Chapter Ten
The Living
Oliver watched Felipe carry Gwen outside through a tornado of insects and let out a weary sigh. He had spotted some maggots and evidence of creatures nibbling on their bodies while inspecting the others but nothing like this. Still, he would take bugs over bowel explosions any day. Picking up the shroud, Oliver waved it over the body to chase the flying insects toward the open windows. Thank god I left him for last , Oliver thought as the pests dissipated enough that he could look at Mr. Ridder more closely. His body was in abysmal shape: distended with water, bloated with gas, and rapidly decomposing. Bugs of the wiggly variety still burrowed deep into his skin and skittered around the perimeter of his corpse as if waiting for Oliver to finally leave. Unlike the others who were strangely clean, Mr. Ridder appeared covered in mud. It clung to his ragged clothes and the cracks of his hands where the skin hadn’t sloughed off.
At the sound of a new voice outside, Oliver raised his head but couldn’t see who it was. Whoever it was, they were unlikely to bother him once they caught wind of the smell. Examining the dead man’s hands, Oliver noted there were cuts on the back of them along with a gash on his side, though he couldn’t be sure if they were from his body dragging along the rocky bottom of a river or creek or signs of a struggle. Poking the dead man’s head to the side with his tongs, Oliver found the back of his head had been smashed in. Oliver begrudgingly got down on all fours to see the wound better, but the remaining insects paid him little mind. The interior of the wound was mud free, which meant it was made postmortem, probably during his stroll through Aldorhaven.
Sitting back on his heels, Oliver wished they been the first team of investigators to come. Then, he might have been able to do a more thorough autopsy and maybe even determined a rough time of death, but with how decomposed Mr. Ridder was, that was nearly impossible, especially with water hastening the process. The most he could tell for certain without his full laboratory or microscope at his disposal was that he didn’t appear to have any ligature marks or wounds around his neck or any obvious bullet holes, though even that could have been obscured by being nibbled on. There was still one thing he needed to check.
Covering Mr. Ridder’s body and stepping back, Oliver drew in a long, centering breath and let his powers rise to the surface. Normally, he would have needed Felipe at his side to do a proper reanimation, but there was no point in going that far when they were all so far gone. Once decomposition fully set in, getting coherent answers out of a dead person was nearly impossible. All he needed was to see if another necromancer had left their magic behind. Closing his eyes, Oliver let his powers trail toward what was left of Mr. Ridder. Oliver gently coaxed the bacteria left behind that had always called Horace Ridder home, the muscles that once reached and caressed, the soul of the man who had once existed, and somewhere, deep, deep in his body a dim flame blinked to life. Oliver leaned into its meager warmth. What was left felt similar to what Oliver used to reanimate and interview the dead, but there wasn’t enough for him to do a reanimation, though he couldn’t tell if decomposition or necromancy had stolen the rest of it.
There was also something else. Oliver could sense it on the periphery like the brush of an unseen cobweb or the airy caress of static. While he had never felt the magic another necromancer left behind, this felt different. It was more like what he sensed from the Clausum Librum or the island it produced than a discrete use of magic. Oliver let his powers expand ever so slightly against it. It vaguely reminded him of the tether, but instead of a single, strong braided cord or vine, this was more diffuse and web-like, like a million tiny, shadowy roots growing through Mr. Ridder’s being. Frowning, Oliver cautiously reached for the net of magic when the shadow stirred. Quick as a cat, it leapt toward Oliver’s magic.
Yanking his powers back with a gasp, Oliver slammed that door shut in his mind. He stumbled into the pew behind him, clutching his hand to his heart. His pulse thundered and his lungs strained against his ribs as Oliver looked around the darkened church for— He wasn’t sure what, but there had been something inside the dead man, something that felt sentient. Oliver shook out his hands as if he could wipe away the feeling of whatever still lurked in Mr. Ridder’s body before cautiously reaching for the weight of the tether. He found it, and only it, sitting solidly beneath his heart. Relief loosened his breath knowing that he hadn’t contaminated Felipe with whatever he had touched.
Oliver straightened and stared at the five bodies lying before the altar. Although they hadn’t moved or changed, he didn’t want to be alone with them a moment more. It was foolish. He hadn’t been afraid of the dead since his first medical school classes, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Mr. Ridder might suddenly rise and go for his throat should he linger too long. While he couldn’t revive the dead more than once, he wasn’t certain that was the case with whoever woke them. Holding his breath, Oliver whipped off his gloves, threw his autopsy notebook into his gladstone, and headed for the door as fast as his legs could carry him.
