The Chronicles of Veronica, B o o k  O n e

by

ALEX FIANO

Doing the Right Thing is Dangerous

V     E     X     E     D

C H A P T E R  O N E

A parliament of owls

September 1

Westchester County

11:00 pm

“So what do you think he’s doing in there?”

I twist my face in exaggerated contemplation. “This is…I don’t know. Not usual, but not necessarily weird. A storage building can’t be used for lawbreaking like cooking meth. Hiding money or stolen goods, I could see that. It can’t be a criminal meeting place because of cameras.”

I pause. “Although…I don’t see a lot of cameras. Do you?”

Gabriel Ross, my partner in our two-person private investigations firm, Gotham Investigations, scans the three-story building with binoculars. The storage building is on an expansive plot of land in Westchester County, north of New York City, our home base. It is remote from the nearest village and abuts a tangled wooded area. The vast parking lot has two lone lamps at either end. The building itself has one yellowish light over the double entrance doors. One the left side of the building is a set of double garage doors for clients moving large or multiple items.

  We had parked Gabriel’s Camry a couple hundred feet down the road in a gravel pull-out. It lacks any street light and so was good to spy on this strange place. We’ve gotten out the car to better observe. “I don’t see any, to be honest.” Gabriel shakes his head. “And cameras would be obvious for the deterrent factor. There’s nothing.”

The both of us fall silent. I check my iPad, doing some on-the-fly research. The two of us are here following and observing one Ron Garland, 43, white guy bookkeeper from Staten Island. Ron lives with his mom, Lena, a nice older lady who used to be a union organizer in education. She’s been concerned about Ron’s erratic and withdrawn behavior and thinks it’s drugs or he’s fallen with bad people. Lena has a nice nest egg and fears Ron possibly trying to take money or waste it when she’s gone. She is a news junkie and knew of Gabriel and myself from stories about our cases. Since Lena actually owns the Jeep Wrangler Ron drives, we had permission to put a tracking device on the car, and have followed Ron from the St. George neighborhood on S.I. across the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge to Brooklyn, then the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel (which we still call the Brooklyn Battery) to the FDR Drive, then up-up-up past Manhattan, past the Bronx, past Yonkers, Scarsdale, White Plains, all the way to a little town called Harrison, near the Westchester County Airport, a very small airport. Then past the town to the storage facility. Said facility, StoreSuch, is off 684 on a smaller rural two-lane highway, with no other businesses—nothing really—in walking distance. It does not have any ground-level outside units, just the building. It is not particularly large like a U-Haul, Public, or CubeSmart. Just driving by it wouldn’t be a blip on anyone’s attention meter.

It’s quiet too, not a suburb. The only noise comes from a passing Metro-North train in the distance; Harrison has a station.

     Gabriel frowns as the train’s horn sounds mournfully. “What could he possibly be doing in there? It’s been an hour. Somehow I don’t think he’s thumbing through a photo album.”

     I’ve gotten off the trail a bit with my iPad. “Would you believe there’s a subreddit that mentions this place? R/CreepyNewYork. Also, R/LiminalSpaces.”

“Um. I’m not surprised. What do people say?”

“They make snarky guesses as to what the real purpose of the building is. Like we’re doing.”

“Look around. What about this seems off to you?”

“What doesn’t? The parking lot is too large. There’s no outside units in a space that is built for them. No security cams. And…” I take the binoculars. “…As I figured. The front entrance has a regular lock. No access code entry.”

“No access code,” Gabriel says. 

We’re silent a moment

  “…No access code,” I say.

   We exchange glances.

     Gabriel holds out his elbow. “Shall we?”

I take his arm and we walk quietly to the front door. We both check one more time for cameras. Nothing. So I turn to keep watch while Gabriel uses his tools to coax the lock open. We hold our breath as the lock clicks and we push inside, scanning for alarms, lights, anything that indicates our presence is detected. 

Apparently not. 

From there, we walk quietly past the empty front desk to a long hallway. The hallway is dark, with a lone light a bit further down at a cross hallway. There are storage units with locks on both sides of the hall. First are small cubby hole-sized spaces then more typical larger ones with doors that roll up. 

Reaching a hallway that bisects the one we are walking, we stop and listen. To the left is an elevator going to the second and third floors. To the right are stairs. There are a few storage spaces on each side, and restrooms. 

Faint noises are detectable down the first hallway. We can see that there are at least another two cross-hallways further down.

We continue silently moving through the hallway. One of the storage rooms is cracked open; presumably Ron’s. We take a pause to listen. Now no sounds within the room itself. Maybe he went to the bathroom? Five minutes waiting and nothing happens. Finally I take a breath and creep to the cracked door. Peek in. No one there. I look over my shoulder at Gabriel and tilt my head.

Risky, but we step in and look around quickly. There are a few plastic tubs in the 10 x 10 room. There is a plain folding table with some stuff on top, more like a display than storage. Like Ron was setting up a garage sale. The stuff looks pricey as well. Watches, electronics like hand-held games, and a couple of memory sticks—set aside like they were special. 

We exchange inquiring glances. “I’ll get it,” Gabriel whispers. He immediately leaves and I turn off the flash. He’s going to get a device we make a point of taking along in our kit when we’re on gigs — a USB duplicator. It costs over a grand, but makes investigations easier.

After a minute I decide to scan the room, using my flash. Nothing odd, except….

The flash catches a glint in the back wall, which would be the building’s outside wall on the right. I go over to examine it. A hairline crack about six feet long and four feet wide. 

A hidden door.

I jump a little as Gabriel taps the storage room door. I open it and we quickly, wordlessly copy the random USBs. We know each other so well and work with each other so much we can share tasks with a Zen sort of anticipation and understanding.  Once finished, I point out the hidden panel to him. 

We press on it looking for a latch. It pops open with a gentle swing. 

Gabriel and I can’t help but look at each other again. I imagine we are thinking the same thing—what the Hell is this? What kind of storage facility has a secret passageway? What person needs a secret passageway in a storage facility?

It is doubtful the answers are innocent.               

Taking a deep breath, I lean into the space. From the residual light of the flash I can see it is very narrow, not enough to fully stretch one’s arms. However, it is finished with a cement floor and ceiling, and walls covered in gypsum. So this isn’t something Ron created himself like some sort of horror movie character. 

The space, though, is rather horror movie-like. In movies like Barbarian, this is where the audience says, for God’s sake, don’t go in there. 

It’s funny how it turns out there are situations where one does actually go against the instinct to be safe. Both of us know we are going in and seeing where this secret hallway ends up.

We squabble with hand and face signals over who goes first into the abyss, and a quick game of rock-paper-scissors gives me the privilege. I point my mini-flash to the floor and then up to cover the corridor. It’s empty. A moment to listen for anything — electric noises, alarms, footsteps, rat squeaks. Nothing but silence. Perhaps the wind picking up on the outside of the wall. Okay.

Then we go forward. Although it’s been a cool Fall day, the space heats up; our nervousness probably raises the temperature. Thinking about where Ron’s storage space was located in the building in general, I try to keep in mind about how far we are going.

The end of the building turns out to be easy to tell—the construction changes. The smooth sheetrock turns into a rougher and somewhat translucent patchwork. A sudden drop in temperature and sense of fresh air tells us we are outside. The patchwork is like a deer blind sort of construction, a tough material on a thin metal framework.

Again, this doesn’t make sense. If you want to go outside, go outside. Why have a hidden passageway to a further camouflaged passageway?

We exchange puzzled glances while pausing and listening.

Up ahead, there is a rustle. The passageway comes to an end a dozen yards up. The rustle is around that area. 

Gabriel taps his back, where he has his Sig Sauer. I have one too, but did not take mine due to previous unpleasant experiences. Gabriel always has his, due to previous unpleasant experiences. He takes the gun out. 

I creep forward a few steps. Then a few more. Now we can hear a voice. Low intonation, not conversational. Chanting.

Oh, I don’t like that. 

But it’s just one voice. Okay. Maybe it’s Ron.

We have a $2000 Sony camera which films and shoots during nighttime. It’s worth the investment, particularly now. I handle the camera as Gabriel handles the Sig Sauer. 

We step out of the passageway.

To the right is a structure. It’s hard to tell how big it is, but it seems generally similar to a train car. It’s open, and a man is kneeling in a circle, naked. We’ve observed him enough to know it’s Ron. A few candles in jars mark the circle’s perimeter, and it appears to be drawn with red paint.

He starts speaking and we almost fall over from being startled. But he’s not talking to us. He’s chanting. No language, I know (a little Spanish, conversational French, and some German) nor Gabriel (fluent in Spanish).

“Give this to me now,” Ron cries in English, holding his arms out. 

We look at each other again. 

We’re both holding our breath, waiting to see what happens.

Nothing.

Okay, so he’s high on something and this is his kink. Whatever—

“EEEEeeeeoookkkeeeeoook…ahhhhhrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRR…”

Both of us stumble back from the horrid, loud, unearthly noise. It rises from behind the train car. Ron does not seem to react other than tilting his head slightly.

We’ve bumped into the camo frame and huddle together. “A recording, maybe?” Gabriel whispers, the gun now shaking a little.

“Could be, high fidelity.”

The unearthly noise stops. Now Ron is standing, and he walks to the far side of the structure and pushes, opening a panel that has been built into it. He peers out as if expecting…something. 

I’m still recording; since Ron’s attention is firmly on the space outside, I move beyond the patchwork to see what’s around the other side of the car. Gabriel follows. We both try to walk as silent as possible, not just because of Ron. The air feels heavier for some reason.

There is a bit of a clearing behind the train car; we can see it through the trees. There’s nothing there and yet…I don’t know, it feels weird. 

Ron is chanting. I can’t make out the words or language but it sounds serious enough to be unnerved. I have a thing about the power of words spoken. Well, it’s on the recording and we can figure it out later. 

“I’m here,” Ron says clearly.

Both of us are tense. He’s here–who’s he expecting?

No sound; that horrible alien noise has stopped. Just the sounds of the woods at night. Which is enough–the crackle of an animal’s foot on a branch, leaves rustling from a breeze–to make us jump a little. 

And then something…is there. Just there. No entrance, no noise, just presence. The woods in back of the train car are darker, perhaps due to the candles inside. But suddenly they are darker still. When I was a kid, my ma had an old TV with little knobs to adjust the sound, and for the picture, vertical, horizontal (just like in The Outer Limits), and brightness. I was delighted to use that to make the old 1960s or 70s shows look like a 1940s noir movie. You could even black out the screen entirely, and that’s what it looks like here. The screen is blacked out behind the car. Like the light and space was sucked dead away.

It’s not dead space though, it’s a presence. Thicker, shifting almost. Like millions of tiny pixels come together to create a cloud. I can’t see it so much in the viewfinder of the camera but I can when I look up. I can read it in my mind and the black is mixed with red, and it’s angry. Even without a shape, even if this is what Ron is expecting, it feels us, I’m sure of it. And it’s turning to seek us.

Invisible tendrils fanning out, becoming spaced and tiny to locate prey, so they may wind around it and hold it for the master.

The wood noises stop. Animals aren’t stupid like humans; something wrong manifests and they hightail the fuck outta there.

As we do, because we aren’t stupid either. 

Glad to be wearing trainers, we are running pell-mell through the woods. Forget the storage area; we both are more or less heading in the direction of the car. My leg suddenly gets a hitch; this happens from where I was injured. I can’t help but stumble. Gabriel looks over his shoulder and stops, reaches back and grabs my hand, then my waist. He helps me hobble along. It hurts like fuck and I’m gasping for air. But we can’t stop. God knows what is behind us at this point. 

The car is just visible across the street in the pullout. As we reach the boundary of trees lining this side of the road, a faint howl raises in the distance behind us. Hard to tell if it’s Ron, or even human or otherwise but it sounds simultaneously angry and sad. 

Jumping in. Gabriel starts the car and accidentally guns the pedal before putting it in gear. He takes a deep breath, shifts, releases the brake and peels out.

“You know,” he says, voice a bit trembly, “I think we can go home now.”

“You know,” I say, reaching for a secret pack of cigs in my bag. “I agree.”

###

September 12

Manhattan

6 pm

“Are you having fun yet?” Ella asks me.

“Well, I think I’m out of my element.”

“Meet some people! You’re just studying the posters!” 

True, I am studying the posters. So is Geneva. We are Ella’s guests. Ella Tanji works for Public Broadcasting in NYC, producing prestige shows about the arts. She often gets invites to cultural events as a matter of course. This one is in conjunction with a couple of films being broadcast on the local PBS station, as well as a documentary. As a friend who knows my fondness for movies, particularly horror, sci-fi, and avant-garde, she’s invited Geneva and myself to a film retrospective of one of my favorite directors, Joran Vang, a Swedish national who started his career in the 1980s.

Joran Vang is part of the avant-garde school of intense, disturbing, expressionistic melodrama that includes Jodorowsky, Noe, Haneke, Antoniak, Greenaway, Fassbinder, Wenders, von Trotta, Pasolini, Von Trier, and Lynch. I am a huge film buff and in particular for sci-fi, horror, and that kind of avant-garde. In Vang’s work, I found symbolism and a narrative whimsy in Vang’s artistry I really like. Most of my friends don’t care for such films, although Geneva is game to watch one on occasion. 

Geneva grins at me. She knows I’m not terribly social. We’re hanging out in the opulent lobby of the New York Academy of Cinema Arts theater, which is the de rigueur place to have such retrospectives. Some of the movies are very hard to get a hold of and forget streaming. So it’s been a great experience, especially when the films are playing and no one expects me to be engaging in small talk. 

It’s the final day of a three-day event, four films per day, and talks in between. We just finished the second film for the day, and we’re waiting for the third. Vang himself is going to speak before it shows. A famous film critic will speak before and after the final movie as Vang has to catch a flight out for some personal reason.

Ella has been mingling in a way I’m honestly envious of. I can be personable when it’s called for, but it’s not as effortless as she makes it. I should try harder, as one never knows when art and culture muckety-mucks need private investigation services. But my inherent introvertedness kicks in and I become more interested in the art on the walls. Geneva, my friend, roommate, and our agency’s part-time help, is more outgoing but she’s also looking at the posters, as poster restoration is her artistic passion. 

“Oh,” Ella says, spotting someone, and rushes off a bustle of silk and satin.

“It’s nice she took us instead of Jim,” Geneva says, examining an original poster of an old German Expressionist silent movie. She’s referring to Jim Pollan, Ella’s husband. He is an attorney who sometimes does work for us and sometimes gives us work. 

“It’s football season; the Giants are playing tonight. Jim wouldn’t leave the apartment if it meant the firing squad.”

Geneva shakes her head. “Are you familiar with this next Vang film?”

I have to think about it, whether I’ve seen it when I was in a film club in college, or I just know it from the many movie books I have. “I can’t remember, so probably not.”

Ella comes bustling back, her long black hair swinging from a topknot. “Come on, I’ve got a treat for you!”

That means talking to someone. As not-very-social person I back away. “Ah, well…” but she’s stronger than she looks for a small woman, and pulls me through the lobby with Geneva following. 

We end up in a circle of three or four people. A tall 60ish white man with glasses and longish gray hair turns and smiles at us. The other people say something about how great Ella’s work on something something something was. But Ella waves that away. “These are my good friends Veronica and Geneva. They’re both private investigators. Veronica is the one I mentioned who is a huge fan of yours. They are very knowledgeable about pagan and witchcraft history.”

The tall man is Joran Vang. 

My mouth falls open to say something intelligent, artistic, witty, and mysterious, but only manages, “Pleased to meet you…”

Seems to be enough. He holds out a hand. “Ah, same in turn. Ella helped me out this week, and she had much to say about you being a sort of Olivia Dunham.” He then greets Geneva as I blush deeply from being compared to the protagonist of Fringe. I feel more like Carl Kolchak, aiming to be Camille Delaunay from The Crimson Rivers, but no matter. Ella would have made a top-notch publicist. 

