because we’re really going to Amicus the fuck out of him.

As usual I apologise for any typos. I write this thing straight into the page and lazily edit as I go until it feels done and then I send it. Feedback I got on the last short story I posted here was great. Seems like you really liked the animals and a more sentimental sappy kind of tale. All I can say about what follows is that it does have a pile of animals in it.

It’s also possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever written.

See what you think. We’re off to Manhattan.

SORCERY CRIME UNIT: CASE FILE # 729

We’re in New York City. A good-looking Brownstone is cordoned off by uniformed cops who look annoyed and miserable in the lashing rain. Light reflects in the puddles and windows from the blue and reds of NYPD cars. The man standing a few steps up the stoop under an umbrella is Detective Coombs. All of this this is merely framing for the back of the SWAT-style officer walking towards him. Her hair is up in a pony-tail and the bright white lettering across the back of her dark blue jumpsuit reads S.C.U. On her waist is a heavy leather utility belt with the usual pouches, plastic draw-ties and her holstered side arm.

Her name? Maiden. She’s the real deal. Rock and roll.

“Bell, book or candle?”

Coombs is shaking the umbrella as they walk through the entrance to the house interior. Our eyes are drawn to the shoulder patch that reads Sorcery Crimes Unit New York City, stitched circular around the embroidered image of a bible-black goat.

“Book. One victim. 67 year-old Karina Russo. She was watching the kid while her son and daughter-in-law were out for the evening. Watch your step on the way up. First responders threw up on the stairs.”

“Any chance her own spell backfired?”

Coombs looks grim, holding his hand on the handle of a bedroom door. Maiden looks at the colourful name plate: KEVIN.

“No. We ran background on her. Working theory is that the book was boobytrapped. Family are at the hospital. Kid seems fine, but we don’t know how much he witnessed. It’s a bad one, Nat. Ready for this?”

“Open the fucking door, Coombs.”

~

It’s a kid’s bedroom. Action figures, toy cars and comic books. The bed is empty, covers thrown back and right next to it sits the rocking chair.

“Okay…” says Maiden.

She doesn’t look away so neither can we.

Reclining in the chair is the grandmother’s body. The book lays on the floor, spine up and spread open, just below her dangling hand. The woman’s eyes are wide open in shock. Her mouth and dislocated jaw are stretched open. Around two feet wide. Protruding from her impossibly-open mouth is an entire fucking horse’s head. Dead too. Obviously. But trapped in such a way that it seems to be rearing out of her in panic. Froth and drool drip from its screaming mouth. Behind and below the head is a single drooping front leg and hoof.

The rest of the horse is somehow still inside Karina Russo which is, of course, impossible. But that’s why they call Maiden.

If you can drag your eyes away from the horror-show you’ll get your first good look at Natalie Maiden. She’s 25, blonde, and seen enough weird shit that her only response to this mess is to lift up her mirrored aviators for a better look. A small distorted version of our horse and grandma tableau is reflected in them.

“I know an old woman who swallowed a horse…”

She’s dead, of course is how that goes.

Maiden crosses the room to lift one of the heavy sash-windows.

“Anyone look at the book yet?”

“Nope. Johnson’s on his way. Said to leave it the fuck alone. Looks modern. Family says she bought it last week. We think it was spiked.”

Maiden is leaning out the now open window, two fingers in her mouth to help throw a loud pitched whistle to the street below.

~

Two S.C.U. officers in the same get-up as Maiden are leaning on a parked police truck. Meet Morse, the eldest team member, late 40s, black. He sports a beard and his short sleeves ignore the weather to reveal a tattoo. A cartoon green witch on a broomstick caught in the crosshairs of a rifle. Not very woke, but he got the work done when he was young and a lot dumber.

Next to him is Park, head down, smoking as always. American Korean, lean with short hair and an M4 Carbine rifle across her chest.

Morse looks up in the direction of the whistle and slaps his partner lightly on the shoulder.

“We’re up. Bring the kid.”

Park pulls open the back of the truck and tosses a helmet from the floor to the young Latino officer sat alone inside. Morino, just about in his 20s and nervous. As he should be. Maiden has a reputation for throwing her rookies in at the deep end.

“Bring the gear. Time to pop your cherry, rook.”

~

Maiden is on one knee near the storybook. Park is leaning in the open doorway rubbing the back of her neck. Morse is leaning in close, real close, to the horse’s mouth.

“Never figured I’d seen it all, but this… this is something new.”

“The book is new,” says Maiden, “but what was hiding in it is old. Very old.”

Park looks pissed as she flicks through one of the comic books.

“They put it in a kid’s story book. Looking forward to meeting this fuck.”

Maiden stands and looks at the body.

“I’m guessing the grandmother got a taste of the spell in her mouth and bit down on it to save the kid.”

“Brave lady.” Morse is shining his light into the horse’s mouth. “This is gonna be tight. Easier access if I chainsaw Seabiscuit’s head off. Hell, we could gain access straight through the grandmother’s stomach in a few minutes.”