He kept his gaze on Felipe’s form outside the church doors as he hurried up the aisle, but when Oliver reached the last pew, he froze. Behind him, one of the shrouds fluttered and the wooden boards creaked. Without looking back, Oliver reached the cemetery grounds in two strides, grabbed the iron handles, and pulled the church doors shut behind him. Gwen could close the windows from the outside. None of them would be going back into the church if he could help it. Not until he knew what they were dealing with.
***
Felipe followed Mr. Allen’s gaze to find a white man in a fine frock coat and a silk top hat storming across the cemetery lawn straight toward them. The man’s bushy brows were drawn low over his deep-set eyes as he murmured under his breath. Despite being at least as old as Felipe’s father, if not older, the man moved quickly, and his sturdy build gave the impression of once having a powerful frame. As he grew closer, Mr. Allen squared his shoulders and gave him a look that could curdle milk. Felipe debated going to alert Oliver, but he didn’t like the way the man glared at Gwen. Stepping in front of her, Felipe stood at Mr. Allen’s side and let the other man come to them. Oliver would want him to stay put, just in case. By the time the man crested the hill and reached the innkeeper, his face was red and his grey mustache and goatee trembled with bottled rage.
“What in the devil do you think you’re doing? No one is allowed to go in there without my say-so,” the man yelled far too close to Mr. Allen’s face. “Who are these people?”
“We are from the New York Paranormal Society.” When the man’s flinty gaze swung toward Felipe, he whipped out his badge and the official writ of jurisdiction from the New Jersey Branch. “We’re here to investigate the abnormal activity regarding your town’s dead.”
With a sneer, he batted the paper away and turned back to the innkeeper as if Felipe and Gwen weren’t even there. “I told you to keep out of this, Lewis. I’m the mayor of Aldorhaven, not you. You have no right—”
“I have every right to call in the Paranormal Society when you won’t do what’s best for the town. Admitting something is going on that you can’t explain isn’t going to ruin your reelection campaign, Luther. It isn’t as if anyone even runs against you.”
“We don’t need outsiders poking around.” Raking his pale green gaze over Felipe and Gwen, the mayor gave them a sneer and a dismissive wave. “Inspector, please take your helper and your belongings and go back to New York. We have no need for you, just as we had no need for the other investigators.”
“With all due respect, Mayor Stills,” Felipe began calmly, “you’ve had one murder, at least one suspicious death, and several assaults all within a short period of time on your watch. That is not something we can ignore now that we have been made aware of it, and if you force us to leave, we will call in the Federal Branch. We can’t bring you up on interference charges, but they can.”
Mayor Stills turned an apoplectic shade of purple, but Felipe continued, “Therefore, it would be in your best interest to let us complete our investigation. If you don’t, we will have to assume there’s a reason you don’t want us to investigate why Horace Ridder attacked your wife.”
“How dare you insinuate I had anything to do with that! I’ll have you know—”
A wave of icy panic coursed beneath Felipe’s heart, but when he looked over the mayor’s shoulder, he found Oliver shutting the church doors. His features were tense and his skin was even whiter than usual, but the remaining fear rapidly galvanized into anger as he realized what was going on. Oliver’s mouth opened in silent outrage as he stepped from the shadows of the church and loomed over Mayor Stills’ shoulder.
“Sir, I insist you lower your voice and speak calmly. There is no need to take that tone with Inspector Galvan or Miss Jones,” Oliver said, his voice the sternest and loudest Felipe had ever heard it. “They are merely doing their jobs, and I suggest you do yours.”
Luther Stills turned, ready to fight with Oliver too, when he jerked back as if he had seen a ghost. “And who the hell are you?”
“The medical examiner,” Oliver replied indignantly at the mayor’s sharp tone. “I assume you don’t have one of those in your town. Why did no one send for the county coroner to autopsy your dead?”
“There was no need. None of them were murdered. Dr. Miller confirmed that.”
Oliver made a face and a half-hummed noise that suggested otherwise, eliciting a snicker from Gwen and a half-hidden smile from Felipe. It wasn’t often that Oliver became waspish with others, but when he did, Oliver gave no quarter. There was something about watching his sweet, quiet partner take someone to task who fully deserved it that warmed Felipe’s heart.