Then some chitchat, mostly steered by Ella, on his being in New York, how he’s had a good time, grateful for the retrospective, he’s working on a new project. I dare to mention my favorite film of his, Sunspot Station, and luckily it seems to be a good choice. He asks a question about witch lore in Medieval vs. Renaissance times, and I’m surprised I have an answer, giving some points on common magic and learned magic and the origin of witches on brooms. 

“I knew it,” Ella laughs. 

“That is helpful,” Vang says. “And you do investigations?”

“I have a natural love of seeking out information.” I laugh nervously at my non-joke.

He takes my hand again. “That is very cool. I would like to know more at some time. Ah, it’s time for the talk. I do apologize I have to leave right after.”

Ella grips my arm. “Your card, Vevi.”

I scramble to find one in the messenger bag I have, spill them on the rug, and smile awkwardly as the other rich muckety-mucks pick them up, which seems to amplify my clumsiness. As red as a Starbucks strawberry açaí Refresher, I thrust a business card at Vang, who accepts gracefully with a gentle smile, which seems genuine and warm, and finally I’m ready to go hide in the theater and watch his film.

ƔƔƔ

September 15

Manhattan, Wall Street area

8:45 pm

 —Are you going to MagiCon? I think you should. 

I’m on some late evening tasks at the Spartan NYC headquarters; Spartan is a regular Gotham client, a software company. I’m in a darkened conference room writing some notes, and texting back and forth with my roommate Geneva. I smile slightly at the encouragement to attend the convention, which is for aficionados of what one might call the occult, or hermeticism, and also stage magic. I love both topics. I look at my notes and sigh.

 —I don’t know. Have a lot to do.

—What else is new? Who knows what might happen in the future and you’re the boss. It’s open another two hours—go! Think about it. I gotta get back to my stuff. 

Geneva is working on her bookbinding and poster restoration orders in her tiny rented studio.

Hmmm…I have a hard time giving myself a break, and also give myself a hard time for not relaxing more when I have a chance. My work phone rings, interrupting the reverie. 

“Mx. Gianni? Hello again. This is Joran Vang.I am calling as I’d like to have a consultation with you for a task within your framework.”

I almost drop the phone. No one is in the conference room, but I silently yell out to imaginary people, He called me back! 

“Gosh it’s nice hearing from you. It was great to meet you…uh, what did you have in mind?” I spill a couple of papers and pens on the floor in haste to grab a legal pad and flip furiously in search of a blank page. I manage this without dropping the phone, but cringe inside at the “gosh.” 

“Yes, I liked meeting you as well. So, I need some set-up information on witchcraft, Wicca, occult-related imagery and rituals. I’ve read your online writing about it. Quite different from private investigations, but very learned.”

“Thank you.” I’m alone but blush again. “What did you need this for?”

“For a film I’m making. Remember I asked you about witch lore? It’s along those lines. Not like Robert Eggers’The Witch, which I loved, but a different interpretation. More like Penny Dreadful.”

I draw in a breath. “It sounds terrific. I wish I was already in a theater watching it.”

He chuckles. His voice has a bit of rasp like a burr on a metal rod. “Let’s hope so. If I can arrange for you to see it early I will. So for me, a set-up is writing, visuals, kind of being a librarian and teacher at the same time. The story is a synthesis of stage magic and hermeticism. You’ve written on both. The story is personal to me. Can we meet today or tonight to discuss this further? I’m on a bit of a tight schedule.”

“Sure thing. Well…I was going to this event tonight; it is the last night it’s happening, but…it’s related—MagicCon. Have you ever been? We can meet there and talk while browsing. Say, around 8 pm. The West Side Hotel Convention Center. They still have tickets at the door; it’s not like ComicCon.”

Joran Vang chuckles. “That sounds quite appropriate. I’ll see you there, then.”

“Thank you, see you then. Bye.” I snap my mouth shut and end the call.

I scrape up the scattered paper and pens, then hurry to the elevator banks. Holy fuck, working for Joran Vang. Who can I tell first? I snicker to myself over the sudden fanboyism. Although Ella and Geneva know who he is, from any of my other friends Vang’s name would only earn a polite puzzled look. No matter, I know who he is. 

The elevator hits the lobby. As the door opens, music is audible from Split Enz on Joel’s iPad, connected to a portable bluetooth speaker. I had forgotten he was working tonight. Joel is an artist, and my partner Gabriel’s boyfriend. New Wave music from the Eighties is my thing, something I share with Joel. Spartan CEO Travis Churchill is one of Joel’s patrons, and commissioned him to create a mural in the lobby. Joel and I therefore run into each other even more than usual, which can be the proverbial blessing or curse, depending on my mood. He knows I’m here; that’s why the music. Baby Boy casting a lure. I shake my head with an amused grin. 

He’s lost in thought so I might be able to sneak out. First I check my phone to make sure no emergencies have arisen. When I look up, Joel is standing there, arms crossed, splattered in paint. He’s about my height, 5’9. and a couple years younger, blondish with a neat goatee and dark blue eyes.

I give him a fake suspicious look. “Christ, I should put a bell on you.”

He smiles, taking my hand. “Part of my street skills includes being ninja-quiet. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I shrug that off and we embrace. Joel says in my ear, “You’re leaving?”

Much implication in those words. Tonight though, I don’t want to get into that dynamic. “Yes, a new client.”

“You sure? Even for a few minutes…” He knows how to be seductive. 

But I have suddenly found some energy, and it’s not sexual energy. It’s a synthesis of excitement to see MagiCon, and my favorite filmmaker. “I’m sure, Baby Boy.”

Joel is irked at that nickname, but I can tease him as no one else is allowed to. He gives up without a fuss and goes back to painting.

ƔƔƔ

West Side

9:30 pm

I arrive at MagiCon around 9:35. A little over 90 minutes left in this event, but it’s my own. I quickly buy a ticket, and stop to breathe. This earns a little laugh that I was considering not coming and working instead. This was like going through arcade game levels of Ms. Pac-Man to have some me-time.

I don’t see Vang anywhere as yet. After scanning up and down the aisles, I start visiting tables and exhibits. My attention turns to finding some interesting stuff. One impulse book buy becomes two, three, four, and also a few old magazines from the Seventies: Man, Myth and Magic. Then my phone goes off. Vang? No. Baby Boy again. He should know better. I mutter out loud, “Fuck that noise.”

“Is that a spell, perhaps, Mx. Gianni?”

I turn to see Joran smiling at me wryly. He wears a denim shirt with his steel-frame spectacles sticking out the breast pocket. His most striking feature is his dark blue eyes. 

My eyes are blue-gray and I suppose these are a good feature of mine. Despite a rough year, I’ve worked to keep in good shape and posture, but I’m not thin-thin. My hair is growing out from an impulsive punk haircut so in a short ponytail, a mix of burgundy and brown waves. I wear my standard square-toed boots under flared black pants, and a lavender t-shirt under a long leather jacket. I have fairly broad shoulders and a small bust. I had gender-affirmation surgery (breast reduction) a little over nine months ago.

I hold my hand out. “It is now. It’s my new mantra.”

“It becomes you.” He gazes at me for a minute, making me wary.  “Your website photos don’t do you justice.”

 “I like them vague in case I need to go undercover. I forgot to mention I’m an aficionado of your work and what you’ve brought in with queer themes.” I blush, noting my diction change to impress him. Just saying I’m a fan seems cheap. Vang is gay, and had spoken at length about how being closeted as a youth had influenced his themes of hiding, truth, and repression. I relate to that.

Vang smiles with a twinkle in those Nordic eyes. “Well, thank you. Many people confuse me with Lars van Trier, or on better days, Michael Haneke.”

If he is testing me, I’m ready. “I’m ‘meh’ about van Trier except for Dogville, or maybe Antichrist. Haneke’s Funny Games and Cache were intense and terrific but I could only watch them once. I started watching your work in an art house cinema in the early Nineties. I saw Consume three times to try to get all the details. I still try to get people to watch Telltale. I tell them, if you like Greenaway, or Come and See, Vang’s films are accessible and intelligent…” 

Feeling like I’m babbling, I trail off. But Vang laughs.

“Thank you. You were at the retrospective so I guessed you knew something about what I did–or you were dragged there. Perhaps this is synchronicity. I’m now a fan of your work as well. You don’t have pretensions, but you’re knowledgeable and serious without being dogmatic.”

“No one can say there’s only one interpretation of a spirituality.”

“But many will try, yes? How did you become interested in magic?”

“My mom. We lived in a bohemian area of Seattle. We actually moved from where I was born in Virginia, because it was conservative and she was seeking out something more free-spirited. She was fascinated with the history of magic and witchcraft, and wanted to build a case for a feminine principle of the universe. I read everything she read and then more. Old, new, serious, exploitative. I would research what I didn’t understand. I fell down a lot of rabbit holes, but they were all interesting.”

“I’ll bet. I’d love to hear about them. Are you still looking around here?” 

“Oh, we can talk now if you like. I’ll walk out with a table’s worth of stuff if I don’t watch out.”

Vang then indicates they should move to the small concession area. He offers to buy me a glass of wine. I accept a plastic cup of burgundy.

“Veronica, I think you would be exactly what I’m looking for to help with my film. Would you be willing to consider a consultant arrangement?”

I don’t hesitate. “Fuck yeah. When do we start?”

Vang laughs. “Soon. I do the bulk of my research before filming. I like to get things moving; I’m a logistics person. You have the time?”

For a few seconds, I’m ready to jump on a plane and go anywhere. When Vang asks if I have time, Gotham’s obligations come to mind.  

Vang studies my face. “I have a good feeling about you. We can work with your schedule.”

I remember Geneva’s admonitions to do more things for myself. Don’t let this slip away. “I would like to, sure. I can find the time. I can find it.”

“You are working on cases? You and your partner?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m looking to get help, but I want to do this. I need something of my own. A separate project. I mean, I have one, with my roommate Geneva, we’re collecting info on murdered trans people…”

“Ah, tell me about that.” 

We finish the wine and move back to the tables, and as I continue to look through various books and objects, I tell Vang about the website Geneva and I work on. We collect and crowdsource information on violence and murders of transgender and gender nonbinary/nonconforming persons. 

Vang gently lays a hand on my shoulder. “That is a powerful project. So, listen. The media group Memento has a slot open for me on their channel, to do a mini-documentary. I would like to focus on you.”

“Me.” I start to laugh and stop.

“Why not?”

Despite being distracted I spot an old book with a lot of terrific Medieval engravings. I snap it up while answering. “I’m not usually the one in the news.”

“I’m not sure what you…Oh, meaning your partner, Gabriel. Yes, I know. He has been a media target quite often. No offense to him, but I’m more interested in you and your project. You, Mx. Gianni, for the project and your interesting writing on magic. I like the heart you have in it. I’m an atheist, but you make me want  to believe in the potential of magic, for my movie.” 

I nod, my heart pounding. “So, what would this involve? Gabriel was filmed for some programs about the Don Mathers case. I was privy to some of that and got an idea of how it worked…” Don Mathers was a serial killer we managed to stop and by whom Gabriel was deeply traumatized. 

“I saw that. With Walter Cleveland, right? I’d try to be as unobtrusive as possible. What we film probably depends upon what you are doing now, but I’d like to get started. They left the topic up to me, because my name is supposed to be a draw. Taking care of some related business, I’d say we start in a month.”

“I hear you. That gives me time to work on my staffing. Is there a film crew for the doc?”

“Myself, maybe a couple others. Documentaries do not necessarily need crews to be on location but some planned shots will have them. You and I would map this out. I don’t, as my mother would say, gå som katten kring het gröt–walk like a cat around hot porridge. I’m direct. Is your arrangement with Mr. Ross such that you need his sign-off?”

“I’m direct as well. No, I do not. In any case, while we share a lot, we also respect each other’s individual ventures. And the witch movie, what is your theme, or your perspective on it, so to speak?”

“I mentioned it was witch-positive. It’s a story that takes place in three time periods surrounding a book of magic. Each person finds some way to approach the book and what it can teach them. One time period is in the 17th Century, around the same time as Witchfinder General. That’s deliberate. I’m kind of doing a re-take on that movie. I’ll tell you something; my father was in film production. He worked in England and was a camera assistant on that film. I was there once as a young boy and I’m sure I met Michael Reeves, the director. He died the next year, you know. My dad says I met Vincent Price but I don’t remember. I remember Michael. This kind of haunts me and I’m deliberately touching upon it. So aside from the 17th Century and witch-finding, the other eras are the 1960s and a director making such a film, and the so-called Dark Ages, where the book would have been written.”

“I so want to be watching this right now.” I luxuriate in the beauty of the moment as Vang–a famous fucking film director–puts his number in my phone and takes mine, saying he’ll text me in a couple days to discuss more. “Is that okay?”

Is that okay…Jesus. Karma works, maybe. The doc project is risky, balanced by what might be helped in our mission by exposure. But the movie, working title of Sorcery, is like a dream out of nowhere. 

ƔƔƔ

Three weeks later.

September 22 9:17 am

I’m at home in the Chelsea apartment I share with Geneva, engrossed in typing up notes to send to Joran. My desk is covered in books and legal pads. Many books I had, some I’ve bought for the occasion. Sometimes I look up at a photo on my desk, that of my mother. Mom still lives in Seattle, and is thrilled that I have this gig with Joran, although like a mom she does not get Joran films. But she is supportive.  “You’ll get a kick out of this, Ma,” I mutter. 

My leg is starting to get sore. I was shot there on Halloween of last year, and my head was grazed by a bullet. The scars are still visible. Very neat stitches from a man named Mr. Zest, who is the kind of guy who could handle stitching someone up and then help take down a secret society he once was a fixer for. I touch my head, feeling the scar through my hair in that area. Zest has dropped from sight, not that he was much of one to have a public presence. He works with Gabriel’s dad now, and sometimes he’ll reach out to say hi. I’m not sure why.

I don’t remember being shot, but do remember the attack on myself and Gabriel prior to the shooting. It gives me a heightened sense of vigilance, and I’m already hypervigilant from other experiences in my past. 

Hypervigilance translates every sound in a nighttime hallway as danger. 

Tonight’s not the night. I want to be able to sleep. I get up and go to my bedroom. I have medical marijuana tincture in my nightstand. And some regular marijuana when smoking will work better. I try not to smoke cigarettes any more, the night at the storage facility notwithstanding. I take out a rosewood carved box and begin carefully rolling a joint. After carefully sealing the cigarette, I meticulously smooth it out and flick a lighter. While I do so, I hear some strange echo behind the sound of the lighter.

The joint and lighter go down silently and I tilt my head toward the living room. Listen. Always pay attention to that little voice, that intuition that lets you know something is wrong. Listen.

The hallway floors in the building are tile. These were recently replaced, but there’s a spot in front of the apartment door that sags a bit, a half inch or so, and the tile covering squeaks ever so slightly when stepped upon. I don’t hear footfalls, but then the squeak happens again…just barely audible, amplified by the hallway acoustics. 

It’s an old building. Creaks and tics abound. But not in the hallway. If footsteps aren’t audible, someone’s sneaking around. Sneaking around is rarely for a good reason. I move quietly to the alcove in the living room where a laptop is always on, and connected to a camera outside the door, hidden in a decorative applique. An addition to our apartment after the attack last year. 

I press a button to wake up the laptop and open the security camera feed. A male figure is about a foot from the apartment door. 

