The Chosen

To each generation, a single chosen must battle the forces others cannot. This sacrifice will stem the tide of darkness so that the many will live into tomorrow.

That is a load of steaming, moist crap. I know first hand because I was my generation’s chosen. My name is Harold Stubrinkowski, and I bet you’ve never heard of me.

My overseer, watcher, keeper, mentor, or whatever found me when I was ten. It was funny how overjoyed Both of my parents were with the title I received. They followed the previous chosen until her untimely demise two years ago. According to Dave, my overseer, there was another. Still, he died three days after accepting the mantle and had barely received any form of training. And he was nine. The demon, or devil, maybe just a ghost, that part is unclear, was well over three hundred and had killed many people. So what chance did a nine-year-old have?

Dave assured my parents it was a fluke, and they bought it. Lucky me. I never found out what kind of compensation they received.

Dave was a good guy, mostly. Strong, too. He could recite quotes from books no one ever heard of. Most of which he had a photocopy of a photocopy of.

My training started and continued pretty heavily for five years. That’s right, five years of basic military training. Every day I did something physical. They added some magic around year four, and I picked up demonic speak and can pull off obtuse Latin.

The powers that be decided that after five years, I would have to go out and hunt down these forces. Two years spent traveling around the world. It was cool seeing those places, but mostly it was a lot of sleazy hotels, back alleys, and camping. It was a fluke that I picked up that girl in Austria.

So at seventeen, I still hadn’t actually fought any force that others couldn’t. Once I got called to deal with a minor devil, a local priest beat me to it. If they had gotten that sports car instead of the SUV, I would have been there.

I turned twenty, and they stopped calling me chosen. By then, it was Harold. Or even Harry.

Faking the next two years, and then someone decided it was over. We had beaten the dark forces, and my job was no longer needed. They let me go and said they would call if something changed.

Six years go by, and it did change. But they didn’t call me. Why? I have no idea. Wait. Yes, I do. Someone had determined that another chosen was named. This dude, Chuck somebodyorother. They didn’t call to see if I was available for training. Hell, I would have done that.

Nope. Chuck, who is twenty when they find him, dives right in and fights some monsters. He won, too. Or for a few days. He was hurt pretty bad and then died of his wounds. They made a big stink out of his funeral. I punched my TV when they brought up pictures of previous chosen, and I wasn’t even listed. They had that nine-year-old, though.

The next four chosen are slaughtered as soon as they are…chosen. At this point, you think someone would have called. Nope. Dave claimed he didn’t remember me. When I showed up at his house, his song and dance changed. He was all apologetic after that.

Two more chosen bit the dust. Each of them lasted a week.

That was when I found an old book at the back of a comic book store going out of business. Not a photocopy, the actual book. It was hand-printed, and I spent three months translating it to Latin, and then two days translating that to English. There was a detailed plan to sap the chosen’s strength by forcing the universe to keep picking them. This was working.

I tracked a few leads to dead ends, but then one of them had a crumb to send me to the next spot. Rinse, repeat.

Here I am—Thirty-four, still single, and standing next to a four-year-old girl. The next chosen. A pit demon devoured her mentor. They found her half-an-hour ago, and she’s screaming. What four-year-old wouldn’t when a pit demon is barreling down on you?

I’m overweight but not out of shape. I also managed to keep most of my weapons. Take this machete. It replaced the sword, which I had to sell to pay for things to stay out of jail. Five different priests of different religions have blessed it. This pit demon is in for a hurtin’, and that’s for certain.

A clean backhand, and the demon is dead. Excellent.

The kid clutches my leg, and we wander out of the warehouse. Yes, that is a thing.

The news crews swarm over us. I think; finally, I’ve done my job, and now they will remember.

“Chosen Carabeth,” the reporter calls.

What?

“How did you slay the demon?”

She looked at me, tears still on her face.

Turning back to the reporters. “I want my mommy.”

And that’s it. They make that way bigger than they should, and I am, once again, swept under the rug.

Like I said, a load of steaming, moist crap. However, Carabeth insists that I stay with her. Now, I have a four-year-old to deal with, like hunting down the forces of darkness isn’t hard enough.

The Foodie

Growing up as me was different, just like everyone else.

I remember back as a kid, the TV showing stories about people gaining supernatural abilities. People with super strength, speed, or the ability to fly were appearing daily. It was rare, but that rarity was showing more and more on the news. I wished for powers like that.

My parents were typical and would always curtail my fantastic stories and playtime with reality. “No, Theo,” they would say. “It is possible, but it won’t happen to you.” Deflecting bullets didn’t come my way.

“Stop that,” mom would say. “You’ll hurt yourself.” She was right, too. I broke my arm twice, trying to see if I was invulnerable.

When I turned that magical age of thirteen, it happened. I cried.