“Your dead are in abysmal condition. Were you the one who bashed in Mr. Ridder’s skull?”
“No, that was me!” a voice called breathlessly behind them.
The man jogging toward them was half a head taller than Luther Stills and only had a mustache, but the echoes of the other man’s features in his own were obvious, even if their demeanors were night and day. The mayor crossed his arms impatiently and murmured something about him being unfit for company. Felipe assumed that had to do with the younger man’s lack of a hat and overcoat. His wavy, auburn hair blew into his eyes as the wind whipped anew, and he rubbed his arms with a shiver as he ran. Despite the chill and gathering clouds, he wore no coat over his brown and cream striped three piece suit as if he had run out of wherever he came from in a hurry. By the time he reached them, his pale cheeks were pink from exertion, but his green eyes and open features were bright. Up close, the man appeared to be in his late thirties, though his exasperated, apologetic expression as he met Gwen and Felipe’s gazes made him appear younger.
“I hit him with a golf club. Repeatedly. I still have it at home if you need to see it, ichor and all. I assume you’re police of some kind,” he answered, in an airy, fast voice that felt at odds with his father’s demanding baritone.
“They’re from the Paranormal Society,” Mr. Allen said flatly.
“And they’re leaving, and so are you! Lucien, go back to the office.”
“I will not,” Lucien replied, sidestepping his father as he tried to shoo him away. “That man tried to kill Mother! We need to do something before it happens again.”
“There is nothing to do! This is simply how it is. End of discussion.” Sticking his finger in Felipe’s face, Mayor Stills added, “The three of you had better leave town before I send the sheriff to remove you.”
Mr. Allen and Lucien exchanged a look as the mayor stormed back toward town. With a sigh, Lucien turned to them. “I must apologize for my father’s behavior. He has been under a lot of pressure lately. Losing Sheriff Ridder and having him attack my mother on the same day hasn’t been easy for him to come to terms with. I’m Lucien Stills, by the way,” he said, reaching out to shake Felipe’s hand. He nodded along as Felipe introduced himself and then Gwen and Oliver. “If you folks need anything, I would be happy to help and smooth things over the best I can. I know we weren’t very forthcoming with the last two sets of investigators, but after what happened… We can’t go on like this.”
Felipe hoped the incredulity didn’t show on his face. Nothing’s ever a problem until the monsters are eating your faces , he thought bitterly. If he never set foot in a murder town again, it would be too soon. Beside him, Oliver’s features twisted with confusion.
Before he could speak, Gwen grabbed Felipe’s fallen notebook and pencil from behind the tombstone and asked, “If you’re willing, could you tell us what happened the night Sheriff Ridder attacked your mother?”
“Finally, someone who wants to hear what happened,” he said, glaring at his father’s retreating form over his shoulder. Turning back to Gwen, Lucien sighed. “It was horrible. It was late at night, probably close to two or three when I awoke because I heard something, like a door opening. At first, I thought it was my cousin sneaking out, but when I went down to check, I found the back door wide open, which Willard would never do. He’s too careful for that. Well, Will must have heard me banging around because he came down to see what was going on. As we were trying to figure out how the door was left open, there was a crash and yelling upstairs. I grabbed one of my golf clubs from by the back door in case it was a burglar, and Will and I charged up the servants’ steps to see what was going on. When we got there, my parents’ bedroom door was open, and my mother was screaming while my father was face down on the floor. I thought he was dead at first, but luckily, he was merely unconscious. But someone was standing over my mother. I didn’t know who it was at first. I assumed it was a burglar or something, so I just started whaling on him with the club until he went down. It wasn’t until we turned the lights on that we realized the intruder was already dead, and that it was Sheriff Ridder of all people.”
“How decomposed did he look when you first saw him?” Oliver asked.
Lucien let out a high laugh and looked at Oliver like he had five heads. “I wouldn’t know how decomposed anything is. I have very little experience with the dead. I had never even seen a dead person, at least not one I can remember. You’ll have to ask Will if he’s willing and able to talk. He was the one who confirmed Ridder was very dead before I whacked him. See, I feared I had murdered him and was feeling very guilty about it, even if it was for a good cause.”
Oliver and Felipe exchanged a glance. They would have to speak to the cousin later. “Do you remember if Sheriff Ridder looked bloated? Was his skin greenish or red?”