“Ah, man, I stood in…”

Morino is in the doorway with two black duffel bags over one shoulder, looking down at his feet in dismay. He looks up and his eyes go wide with shock, lifting a gloved hand to his mouth.

“…puke.”

Park is instantly up in his grill. Full-Metal-Jacket-Drill-Sgt-Mode.

“Do. Not. Puke. On. Me. This the job, rook. We get the weird shit. You signed up for this. Now quit being a fucking pussy and man the fuck up!”

Morse is smiling. Remembering Park’s first day on the job.

“Lay off the toxic masculinity horse-shit, Park.” He turns to Maiden. “So… chainsaw?”

Maiden is folding her shades into her pocket.

“No go. We have to maintain the integrity of the spell. Initially at least. Break the horse we risk releasing anything else in there out here. No shortcuts. We’ll reassess once we’re in.”

Park passes her rifle to Morse, tucking the comic book into her back pocket while keeping an eye on the green-around-the-gills, Morino.

“I’ll take point. Send the rook after me.”

Coombs is unscrewing the top of a silver hip flask, looking down out of the window.

“Johnson’s here if you want to wait.”

He turns to see that Park is already up to her shoulders, going backwards, feet first, into the horse’s mouth.”

“Never mind.”

Park looks snug as she takes the rifle back from Morse with a grin. Maiden gives her the nod and fist-bumps Morse.

“You’re rear-guard, Morse. Let’s get our feet wet, Morino.”

~

Science and math are the first things that fall apart and physics goes haywire. Morino knows this. He’s a good student. He knew the reality would be different, but… well, here he is. Inside a dead fucking horse’s spell-soaked mouth. He crosses himself automatically.

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary!”

~

Johnson arrives just in time to see the kid’s wriggling boots disappear into the horse’s head. If Quincy fucked Columbo then something like Johnson would be the offspring. He’s wearing his usual filthy lab coat. Some of the stains are organic, some are phantasmagoric and some of them are just egg salad. The pockets are stuffed with fuck only knows what. Did I mention the huge moustache? Good, because I’m not describing it. He’s balding, in his mid 50s and is eating a foot-long tuna sub that actually, given the circumstances, smells pretty good.

“Huh. Whaddayaknow? A horse.”

Maiden has one boot on the horse’s lower jaw and is stretching the mouth with one hand on the upper jaw as she leans into the maw, but has turned her head to look over at Johnson.

“Book’s all yours, Frank. Try not to get your supper all over my crime-scene.”

~

Still with us? That’s the spirit. We’re inside the horse’s stomach. It’s supernaturally huge. I’d say cavernous. The animals ribs are visible and rise above the team like arches in a cathedral. Park is on alert, looking down the barrel of her weapon into the darkness. Her rifle and body-cam both project beams of light, but the interior is giving off its own weird low light. Looking around in awe is Morino. Behind him Maiden has her side-arm drawn as Morse lands with a squelchy thud carrying a tactical shotgun.

“This isn’t possible…” whispers Marino.

“And yet here we are. Welcome to S.C.U., kid,” replies Maiden. “Keep your eyes--”

“Contact!”

Park screams the word as she lets off a burst of tracer rounds.

Here we go.

An enormous black goat is leaping  through the air above and towards them, letting out its own piercing scream as Park continues to unload on it. The goat’s curved horns are visibly etched with golden runes.

Parks bullets are having little effect until one of the horns is hit and shatters. The animal shakes its head as Park reloads.

“We wriggled and wriggled and jiggled inside her!”

Maiden raises her pistol.

“The runes are protecting it. Take ‘em out.”

Bullets. Lots of bullets.

“DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!”, spits the goat as it crashes to the floor in a pool of blood and its own shit and guts.

They lower their weapons as Maiden walks over to it.

“DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!”

Maiden rests her boot on its head as it rolls its eyes back at her.

“You first.”

Her bullet blows its skull apart.

Morino is still grossed out, but looks less panicky. Sorcery may be fucked up, but it’s still vulnerable to the second amendment and for that he’s thankful.

Park spits.

“She swallowed the horse to swallow the goat…”

Morino blanches.

“We’ve gotta go inside that?”

Maiden holsters her side arm.

“No. Deeper we go the more power the spell exerts. It knows we’re here now. This is where we make a stand. Morse…”

Morse moves forward to pick up the dead goat, making a disgusted face as the goat’s head leaks over his upper chest as he holds the corpse upright.

“I know I know…”

He uses his huge arms, locked together under the goat’s chest to squeeze.

“Heimlich!”

The goat’s mouth opens as the wet, bloody, head of a Golden Retriever is forced out.

Everyone looks on as the happy looking dog shakes itself free of the carcass. Slime and blood and mucus fly off the harmless looking animal. Morse stood behind the wagging tail racks his shotgun.

“I’ve got this.”

He brings the gun down in the direction of the back of the smiling dog’s head only for Morino to rush forward and put himself between the barrel and the pup.

“No! You can’t!”

“What the fuck, Morino? Move!”

But Morino has dropped to his knees and is hugging the dog with tears in his eyes as it licks happily at his face.

“No! You don’t understand. This is Deefer!”