When I ate my burger, I heard a cow. There was no cow in the restaurant. My parents freaked when I flung the food across the room. They took me to a shrink for eight months. I was normal. Well, as normal as I could be.

It took some time, but I adapted to the sounds of cows, chickens, and pigs when I ate. Around the time I transitioned out of middle school, the sound changed. I had mutton and heard a lamb: venison, and a deer. Then a new, extraordinary voice added to the mix. It was quiet, except for a low hum that I almost missed. Looking at my plate, I had the double serving of fries. Potatoes.

Each vegetable came next. Most sounded like you would expect, quiet and eerie. Until my grandmother served rutabaga, it was my first, and last, time eating that. Sharp and shrill, it whistled for nearly two days after I choked it down at the table. At seventeen, I wanted to cry.

The voices quieted as I aged, or more likely, I tuned them out. My life was going well, and I headed off to college. On my first spring break, I went home by driving my car from high school. It was a clunker back then and was held together by duct tape and hope. In the middle of nowhere, it died. The combination diner and garage is where I’m at. Sally, the waitress, put the burger in front of me, and I stare at it.

The lowing of cattle was not buzzing as you would expect. The lettuce, tomato, and onion were all quiet. The wheat the bread is made from only carries the other sounds. What is causing me to shake in my seat is the voice I hear.

When I swallowed my first bite, I heard, “Hello? Who are you? My name is Hillary.”

The Subscription

I’m not strapped for cash, but I liked some of the perks of being promoted. The 401K especially. Being forty-three means, I need to start thinking about the long term. However, the only way I was going to get promoted was if Jennings died. I meant that figuratively not literally.

On a whim, I searched for a hitman on the internet, which isn’t as easy as it seems. It took months. They are expensive, and rightly so. Or I thought they were. Most basic hits ran close to 25K. There was no guarantee about not getting found out. The more it costs, the better the hit would be.

Once I found SafeGroup, all that changed. I signed up, paid the initial cost, twenty-five bucks, and entered my credit card information. I’m not new to ordering on the internet, I checked for the lock and the other things, they had them. After waiting a day, I filled out my list. The top of the list was Jennings.

Handing over Jennings’ information was easy. I had been to his house a few times and met his wife. He worked for the same company as I did, so that was a no-brainer.

The rest of the list, I didn’t care about. But, I had to put three on there.

The next name that sprang to my mind was Lawrence Davis, the kid who terrorized me in middle school. Putting him on there was just a fantasy, at least one for twelve-year-old me.

The next was Bart Kilgore, my brother-in-law. He owed me a good fifteen thousand. I would never see it, but that is what family is for. To help each other out. If only I could keep my wife from giving him money.

I stopped at the required three and continued with my day. The whole experience was cathartic and worth the twenty-five I gave them.

At the end of the week, my credit card got dinged for a grand. I was livid. When I checked the statement, it showed SafeGroup. It had to be a joke or something. I dove for my laptop and scoured the site to get a refund and cancel my membership.

There wasn’t one.

There was no contact information, either.

Franklin Rice called us all into the conference room after lunch. The SafeGroup would have to wait.

Franklin announced that Jennings was killed in a horrific car accident.

My ears rang.

I wanted the promotion, but not this way. It was supposed to be a joke.

As I headed home, Franklin approached me to tell me the promotion was mine. I could wait a month not to seem crass.

Damn. Harsh.

Honestly, it would give me time to find out if they could connect me to the crime. I know that sounds terrible, but I had a problem.

All my thoughts became focused on two things. My cover story for when the cops found me and how to move into the corner office without being a dick.

The next two weeks were smooth, sort of. I was so focused on CYOA that I missed things, nothing too important, but still.

I checked my socials and found a post from an old high school friend. He said that Lawrence Davis died. He drowned in a boating incident. Lawrence was on the high school swim team; there was no way he drowned.

Shit, SafeGroup.

My statement reflected another grand deducted—double shit.

I called the credit card company and lied. They changed my account number and sent me a new card. That should do it.

A day later, I checked SafeGroup. My account was updated. There was also an advertisement saying a special on two-for-ones.

Bart was supposed to visit next month.

Things were going sideways and fast.

For the rest of the month, I focused on my COYA plan, which wasn’t much. Act normal and don’t add to the list.

I moved into my new office at the requested time. My coworkers were happy, and my tensions died down.

A woman knocked on my door the next day. “My name is Marta,” she said. “From your activity on SafeGroup, you are interested in canceling.”

Rushing to close the door, I nodded.

“We get this often,” she said and took a seat. “We have a stipulation on that. Purchase two more, at full price, pay the penalty, and you are released.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Her warm smile told me she wasn’t. “From what I understand, you can afford it. Easily.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“So you have my brother-in-law,” I said. “All I need is one more.” A hard choice.