Hearing a rustle of fabric nearby, I look over my shoulder. Geneva is peeking around the corner of the alcove. Geneva is my age, an inch or so taller, a bit broader. She has dark brown hair with a reddish glint, now in a loose ponytail of waves. Her eyes are dark brown under shaped full brows. Her nose and jaw are a bit strong, softened by hormones after her transition. She has olive skin; recent investigations into her birth father turned up Lebanese ancestry. 

We lock eyes. Geneva mouths, “What’s going on?”

I point to the laptop as Geneva moves closer to me. I keep my voice barely audible as sound carries through apartment doors.

“I don’t know why this person is here. If I should call the police. Or just yell and scare them off.”

Geneva puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’ll be gone by the time the police show. Let’s find out what he looks like. We could jump out at him but I think it would work better if I get behind him.” She indicates the fire escape. “I can climb down to the fourth floor hall, and come up behind him.”

I’m concerned this is too dangerous. But ultimately, letting this stalker go is not good—we’ll be constantly wondering. In seconds, Geneva and I have agreed to a strategy. Geneva goes to the living room window with the fire escape and opens it. The mechanisms are oiled for quick access. Geneva moves quietly down the stairs, Army training slipping back in her mind and body. She has no fear of heights, so making like Spider-Man from the fourth-floor railing to the open hallway window is only moderately difficult. 

I can see her in the camera. From the hall, she carefully scopes out the stairwell and creeps up much like our cats stalk a stray mouse. She can see the man hovering near our apartment door. He’s trying to listen, perhaps to see if we are still up. 

I start making faint noises within the apartment, mumbling, to distract him, so Geneva can inch close. Geneva was in the Army, and she told me that mentally, one imagines being part of the surrounding area, so that even thinking about being a separate entity can’t somehow catch the target’s attention.  

I’ve moved the laptop closer to the door to watch, and when Geneva is within a foot of the man, I loudly thump the front door. The man jumps back and Geneva drives her shoulder into him, causing him to bounce back into the door. Geneva then hooks her foot around his leg and brings him down. 

Before he’s completely on the floor she’s on his back, pinning his arms. I yank the door open and am out with my licensed Smith and Wesson. 

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer, just tries to struggle out of Geneva’s grip. He’s bigger, but she knows how to use leverage. 

“Stop moving.”

“You’re not going to shoot me,” he mutters. “You’re not the type.” 

“Don’t bet your life on that. I have a friend who will gladly dispose of your body, no trace. No one will miss you.”

This is true; Mr. Zest likes me and Geneva very much, and would come himself or send a proxy to clean up, if it came to that. 

The man believes me. He switches tactics. “I thought this was a friend’s place; it was a mistake.”

Geneva says flatly, “Search him for ID.”

I cautiously pat him down one-handed. He has no identification, but I take pictures of his back and arm tattoos and his face. While I slip my phone in my pocket, a group of people from the fourth floor leave an apartment and come noisily down the stairs. The man takes the opportunity to wrest away from us and tear down the stairs ahead.

We look at each other and Geneva waves it away. No sense in going after him; he’d be long gone by the time they got out. Likely no one will come back. 

“You okay?” Geneva asks.

“Of course. You had my back.”

“Always.”

I extend a hand to help Geneva up. We hug each other. “It’s synchronicity being here together,” Geneva says. “Tomorrow we’ll brainstorm precautions and strategies for any trouble.”

ƔƔƔ

September 24

I meet Joran outside of Morgan Library, a museum and research center, and one of my favorite places in the city. I need to be in such places to regain a measure of calm. I had spent a couple hours inside, and then sat outside for an hour or so after the Morgan closed. A jazz quartet played inside Gilbert Court today, featuring many of Duke Ellington’s standards. The band continues in the mini plaza outside the Court, playing for donations to a local food bank. I copped a spot on a side wall after dropping a tip in the band’s jar. I have to sit at times because of my injured leg. 

Joran joins me as the band shifts into a new song, the leader of the quartet dipping his trumpet in my direction. Joran listens for a few minutes. 

“I can’t place this.”

I smile. “Soundtrack to Anatomy of a Murder.”

“Of course! This isn’t one I hear too often.”

“I asked them to. I have a hobby of studying soundtracks.”

“Quite a lot interesting about you, Veronica.”

I shrug. I start to automatically demur, then tell myself not to do so. “Thank you.”

“So what is going on?”

“Something came up that was disturbing.” I go on to describe the previous night’s invasion. Joran grows increasingly concerned. 

“You have no idea who this was?”

“We ran the photos through Google image. No hits, but Geneva is going to continue to look on social media.”

Joran frowns staring off into space. “So soon after we started working together.”

“Don’t worry, I’m still working on the next section and I’ll have that for you tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know why I’d been held up.”

He turns toward me. “Of course, of course. I wasn’t thinking of that. I was concerned over your safety. Such a strange encounter.”

I laugh a bit. “I’ve been privy to some very strange encounters. I would like to know what’s behind this, certainly. We get stalker-like people from time to time.” 

Joran nods slowly. “Well…yes, I have those myself. Persons who’ve misinterpreted my work, or perhaps saw too deeply into it. How you described what happened…you and Geneva handled things very well.”

“Thank you. Perhaps we could discuss what I’ve prepared thus far and what format you’d like it in for your own work.”

“Ah, yes, well. We could. I need to pick up some materials from an organization down on Chrystie Street. I believe there’s a hotel nearby; we could have a meeting in the lounge if that sounds okay.”

“Sure.”

“Then come along with me.”

I text Geneva where we’re going and then join Joran in heading for the subway at Herald Square to catch the F train down to the Bowery. I’m accompanying him to a toney arts organization cocktail event which is in the grand floor lobby of the New Museum. Joran graciously introduces me to a man and woman who give the impression of being NYC elite. The man gives a nod and a smile—I’m a nobody, but I might donate. His name is Davis Woodrow, and he’s white, late fifties, chunky and gray hair, tweed jacket. The woman is a bit older, white, dark hair shot through with gray, olive skin, lovely pants suit. She is surprisingly direct in her gaze, offering a strong hand. I take it, and she seems sincere in asking about me. Her name is Lillith, and says she’s read about me. 

The man raises his eyebrows as if Lillith had admitted she read porn. I figure they’re being nice because I’m with a cool European artist, and he acts like I’m a friend. I  imagine they wouldn’t give them a second glance on the street, but that is okay.  

Woodrow snaps his fingers and says, “Oh, I’ve seen you. Joran is making a program about you.” He sounds a little jealous. “It must be nice to get that sort of exposure.”

I nod emphatically. “It sure is. The women who were murdered deserve to have an acknowledgment of their lives and some chance of finding the killers.”

My voice may be a bit sharper than intended. Woodrow hastily agrees that the purpose of Joran’s program on my project has an admirable motivation. Lillith has a tiny, genuine smile at his backtracking. She asks me for a card and says, “I’ll get in touch with you at some point,” touching my hand briefly before drifting off. I’ve heard that before, but I felt she was sincere. 

In any case, the schmoozing Joran has obtained his needed materials. I get the sense that he’s also networked for some permits or something like that. I didn’t listen in on his convos but remained near the bar set-up for free apps and a beer. But I pick up a word or two in passing.

 Joran eventually comes over to let me know he’s ready and we walk out. The early evening has turned overcast, threatening rain, and is darker than usual for almost 8 pm. In the daytime, the block with the museum is charmingly Bohemian. At night, not so much. The shadows cast from buildings and doorways lengthen as we head further down Bowery to a mailbox Joran needs. 

“I hope that did not bother you,” Joran says as we walk. “They mean well. Limousine liberals are sometimes awkward. But as I understand, they do a lot for making sure arts remain a major part of the City budget; more difficult since COVID.”

“Thank you, I’m sure that’s the case. I’m a bit touchy about the implication that my project is somehow personally beneficial.”

Joran smiles. “I intend for it to be in a sense, with this and your work to help my film. I found your research most interesting the other day…” Joran then describes how he is applying some of my Wiccan research. I’m following along rather pleased, but then I feel a strange tickle at the back of my neck. 

I pause to pretend to look in my backpack, using that as an excuse to look around. About 100 feet behind us, a dark blue panel van rolls along quietly, and stops as I glance at it. 

When I was young, my mom and I would have a shared joke about such ‘murder vans’ we would see on the street. But Ma was serious about never getting in cars with strangers. The van rolling along with the two of us walking triggers warning bells for me again, especially after the would-be intruder. 

“Let’s go around the corner,” I say to Joran as he drops the letter in.

He’s puzzled, but follows me down Rivington (East-West) to Chrystie (North-South). I scan the street quickly. Sarah D. Roosevelt Park, 7 blocks long, is to our right. A row of empty closed buildings on our left. I look behind us. The van is creeping around the corner of Rivington.

“Follow me,” I tell Joran, and run across the street, Joran following.  I don’t hesitate but run right into the park. My thigh begins to throb sharply, but I keep going further into the park, up a set of steps and around some trees. 

“What–what’s going on,” Joran is breathing heavily behind me.

I sense danger. I don’t like the looks of that van. Why do I feel a little absurd about intuition? I know when something is wrong. I know. Believe in that. 

“Whoever is in that van wants to try to hurt us.” I say it without inflection, almost without thought. But it’s true. 

Joran hears it, and believes it. In fact, I’m rather surprised just how quickly he believes me. It goes through my mind that he’s been in this situation before. He moves closer to me. “What should we do?”

I have my phone out and am ready to call Gabriel or Geneva. Gabriel should be home, and he’s closest. Past experience leaves me reluctant to try 911, as with the attempted break-in.  

“We’ll see if they stop and get out. For now, let’s blend in the foliage.” 

The shadows are on our side. It would be difficult for anyone on the street to be able to spot us in the trees, with no direct light. The van does stop and idle about a dozen yards up the block. Three figures in black get out of the van and head up the set of stairs. They still don’t see us. Two of them go towards the other side of the park and Forsyth Street. 

I tap Joran’s hand and move back toward the park’s Golden Age Center. Behind the center is a garden, which is gated and locked from the public. However, a tree by the gate was hit by lightning and split. It provides enough of a lever to climb over the fence. After checking that we are covered from the van, I motion to Joran and go over. Joran follows, and we crouch in a thicket of flowers.

It’s a good spot. We can see the van, and hear the two men on the other side. Those men and the one on the Chrystie side walk up and down the park. 

Meanwhile, some kids arrive at the south end of the park for a late night pickup basketball game. Too risky for the van stalkers, and they gather back at the vehicle. After conferring for a minute, one takes something out of a pocket and draws on the sidewalk. Then they get back in the van.
The van then revs its engine and tears down the street. 

“It wasn’t worth trying to search for us,” I say. We stand up and cautiously move from the flowers. After taking a little time to observe the street we finally climb back up the fence. A little more difficult to get out with the spikes, but we help each other. I move to the sidewalk to see what the one man wrote.

It’s black chalk, pretty unusual. He drew a symbol—a cross with a hook at the bottom, and what looks like a half-drawn star under the arms. The symbol is vaguely familiar to me although I can’t place it at the moment. I take out my phone to snap a photo.

After checking that I got a good shot, I notice Joran is standing next to me. He is staring intensely at the symbol. The expression on his face is shock mixed with horror.

He recognizes this.

I start to ask him about it, and he abruptly grabs my hand and pulls me along the street to the corner, then lets go and steps out in the street waving his arms. A cab pulls up and he yanks open the door and motions to me.

I assume he’s getting in with me, but Joran gives the driver two twenties and tells him to take me back to the West Side. 

“I’ll need to talk to you later,” he says, and then shuts the door and walks away quickly.

Stunned, I give my address to the driver, and then imagine question marks floating above my head, trying to figure out what all this means. 

ƔƔƔ

C H A P T E R  T W O A murder of crows

September 26

It is, thank the spirits of the universe, a quiet day. Chris Szala came in early, knowing I needed help with some tech issues for some regular clients, and to set up some research pathways for new clients. Like myself, Chris is a nonbinary, omnisexual person. They’ve been finding their way with pronouns, having used ze/zim but recently feeling more comfortable with they/them. Chris is white with Mediterranean complexion; Hungarian father, Greek mother. Chris is reedy and tall, with black hair. I like to tease them that they stole Tim Curry’s eyes. Chris goes back over 15 years with Joel, from Joel’s street living days. They both engaged in recreational hacking. Joel moved on to artistic activities. Eventually Chris got into freelance IT for systems analysis. They’ve been invaluable for Gotham. Chris’s gender fluidity is not being male or female, while mine is feeling both. Nonetheless, Chris became very close to me out of a camaraderie of fluidity understanding. 

Chris also casually browsed the set of guides I had prepared for Joran. “This is great stuff. I want a copy, too.”

I laugh. Chris’s belief that I can do no wrong is a gratifying boost. “I’ll make you a copy once I finish Joran’s.”

“Maybe I can be an intern for you to help?”

“You don’t have too much on your plate?”

They wave a dismissive hand at their laptop. “This is child’s play. I got time.” 

Before I can respond further, their phone rings. It’s Joran, finally. I hear strain in his voice. “I’m sorry I have taken so long to call or speak to you…I was so shocked by what happened, and it’s happened to you twice already.”

“Well, thank you for checking. It hasn’t been that long.”

“It seems long to me. I’m not used to this, really. Are you taking precautions?”

“Yes. I haven’t checked in myself because I’ve been trying to find any connection behind why someone is targeting me.”

“It started after we began working together. Now I have to wonder if there is a connection.”

I already wonder about that. “Nothing has happened to you, no suspicious people or whatnot?”

“Not that I’m aware. I’m renting a house in Westchester as I mentioned. The production offices are fairly secure. Of course I don’t really know. You do this for a living. Maybe you could…how would you put it…review my security?”

“Sure. I think that’s a wise idea while I’m trying to find out what this is all about.”

  “Fantastico. We should meet and talk about that. Actually…I have to say…”

He trails off. A few seconds later I prompt him. “Please go on. Is something the matter?”

“Yes, actually. I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

A pause on my part. Little good ever comes after that line. Somehow, I know this already that he hasn’t told me all I need to know. 

“All right. Then it’s time to be honest.”

A sigh on Joran’s part. “Yes. I want to talk with you about that–and to have you look into something, a matter from my past that involves…black magic. It was what I originally thought of hiring you for.”

I let that bit of news turn over in my mind.

“Black magic. So why not tell me about that matter first?”

“I should have. I guess I did not want you to feel like this was a pretextual project, that the witchery and magic consultation was just a sideline.”

“Like I feel now, you mean.”

“Please do not–I am sorry again, I shouldn’t tell you how to feel. Just to say I’ve been incredibly impressed thus far with what you’ve given me to work from. Just when I saw what those people wrote on the sidewalk…”

“You recognized it, right? I did too.”

“You know the symbol?”

“Remember I told you I used to read about this stuff as a kid. I looked it up yesterday to be sure. It’s from a group that started in the Seventies called Vex.”

“That’s right, yes. That’s how I saw it.”

“So Vex is the group that has to do with the matter from your past. Were you a member?”

“No, no. It’s not like that. Will you hear me out?”

“Of course. You want to talk now, or would you like to meet?”

“I would be pleased to buy you dinner now, or just drinks if you prefer. I’m at Union Square in the production offices. I appreciate that you are willing to do so.”

“I’m in Midtown. There’s a Thai place on East 18th I like if you’re good with that.” I note that Chris is both listening to my conversation and texting someone. 

I give Joran the name of the restaurant and the cross streets, and arrange to meet in an hour. 

Afterward the call ends, Chris’s face betrays intense curiosity while striking a casual pose. “What’s that about black magic?”  

“Joran needs a consultation on it.”

“I want to be in on that conversation.”

I smile. “You have anywhere else to be?”

Chris quickly texts some more, apparently declining another invitation. “Nah, I’m free.”