“He was very wet and smelly, like he came straight out of a pond or something, and he was bloated. It was dark. I don’t remember what color his skin was. I mean, I hardly recognized him, but I was already in a tizzy. Mother was the first to say it was Ridder, and Will confirmed it when he found his hunting knife in his pocket. He never went anywhere without it. It was a shame, really. He was a good sheriff, and a dear friend to Father. And his death has left us in the lurch. No one wants to be sheriff after the last one died and came back like that.”
“And your father? How did he end up on the floor?” Felipe asked, trying to pull the conversation back on track.
“He was knocked out, somehow. We still don’t know if Ridder hit him or if it was the shock of seeing him or if he merely ran headfirst into the bedpost and knocked himself out. Father says he doesn’t remember any of that night. It took me days to convince him Ridder was actually dead and that he tried to kill Mother after he died. He kept telling me I was being silly for being upset and that Horace would come back eventually. Thank god I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. If it had just been Will, Father would certainly have thought he was making it up and would have convinced us of the same.”
“And how did Mrs. Stills take all of this?”
Lucien shook his head. “She was very shaken when it happened, as we all were, but she’s barely said a word about it since. When I try to talk to her about it, she changes the subject or looks at me like I’ve brought up something distasteful. I don’t know whether she’s trying to avoid upsetting Father or if she is truly in as deep denial as he is. I mean, we were all there; we all saw the body. We had to throw out the rug in their bedroom because of the smell and mess, yet they’re going on as if the rug has always been gone. At the least, I thought Father would want someone to investigate Ridder’s death, but—” Lucien threw his hands up in exasperation. “I can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
“Which is even more suspicious,” Mr. Allen said under his breath as he leaned hard on his cane.
Lucien gave him a helpless look.
“Did anyone determine a cause of death?” Oliver asked.
“I don’t know. Father didn’t discuss it with me, though Dr. Miller came to deal with the body.” Checking his pocket watch, Lucien grimaced. “My apologies, I need to get back to townhall before Father comes back for round two. I will do my best to bring my parents around and smooth things over for you. Perhaps, I can even convince them to invite you all over for dinner. It is the mayor’s duty to host guests after all.”
Lucien flashed them a mollifying smile before ambling down the hill. The last thing Felipe wanted to do was have dinner with the mayor and his wife, and from the look on Oliver’s face, he was certain they were of the same mind. When Lucien shut the cemetery gate behind him, Mr. Allen let out a full-body sigh that embodied everything that Felipe felt.
“Dr. Miller had the death reported as an accidental drowning, though I don’t think he did more than glance at Horace Ridder’s body before he signed off on dumping him into the old church with the others,” the innkeeper said.
“Do you think the younger Mr. Stills will be of any help?” Felipe asked, watching Lucien’s auburn head retreat down the street.
“I don’t know. Lucien probably means well, but he is a politician’s son. I think he’s concerned about his mother, and probably about himself, but I wouldn’t stake my plan on his help coming to fruition. Willard is a wildcard on a good day, and I certainly wouldn’t trust the family as a whole if I were you.” When the trees hissed and rocked behind them, Mr. Allen dropped his voice. “Do you see why the problem festered now? Horace Ridder did nothing about the dead while he was alive, and it’s only gotten worse now that he’s dead. We have no sheriff anymore, no one else cares enough to ask why this is happening, and I have no authority to do anything about it, especially not with Luther and the others stonewalling me. You three are my last hope. I don’t think they’ll send anyone else.”
“We’ll do everything in our power to figure it out; we promise,” Gwen replied softly as she handed Felipe his notepad. “The mayor will have to do far more than yell to scare us off.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mr. Allen said wearily, rubbing the scar by his eye. “When you all are finished with the bodies, I think we should head back to the inn. That way you all can get cleaned up, and we can discuss dinner.”
“If you’d like to get a head start, we can meet you back there. I only need to take a few photographs,” Felipe offered.
“After what happened with the first pair of inspectors, I’m not letting you three out of my sight if I can help it. Take your time. I’ll wait here until you’re done.”
As Felipe reached for the Kodak, Oliver caught his arm. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. A tick of anxiety passed between them as Oliver looked between Felipe and the innkeeper. When Felipe turned to Gwen, she gave him a confused shrug. Motioning for Felipe and Gwen to follow him, Oliver walked toward the church only to avoid the entrance in favor of standing in the shadows of a mausoleum.
“I don’t want either of you to go back in there,” Oliver blurted, eyeing the church suspiciously.