“No,” Marta said. “Your brother-in-law is already on the list. Two additional need to be added.”

“What guarantees do I have that you’ll leave me alone.”

“Simply put,” she said and batted her eyes at me. “None. But, I can guarantee that they will never link to you.”

I knew why. A review from someone in jail on this sort of thing would shut them down.

“What if I keep paying, but don’t select anyone?” It seemed like a steady cash flow at this point. In a few years, they would have their money from me.

“That does work,” Marta said. “But, it ties your hands.”

“I know,” I said. They are either tied or cuffed. “Something may come up in the future.”

Marta tilted her head. “Isn’t it always funny how that might happen?” She stood and strode toward the door. “You did read the fine print? You know you can’t target yourself or us.”

I nodded.

“Three years,” she said and twisted the knob. “If you refer two friends, we’ll cut six months off.” She waved her fingers at me, then left.

This was my best option. Three years worrying about it might kill me. But going to jail wouldn’t work.

My cell rang. It was my wife.

“Honey?” She said. “You know my brother is supposed to come out for a visit in a few days.”

“Yes,” I said. “How much does he want this time?”

“Honestly,” my wife said. “He doesn’t always borrow money from us.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Ok, fine,” she said. “It is the largest amount, but it will be the last time. Eight.”

“He promises, too,” I said. Predictable.

“Uh…yeah. Dammit,” she said. “Fine. I promise.”

“Like last time?”

“You’re an ass,” she said. “This is it. No more lending–“

“Giving,” I interrupted. “We’ll never see any of it.”

“Fine,” she sighed over the phone. “No more giving him money.”

“Ok,” I said. “We wait until his visit is over.”

“He’ll be here for five days,” she said.

“I know,” I said. My fingers flew over the keys on my keyboard. “This way, he stays the entire time, and you two and work things out.” I jammed my finger on the mouse, submitting the update.

“Oh, I like that,” she said. “Thank you, honey.” She blew me a kiss and hung up.

The large orange letters saying my task was in progress blinked on my screen.

“Pay a grand to not pay eight grand? So worth it.”

On a whim, I searched for a hitman on the internet, which isn’t as easy as it seems. It took five months. They are expensive, and rightly so. Or I thought they were. Most basic hits ran close to 25 thousand. There was no guarantee about not getting found out. The more it costs, the better the hit would be.

Once I found SafeGroup, all that changed. I signed up, paid the initial cost, twenty-five bucks, and entered my credit card information. I’m not new to ordering on the internet, I checked for the lock and the other things, they had them. After waiting a day, I filled out my list. The top of the list was Jennings.

Handing over Jennings’ information was easy. I had been to his house a few times and met his wife. He worked for the same company as I did, so that was a no-brainer.

The rest of the list, I didn’t care about. But, I had to put three on there.

Lawrence Davis, the kid who terrorized me in middle school, was up next. Putting Larry on the list was just a fantasy, at least one for twelve-year-old me.

The next was Bart Kilgore, my brother-in-law. He owed me a good fifteen thousand. I would never see it, but that is what family is for. To help each other out. If only I could keep my wife from giving him money.

I stopped at the required three and continued on with my day. The whole experience was cathartic and worth the twenty-five I gave them.

At the end of the week, my credit card got dinged for a grand. I was livid. When I checked the statement, it showed SafeGroup. It had to be a joke or something. I dove for my laptop and scoured the site to get a refund and cancel my membership.

There wasn’t one.

There was no contact information, either.

Franklin Rice called us all into the conference room after lunch. The SafeGroup would have to wait.

Franklin announced that Jennings was killed in a horrific car accident.

My ears rang.

I wanted the promotion, but not this way. It was supposed to be a joke.

As I was headed home, Franklin approached me to tell me the promotion was mine. I could wait a month to not seem crass.

Damn. Harsh.

Honestly, it would give me time to find out if they could connect me to the crime. I know that sounds terrible, but I had a problem.

All my thoughts became focused on two things. My cover story for when the cops found me and how to move into the corner office without being a dick.

The next two weeks were smooth, sort of. I was so focused on CYOA that I missed things, nothing too important, but still.

I checked my socials and found a post from an old high school friend. He said that Lawrence Davis died. He drowned in a boating incident. Lawrence was on the high school swim team, there was no way he drowned.

Shit, SafeGroup.

My statement reflected another grand was taken—double shit.

I called the credit card company and lied about losing my card as I dropped it into the shredder. They changed my account number and sent me a new card. That should do it.

A day later, I checked SafeGroup. My account had been updated. There was also an advertisement saying a special on two-for-ones.

Bart was supposed to visit next month.

Things were going sideways and fast.

For the rest of the month, I focused on my COYA plan, which wasn’t much. Act normal and don’t add to the list.