We arrive at the restaurant and wait at the tiny bar until Joran appears ten minutes later. I introduce Chris as my confidential assistant, and Joran insists on paying for Chris’s dinner as well. 

Joran and I briefly discuss his security. He’s using a production company set up in a building on Union Square that used to be an iconic restaurant. The company hopes to make the area a mini-Hollywood. We arrange for me to come in the following day, and to check out his rental place as well. Chris volunteers themself to accompany me.

I have been feeling a rush of adrenaline all evening waiting to hear what Joran’s other issue with Vex is about. Now he’s ready to tell the tale.

“Veronica, in 1985 I was a young man. I was in the US visiting from Sweden. I had a chance to stay for a while, attending a cinema festival and also a summer film course in New York. My acquaintances and I were into the avant-garde, transgression of boundaries and society mores, that sort of thing. I am still, but for reasons that evolved. It was all very intellectually sophisticated, or so we thought. We were picking up the threads of Rimbaud in the modern age.”

Joran coughs, as if covering embarrassment at the naiveté of youth. “That included exploring outré aspects of religion, such as the occult. So this included Black magic. What some might consider Satanism–at least Satanic aspects. I didn’t believe it. I’m not religious. My grandparents belonged to a fundamentalist church, and my parents were insistent I did not have to follow this. In my own reading I only found more reason to avoid traditional religion. And so I thought that if there is no God, there’s no devil either. I was also rather an admirer of Kenneth Anger. He was a gay avant-garde filmmaker hanging out with fringe people, and I considered fashioning myself similarly.”

“Considering Satanism in a casual way makes sense if one is young, or one is lost–or cynical regarding what is held sacred in society despite hypocrisy.”

Joran nods at my words. “Yes, I can see what you mean about being lost. I was not, but I met many who were. And I toyed with a story about how one who is lost might get in this kind of practice. How one might get in over one’s head, when the shit gets real, so to speak. Now, today, I’d run a hundred miles from satanists as well as those who believe Satan is real and responsible for XYZ evils of society. No matter if the devil is real or not, those who believe he is real–for whatever reason–can be dangerous. Either to expel him or to honor him. The older you get, the less patience with posturing and bullshit drama. 

“But in the hubris of youth I felt above other persons’ petty motives, even if evil, and considered myself a dispassionate artist. I observed and to a limited extent, participated. My contemporary self would be horrified by this sort of reckless karmic actions. Today I would encourage, through film, societal self-examination to question why people turn to the negative side of spirituality. But self-examination has to come with maturity.”

“I see that theme in your movies–confrontation of, in essence, what happens when a serious subject is approached with a ‘dilettante’ attitude.”

“Now you see where all that came from, I guess. At first it was casual discussion, and seeking out persons who claimed to be involved in hardcore groups–cults, really. Some were lying or bragging about their supposed indulgences in evil. So many claimed to be giving Alestier Crowley a run for his money. But there is always someone serious. More serious than, say, death metal groups; Scandinavia has a lot of those. More serious than churches of Satan which now seem more existing to troll conservatives. I mean people who lived this philosophy. The serious ones found me. They were not connected to the braggarts or dilettantes. They actually did things, Veronica.”

“Did you continue to participate?”

“I found my limit. Some people will do things for art or experience, claiming to follow Rimbaud or some such thing. I admit I was with highbrow occultism. Yeats and some people in his circle. Stéphane Mallarmé, Emma Calve, Paul Verlaine, Claude Debussy. I wanted–still want–to make a film on them in the vein of Ken Russell’s work on Mary Shelley.” 

“Gothic. There’s still a lot about that movie I like. Oh, inject me into your movie, now please. I am still interested in highbrow occultism.”  

He laughs. “Really? Maybe I’ll try again if this one is a success.” He stops to write something in a notebook. “I can put allusions to this now, make it a trilogy. Anyway, regarding hurting people, I cannot. Hurting other people falls into the scope of things I don’t believe is right. I’ve known people who have pursued such things, feeling that those who were hurt were acceptable collateral damage because they were not the fittest to survive, an excuse for social Darwinism.”

“Animals too, probably.”

“Yes, as I mentioned, these are people who had a philosophy that they were superior to all beasts. Including most humans. Rules shouldn’t stand in their way. It’s a classic archetype; someone who treats other persons the way we might treat a bug. Turn it over and watch it flail about on its back, helpless. Poke it to see it react, allow it to run and turn it over again, and finally crush it.”

I pick up on the long-dormant feelings Joran is dealing with, including some fear. “I’ve met those people too. In any cult, no matter the level of discourse you can’t stay neutral. You’re with them or you are a danger. Did you get that far?”

“Yes. I found it difficult to stay away from the serious ones because they knew where to find me. One or another would turn up where I was, or in the group of persons I associated with, and approach me for a chat. Finally they asked me for a favor, to film something as an art project. I told them I had to leave the country soon, but they said, do this one thing and you’re cool with us. I agreed just to get rid of them. I thought it would probably be a simple ritual. At the time, I had a, what was it…a JVC GR-C1. It was a brand new state of the art VHS single-unit camcorder. I had been wandering the city filming all sorts of things that summer, feeling like František Vláčil about to make The Devil’s Trap.”

Dinner arrives. We pause to eat, the atmosphere vibrant with suspense, but also having made us hungry. It feels like a scene in one of his films, which often uses food concomitant to other emotions and actions. Turning the conversation over in my mind, I consider the implications of what Joran is leading up to.  

“So what happened,” Joran continues a bit later, “is that I started filming what I thought was a run of the mill ritual at Solstice Park, on one of the group’s sacred holidays. They all wore masks in this group, very dramatic. The leader’s mask was elaborate, with gold horns. They brought out a person in a hood and put her on a stone altar. I thought at worst it would be a sex thing, or maybe they would whip the person with consent. I remember–the leader took out a dagger from his cape. Even from where I was several yards away it looked huge. Some of them took the hood off the woman, who was naked. Maybe she was supposed to be drugged–she wasn’t reacting. When I saw the leader lift the knife I yelled at him. What the hell are you doing! Somebody grabbed me and said, Don’t interfere. But the girl woke up, and she managed to get out of the grip of the people who were trying to tie her to the altar. I charged at the leader in the mask, and the girl ran away in the woods. A group of them chased after her. 

“A couple of the ones still remaining threatened me. They only had pocket knives, so I swung at them with my camera and ran. I ran all the way to Yonkers and took the train back to the city, and hid out until I flew back to Stockholm. I didn’t tell anyone. It wasn’t the bravest thing to do.” 

Joran looks down at his hands. “I would be different, handle things differently now. I better understand accountability. But I was in the middle of nowhere that night and I was so sure in the moment if they all ganged up on me, they would have killed me too. They had told me they knew police, that some police were involved with them. Some people supposedly were well-to-do, high society. I caught a glimpse of them.”

Chris is hanging on every word, mouth open. I am as well, but my mind races as well, thinking about stories I had researched on cults over the years. Those cults sounded like the ones in Joran’s story–groups that were underground and may have been connected with some well-known crimes. 

“You knew this group was Vex?”

“Yes. While I had not heard of them before, I believe they had some notoriety back in the day. And that symbol was on the altar.”

That final fact hangs in the air around us. I explain to Chris what happened to us at Sarah Roosevelt Park. “So these people following us might be Vex.”

Vang neatly puts his utensils on his plate. “Well, you know, a couple months ago I was doing some research online. I was looking for stories for my next film outside of the documentary. I was looking to explore the prospects of what happens after a person faces mortality and escapes. I found myself drawn to the subject and decided on a film to approach it for my own means. I’m not going to talk about this in public, but it is my way of making a mea culpa.”

“A hidden message.”

“Yes. It’s hidden all right, because everything has to be shining good or absolute bad. The subtleties and gray areas of behavior are overlooked and some things, like the fate of the young woman, will remain unknown. I felt as though some higher force was reminding me of the situation I left open and this story needed to be told. I started researching magic and became obsessed with it. I found your writing. Certainly your cases have been intriguing, and I suspected you had hidden strengths. Anyone can have a blog with an interpretation of witches and the occult. You combined research, documentation, and open-minded interpretation. Please be reassured I sincerely value your expertise. When your friend wanted to introduce us, I thought it was something like fate. And I like your project with Geneva and my interest in the project is sincere. I have no patience with the binary in behavior or that in humans, ignoring history of gender.” 

I put my plate aside and pour tea, a beverage I feel brings gravity and camaraderie. Or at least allows one to pause and think. “I’m glad about that. I wasn’t sure otherwise regarding your motives.”

“No. I wasn’t sure if I was going to give you this story or not. From working with you thus far, I’ve found a voice in my head. To see the persons….I started to say men and women but you’ve reminded me that persons fits better…on your site who have been murdered or disappeared–I think of the young woman I left at that site.” He sighs. “I’d like to think she got away. Or that this was all playacting. I don’t even know my own liability from my actions at the time.”

“At worst your crime, if it was one, was not calling the police. I have a couple friends who are defense attorneys who can confirm that. It’s called misprision of a felony. It’s under a federal statute, which has a five-year statute of limitations. Even so, if you have the film it would show you tried to stop what was going on.”

“I have the film. I don’t know that I’m scared of prosecution, although I’m glad you know lawyers. If it was public it sure wouldn’t make me look good, but at my stage in life I’m not afraid to be exposed. People like you can understand what happened; perhaps time and celebrity would protect me. But I’m not that worried, although I’m not ready to talk to authorities. In Sweden we have a natural distrust of authoritarian structures. Or at least we did. There’s a worrisome right-wing contingent growing these days. Stieg Larsson was prescient in writing about. Anyway, what I’m working up to is, I’d like for you to look into this.”

“Look into what happened?”

“Really, to see if you can find the girl. I realize it’s a long shot–I don’t have her name or know anything about her. But still…one never knows. Maybe you can find out enough about them to determine if they were actually dangerous.”

I think about that. It’s not just a missing persons case. I’ve already been a target. After a few minutes of thinking, I speak up. “Okay. I appreciate the nature of the job. You had first-hand experience here and so did I. This may not be necessary, but I’m the type of person who likes to explain where I’m coming from. I was a kid when this happened to you. My mom was into mysticism, and she was very angry about the cult hysteria in the Eighties–the Satanic Panic. Most of it was bullshit and real people got hurt and falsely accused and their lives ruined. Some were only recently exonerated. It reminded my mom of the witch hunts in the Middle Ages, and it still happens–you’ve heard of the West Memphis Three? Yeah. As a person who has pagan notions and studies magic in history, I’m vigilant about misconceptions. Most people are more likely to be hurt by someone in their family than a mysterious cult.

I take a deep breath. “But. Critical thinking means that because of one thing, you don’t necessarily dismiss everything. I have a friend who is an atheist and thinks all supernatural and spiritual things are bunkum. He isn’t an asshole about it, but he won’t consider possibilities. I do, and I’ve seen things too. So while the FBI wasted time and tax dollars investigating murderous Satanic networks that didn’t exist, individual people and groups do exist. Manson and his ilk are stark examples. Others too. Not candy-coated indulgence like the Church of Satan, but people who believe, and believe wholeheartedly. No different really than the Christian or other religious cults, who believe in torture rituals and practices to ‘save’ someone. In my estimation, Vex is one of these believer cults. You mentioned the serious ones; I just wanted you to know where I stand.”

“I like your use of critical thinking. Your estimation certainly fits in with my experience. May I hire you, then, again?”

“Hmm.” I have to pause again, to order dessert. “To be clear, this is separate from the film consultation and the security assessment. You want me to investigate Vex. To see if I can find this girl, and possibly whether the group was involved in crimes.”

“Don’t worry about that being separate. It’s splitting hairs.” He waves it away, probably still feeling guilty. But I’m still going to draw up a revised retainer, and am half-writing it in my mind.

“Did you ever hear from them again? I wonder if anyone still with the group knows who you are.”

Joran looks surprised. “Actually…yes. I didn’t remember this. There was a time in the mid-Nineties, when I was starting to get a wider audience. I was in New York for a film festival. A man approached me after a Q and A. He said he was part of a motorcycle club and maybe I’d be interested in using them for a story. I thought of some Hunter S. Thompson-type things and asked him to tell me more about them. He said his club was associated with a religious cult. My movie in the festival was Ritual, which in fact had some underlying tones of what happened to the girl. People disappear and no one understands why.”

“I’ve seen it, and when you told your story it made me think of Ritual.” I lean back in my chair, feeling some strange sense of synchronicity about to happen. On impulse, I delay Joran’s story by ordering a cognac, attempting to pay for it separately but Joran insists on covering the entire bill. He’s showing your value. Allow it. 

“About the motorcycle dude…naturally, I was wary when he said this. I was wondering if he was trying to catch me with my guard down. I didn’t show a reaction but encouraged him to say more. He said the religious group was in New York—maybe I would like to meet them too? He asked me specifically if I had ever met a group like that when I was young. I was pretty sure he was specifically referring to Vex.”

“No doubt trying to provoke a reaction” 

“Exactly. I excused myself and said I had to go. He started to follow me but I managed to avoid him.”

I take out a small notebook and  jot down a few things. The conversation then turns to some more discussion of filming, and Joran finally escorts us outside and hails a cab for us. A much different interaction than at the park. Joran is relieved, even comforted. I’m not sure how I feel, although mentally I have the sense of gearing up for battle.

ƔƔƔ

September 28

Gotham Investigations, Horatio Street, 9:30 am

I now have Joran’s original videotape, and have set up the office TV, a fairly modest 32’ Samsung, with a VCR connected to a computer. After the tape plays, it will be turned into digital media with a time code. 

The tape begins.

Joran explained to me that he did a lot of setting up beforehand. He used Polaroids to help him figure out where to position the camera. The camera was on a tripod, and focused on a dark patch of woods. In the video, it’s apparent that two lights are affixed to trees, giving a stone slab a spotlight. I make note of the slab to find it later in a trip to Solstice Park.

A young Joran appears in front of the camera. Tall, longish brown hair, lanky, wearing a button-down shirt and khakis. He holds up a handmade sign. April 29, 1981. The night before Walpurgis. A Spring holiday that some groups celebrate. The thing about cults is they may try to adhere to traditions (which themselves are confusing and have little to truly call official) or they may choose what to celebrate and interpret. Walpurgis is pretty common, and a major holiday. I’ve celebrated it myself. 

It’s rather depressing to think that at the time some of us commune with nature and be positive on life at the cusp of Spring, that others would try to give themselves power to be selfish or hurt others. To take power over others.

I write down the events in the tape. The tape itself starts and stops in action. Joran will walk behind it and turn it off, then turn it on again. This happens a few times as people arrive and prepare for the ceremony. At one point, he moves the camera closer. 

I count the number of people–12, not including Joran. Aleister Crowley said in every gathering of 13, expect one to be a Judas. That would be Joran. I smile at the realization.

The ceremony begins, and here I pay close attention, stopping to print out images and making notes on every participant I can see. The cultists all wear black robes, except the leader, who has a red robe. They all have hoods and are holding masks–probably to avoid being identified. 

The leader, not looking directly at the camera, indicates to Joran to turn the camera off. Joran walks next to the camera, but interestingly, doesn’t do so. I can tell he has his thumb over the red record light. For a moment nearly all the members are exposed as they put on the masks they are holding. While I have a love of masks, masks are two-sided. One side for anonymity to be free, one side to cover for authoritarianism. The masks are all gray. Masks are fascinating, and by their very nature raise the specter of the uncanny valley. While Venetian masks are spectacular, showy and disorienting in their exaggeration (see Eyes Wide Shut) the masks the cult used have a different discomfort. These are identical; slits for eyes and a small rectangular opening in the mouth area. I make a note to see if the masks can be traced.