“Why? What happened after I left?” Gwen asked.
“I sensed magic on Horace Ridder’s body, but it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like a normal person’s magic. I—” He shook his head and bit his lip. “I don’t trust it. There’s something in there.”
“What do you mean there’s something in there ? Like a creature or a ghost?” Felipe replied, studying Oliver’s face.
“I don’t know. I don’t know, but it tried to lash out at me.” Oliver’s face blanched in time with a sluice of cold fear that mixed with Felipe’s own. “Please don’t go in there. I don’t want either of you to get hurt. I know we should take photographs for evidence, but we can’t. Not now at least. Not until we know more. I don’t trust it after that.”
Felipe wasn’t sure what it was or if he wanted to know. Oliver’s anxiety sent Felipe’s pulse racing, and he wished he could rub Oliver’s arms and calm him down the way he would at the Paranormal Society. Even if Oliver grew anxious about things Felipe rarely thought about, he trusted his danger senses. If he felt something was off about Horace Ridder’s corpse, he believed him. Thus far, his instincts had never been wrong.
“Did you feel it on any of the other bodies, Ol?”
Oliver shook his head. “I didn’ t check. Once was enough.”
He started to shake out his hands but caught himself and quickly folded them beneath his arms. Reaching across the tether, Felipe focused on Oliver’s heart and held it with his mind. Oliver was better at this, but Felipe pictured the tension leaving Oliver’s body the way it did when he held him close. Oliver’s hand fluttered toward his chest before he let it drop when he found Felipe watching him. He gave the tether one slow, deliberate tug, and Oliver released a tremulous breath. When Felipe looked at Gwen, she was studying them with a scholar’s eye.
“Let’s close up the church and go back to the inn.”
“Are you sure? I know we should be—”
“No, it’s fine. Before we do anything else, we need to share what we know. Then, we can make a plan, but the sun will be setting soon. We aren’t investigating a strange place in the dark if I can help it,” Felipe said emphatically enough that he hoped Oliver would believe it.
The Felipe Galvan who spent months chasing bandits cross-country didn’t let darkness deter him. A fleeting part of him wished the old Felipe had the night vision he had now; he could have been unstoppable. But he wasn’t with Monroe or the other grizzled investigators who were as dysfunctional as he was. Oliver and Gwen needed to eat and rest, and while Oliver fussed about how much and what kind of food Felipe needed to not feel ill, he underestimated how much his ability to cope with life’s inconsistencies was tied to regular meals.
“Good, I can’t wait to get out of this smelly, bug-infested dress,” Gwen replied before reaching for the nearest church window.
As Gwen went from window to window with Oliver at her side, Felipe turned over what Oliver said. In the past, he had mentioned that there were rumors some necromancers could use their powers across long distances, but in Felipe’s years with the Paranormal Society, he had never encountered one. The farthest he and Oliver could be apart was roughly half a mile. The smokestack from the ironworks looked at least a mile or two away, so whoever manipulated the dead would probably have to follow them around to maintain contact. It was farfetched that a necromancer in a murder town in the middle of the woods would have a relic to amplify how far their powers could reach, but it would be the best answer, all things considered.
Scratching at the bite on the back of his calf, Felipe’s eyes trailed to the shadows of the Dysterwood. The world around Felipe dimmed as the trees grew taller until all he could see were the leaves beckoning. Rest , the trees crooned, a soothing whisper in the darkness. The ground was soft and the woods quiet. All he needed to do was come closer. A few steps, and he could finally rest. In the distance, a figure in red stepped between the pines and beckoned. If only he could get—
Felipe jolted as Oliver’s hand landed on his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”
Only eight feet stood between him and the woods. Felipe’s pulse pounded in his ears. He hadn’t been that close only a moment ago. Pushing through the fog clogging his senses, Felipe rubbed his eyes and blinked hard until his vision cleared. The trees had shrunk back to their usual size and no whispers lured him to their shadowy boughs; it was an ordinary forest and nothing more.
“I thought I saw something, but it was probably my eyes playing tricks on me.”
Oliver gave him a concerned look. “If you’re sure. Just don’t get too close. Even if the tales of the woods are exaggerated, let’s not chance it.”
Nodding, Felipe followed Oliver and Gwen back to where Mr. Allen perched on a headstone. When Felipe dared to glance back at the Dysterwood, he found it silent as a tomb, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling something still watched them just out of sight.