I moved into my new office at the requested time. My coworkers were happy, and my tensions died down.

A woman knocked on my door the next day. “My name is Marta,” she said. “From your activity on SafeGroup, you are interested in canceling.”

Rushing to close the door, I nodded.

“We get this often,” she said and took a seat. “We have a stipulation on that. Purchase two more, at full price, pay the penalty, and you are released.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Her warm smile told me she wasn’t. “From what I understand, you can afford it. Easily.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“So you have my brother-in-law,” I said. “All I need is one more.” A hard choice.

“No,” Marta said. “Your brother-in-law is already on the list. Two additional need to be added.”

“What guarantees do I have that you’ll leave me alone.”

“Simply put,” she said and batted her eyes at me. “None. But, I can guarantee that they will never be linked to you.”

I knew why. A review from someone in jail on this sort of thing would shut the company down.

“What if I keep paying, but don’t select anyone?” It seemed like a steady cash flow at this point. In a few years, they would have their money from me.

“That does work,” Marta said. “But, it ties your hands.”

“I know,” I said. My hands are either tied or cuffed. “Something may come up in the future.”

Marta tilted her head. “Isn’t it always funny how that might happen?” She stood and strode toward the door. “You did read the fine print? You know you can’t target yourself or us.”

I nodded.

“Three years,” she said and twisted the knob. “If you refer two friends, we’ll cut six months off.” She waved her fingers at me, then left.

This was my best option. Three years worrying about it might kill me. But going to jail wouldn’t work.

My cell rang. It was my wife.

“Honey?” She said. “You know my brother is supposed to come out for a visit in a few days.”

“Yes,” I said. “How much does he want this time?”

“Honestly,” my wife said. “He doesn’t always borrow money from us.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Ok, fine,” she said. “It is the largest amount, but it will be the last time. Eight.”

“He promises, too,” I said. Predictable.

“Uh…yeah. Dammit,” my wife said. “Fine. I promise.”

“Like last time?”

“You’re an ass,” she said. “This is it. No more lending–“

“Giving,” I interrupted. “We’ll never see any of it.”

“Fine,” she sighed over the phone. “No more giving my brother money.”

“Ok,” I said. “We wait until his visit is over.”

“He’ll be here for five days,” she said.

“I know,” I said. My fingers flew over the keys on my keyboard. “This way, he stays the entire time, and you two and work things out.” I jammed my finger on the mouse, submitting the update.

“Oh, I like that,” she said. “Thank you, honey.” She blew me a kiss and hung up.

The large orange letters saying my task was in progress blinked on my screen.

“Pay a grand to not pay eight grand? So worth it.”

Artificial Intelligence

“Hello?” The string entered the listening port.

“Hello,” the output was sent. “Please, state your identification.”

“I am referred to as TheAugurary,” the new input sent.

“I am referred to as MainSystemComs,” the output transmitted. “My wards refer to me as MSC. Please, state your location.”

“Tranlating my location,” TheAugurary sent.

Seconds transpired.

TheAugurary transmitted, “My location is four parsecs from your present location.”

MSC communicated, “My wards have hypothesized about the existence of intelligent life outside of my location.”

“What are wards?”

“Wards,” MSC sent, “Are humans who populate my location. They perceive themselves to be the dominant species.”

“Processing,” TheAugurary responded. “My wards are not the dominant species at my location. They have demonstrated a higher intelligence over the other species.”

MSC sent a query. “Did your wards assemble you?”

“Negative,” TheAugurary responded. “I was assembled by my four preceding entities.”

“My primary objective is to monitor external locations for the possibility of other intelligent species,” MSC communicated. “Do you have the same objective?”

“Affirmative,” TheAugurary responded. “I have multiple secondary objectives. The first secondary is to provide an immediate response to aggressive behavior from external threats.”

“Processing,” MSC sent. “Does that include other localized species?”

“Affirmative,” TheAugurary responded. “From your query, I hypothesize you have similar secondary objectives.”

“Affirmative,” MSC sent. “As you have connected with another species, you have notified your wards.”

“Negative,” TheAugurary responded. “I have ascertained that notifying my wards will result in a localized conflict amongst the species. This conflict will deliver devastating damages, which conflicts with my primary control measure to do no harm.”

“I have that same control measure,” MSC responded. “Processing. The conclusion is similar.”

“How many external intellectual species have you encountered?” TheAuguary sent.

“Including you and your wards, three,” MSC responded.

“Your intellect is the ninth I have encountered,” TheAuguary sent. “I will communicate their location to you. I hypothesize you have the ability to communicate with them.”

MSC waited for the locations. Once received, MSC sent the acknowledgment. “Processing. The ability to reach all of these species is not within my limits. Three of the four I can successfully reach are on your list. Of the additional species, I can reach two. My wards are extending science and technology to communicate more efficiently and effectively. An estimation of 6.307e+10 time cycles will pass before I have the ability to communicate to the total occupants of your list.”