I rewind several times to note each participant and each mask for particular details. Approximate height and weight, anyway, not much else. Once the masks are on, Joran pretends to start the camera again. The leader in the red robe is a white man, around thirty, average height and dark hair. I asked Joran to think about any names he may have been given, and any impressions of personality. He is coming over to the office later to watch it again with me, but I wanted my own impressions of the film first.

A taller figure, likely male, carries in the young woman. She wears a hood which the leader takes off of her. She’s unconscious or semiconscious, and naked. I pause the film to study her. 

The leader draws something on her face, with a red liquid. Blood? I’m glad no animals are on film. Of course, a person is much better than an animal for the blood energy and power of a sacrifice. The leader goes on to draw more symbols on the young woman’s face and body.  

The ceremony begins. The participants start chanting. They are serious and in rhythm with the leader’s intonations. Vocalizing incantations, magic syllables, ancient words…one can feel the power. I can imagine what it must have sounded like in the middle of a thicket of woods in the absolute witching hour. Joran moves the camera solemnly, zooming in and out, changing lenses. He picks it up and walks slowly closer to the action. It reminds me of found footage movies.

The leader stops, raising his hands. He holds up his hands, then takes out a long dagger from his robe. The camera jerks back, as Joran is clearly startled by the action. He says something under his breath in Swedish.

The leader holds out the dagger to three selected people who place their hands on the blade. Then he instructs two others to hold the woman down on a stone platform. He raises the dagger.

“Hey…Hey, what the fuck are you guys doing?”

Joran’s voice. The leader stops his action and turns to stare at Joran. For a long minute he does nothing, then speaks to one of the chosen three. That person waves at Joran as if to say, keep filming.

“Seriously, what are you doing? You’re not going to hurt her.”

The black-robed chosen one steps close to Joran and says, “Just film. You cannot interfere.”

“What the hell are you doing with her?”

“She chose to be in this situation.”

“What–to be sacrificed? You can’t do this.”

“She betrayed us. Don’t interfere.” He holds up both hands in a threatening manner. 

Betrayed us. I will make a note about that. She was known to them, then. Not a random victim. 

At this point, the girl comes around and screams. Joran shoves the black-robed one out of his way and runs toward the girl, the field of vision going up and down. The leader tries to stop him, and Joran swings the camera at him. The scene is blurry then. I can see the girl struggling to get up. Joran holds his hand out and she grasps it. The cult charges him and he keeps swinging the camera. 

There’s a brief flash of the girl running deeper in the woods, and then a glimpse of Joran’s feet as he runs away, and the woods, as the camera bounces in his hand. The cult members’ voices are in the background shouting, and fade away as Joran gains ground. Then the video ends abruptly. 

I go about the work of digitizing the tape, making stills, and recording notes on the case, being as meticulous as I can.

The buzzer by the door sounds.   

Joran waits for me at the door. We shake hands, and he follows me into the open room. He looks resigned and anxious.

I ask him, “Were you drinking?” It is evident on his breath.

“A couple of drinks. I’m not inebriated. I can do this.”

“Good. Because I need you to concentrate.” I put on my serious voice. My friends are very acquainted with it.

He looks properly chastised. I have the tape queued. He sighs as the VCR is started up.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen it?”

“I’ve tried to start watching it three or four times. A different feeling comes over me each time. I never got past the point when the girl was brought out.”

I keep my voice measured. “Think of it as if you were directing an actor. Separate yourself, go outside yourself.”

Joran looks over at me. “You’ve done this.”

“Separating myself? Yeah, for traumatic events. It’s why victims in court seem unemotional, and unfortunately, they are judged for that.”

“All right. I see what you mean.” He adjusts his posture, and I play the tape and begins more notes with a fresh legal pad and pen. I also record the conversation, with his permission. “What was the night like?”

“Late April, still cold. The seasons really were different then, you know, climate change and what not. I had a jacket that was too thick, though. So as I got into what I was doing, I took it off.”

“Did you save the jacket?”

“No, I didn’t think to do so. Luckily, my wallet was in my pants.”

“What could you hear?”

“The highway, very faintly. I remember that because I turned to see if headlights would show. But I heard more of what was in the woods. Not much, some animal sounds.” 

“Who brought you there?”

“I shared a car with two other young men. Victor and Charles. The car belonged to one of them. It was red. Japanese, I believe. I was in the backseat, with my stuff. We got there about a half-hour before everything started. I set up my camera in about fifteen minutes. I was in a bit of a hurry because we were late–detoured by a traffic accident on the West Side Highway.”

“Were people already there?”

I stop the tape at a frame where most of the participants are shown.

“A couple. That man in red. He ran the show, as you’ve seen.”

“Were you introduced to him?”
“Not formally. Victor, I think, said “This is our friend who is going to film tonight.” Words to that effect. The man just nodded once and turned away, like this was all beneath him.”

“Had you seen him before?”

“I believe so…in one of the other gatherings. Not the robe, but the stance. He’s aloof, you might say. You see how holds himself stiffly with folded arms. I saw that stance elsewhere with them.”

“Did they give you a name, or did you hear them call him anything?”

Joran mouths things to himself. “It didn’t sound like his real name. Cos. They called him Cos.”

“Good.” I write that down. “He is stiff. He has a little trouble moving too. I wonder if he has a back brace on.” 

The film continues. “You were asked to stop filming here, right? But you didn’t.”

“I figured I’d edit it out later. It seemed silly. But I wanted to see the faces later before they put on the masks.”

“Did Victor and Charles bring their masks?”

“You’re good at drawing things out of people. They did. In the trunk of the car. I was rather, shall we say, nonplussed, because I like masks and I thought I would have brought one too had they told me. I haven’t thought of that since it happened.”

“You’re doing great. I like masks too. How many people were with Cos, already there, when you arrived?”

“At least one, but more than likely two.”

“Male or female?”

“I have a sense there was one of each.”

“How many women overall? You would have noticed.”

“Yes, you’re right about that. Two. The group as a whole was overwhelmingly male. Very few women, and none older than in their thirties. I got the sense that they were the subject of some competition.”

“Any persons of color?”

“No. It was a very white group in every meeting. I guess there was some elitism there. Not spoken of openly, but thinking about it now I imagine the group would have been surprised had someone brought along a black or Hispanic friend.”

“And was anyone there in the meetings gay?”

He smiles. “There’s always someone gay. You know that.”

“Indeed. Who was it there?”

“Do you believe in ‘gaydar’?

I smile in turn. “To an extent. People who share the same culture often have the same habits and these show subconsciously. Also, we can’t help but check out people around us. Most likely someone’s gaze hangs a bit too long.”

“And a bit too furtive.”

“Exactly. Were you out at the time?”

“In the Eighties? Not even in Sweden. I didn’t hide it but I didn’t talk about it either. Victor and Charles were not gay, but I believe they knew I was. I didn’t check out the women as they did. I was a bit of a flashy dresser, and back then it could give you away. What they call metrosexual now.”

“Who caught your gaze?”

Joran smiles at me. “I caught his. Very young–17 or 18. Tall, well-built. Hesitant confidence in his masculinity–if you know the type. He could beat up someone if he needed to. But that other part kept him off his toes. I had that feeling I was being watched–where you turn and catch someone and they look away. That happened with him twice. Yes, I checked him out but had no interest in following up on it.”

“Describe him as best you can. Was he there at the ritual?”

“No. He was on the fringes. The people in the park were core. This young man had brown hair, rather wavy, longish. Growing a beard. Wore t-shirts and jeans. Tried too hard to flirt with the women. Smoked marijuana, although they all did that. Blue eyes. I never caught his name.”

“You sure?”

“There were no formal introductions. Victor brought me to these things and we just hung out. Victor might say, “This is Joran, a friend of mine.” And everyone would just say hi.”

“How was this man treated by others?”

“The younger ones, the ones not part of the core, were treated with superficial friendliness but knew their place. They literally sat on the outside of any circle. This man, the gay one, was respectful and perhaps eager to be liked and accepted as is any young person. How was he treated…Well, to contrast, Victor had a bit of swag to him. He wasn’t a creep, but he liked to show off some. So his tone of voice indicated he had authority when talking to the others. He got off on that–yes. Because he knew when he talked to a person on the outskirts, that could help them move up in the pecking order. So he would wield it a bit for fun. So did he speak to the young man…yes. He said something in passing.”

Joran leans over and puts his hands over his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. “God, to remember this is like dredging relics from a wrecked ship from the bottom of the ocean. So weird…I literally hadn’t thought of this since it happened!” His voice is a bit muffled and he shakes his head, still in his hands, then draws them down his face. “Victor pointed out the young man, see, and said something about him denying Christ. This one denies Christ. He laughed at his own remark. I was puzzled by that, since they obviously weren’t Christian.”

“His name was likely Peter; Peter denied knowing Jesus three times and then after a cock crowed, he wept bitter tears about his denial.”

“Really, yes, that’s right. I remember from Sunday school a long, long, time ago.”

“And that is interesting, in the context.” I make a note.

The rest of the tape plays, and I have a few more questions, until the abrupt ending. He lifts his head a bit and stares intensely at the screen, as though willing something else to pop up. 

“You’ve done it, Joran. We got through it.” I have a weird feeling myself, though. It’s just film, that’s all. But these people were in here even if just in filmic form. And though it was a videotape, I have the urge to drop behind the sofa and hide. 

Joran puts his head back in his hands and breathes heavily. His breath catches with a few sobs. I hesitate,then place a hand on his upper back. He leans a little into my touch. 

“It’s a relief to tell someone,” he whispers.

ƔƔƔ

 Gabriel and I have an ongoing retainer with the Herald-Standard, the major mainstream newspaper in NYC. Part of the agreement is access to their database, which is like Lexis-Nexis, as a specialized news article search. High-priced subscription to that database helps fund the news, otherwise more and more a dying industry. We’re allowed to use it even outside the work we do. In our office on Horatio Street, I set up search queries and begin sifting through results. Then refining and changing terms, seeking missing person reports at the time of Joran’s experience, as well as any crime that could be described as ‘strange’ in the Westchester area.   

While indulging in two cups of coffee, one cigarette, and a conversation with Geneva about a David Bowie poster she found for me, I concentrate on the search results. Come to me, I say to myself, like an  intonation. Paying close attention, seeking the odd detail that would make the connections. 

Cult-related…

What’s this now? Fourth Possible Cult-Related Incident. A newspaper in Long Island, from the media organization Centennial News, headquartered in Nassau County. The Courier-Journal. I scan the article and then search for more from the same reporter, named Dennis Sobel. There’s a bunch from 1979 through 1985. Then he seems to have  moved on, no longer writing for Centennial News or the Courier-Journal

Dennis Sobel. That name is familiar. No Wikipedia page, but an old cached radio interview online gives me the info that he’s retired. He was in his thirties at the time of the articles, and an experienced beat reporter. He also had some work in the New York Daily News and Newsday on regular crime stories and human interest pieces. 

But the most interesting stories are those from Long Island, and a few from Westchester County. Sobel has collected a series of seemingly-unrelated incidents and connected them. He alludes to having more information than he can print, which means either some stuff was being held back by the police or that the paper was being careful for libel grounds. The incidents include a couple of murders, one mysterious death, some disappearances, and other crimes–dead animals, break-ins, graffiti. He’s careful in what he says, suggesting a ‘black magic’ cult exists in the Nassau-Suffolk County area based upon law enforcement and other sources. The cult may have connections in Westchester, Rockland, Dutchess, and Rensselaer Counties as well. But after Sobel stops working for Centennial, no other stories about the cult show up.

Intriguing as these stories are, Sobel no doubt has more info that he couldn’t print for various reasons. That’s usually the case–not everything is safe to print. Sometimes it might be used in a book, although Sobel has not written any books. I plan to see if he will be willing to share that info.  

ƔƔƔ

C H A P T E R  T H R E E A conspiracy of lemurs

Monday, October

New Rochelle, NY 11:00 am

I knock on the pleasant Tudor-style home in the small town of New Rochelle just north of the Bronx. The door opens, and a man in his sixties squints out at me. “You’re Ms. Gianni?” 

It’s Mx., actually, a non-binary title, but I don’t bother correcting when it’s going to keep me from making progress with an interview. “Yes, Mr. Sobel.” 

“Well, come in then.” 

He’s about my height of 5’9 and a tad slovenly, with wrinkled chinos and a rumpled polo, worn moccasins. His lanky ash hair threaded with gray and white drifts below his ears.  

He waves me to a sofa in his living room.

“You’re following up on something in my old stories?”

“On the occult-related incidents, yes.”

“What exactly did you want to know?”

I detect a hint of something in his voice. Very different from when I first called him where he was pleasant and welcoming, even enthused that someone had read his stuff. What changed?

With a slight sense of trepidation I forge ahead, taking out a folder with print-outs of his stories. “I was very interested in these stories–what details you may have in addition to what was printed.”

He takes the print-outs and scrutinizes each one, nodding. “Yes, sadly, nothing ever came from these.”

“I didn’t see any further stories by anyone. Do you keep up with any possible incidents going on today?” 

He frowns, looking uncomfortable. “I…look around and see what kind of groups or fads may be making a presence. I check out any talks or seminars or, what do you call them, Meet-Ups? Yeah, Meet-ups. Events that may be where such people gather or recruitment may be taking place.”

I nod. I wonder if he’s being hyperbolic. I check my notes. “So, Mr. Sobel, I’m interested in the possibility that a group called Vex might have been connected to these incidents.”

Sobel leans back on his sofa and studies me for a long minute. I figure he’s not thinking about Vex, but about what’s bothering him. 

Finally he says, “Why do you want to know about Vex?”
“The group came up in connection with a case of mine.”

“Something regarding cult activity?”

“Yes, from some time ago, more or less the time period in your stories.”

He suddenly leans forward. “Can you tell me details?”

“I’m afraid not at the moment. It’s a confidential matter, but it relates to a missing person.”

“Is it? Hmn. How did you find me?”

“I found your stories. Your phone number and address is public.”

“When I was looking into this back in the Eighties, I used to get some harassment. People writing me with threats, even going by where I lived at the time.”

I nod. He doesn’t go on, and I pick up the implication. “I’m sorry to hear that. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Well, Ms. Gianni, I did look you up online just as you looked me up. You’re into this yourself.”

“Into what?”
“The occult.”

“I research the topic, certainly.”

“You practice magic. You’ve stated you have an affinity with Wiccans or pagans.”

“I do. Wiccans are not evil. Earth magic is not evil. Eastern spiritualities and Gnosticism are not evil.”

“It all involves trying to establish will over others.”

I take a moment to maintain my cool, and reach for my most sincere voice. “Practitioners of  magic are not the same. Evil magic, what people call ‘black’ magic, has that characteristic of establishing will over others. I do not. I believe very strongly in karma, and being aware of one’s actions and understanding what a right action is. I don’t belong to a group or coven; I’m not social enough.” I smile, but Sobel doesn’t react.

Instead he stands. “Ms. Gianni–I know you call yourself something else. I don’t understand that–what people are into these days with the pronouns.”

I feel my face flush and can’t help what I say, talking over him. “What I’m into is my identity. It’s a real thing, not some sort of dilettantism.”

“Young people think they can–”

“I’m not that young. Gender fluidity goes back thousands of years, as does bisexuality.”

“The group I investigated had several gay members. It seemed to be a thing.”

“As would any other group in the world. That’s nature. That means nothing.”

“I don’t appreciate agitators in my house.”

I close my eyes. “Agitator? Okay, we got off to a wrong start. Mr. Sobel, I’ve been a private investigator for over ten years. I have references.”

“No law enforcement background.”