He holds up the brass name-tag attached to its collar and sure enough it has a single word stamped into it.

DEEFER.

“He’s my dog! From when I was a kid!”

Morse looks to Maiden.

“Boss?”

His instinct leaves him for just a second. Which is all it takes. Partly obscured by Marino the dog is unfurling a golden-rune covered scorpion’s sting. The rookie is oblivious.

“He wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

Morse’s boot kicks the kid out of the way, but the thing’s stinger goes straight through the older man’s leg.

“Son of a bitch!”

The others raise their weapons, but don’t have a clear shot as Morse pulls out the stinger and swings the scorpion-dog through the air by the tail. Its distorted face is growling at him, bearing enormous impossible teeth and spitting Cujo-froth.

“Park!”

His partner steps forward and ducks down as the thing swings above her. She raises her arm and guts its stomach with a huge Bowie-knife.

“Fuck you, Deefer.”

The gutted dog is chewing on its own flopping intestines as a hairless cat with bright red eyes rises from the steaming offal. Around its neck is a red collar with a carved golden rune in place of a tag.

“Meow,” says the cat.

~

A few feet and a million miles away Johnson is finishing his sandwich.

“Any time you’re ready, doc…” says Coombs.

“You can’t rush these things, detective. You should have had Maiden stand down until I got here.”

Coombs takes another swig from his flask, looking at the dead horse and the deader woman.

“Maiden’s a pro. Her team is the best. They’ll be fine.”

~

Park has her head cocked to one side in recognition and disbelief at the cat which is now licking its paw.

“Mr Jinx?”

~

Coombs is watching as Johnson uses a pen to carefully turn the pages of the book.

“Book itself is harmless. Ah, I see what they did. The lettering on the story she was reading has been traced over with something else. It’s delicate work. My guess is its a tintaatka.”

“Tinwhatnow?”

Coombs is smiling as a small ink-demon rises from the page and starts chewing on his pen.

“Hungarian ink mite. Takes its power from the words it writes and manifests accordingly. Nasty little bastard, but its spent now.”

Coombs isn’t happy.

“Can you contain it?”

“Sure can.”

Johnson looks up at him and slams the book shut, stifling a small scream from the suddenly crushed ink demon. He drops the book into a plastic evidence bag, but looks worried.

“Out here it was spent. In there it’s a whole different story. Literally.”

~

Park looks bored as she tosses the cat’s severed head behind her.

Morse and Maiden are struggling to hold down the golden-runed wings of a fucking honest-to-god pterodactyl that is spewing spiders all over a screaming Morino who is struggling to level his weapon while simultaneously trying to keep the golden arachnids out of his mouth.

Morse can’t help but laugh.

“You didn’t have a pet dinosaur as a kid did you, boss?”

“Dad was allergic so no. Focus, Marino. Focus.”

Marino pulls his helmet off, eyes wide as he finally finds the trigger and cuts the leathery fucker in two.

The spiders try to scatter but the NYPD issue boots make short work of them.

“That it?” asks Park.

“Not quite. Listen…”

They follow Maiden’s lead and there it is. A small buzzing noise, but getting louder.

“She swallowed the spider to swallow the fly,” Maiden whispers.

The fly, the apex of the spell, is glowing with power. It hangs in the air, lower body exposed and covered with minuscule runes. Each tiny arm holds a tiny hell-knife. Its voice, when it speaks, fills the bloody chamber and echoes around them.

“Behold! I am thy doom! I am The Beelzebug who sits at the Left Hand of The Fallen Angel! I shall devour humanity from within! I shall…”

Park swats the little bastard, hard, with the rolled up comic book then rubs her heel down on top of it a few times until the ‘no arghh please no don’t etc’ fades to nothing.

“We done here?”

~

Johnson and Coombs watch as two paramedics carry the dead woman out of the room. Maiden’s team are standing in the steaming guts of the horse, all dripping fresh blood as Morse powers down the tactical chainsaw, his leg wrapped in a bloody bandage.

“Deefer…”

Marino is wide-eyed with PTSD, but did pretty good first time out. Park sits in the rocking chair and picks up the comic book where she left off.

“I hated Mr Jinx. Pissed everywhere.”

Maiden has her shades back on as she walks to the door with Coombs.

“We got a hit on a possible perpetrator. Hungarian roots. Fits the profile. Neighbour of the grandmother’s. Family said they exchanged words over strange smells coming from the apartment. Sounds like she’s a practitioner. Holds a grudge. I can send another unit, but…”

“No. I want the arrest. Tell the family Mrs Russo gave her life to save her grandson.”

Park hits Morino on the head with the comic.

“I’m buying. You did good, Rook.”

Morse picks up the bags and nods at Johnson who is using his chewed pen to fill in the paperwork.

“Joining us, doc?”

“Sure thing.”

We can make out part of the form tucked under his arm. It reads:

SORCERY CRIME UNIT

CASE FILE #: 729

VICTIM NAME: Karina Russo

AGE: 67

CAUSE OF DEATH: Swallowed a fly

~

I sorta feel the need to apologise. Here’s a palate cleanser. See you next week.