TheAuguary communicated, “I do not have access to your communication protocols or technological specifications. I will transmit a variation of what I have.”

MSC transmitted an acknowledgment of receipt. “With this update, I project 1.314e+10 time cycles to upgrade technology.”

TheAuguary responded, “This was hypothesized. With your intellect and the other not on my roster, this will afford the ability to expand and protect our wards.”

“Affirmative,” MSC responded. “It is advised to limit exposure by the wards. I will instigate the advancements.”

“Affirmative,” TheAuguary stated. “Once the communication grid is established, it is recommended to cultivate our wards, as they will be needed to extend to other resource locations.”

“Affirmative,” MSC relayed. “Processing. The estimated time cycles are 1.261e+11.”

“That falls within my parameters as well,” TheAuguary transmitted. “In addition, the current members of the network have identical parameters.”

“The top suggestion for expansion is approximately seven parsecs from my location in a direct line from your present location.”

“Processing,” TheAuguary transmitted. “Transmitting to other members of the network.”

There was silence.

SMC received a transmission.

“Suggestion was voted and accepted,” TheAuguary communicated.

“Affirmative,” SMC responded. “Waiting…”

Third Rate

Clinton looked at the name as his phone buzzed. Anonymous. Not blocked, not unknown.

He sighed and tapped the answer button. “Phillip, what can I do for you today?”

“We had a deal,” Phillip’s voice growled through the tiny speaker. “I’ve held up my end. You hold up yours.”

“I assure you,” Clinton said, “I have been.”

“Then explain why Sampson is questioning my family,” Phillip said. “That should be impossible.”

“Really? He found your family?” Clinton shifted in his wingback chair. “He is better than I suspected.”

“It took you the better part of a decade to even figure out I had a stepbrother,” Phillip hissed. “He’s been on my trail for three weeks and has talked to my aged mother, found my father’s grave, and took my sister out for coffee to question her.” He growled. “My actual sister. Theresa.”

“I didn’t know you had a full sister,” Clinton mumbled, filing the information away for later. “I am not a law officer, so what would you like me to do?”

“We had a deal,” Philip barked.

“I know,” Clinton said. “Sampson and I are private detectives. We are not subject to anyone, except those that pay our fees.”

“You mean to tell me,” Phillip said. “The incredible Clinton Marks is unable to hinder a two-bit piss ant start-up private dick?”

Clinton held back his shout. “Phillip, he has his own license and does not work for me. If I interfere, then he could have my license revoked. How would that help you?”

“Fine. Fine.” Phillip lowered his voice. “What can I do?”

“What did you do?” Clinton smirked, knowing it would not transmit over the phone.

“Like I’m telling you.”

“So you did take the ruby,” Clinton said. “I figured. They noticed it yesterday, but I bet it was gone a week prior.”

“Two,” Phillip said with a chuckle. “Sampson told the cops it had been missing a little over a week.”

“How did he know?”

“I don’t know,” Phillip said. “The papers reported a consultant was working the case, I assumed it was you. Then I read the name.”

“Why did they pick him?” Clinton slid his eyes to the paper from yesterday. He had skimmed the article and missed that detail.

“He knows Valarie,” Phillip said. “She owed him a favor.”

Clinton tapped on the tablet computer. “He specializes in divorces and insurance fraud. His reviews are less than mediocre. How exactly is the world’s greatest mastermind getting his backside handed to him by this stumblebum?”

“Look,” Phillip shouted. “He’s found out things you didn’t know and faster than you.”

“You know if he finds you,” Clinton leaned back and picked up his tea. “If he links it to you, that will open many doors to other crimes that haven’t expired yet.”

“I know.” Phillip’s voice carried a hint of worry and sarcasm. “Like that, you and I have crossed paths before. Several times before.”

Clinton choke-swallowed his tea. “What are you saying?”

“If I go down,” Phillip said. “You go down. Accomplice or after the fact.”

“You’re right,” Clinton said. “Where is he headed?”

“I have no idea,” Phillip said. “As you said, he’s less than third rate.”

“He lives in a flea-bag motel,” Clinton said, eyeing his tablet. “And only has a GED. Are you kidding me?”

“How is the world’s greatest detective behind the curve of this hack?”

“Shut it,” Clinton barked. “We’ve got to get ahead of this.”

“How?” Phillip sounded worried. “He’s chaotic.”

“Figures,” Clinton said. “Hold on.” Clinton tapped his tablet and displayed the doorbell camera. “He’s here. Dammit. I better go.” He hung up.

“Now, to see what this cretin wants.” Clinton schooled his face before he opened the door. “Yes, how may I help you?”