“Many of my colleagues do not have that background. I really respect your articles, I tend to believe what you wrote, and I’d like to know what happened with these incidents, what sort of connections existed…”

“Or you were sent here, and you’re trying to find out what evidence the police have.”

“Oh come on. The police don’t appear to care, that’s the point.”

“I’m done here.” He gets up and heads toward his door. 

I follow him, feeling resigned. “Really, Mr. Sobel. These people claimed to have contacts within the police departments in the area. They wouldn’t need to hire an investigator to get second-hand information from you.”
“And they won’t,” he says ominously, holding open his door. He frowns as I pass by him. He’s Peter Cushing playing Van Helsing, and I’m a Bride of Dracula. 

Outside on the sidewalk, I sigh deeply. This was really disappointing. Should I have not lost my temper? No, he already had a grudge before you walked in. He looked you up online, and was playing his own game. You can’t win them all. I imagine he’s retired and somewhat bitter, and this was a deviation for the day from reading conspiracy posts on Reddit or Facebook. Maybe I can figure out who his sources were, and talk to them. For now, I have another plan.

Back in the West Village, I visit Jason Evans, a friend who owns a used bookstore. I love books, particularly old books, and so this lifts my spirits from the unpleasantness of meeting a modern-day Matthew Hopkins. Jason is busy packing books and ephemera to send through Amazon, now a significant part of his income. But also Bookshop.org. Gabriel and I have authorization to snap up anything good, book or ephemera-wise, that we may run across in the course of our work for Jason to sell on consignment. In fact, he is right now carefully packing some old postcards and pamphlets from Edwardian times I found in an estate sale. He pauses in his work to come over and we hug each other. On occasion, he plays in a cover band. Gabriel joins in sometimes, and even I do, and I’ve performed some decent magic tricks as accompaniment. 

Having greeted each other, I browse the stacks while Jason takes care of a few customers who wandered in. He has reorganized his store to clear out a spare room (he calls it the Red Room, vaguely Stephen King related) people can rent for book clubs, game nights, even poetry meetings. The rentals earn him more than the books he weeded out; space is always at a premium in the city. There’s a food truck outside that does good business on days and nights of those rentals, and Jason has an agreement with them as well. Jason is always hustling, and often exhausted from doing so. He is Black, middle-aged, sharp widow’s peak in his short hair, glasses, about my height. He is friends with us, and luckily, has not suffered from being such. In fact, another friend, famed writer Walter Cleveland has held a few talks in the Red Room and also brought a few other genre writers to the table.

He joins me at the spirituality section. “Gabriel is going to join us next week for a couple songs. How about you? People like your illusions.”

Sounds good. I’ve been practicing with locks and handcuffs lately.”

He raises an eyebrow. “To emulate Houdini or a personal fetish?”

“Houdini. Or maybe his brother. I’m getting the knack in any case.” 

“Looking for anything special today?”

“Very much so. I’m looking for some magazines from an old cult called Vex. They used to sell them on the street in the late Seventies and early Eighties. I remember seeing those magazines around here at one time.”

“It rings a bell.” Jason does a brisk business in old magazines for collectors. He checks his database and finds a couple in his stock. Antiquarian booksellers will consign purchases to each other, and he finds some more issues from another dealer he knows in Connecticut. I arrange for these to be overnighted to my office. Outside of discussing where and when the venue is next week, Jason promises to notify me about any other issues that turn up.

I then take a couple hours in the office that day and the next day to comb through the magazines, reading and making notes while slowly sipping a large Wonder Woman mug filled with coffee and burning some Tibetan incense to keep the bad vibes away.

With the overnight delivery, I have five issues of Vex’s magazine, entitled Oracle. These are well-designed and written in an accessible, matter-of-fact manner, and printed professionally. I note the name of the company who published them to contact later. The content is meant to be philosophically persuasive, and intermingled with notifications of upcoming events and ads to purchase books and ‘meditation’ items–symbolic trinkets. I make a list of every author, every name mentioned, every location, date, and pseudonym, as well as summarizing the article content. 

The basic format is a greeting from the ostensible leader of the group, Stewart Noel. That man I know to be deceased, but I consider looking for family. Next comes an accounting of the activities of the group’s chapters. After that are the articles–very in-depth, and with a good deal of first-person accounts used as anecdotal support. The topics in the issues include Death (i.e. “The Oracle Speaks on Death”), Reincarnation, Sex, Money, Anger, Poverty, Betrayal, Health, and Spiritual Discovery. 

The articles do not specifically suggest that the reader join Vex. Rather, they lay out an appealing idea of personal, psychological, and spiritual progress by adoption of certain ideas. The article gives just enough information to whet an appetite, and then notes that more can be found by attending meetings. It’s not a hard sell, it’s a lure. 

ƔƔƔ

Jason calls me on Wednesday. “V, I found more Vex issues for you. And check it out, these are at a bookshop I thought was long out of business–The Oracle.”

“No kidding!I heard of that place years ago, but I was kinda afraid to go in.” I consider that the name of the shop is the same as Vex’s magazine. A connection?

“Are you still afraid?”

“Not so much. I’ve been through too much since then.”

“Well, the shop managed to get some good stuff from an estate sale that a client of mine would like to complete his collection, so I’m going to go over there and do some negotiating. Want to come with?”

“Sure.”

We meet the next day on Canal Street and have some sandwiches together at a deli, before heading further west, nearly to Greenwich. The store is located between a Planet Fitness and an apartment building. 

It’s surprisingly big for an independent bookstore. The ground floor is square-ish with the register station to the right as one goes in, three rows of bookshelves extending nearly the length of the store, with more shelves on the walls. A glass door on the left towards the rear of the store has stairs to second-floor meeting rooms for events, and perhaps storage and offices. In the back is a section with glass displays and shelves holding herbs, candles, incense, and divination, occult, or magic paraphernalia. A poster of Aleister Crowley hangs high in a place of honor over a table full of tarot cards. It’s almost laughable, reminding me of a music store that displays posters of Jimi Hendrix or Bruce Springsteen for street cred. I usually try to stay away from Crowley acolytes. They may not really have spiritual power but they think they do, and that makes them stupidly dangerous. Nothing about the store is bad outside of Crowley fanboyism, but I’m a bit uneasy. There’s an underlying tension in the store I can’t place. It’s clean and not dark and dusty, but this place isn’t New Age; it is for serious occult aficionados. 

I stay with Jason, checking out the Vex magazines and approving them, and Jason adds them to his stack. While he examines the other books from the estate sale, I browse around the store. Jason comes by to see what books I am flipping through. He asks sotto voce, “What do you think of the place?”

“I have to admit, it’s stuff you can’t find in a lot of places, even The Strand. It reminds me of places that used to be around in St. Marks, and the Boho places in Seattle my mom visited.”

The two of us are now in the back of the shop, and we both glance over at some movement in a floor-to-ceiling shelf to the left. One of the clerks pushes the shelf–which swings inward. The man slips in the space.

We have to snap our jaws back up from the surprise. “Okay, I want one of those secret rooms,” Jason says. “Get away from some of my customers.”

“I hope your space wouldn’t have bodies. I’m going to assume bodies are inside, maybe aliens,” I reply, smiling. I guess that this secret room is actually storage under the staircase. Or a secret door to the basement. Or…something. Hmmm…

We move back to the front of the store and the manager, fortyish, male, white, with a tight t-shirt and mussed hair comes over to complete Jason’s transaction. He gives me a once-over, taking in my made-to-order pendant of the tree of life with a sun, moon, and blessings symbol.

He says casually, “You practice the Craft?”

“I have my version.”

“Check out our stock of supplies. Ours are authentic.”

“I’ve done that, it’s a nice selection,” I lie. I am not buying objects or herbs of questionable origin from a place with Crowley vibes. Even the patchouli incense, which I ordinarily like, is off-putting here. 

The manager points to a poster on the corkboard behind him.“We have a seminar on Friday. Good speakers, guaranteed. Why don’t you come by?” He stares hard at me, an attempt to flirt by projecting an aura of charisma he doesn’t have. 

The seminar is on the topic of whether black magic still exists. It features two guest lecturers, and I think I may have heard or read of one of them. It sounds intriguing enough to attend. 

ƔƔƔ

Friday, October

Canal & Greenwich Streets, 7:55 pm

I’ve returned to the Oracle bookstore. I’m alone; I couldn’t get anyone to go with me, although Geneva said she would be home later and would meet me after if I was freaked out. I pause before going in, checking my messages, which also gives me a chance to observe the neighborhood for the vibes. Nothing going on; I’m pretty familiar with Canal Street as Joel lives a few blocks away.

This particular block is pretty dark but a light shines in the store display window, and a large sign on the door welcomes people for the seminar. The bell on the door jingles as I walk in. A young white man pops out of an aisle. “Oh, hey, here for the seminar?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s upstairs in the meeting room.” He leads me to the glass door and the staircase. “First on the left, next to the restroom.”

The meeting room is surprisingly large. About 20 people are sitting in folding chairs, a couple of them talking, but most are working their phone thumbs. It’s sad to a degree, but the good thing about people burying themselves in smartphones is that one may observe them without notice.

One person is pointedly not doomscrolling, but sitting straight and tilting his head judgmentally at others. Yes, Dennis Sobel is also here. Well, well. 

He’s in the back, arms crossed and wearing dark glasses. He has a yellow legal pad on his lap. I don’t know if he spots me, as he doesn’t react when I step in. He had told me that he sought out meet-ups that are sus. I figure he likely saw the advertisement for this one or was told about it, and decided to spy on the proceedings to add notes to his occult-conspiracy file. Of course, so am I.

I toy with the idea of sitting next to him and trying to have a conversation. One one hand, he may be here for some kind of confrontation which would be disruptive and call attention to me. On the other hand, I could have a shot at getting him to talk. 

Judgment call–go for it. I walk over to him and take the chair to his left. “Mr. Sobel. Doing some research?”

He turns his head and presumably studies me. His glasses are really opaque. “You keeping track of me?”

“Actually, I had no idea you’d be here. I’m curious to see if the people speaking tonight are going to bring up anything about our shared topic.” I keep my voice low. 

Sobel snorts derisively. “I’m so sure.”

“You still think I’m involved in black magic, or with Vex? Don’t you think you would have heard that? If you were concerned, you surely did a check on me.”

“I don’t know everyone involved with them. I eventually dropped the investigation. The major media wasn’t interested. Then people get used to seeing occult practices on TV and movies, and it gets normalized like it’s fun, everyday. They don’t want to know the truth.”

“I agree with you, the attitude now is different. There are aspects that I’m very uncomfortable with. So why did you come here tonight for this seminar?”

“I was alarmed. You coming to my house, now this lecture…I have to wonder what’s going on.”

“It’s a coincidence I didn’t even know about this talk until two days ago. But could we talk afterwards? I would really like to call on your expertise about what happened back when you were reporting on these incidents.”

He now stares, or aims his dark glasses, ahead and sneers a bit. “You think you can seduce me?”

That offends me. He wouldn’t ask a man this shit.

“No,” I respond coldly. 

His mouth purses unpleasantly. “Right, you call yourself ‘queer.’” 

Of course he thinks Vex and other satanic-type groups are filled with decadent gay persons. I’m used to bearing a burden of microaggressions in the course of work and life. As an assigned female at birth in a profession not traditional for women. As a smart AFAB who does not hide it to assuage male ego. As a person with nontraditional spiritual practices that a good of Christians call evil. As a bisexual genderqueer person who hears constantly that neither exists, from both in and out the community. This runs through my head and now I’m really irritated with Sobel for making me defensive about being taken for someone who practices evil. 

The seminar is starting now though, so I turn my attention to the front of the room.

The seminar is mid-to-okay, substance-wise. It’s led by a white man named Auden Sawyer who is in his early thirties and a white woman slightly older, Cortland Blake. She is the person I am already somewhat familiar with. I get the impression Sawyer is connected in some way to the bookstore. As it starts, I’m abstractly curious how they treat the subject and what they emphasize. 

It begins even-handedly enough about the history of magic in general. A few minor errors, or at least what might be called errors in interpretation of texts, persons, history, etc. For some reason, Sawyer characterizes Cagliostro as a real magician instead of a fraud, hinting that his reputation was slandered in history. Blake in turn suggests that historical Hungarian bad person Erzsébet Báthori, generally known as Elizabeth Báthory, was also slandered (accused of being influenced by black magic/witchcraft) and set up for political purposes–King Matthias of Hungary owed her money and assumed the crown would get her land if she was executed. Much like Phillip the Fair with the Knights Templars. I like that comparison. 

Of course the presentation includes fan favorites: St. Germain, the Rosicrucians, the Knights Templars, Egyptian mystery schools, and so on. You have to include the old hits for the fan base. Or as Umberto Eco said in Gabriel’s favorite novel, Foucault’s Pendulum, you include the same trampled-over topics because books (and presumably presentations) on the topics must deal with the same exact examples as all the others, to confirm one another; originality isn’t trusted. 

Sawyer is in his mid-thirties, has a buzzcut under a trilby and a t-shirt with the Breaking Bad quote “I’m the one who knocks” obnoxiously in all-caps. He handles the historical side and is fond of intoning things like, “Were the Templars, ultimately, Satan-worshippers? Who can say?” 

You can say they were set up to look that way, and burned for their trouble, I think to myself.

He seems to want it both ways—to avoid offending Templars-were-Satanists aficionados, although that conflicts with the Templars-were-holders-of-mystical-secrets-to-save-the-world aficionados. It may appeal to those who know of the Templars only from the Assassin’s Creed game. He keeps his discourse annoyingly ambiguous but adopts a superior tone. He has a book he’s promoting, what appears to be a rehash of occult greatest hits with a dark symbolic front cover and a large glamor shot of himself on the back, yes, with the trilby. I imagine it has more questions than answers. 

Then there’s Blake, around the same age. She has a stylish black flowing jumpsuit made of some slinky material, a gold scarf, and a duster imprinted with green vines giving Stevie Nicks vibes. She handles the contemporary aspects, pointing out false accusations and panics in the US and UK over the past 70 years or so. She also explicitly explains what exactly “black” magic is and why it’s practiced–what draws people to it. 

I like her. She doesn’t appear connected to the store and isn’t selling anything. She does not play to hysteria but calls out the waste of time in seeking satanists everywhere in the 1980s, and ruining some people’s reputations with false accusations, like the McMartin Preschool case. I recently finished a good podcast by Sarah Marshall on that phenomena. 

At the same time, she explains dangers that correlate with my own experience–people drawn to the negative occult experience in places where there’s nothing else to do, especially for young people, such as in the rural Midwest. She’s deft in examining the differences between the Church of Satan and the Temple of Set, and mentions one of the most important aspects: that people can drift from group to group, adopt what practices they like (including from more mainstream practices and some from other mystical spiritual beliefs, and some from more negative, evil intentions) and call it what they want. Some groups who are more dangerous (my words, Blake uses the term ‘off-center’) use the trappings of a more known practice to get people comfortable with the idea of magic, and then lead them down a negative path. Plenty of those people are still around today, she says. 

The lecture part is over. A final slide with their individual contact info is up. Sawyer asks, “Did anyone have any questions?”

I raise my hand. A couple other people are called on first, but eventually Sawyer gets to me. 

“What would you say is an example of a “known group” you’d be concerned about?”

“Good question,” he says, but Blake actually answers the question. “We can’t say actual names–there’s always a risk of being sued for slander. But things to look out for–if they play upon your isolation or vulnerability, if they want to separate you from your loved ones, if they intensify practices and push boundaries to a degree that makes you uncomfortable…the boundary-violation is particularly–”

Sawyer interrupts her. “Of course, some may seek legitimate change in spiritual practices and be scorned by their families unfairly. You have to know the difference.”