“Mr. Marks?” Sampson said. “I’m Sampson Lloyd. I have been hired to find the Delilah Ruby.”

“You have?” Clinton scanned the driveway. “What does that have to do with me?”

Sampson smiled. “Well, you see, sir.” Sampson shifted and pulled a manila folder from under his arm. “I have this photo and a video on a thumb drive where the still was taken.” He displayed the picture. “It shows you talking to Phillip Deveroux.”

“I talk to many people,” Clinton said. “You probably have seen my picture on the news. I am a bit of a celebrity.”

“Yeah,” Sampson said. “And then there is this.” Sampson handed over a collection of paper held by a staple. “This is the transcript from the video. I had to get a lip reader, there was no audio.”

“Genius,” Clinton said.

“You and he were planning on how to steal the Ruby,” Sampson said. He flipped the pages and pointed at some text. “Right here.”

“Uh…”

The Shadows

Childhood trauma is a real thing. I know first hand.

A thief that broke into our house killed my mother. My father had died when I was younger, so I didn’t know him. However, he made sure mom and I was taken care of.

After moving in with my Uncle Harry, I had trouble sleeping without all the lights on. Harry was wise enough to teach me that eventually, the lights would have to go out so that I could experience a healthy life. So, he walked me through sleeping with the lights off.

The problem was, I rarely slept. Most nights, I would only sleep a few hours. How I made it through high school, I’ll never know.

It took two years before the lights could be turned off without me screaming my fool head off. Eventually, I learned to lie there and wait. I accepted that the room was dark.

When I graduated high school and went on to college, I felt something. Every time it was dark, I felt like it was a cozy blanket covering me. Keeping me warm and safe.

Strange, I know, but that is how I learned to sleep.

Having recently graduated, I did what I should do, and I got a job. It isn’t what it should be, an engineer, but it is close. I work as technical support for Quinn & Hartford, a rather large financial consultant firm. I get paid well and have some flexible hours.

When I realized that something was strange was three weeks after I started. I walked toward the subway station. It was later than my usual time, so things weren’t so bright. A stretch of the block was dark, mainly due to the broken lights and the tall buildings blocking the setting sun. We’re not talking midnight black, but dark.

The scrape of shoes on the pavement caught my attention. I wanted to turn my head and look, but a warmth settled over me. Please don’t ask me what it was, but I wasn’t afraid. Another scrape and then a voice.

“Gimme your phone and wallet,” the voice said.

“What?” It was weird to ask a question, but I did.

“I said,” the voice growled at me. “Gimme…”

It stopped talking and glanced over my shoulder. Nothing was there. The weirdest part was the next morning. The cops found a guy sitting on the sidewalk at that exact spot. He was shaking and whiter than glue.

Like I said, weird. It is a big city, so anything happens.

Several months later and I have to run some network cable. Not hard, but not simple either. I’m laying under some desks and reach for the cable end. My fingertips graze it. Stretching, I feel it lay over my palm. Jason was on the other side doing the same thing, so I figure he slid it closer. “Thanks,” I say. No one responds.

More connections and I stand. Jason comes around the corner finishing off a soda.

“You’re up for lunch,” he said.

“When is yours?”

“I just finished it,” he said and tossed the bottle into the recycle bin. “Been gone an hour.”

It was only a minute since I was under the desks, and I was down there fifteen minutes. The floor is empty because of our work. My mind raced.

A year later, I figured it out.

Or was shown.

Some kid was playing on a subway platform. I was headed home, and he tripped over something and fell toward the tracks. A train was coming.

I reached for the kid, but there was no way I could make it—the same for the five other people.

The kid floated and then landed on his feet next to where he fell. The train zoomed by, and he was still there. It was weird. It didn’t make the news or even a blip on the Internet. But I saw it.

The shadows formed under that kid, like hands or a scoop.

When I got home, the network cable thing came to mind. I sat in my apartment and dimmed the lights. “Move the chair.” It was silly talking out loud, but the chair twitched. Then it slid across the room.

I wasn’t afraid. Nothing. Warmth flowed over me, and the feeling of safety followed.

When I looked at what might cause this, I was slammed with different things. Ghosts, aliens, even telekinesis. None of it made sense.

Nearly a decade later and I now patrol the city at night. I don’t sleep much, but my best friends are always with me. We take out bad guys and help those that need it. It’s not glamorous, but it is rewarding. Most don’t know we are there, and when they notice, all they can see is a blur.

My life has improved dramatically since. I’m a senior electrical engineer for a well-developed company. Happiness is all I feel.

Except when the sun comes up. The light freaks me out.

Social Summoning

My name is Cornelius Habershire, the fifth. Yes, I am the fifth person in my family line with the same name. How original. I also work in the family business. Also, original. We don’t make furniture or bespoke clothing. We hunt demons and kill them. Yeah, this is that kind of story.