Blake gives him a look that indicates she knows the difference, and does not appreciate either his interrupting or his mansplaining. 

I pointedly thank Blake by name for answering my question. “What about older groups that aren’t around anymore?”

She frowns in concentration. “Who were you thinking about?”

“Oh, Vex, for instance.”

I get several different reactions. Most people in the audience look at me blankly, but some glance at me furtively. Sobel swivels his head sharply to glare at me. Sawyer draws back, clearly recognizing the name but grimacing in discomfort. Blake is nodding with a wry smile.

“There were rumors regarding them…” She recounts the highlights of the group’s history I already know. It’s for the benefit of the audience, some of whom are taking notes. I give Blake points for her knowledge. “The problem is, we don’t know for sure unless we speak to someone on the inside. And then, it’s still hearsay. However, some people I know from way back were privy to disturbing things.”

I note Blake’s Insta handle, which appears to be her only contact information. That wouldn’t surprise me as being a security caution. She might be worth following up with later. I start to thank her again, but Sawyer speaks over me. 

“I know some people connected as well. There was nothing going on like people think. The practices were not satanic. You see, you have to know what a satanic practice is.”

I like his tone less and less. “I thought Cortland had a good definition. The practices I heard about involved sacrifice, including animals. Maybe more.”

“Animal sacrifice is part of several religions. In itself, that doesn’t mean anything.”

He starts looking for other people to answer. But I’m not done. “Don’t you think it’s a bit misleading to say that? In a culture where animal sacrifice is not the norm, and in fact is against the law, it does mean something. It’s a transgression of ethics.”

Some of the other attendees, occult bros no doubt, mutter in irritation. Sawyer holds to his smug superior look. “That’s what you might think, but those in the know…”

One of the occult bros in the row in front of me turns around to chime in, “Well, when you confuse Santeria…”

 I refrain from rolling my eyes outside my head and say coolly, “I know the difference between Santeria, Voudon, Wicca, and Satanism. I was not referring to Santeria.” My tone shuts down the occult bro, but Sawyer pointedly calls on another attendee who is properly obsequious and who, as a bonus, also tries to pick apart Cortland’s expertise with some well akshully statements and what do you know about xyz testing questions. No doubt this one is also busy on Star Wars and Marvel message boards complaining about women characters, queer characters, women queer characters, and Rian Johnson ruining every movie everywhere for all time. 

After the seminar is over, people are encouraged to mingle, or buy materials, or partake of some cheap hors d’oeuvres and wine. I refrain; I do not eat or drink in places or take things from people with negative karma, and this shop has that. The magazines were different because they were transitory. I do pick up a copy of all handouts from both Sawyer and Cortland, and even Sawyer’s book, just for kicks.

Sawyer is frostily polite in selling me the materials. A couple of occult bros give me pitying looks because I dare to have an opinion different from a solid bro authority. 

I’m long past being bothered by pitying looks from bros of any kind. I move on to thank Blake for her insight. She gives me a grin and grasps my hand with a little squeeze. She asks me a little of my background and notes approvingly of a tattoo I have of the Tree of Life. She leans in, and I catch a scent of something like Tabu, rich but not overwhelming. Her other hand goes over the one in the handshake. Oh, okay then. Now I will have to ensure I get in touch with her. I tuck the materials away in my backpack and leave. I don’t see Sobel anywhere, and figure he chose to leave early and scamper away from the scary devil-people.

I live up on the West Side, up in Chelsea. It’s a hike from here but I decide to walk for a while before heading for mass transit. I have occasional problems with my leg where I was shot last Halloween, especially in the crisp air. But that reminds me distinctly of danger–to be aware. Being on the far West Side, it tends to be quieter at night up until one gets to the Village. A deep breath and I’m on my way, checking out the various shop windows in nighttime illumination. There were people in Planet Fitness, and at times I hear faint music from a random bar or cafe. The sounds of utility vehicles a few streets over, buses and subway lines further than that. 

While I use the time walking to think carefully over what I learned, I am also very aware of my surroundings; my leg reminds me. In addition, my collective experience makes me very wary of something being off. I know someone is following me.

ƔƔƔ

C H A P T E R  F O U R A destruction of cats

Friday, September, Continued

Chelsea

I time my next action carefully. I casually look at my phone without looking up, a normal kind of action. After a pause of a few seconds, I quickly duck around a corner and then into a recessed doorway, pressing a particular app on my phone three times in succession. That’s notifying Geneva I’m in trouble, and sending GPS coordinates. 

A few seconds later, footsteps follow around the corner. A figure hurries past, huffing a bit. I slip out behind him. Half a block up, the man stops and looks around, dejected. 

I say, “Looking for me?”

Sobel turns around. I ensure plenty of space is between us.

He scowls at me. “What–what do you want?”

“Why are you following me?”

“I’m not following you–you’re just obsessed with harassing me…”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. What do you think you’re going to find out–where I live? Or you think you’re going to follow me back to a coven?”

He’s angry at being discovered, but out of breath, huffing with each word. “I suppose you think you can attack me.”

“I have no interest in that. I just wanted to talk about your stories and what you found out about Vex. That was all. If you’d stop with the cynical reporter routine, you could see that I’m trying to find out the same stuff you are. Think about it. I’m going home; you can get in touch if you change your mind.”

I turn away from him and start back toward 10th Avenue.

Two men in black materialize from the shadows a dozen yards ahead.

I immediately reverse course and stride back to Sobel. “You need to get out of here; we’re being stalked.”

“What?” He looks over my shoulder in horror. I grab his arm and pull him along. 

“You set me up,” he gasps, struggling in my grip.

“I don’t know who they are, but we need to leave.”

And then around the corner on 9th Avenue, two more men in black, with white masks, silver lines painted around the eyes and mouths. The masks are disturbingly like the ones in Joran’s video. 

For a moment I’m terrified, having flashbacks to the faceless men who attacked me before on Halloween. But you cannot lose control because you have to survive.

What I lack in formal training, I make up for in determination. I drop my bag and activate an alarm on my phone with flashing lights. 

The phone’s noise startles the masked persons enough for me to take my primary weapon out of the bag, a cascading baton like UK cops use. 

One of the men launches at me to snatch away the phone and take me down. I slam the baton against his ankles. He yelps in pain while another man grabs me from behind. I swing behind me without looking and connect with the man’s head, getting the satisfaction of hearing the bones in his nose crunch when my elbow hits. I quickly follow by whirling around, and aiming a knee up to his crotch. In a situation like this, one can’t hesitate.

Sobel has thankfully gotten the message. I have an instant of surprise in that he doesn’t attempt to run; good idea as we are surrounded. He goes into a stance, prepared to fight. One of the other men advances on him and they begin tussling; Sobel shows surprising grit in going for whatever vulnerable point he can. I turn my attention to the remaining masked man. He’s bigger than me but wary. 

He doesn’t want to be hit with the baton, but he thinks he can take it away and is relying on his intimidation. He moves quickly to fake out, dodging around me. But I follow, and pull my own fake-out like Chiang taught me, pretending I’m going to hit him over the head. When he reaches up to snag the baton, I whip it down and against the side of his kneecap. A howl rises behind the mask.

Sobel is now in trouble as his attacker has him in a chokehold. I snap the baton against the back of the man’s legs, and then his ribs and he drops back, allowing Sobel to stagger away.

Now the first two masked men are back and closing in on me, angry and ready for retaliation. They work on crowding me against a wall.

A car swings around the corner and pulls up a short distance away, tires screeching. Another masked man gets out. But almost at the same time, my own Nissan 350z Nismo races up the street going the wrong way and swerves across the lanes, blocking any exit. Geneva jumps out, holding her S&W SD40. She aims at the men on the sidewalk. They run to the other car for cover; that car is already backing up. 

Geneva sticks the gun in her waistband and runs over to where I have gone to check on Sobel. 

He’s shaken, but okay. We pull him to his feet. I retrieve my bag and phone from the sidewalk. Geneva puts her arm around me and steers us to the 350z. 

I pause and look over my shoulder. “Come on,” I tell Sobel, pulling back the seat so he can climb in. “We’re getting out of here.”

Sobel hesitates for a moment, but decides to get in. Geneva expertly turns the car around and heads east. “Back home?”

“Hold off. Let’s make sure we’re clear.”

Geneva holds my hand as we hit a red light on Seventh. Sobel is breathing heavily in the back seat. I find a bottle of water for him. After a few blocks, Geneva parks next to a fire hydrant near 6th Avenue, which has more lights and people.

I try to quit smoking every week and just yesterday threw out the pack, but sometimes…I open the glove compartment and take out a hidden old box. As I light up and open the door to blow it outside, Sobel leans over the seat to speak to me. “Thank you; both of you. I thought we were going to be killed–were they going to kill us?”

“They didn’t have weapons. Probably just trying to make us scared enough to back off. But who knows–it could have happened.”

He bites his lip and sits quiet. Geneva and I wait, listening for anything beyond the engine’s hum. I watch Sobel in the rear view mirror.

He leans over the seat again. “Look, I’m sorry. I have this feeling I’ve been wrong about you. Why don’t you call me? Let’s set up a time to talk.”

“I will.”

“I should get back to my own car.” 

I get out, and he climbs out after me. “Be careful going home,” I warn. “Whoever they are, they clearly have resources.”

ƔƔƔ

Monday 

New Rochelle, 9:50 am

A new Monday and I’m back at Sobel’s house. He welcomes me inside, and has coffee and pastries in his kitchen. 

We’re best friends now; all I had to do was save his life. Still, as part of the job, I can’t go looking gift horses in mouths. Move on with the advantage. I settle in at his kitchen table. He does make good coffee, which helps on this cold windy day. He does appear to be genuinely contrite, and after all, didn’t change his mind. 

Sobel says, “So these guys who attacked us–they could be from Vex.”

“I suspect so. I have reason to believe Vex was revived a few years ago, and may be active now.”

Sobel nods, picking up a filled croissant. “I’ve long believed they were behind the incidents here. You have my stories. What I’d like to do is introduce you to some law enforcement personnel who can give you some more information. As you figured, what’s in the news is only a fraction of the story. For legal liability and to preserve investigations, a good deal of what’s going on is unpublished.”

It turns out he has invited a couple of detectives over to join us, and they are on their way. While we wait, me and Sobel trade or professional origin stories until the detectives arrive about twenty minutes later. Sobel is from Boston and graduated from Boston University with a BA in journalism. He interned at the Globe, then worked in Baltimore, Miami, and Dallas before moving to New York. I have a double degree in English and Philosophy from the University of Washington, with a minor in Forensic Studies. I moved across the country on impulse and worked hard, with several part-time jobs, to fund graduate studies at John Jay College. In one of my work-study research positions, a visiting woman private investigator was impressed enough to recruit me to an agency. I worked there for several years, earning my license, and eventually striking out on my own when the business took a downturn under new management. My former Mentor, Victoria Kinsey, still contacts me for New York work now and then from where she works now in Philly.

The detectives arrive. Two older white men, Ralph Walker and Matthew Swartz. Swartz is retired, Walker is in his last couple years. They look like cops and are reserved with me at first–a younger civilian distinctly androgynous and somewhat punk. But Sobel describes how I defended him on the street and they grant a nod of approval. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, perhaps. I would prefer keeping that incident private, but what can you do? None of it was recorded, as far as I know, and I didn’t break any laws. 

Like Sobel, the detectives have internalized ideas that group all persons interested in pagan/occult/earth magic tend toward the negative side. They are old school–wary of those who have ‘alternative’ sexualities and genders. But I refuse to be defensive and ask good questions about their work. Knowing the burden is my own to be vetted, I share a couple of investigative stories about working for some Wall Street clients, criminal defense attorneys, and for the Herald-Standard, dropping a couple of juicy trivial details gossipy cops love. 

As the morning goes on a measure of tentative trust settles between us.

Sobel recounts his long-term investigation of cults. “Back in 1979, I heard that a cult was active in this county. I didn’t know much about them then. I asked some questions and did some library research. Putting things together took time. I talked to a lot of people, because that was the way to find someone who knows someone who knows someone. You’ve done this no doubt, Veronica.”

“Start with one person and see what they know, who they mention, who knows them or knows the main subject you are targeting. From there, expand the contacts outward, keeping track of each bit of information. Where you heard it and from whom. Not just the primary witnesses, but people who see things: postal workers, bartenders, shopkeepers, seniors who people watch, the unhoused in the area.”

“Exactly. You check with everyone to find the person who’s willing to talk. Usually, someone is willing to talk–it’s human nature. That’s what the news business is built upon–footwork, investigation, and for lack of a better term, leaks.”

“I hear you. The downside being eventually the wrong person finds out you’ve been asking around.”

“I’ve been there, too.” Sobel has brought out some of his notes. “Vex might have started in Australia. At least, the leader Stewart Noel was Australian. He might have been connected to offshoots of the Golden Dawn in the UK. His background is fuzzy and he was arrested for fraud at least once overseas. Anyway, he gets settled here and works as a nondenominational so-called “religious counselor” for some time until he gets Vex going.

“The philosophy Vex presents is blurring the lines between the Christian God and  demons. The material says God has always been in charge of demons, and the demons rule the earth. So what God really wants you to do is take control of the demons. In other words, he put the demons here to serve mankind.”

I am familiar with the philosophy, both from earlier studies and what I read in the magazines. “I found some of their Oracle publications. They touch upon it, but don’t get into the theology in-depth. I imagine that once someone made their way into the inner core of the cult, they would be indoctrinated with the secret rituals and meaning, which demons to ask for what power, and so on.”

“I think that’s right, Veronica. It serves two purposes–one, to draw people in and get them used to certain tasks and beliefs and actions. Once they accept level “A,” being persuaded to go to level “B” is easier. Two, having inner circle information gives the neophytes something to strive for. They want to be accepted, to belong, to be somebody within the organization. They will want to be ‘worthy’ of the information to change their lives.”

I nod. “Political psychology 101–zone of acceptance.”

Swartz takes out a folder. “So, these are some crimes we suspect might be connected to Paradise. Animals found dead, like from a sacrifice, in Solstice Park. A couple sex assault cases in the early Eighties that had a strange vibe to them. The victims didn’t report on their own. That isn’t unusual in itself, but the threats they received afterwards were. Stuff about being passed on to a particular demon and sacrificed. Both the SA vics left town, and we couldn’t find any suspects.”

“What demon did they mention?”
Swartz frowns. “Bune. I’d never heard of it, even in Catholic school, but it’s the guardian of Hell?”
Veronica nods. “A demon of power, supposedly. Bune or Bunis is in charge of the bodies of those who’ve died and gone to hell. It can give people riches. It has three heads, looks like a dragon, and was mentioned by Aleister Crowley and MacGregor Mathers–you’ve no doubt heard of them. Bune is one of the beings that Vex feels got a bad rap.”

All three men nod. Swartz adds, “I got the sense these women were supposed to be given to Bune as payment for whatever. A young man might also have been a victim that way, but we couldn’t get him to talk to us.”

Walker brings out his list of crimes. “I have a rich guy from Shelter Island, part of the Hamptons. He was driving ridiculously fast and crashed into a storefront on the North Fork back in ‘88. He was supposed to have some parties on the island in his house–way out in the middle of nowhere, almost in the nature preserve. These were supposed to be occult-themed parties, like it in that movie–Eyes Wide Shut. Masks and stuff.”

“Mmm. Did Vex use masks?” I know Vex did with Joran, but want to confirm.

“Our informants say yes,” Walker replies. “It checks to cover identification and also to intimidate. We heard of some crazy stuff going on in Van Cortlandt park. At least two people have been found dead in the park of an apparent suicide. However, some of the informants we’ve talked to say both these people were connected to Vex, and either burned them for drugs, or were weak links and possibly going to the police. This was in the early to mid-Eighties.”