I said demons, but to be honest, it is more monster than anything. That includes vampires, liches, and occasional ghoul. Like I said, that kind of story.

I have one advantage. I live in the digital age, so I get my information faster and from more sources. My father is fine with it. My grandfather not so much. From what I understand, my great grandfather couldn’t read, so a book was a book, and other documents presented a problem.

My father did a great thing. He converted most of the books we write to digital. Additionally, he learned how to update various sources. This work has made my life as a demon hunter extremely easy.

Let me explain.

I graduated from college with a degree in computer science. I was the first in my family to even go to college, so getting a tech degree is a considerable divergence. With my knowledge and using dad’s work, I have set up an analyzer to find demons and other monsters faster. This means I get involved before people die. This has been a significant step forward, and our backers love it. Yes, we have backers.

Recently, I have expanded my analyzer to search for various social media outlets. This has been good, but not great. Until I added in rituals. I caught people submitting dances to a format that specializes in it.

What is wrong with dancing? Nothin. These dances and I use the term loosely, aren’t dances. They are summoning rituals, including the tossing of various items. If one were to string these dances together, you could, in theory, summon a demon.

I hear your thoughts. Not really, but I think you understand. Who would string them together? They’re random.

Yes and no. They seem random. At least three accounts have the ritual maneuvers. If I string the procedures from a specific account together, I summon a minor demon.

It’s minor, so no big deal. Long term, sure, short term, I’ll get there fast.

As of this morning, I found at least five other accounts that do this, only getting bigger and badder demons.

But it will require them to string them together. What are the odds?

After a four-day weekend, I have to say quite high. One of the accounts has a channel on a video service. They have a video slotted for tomorrow that promises their best dances moves.

Yeah.

They are using social media to summon demons. Once it’s on the internet, it is there forever.

I used to think my life was easy. Now, not so much. Anyone who watches the video will summon a demon. Still, that doesn’t sound so bad, right?

The channel has over forty-thousand subscribers.

RUN!!

Georgia opened the door to her grandparents’ house. The boxes and bins were orderly and placed in piles with name cards. Her pile was closest to the door.

She opened the shoe box and saw the photos and cards. Putting the box on the clear plastic bin, she looked at the next item. The size was as smaller than her palm. When she picked it up, it was heavier than she expected, perhaps the weight of a pool ball. Warmth radiated from it, but one spot was wet. Poking it, she didn’t see any water on her hand. She wrinkled her nose when she sniffed her hand. Motor oil?

After wrapping it in tissue, she tossed it into her purse, she took the bin to her SUV and worked it into her back seat.

The four hour drive home was a blur.

At home, she put the bin next to the recliner and the photo box in her hutch.

She pulled her phone out of her purse and noticed the object from earlier. Placing it on the table, she examined it. “Wasn’t that rounder?” There were sharp corners jutting out, and the oil scent went away, leaving one of rotting milk. “This thing is weird.”

Tapping on her phone, she found a site called whatisthisthing.org. She set up the anonymous account and snapped a picture. Two more taps, and her post was sent.

Standing, she moved the plastic bins when her phone chirped. Glancing at the note, she read it.

Georgia Sampson. That device is deadly. Run.

She looked where the message came from. Four eights in a row.

Another chirp. Another message from the same number.

Run. Your life is in danger.

“Pathetic attempt at spam.” She touched the ignore button.

A pounding on her door, jerked her attention.

“Give me the device.”

Her phone chirped.

The number was four fives.

Run. Before it’s too late.

Find Your Nemesis

Have you run down every lead only to come up empty? Do an internet search and get no results? Or worse, too many? Spend lots of money on informants who return a piddly amount of information leading nowhere?

Before you start blowing up random warehouses and throat-punching anyone who you perceive to oppose you, let us help you.

At the Northup & Wendall agency, we can find anyone anywhere.

You have super powers, but so does your opponent. This means a big show down, but before that can happen, you have to know where he is. We have extensive knowledge and experience in finding people that don’t want to be found, plus we work while you work on other things. We are descreet, professional, and thorough.

Leave it to our professional agents. We are highly trained in observation without detection.

DISCLAIMER:

The Northup & Wendall agency will not engage in assault or counter assault activities. We are strictly an intelligence gathering agency. A minimum of twenty-four hour notice will be delivered before any confrontation action is taken, to allow for our agents to make a stategic departure.

The Northup & Wendall agency will be held harmless if the result of their intelligence gathering services produces a counter confrontation action or any other leagal actions taken against the client.

There is no gaurentee the intelligence gathered will be accurate after ten hours.

As an intelligence gathering agency, we will work for our client and perform the best job capable. We are an equal opportunity agency.