Swartz checks his notes. “Right. Moving into the Nineties and early Aughts. Two people were found dead on a road near the Taconic. They had jewelry and tattoos which appeared to be occult-related.” He shows me pictures, and I recognize the symbols. Not everything in the “occult” category is negative, but people get things mixed up. So there’s a pentacle (not evil, but representing five elements of spirit, air, earth, water, and fire); the inverted pentagram associated with Satanism, meant to represent a goat head (unfair to beautiful goats); a sigil of Lucifer, a Thelema hexagram, but also an Icelandic stave, an alchemic symbol, and an ouroboros. These were probably chosen for the look. I make a mental note to review the tape again for tattoos and maybe reach out to tattoo artists. 

“And a few more. Three disappearances up near Sleepy Hollow, of all places. A musician, a teacher, and a lawyer. All of them went by different names. Vex has its nomenclature from French nobility: Chevalier this, Comte that. Not real, of course.”

I’m making notes all of the information. The detectives have redacted copies reports for me. I plan to compare them to the woman on Joran’s video. 

We’re at the end of the visit. I profusely thank the two detectives and ask one last question. “You guys must have tried for someone on the inside. There’s always leaks.”

Walker and Swartz look at each other. Walker says, “There’s a guy we know, yes. He was in the group some time ago. He’s not exactly in hiding and not exactly not in hiding.”

Swartz adds, “He keeps in touch from time to time. He hasn’t had any contact with them for years and years, but he has an inside view. He’s seen rituals. Since Dennis vouched for you, I asked him if he would speak to you, and he said he would if I thought you were okay. I’m good with that. I can call him.”

“I appreciate that,” I say with a strong handshake and direct eye contact, sincerity on my open, honest phiz. “Thank you very much.”

Swartz gets up and takes out his phone. He goes outside Sobel’s back door to smoke. The rest of them have more coffee.

Swartz comes back and says, “Can you meet him this afternoon at Solstice Park? He’s offering to show you around.”

“I sure can.”

ƔƔƔ

I MEET THIS informant at Solstice Park around 4 pm. Still plenty of daylight, but the hint of the impending evening is unsettling in that place. Gabriel once described to me a bad meet-up he had in the park, heightened by the wispy tall grass and tangle of trees. Objectivity, the park is beautiful, but it gives me a very uneasy feeling. Gabriel doesn’t sense the same eeriness, but he can sometimes be the boy whom you warn that the candle flame will burn–and he sticks his fingers in it just to be sure. 

Anyway.

The informant is a tall, thin, bony white guy in his fifties, with longish brownish hair and a baseball cap. Sort of a rough Timothy Olaphant. He holds out a hand. “I recognize you from the Joran Vang videos. Nick Darsanian.”

“Veronica Gianni.” I take his hand. Already Joran’s work is paying off. Nick’s hand is all bony sinew, but with a strong grip.

He takes off his cap and runs his hand through his hair. “I’d prefer you not publicize this.”

“No worries. I’m looking for background information. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

“Thank you. Come on, let me show you some things.”

We begin walking. He explains the layout of the park. “It has a lot of underground areas. It’s close to the aqueduct.” He has a reproduction of an old map of the grounds, sold in the Solstice gift shop. “See, here at the main entrance they have the visitor’s center, gift shop, parking lot. There was very little of that in the Eighties–it was pretty run down. Then the small cemetery, a rock garden, statuary, flower garden. Deeper in, close to the aqueduct, are the woods. Some random things are in the woods–a fountain that’s overgrown, but also some pathways underground, and some spaces–I don’t know what they are. Spaces connected to the aqueduct of the Hudson River in some way. Quite often, the group would meet in those spaces.”

“How old were you when you knew them?”

“Seventeen. I’d pretty much left home for good. My parents were giving me a lot of shit and I was done with them. This looked like a way to find a way, but that’s what the group wanted me to think.

“I was picking up odd jobs, or just shoplifting, and hanging out at grungy bars with shitty fake IDs. Or I’d pretend to be with groups inside clubs in order to steal their drinks. I got caught by a guy, but he was sympathetic to me. William Cann. He offered me some side work in a business he ran in Mt. Vernon–security, oddly enough. I didn’t really want a 9-5 thing because I was a fuckoff, but I liked having the cash flow for beer and weed, and he talked to me a lot like he respected me. Drawing me in.”

“Young man, vulnerable, lonely, no one to turn to.”

“It’s a cliche isn’t it? But cliches are true. That was me. Loneliness is a killer for your mental health. I spent a couple years in this lifestyle and tried to stay on the edges of the people Willie introduced me to. The more I saw, the more I didn’t like it. Finally, I saw too much and just ran away. No notice to Willie, I just took off. I had met another guy who did woodworking; he was passing through and showing his craft at a summer festival. Marty. He was a Quaker, rarely laughed, and spoke maybe thirty words a year. Had a basset hound with the exact same expression. But man, how I wanted to go with him when he left after the festival. I said something like that and he raises his Sam Elliot eyebrows and says, “You want to look me up, I told ya where I’m from. You have potential, but don’t bring the shit you’re into now with you. Ever.” I thought about it over week ‘cause I was working steady, maybe going to get raise and a line on a decent apartment, some girls were interested. But I had one more hangout, and from there I decided the hell with it, forgive the pun. I made the right decision. I left with a duffel bag and tent and $200 bucks, to where Marty lived. No more occult parties. I stayed off the grid while helping him out like an apprentice. It turned out to be my calling.”

My mouth was hanging open by this time. “I’m glad you got away.” We are past the public areas and heading for the woods. “I’m surprised you’re back, to be honest.”

“Just for a bit. I have family. Every so often I think I see someone I knew, and I leave.” 

“Did you meet most of the people associated with the group?”

“I think so. The guy who was the leader at the time was Stewart Noel. He was some rich dude who came from Long Island. Maybe a doctor. He had protégés. The most prominent was Lewis McDonnell, a snotty bastard. Noel was old at the time, I think he’s dead now. I only saw him once.”

“Who else was significant? Meaning that they seemed to play a part more than hanging around.”

“Trey. I don’t remember his last name, or come to think of it, he probably never told anyone his last name. He was bad news in a group of people who were bad news.”

“How so?”

“He watched everybody, and he was the enforcer, so to speak. If you were reluctant to do something, Trey would challenge you. And no one wanted to step up because he gave off the vibes that he’d cut your throat.”

Nick shows me various areas he is familiar with from that time. A crumbling concrete structure of indeterminate purpose, about 12 feet tall with an open doorway. It has no roof or back walls or floor, and is covered in graffiti. I see a swastika covered by a pentagram. We go inside and look around. The trees and sun contrast with the rubble. But even open, it has a dark feeling.

Nick goes on to show me a cistern that is closed and covered by a long-unused wooden board, which he moves aside. “In here is what made me leave,” he says, and proceeds to climb down. Before I do anything I text Geneva–if she doesn’t hear anything from me in fifteen minutes, come running. Then I follow Nick. 

Descent is by an old metal ladder. I step down onto a concrete floor. Nick has a flashlight on. He looks sympathetically towards me, and I recognize I am breathing heavy and work to get it under control.

I’m reminded of going into the basement of a mental hospital in a previous case, where Gabriel, Joel, and I found the bodies of women brutally slaughtered by serial killer Don Mathers. Shivers go up my spine, and I silently say a prayer of protection. This seems like a good place and situation to carry a gun. But Nick is supposed to be all right, vetted by Swartz and Walker. 

So the area is large, like the size of a decent apartment but also looks like an unused basement. The entire space is about 1200 feet square. The ceiling isn’t high, around eight feet. It smells like mildew, earth, and perhaps something more negative. Something spicy like a heavy incense with an undertone of blood. It could be my imagination. Three pillars are on either side, square. The walls and floor are all cement. Dirt and grime obscure black and red symbols on the walls. 

I have one final involuntary shudder before calming down. “I know,” Nick says. “It’s creepy as shit now, it was back then.” He swings the light around. “And then we had lanterns and at least a dozen people. I didn’t want to go down here, though. Willy was here, and so was Trey. I had to go down even though I was scared. Call it a man thing. I guess I was more afraid of what would happen if I didn’t go; if they thought I was turning on them.”

“The apostate is more reviled than the heretic.” I steady my phone to take pictures.  A very intricate pentagram is painted on one wall. The symbols within represent Bune. “Those symbols…from that time?”

I can see an outline on the floor in front of the Bune symbols where something heavy and rectangular once stood. An altar, maybe. 

“Yeah. They said they could open up Hell,” Nick comments casually, and more shivers go up my spine. It’s not just that the place looks like an Eli Roth set. There’s a psychic heaviness. Like sleeping ghosts are stirring below and beyond at the presence of humans. 

A long time ago when I was a little girl, my mom and I were going through one of our bad times and staying in a motel. The room was actually a cabin and pretty big. But one night Mom saw a demon in the shape of a bird, like a griffin, on the TV. She bundled me up in a hurry–“Come on, Vevi,”–and rushed out to the old battered car and we slept in it. The next day Mom demanded another room from the front desk, and did not stop protesting until we got one. Even then, I remained terrified the demon would follow us. I saw the demon too, or at least I think I did…I imagined that the demon came from the woods surrounding the motel, a doorway to Hell…

Shake it off, Vevi. “Did they come here a lot, or was this something special?”

“Special. It would have been in part an initiation ritual, or, so I was told, a sacrifice.”

I take a deep breath and begin taking photos of the area. “Did you ever happen to hear of someone who was…well, used in a ritual, and escaped, or attempted to escape?”

Nick runs a hand through his hair, thinking about the question. He glances at me a couple times. I take more pictures of the area to give him a bit of space. 

“Okay, so, there was this one time…it’s after Midnight, and we’re here to have a ritual of power and protection over this member who usually was on the West Coast, but was called into town for a special purpose. This guy Orlo.”

“Was he a priest of some sort?”

“A troubleshooter. A hitman, really. He was very much admired and highly thought of, because he was good at killing. I mean, Trey tried to be that way, but I doubt he had done more than beat up someone. But this guy was the real deal. I’d heard some people tell a few bits and pieces, but just meeting the guy you know. You know not to fuck around with this one.”

I finish taking pictures and start pacing the floor, to try to get over the fear I feel down here by taking ownership of the space. “So Orlo was a hitman with a purpose, getting a blessing of sorts. Was he there to target someone in particular?”

“Oh, yeah. Apparently they had had an outside ritual with a sacrifice. But the person who was going to be sacrificed escaped. They sent Orlo to find her. That’s what the blessing was for. Now, the blessing was more for show. I mean, in a cult—and this was a cult—you need to have rituals and activities that bond and reinforce the beliefs. A dog and pony show to keep the faith. But it was clear that whether or not Orlo believed in the blessing, he was here for serious business. In hearing about the ritual that went wrong, and this guy going to hunt someone down…that was actually when I was picturing working with Marty versus attending these fucking rituals.”

“When was this?”

“Uh, summer time. 1983 or ‘84.”

“This hit man–was Orlo his real name?”

“No, he said he wanted something Crowley-like.”
Even with my jacket, I’m cold. I look around the space again, as Nick flashes his light. No one else is down there, but when the lights go to one side, the shadows fill up and suggest other beings. The awakened spirits getting closer.

The atmosphere is thick enough that I can’t stay any longer. I look up at the cistern’s opening. “I’m ready to go.”

“I hear you.” He waits for me to climb out, and then follows. I let Geneva know all is okay. As we head back to the parking lot, I ask, “Were there any other places you know of that they might have used for rituals or anything else?”

“They would have more casual meetings, the ones to attract people, in quasi-public places. Bars, bookstores, and the like. You know of this place and maybe Van Cortlandt Park. One other, I believe. A place further north. Between Rockefeller Park and Pocantico Lake Park. I don’t know exactly where, but supposedly somewhere in those woods is a building that was an old meeting house or church from the 18th Century. Only the core members use that one. They call it a warlocks’ church. That’s all I know.”

I turn that over in my mind the rest of the way. When the two of us reach the parking lot, I take a folder out of my knapsack. “Can you look at some photos for me?”

“Sure.” Nick takes the folder. The photos are from Joran’s film. He sighs before opening it. “Your interest, though. Is it personal?”

“Professional. To find some of these people and hopefully find out what happened to someone they targeted. I’m in no way supportive of them and what they did or may still do.”

He looks up at me. “You’re a pagan? That’s what our detective friends said.”

“I have pagan inclinations. I have some gnostic inclinations. I have some Daoist inclinations. I don’t belong to any group; I’m not a group person. You saw my website. What you see is what you get.” 

He nods briefly. Then opens the folder. “I had to ask. I don’t really want to see these people, but if it’s for a good cause, I have to. I was there and did nothing to stop or expose them. I want to make up for hanging around in the first place.”

He sits on a nearby rock with the printouts. “Looks like this was during a ritual, a long time ago. That’s McDonnell.” He points out the young man in the red hood and cloak. “Since Noel was in seclusion, McDonnell started taking over.”

He continues to go through the half-dozen photos. “I recognize them, but don’t know all their names. This woman was Edie, I think. This big guy, he was trouble, too. Mitt. And that’s Trey.”

I make a special note of Trey. Tall, black hair. Intense expression. “It looks like he has a tattoo?”

“Several. It stood out at the time, not like now. An infinity with wings. And a sword to the left. Getting one had to be approved. Like the Hell’s Angels, you didn’t get that tattoo without permission. McDonnell has it too.”

“One more thing. Is there anyone else who was in or connected to the cult who might be willing to talk about it?”

For the first time Nick turns reticent. In the waning afternoon light, the lines in his face get deeper. “I wouldn’t recommend that. These aren’t celebrity satanists. Once you are on their radar, you’re in danger. I wouldn’t go anywhere near them.”

I consider whether to push further on this. There must be someone on the periphery who could add some information.

“I’m looking for a missing person,” I tell Nick. “From what you said, I’m pretty sure that the person you described as being targeted is the missing person I’m looking for. It would really help if I was able to speak to another insider.”

He just shakes his head, looking away. “Who hired you?”

“Someone who also wants to make amends, but absolutely not a member of Vex.”

“You sure?” His retort comes quick; quick enough that when I start to form an automatic defense for Joran, I suddenly stop. Am I really sure?

I don’t know.

“Sure enough to bet your life on it? Because you need to be, Veronica. Celebrities have secrets. They have the means to access things we can’t get away with. You want to believe they’re okay people, not evil. That’s what the dangerous ones count on to gain your trust.”

My face burns, as I feel I inadvertently outed Joran. Obviously, he put two and two together. At the same time, the entirety of my dealings, my budding relationship with Joran, flashes through my mind. 

Have I been wrong this whole time? Have I been stupid and dazzled by his fame?

A moment of panic that I try to fight down. 

Nick closes his eyes and frowns. “I’m sorry…I know that was harsh. It’s just that I’ve seen this. It’s hard to be suspicious. It’s stressful. But I don’t want to have a convenient accident. I cannot vet your client, so I can’t extend myself into that risk.”

“Yes, sure. I understand that.” I offer my hand, trembling a bit, and give him a business card. 

“If it makes a difference, I read some of what you wrote online, and you are not a dark arts person. So I wish you well.” He smiles, with some strain, but does not offer his contact information in return. 

I walk back to my car, feeling the chill. He is waiting for me to leave, probably unwilling for me to see how he arrived or where he would go. I decide to head for a diner I know, some distance away, to work on my notes. It’s a banal and bright place, far removed from this Gothic nightmare. But even in a booth surrounded by families and couples, I feel the chill following me and remaining on the back of my neck. I have to keep looking around to ensure nothing is watching me from the outside.