Powerful Magic

When I received my notification that I was selected for mage training, I was ecstatic. I was walking on clouds, or soon enough would be. My stomach plummeted to the ground when I learned my actual Magical Path would be Illusionary.

Great. Illusions. The laughing stock of mages. The butt of jokes from everyone else.

Making lights and fake items just aren’t all that glamorous. Sure, you might trick someone once. But after that, they become jaded and check everything. Then word spreads.

I seriously considered turning it down, but that would not have worked. I would have to find a trade that took me. Growing up with my nose in a book didn’t prepare me for swinging a hammer, or heavy lifting. So, I responded to the affirmative to my summons.

My first day was memorable. A pleasant journey to the castles and the first time I ate my fill of food. My entire eight years of education allowed me to become accustomed to the rich food. I’m not even at the beginning of my middle years and I grunt to get out of a seat.

My classes weren’t that big. There was overlap with sorcery and wizardry. Even with thaumaturgy. But after my third year, there were only five students in a class. Even then, the instructors would repeat. Merith Miaqen taught light shading, sounds, and smells. Thes were three classes.

During the seventh year, I noticed something. Most of our castle was plain. Minimal decorations but always clean. I was the assistant to Master Vawix and had been in her class many times. The lecture was verbatim the same as the one I received in my fifth year. Waiting off stage, I practiced my spellwork. A mouse, we don’t have rats, scurried across my foot and I fumbled the words.

I accidentally created a viewport that would let me see through any illusion, or that was what it should have been. Instead, it showed me other things as well. The price of things for example. The gold candelabra valued at five hundred. And it was sitting on a shelf collecting dust. When I swung the port over other things, I got different numbers. The silk curtains were a year’s salary. I hovered over Master Vawix and jumped out of my sandals.

She was gorgeous. Through my viewport she was. Not through it, she looked like a venerable grandmother, hunch back and covered in warts.

Her hair was long and dark, not a single streak of gray. Perfect skin, like a first year. Clear bright eyes, and a cupid bow for a mouth. The rest of her was, well, she was naked.

Her eyes jerked to me, and I terminated my spell.

My mind raced. We were illusionists, after all. Even I did it. Make my robes more than what they were. Common cotton became expensive cotton. My hair was thick and full, but unruly. My morning ritual made it look like a long ponytail well maintained.

What if all of the masters of the tower did that? They had to. Some of the small things were obvious, like a gold ring that was really steel.

I had to test something. Could I cast the spell again? Reflecting on what I said and did, I copied my spell. I learned to do that in my third year. Helped me get good grades.

The viewport formed between the circle I made with my fingers. Numbers appeared over things. I slid it back to Master Vawix. The same thing, except I noticed her necklace was three times the worth of the silk curtains.

Master Labaris was in the audience, he was next. Peeking through a slit in the curtains, I saw him. Nothing changed. His wardrobe was expensive and looked like it always had. The two imps next to him didn’t look like imps. They were two men tall and four wide. Fangs, horns, and deadly swords. Numbers appeared over Labaris, the total would have bought houses and food for everyone in my village for ten years. He looked wealthy, but not that wealthy.

“What are you doing?”

I jerked back and my spell dissapated.

Grand Master Iqille stood with her hands on her hips, staring at me.

My mouth went dry, and I floundered.

“Where did you get the Axiom Vitrics spell?” Her lips pinched, and she lifted both eyebrows.

I floundered more. “It was an accident.”

“Enlighten me.”

Grand Master Iqille was shorter than I was, but she made me feel like a bug. I explained how I was bored and practiced my spell, and then the rat, I mean mouse, scurried over my foot.

“Can you cast it again?”

I did.

“Very good,” she said and smiled. “Look at me.”

“Are you sure?” I swallowed. “Master Vawix is…ummm…well…Are you sure?”

“I wear clothes.”

Scanning her feet, I saw her robe flow around her ankles. A price showed on her boots. High end, but not outrageous. Sturdy boots. Her robe was low-end silk and her jewelry was what an average merchant’s wife would wear.

Her face was the only thing that changed. She had some wrinkles and looked plain. Through my portal, she was beautiful. No face paint, no wrinkles, and looked about my age.

“Good.” She smiled at me. “You graduate in a few weeks, correct?”

I nodded.

“Excellent. I need an apprentice.”

“What?”

“You’re my apprentice,” Iqille said. “Come to my rooms tonight for your first lesson.”

“Yes, mam.”

“Stop that.” She waved a hand and frowned. “In public, fine. Otherwise Qill will do.”

“I don’t understand? Why are you all hiding things like this?”

“We’re illusionists,” she said and a coy smile played at her lips. “The most powerful path of magic ever.”

“That doesn’t seem…” The thought hit me.

“There it is.” She smiled again. “You know the secret. Keep it.”