Murder House

"Further from the road than I remember," Trevor said, his voice hollow as he gazed at the abandoned house where his family had tragically perished.

The porch and the peak of the roof were barely visible through the rioting growth that had taken over the yard. A weeping willow at the side of the house, tall enough for its pale green fronds to caress the roof. A verdant tangle of goldenrod and forsythia, Queen Anne's lace and pokeweed, and brown-eyed Susans ran right up to the porch steps, which were partly crumbled. Kudzu was draped over everything like a green blanket, tendrils twining between the porch railings, and through the broken windows.

Yet there was something else, a layer beneath the surface known only to those blessed or cursed with a wider perspective. I heard the sigh and hush of leaves, the high shrill drone of insects, the distant conversation of birds . . . and beneath that, a subliminal voice whispering to me, making itself heard over years of absence and decay.

What did it say? I did not know. I could if lowered my psychic defenses a bit more. But here and now, having an open mind was like leaving the gates of a fortress unguarded and unbarred during a siege. Not a wise move, unless I was setting an ambush. And that wasn't the plan, not yet at least.

Two's expression showed a mix of concern and inquisitiveness as he glanced back and forth between Trevor and their surroundings. His brow furrowed with worry as he looked at Trevor, but his eyes would then dart around, taking in the ruins of the house and the surrounding area with curiosity. He seemed torn between wanting to stay close to Trevor and wanting to explore our surroundings. His body language was tense, as if ready to act on either impulse at a moment's notice.

I was still not quite sure if I was doing the right thing by bringing Two here. On one hand, it was easier to keep watch on both if they were in my presence. On the other, he was another vector for mental interference. 

"Are we going in, or are we just going to stand here and admire the murder house?" Two drawled out the words, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He rolled his eyes as he spoke as if the idea of standing there and doing nothing was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

"First things first, close your eyes and take a few deep breaths to centre yourselves," I instructed in a calm, measured tone. "Focus on your breath and let go of any distractions. Visualize a bright, white light enveloping your body. This light will be your shield, protecting you from negative energy and unwanted influences. As you breathe, visualize the light growing brighter and stronger, expanding to cover your entire body, including your head and feet. Visualize the shield becoming stronger and thicker with each breath you take as if it is being fortified by your own inner strength."

With quick probes, I tested their work. Two's shield was like a pane of glass, strong and unyielding, but I sensed that it could shatter if struck with enough force. Trevor's shield, on the other hand, was more pliable, like a rubber sheet that could bend and flex without breaking, but it wasn't as strong as Two's. Once I was satisfied with the strength and resilience of their mental defenses, I wiped a trickle of blood from my nose, and announced, "We're ready to proceed."

The air within the house was thick and heavy, moving like slow syrup, and green with the filtered light that seeped through the kudzu. Dampness and rot hung in the air, filling my nose with the scent of decay that came from years of abandonment. It was a mixture of things, the black earth under the floor, the dry droppings of animals, and the layers of dead insects whose iridescent chitin now crunched beneath our feet. Shimmering tapestries of cobwebs hung from the corners of the room, glistening in the shafts of sunlight that managed to penetrate the thick canopy of vegetation above. In these sunbeams, I could see dust motes slowly drifting and turning.

We ventured deeper into the house, the living room a haunting sight. The once ugly chair and old brown sofa now lay in a corner, reduced to brittle skins of colourless cloth stretched over wooden skeletons. The holes in the roof had allowed rain to seep in, and the room reeked of slow damp decay, with a hint of fungal secrets.

Trevor walked towards the remnants of the stacked milk crates and spoke in a melancholic tone, "We used to keep our records here. Most of them are gone, and those that remain are ruined. I remember album covers like Janis Joplin's Cheap Thrills with art by R. Crumb, the psychedelic hologram of the Rolling Stones' Satanic Majesties Request that could induce dizziness if I stared at it too long, and a photograph of Sidney Bechet that used to scare me a little because the muscles of the jazz saxophonist's cheeks and neck were so developed that his head appeared swollen, almost like an elephant."

"Here is where Momma died," Trevor said, wandering towards the doorway leading into the hall. His voice had a detached dreamy quality. "Her blood," he said running his artist fingers over a barely discernible pattern of streaks and spatters on the wall, not much darker than the shadow and grime around it.

I couldn't help but notice where the wooden frame had been splintered by hammer blows that had missed their intended target. And in two spots, one on either side of the door, human fingers had dug into the wall, leaving gouges in the plaster. That must have been when Trevor's father didn't miss.

The autopsy report detailed the substances found under her fingernails: wood, plaster, her husband's blood, and her own. Bobby's skin was embedded in the little divots under her nails, along with strands of his hair. She fought for her life, but in the end, the brutality of her attacker overwhelmed her.

Cause of death: blunt trauma. The victim had suffered fifteen separate wounds inflicted by a claw hammer. Five wounds to her head, three to her chest, and seven to her arms and hands. Three of the head wounds and two of the chest wounds alone could have been fatal. It was a scene of unspeakable violence, and yet…

"How very strange," I idly commented, my voice tinged with an eerie detachment that only added to the unsettling atmosphere of the room. It would be worse if I took off my shirt. My torso, concealed by clothes, now sported a dozen purple-black lidless eyes gazing into beyond. You could never have too many eyes.

Two had been watching Trevor with a sort of horrified fascination reserved for witnessing a car crash in slow motion. He was like a moth to a flame, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him. But at my words, he shook himself from his almost trance-like state and asked, "What's fucking strange? Besides Trevor molesting a door."

I shot Two an amused glance before turning my attention back to Trevor. The young man was lost in his own recollections, seemingly unaware of our presence in the room.

"Look beyond the mundane," I instructed Two, my voice low and compelling. "But don't drop your mental shields. Now you tell me what's wrong with this picture."

Two furrowed his brow in concentration, and said, "It feels fake?"

At my words, Trevor jumped as if he had been poked by a red-hot iron. His eyes widened in outrage, and he exclaimed, "Fake!? No, it can't be…"

"Violence, betrayal, madness," I lectured, "Such things leave more than a physical mark. An event like that should be seared into the mental plane, noticeable even after a decade had passed. Even those not as gifted as we are could sense it. And when it is missing your brain interprets it as being fake. If you are more experienced, you would feel that is not fake but erased. There is a subtle difference."

"Erased? But what would be the point?" Trevor asked, his voice tinged with a hint of disbelief. "I mean, psychics are rare. Really rare. And it's not like the police believe in that stuff."

"Because concealment was not the intent," I continued the lecture. "Erase is not the best word to explain what happened. Devour would fit more. We could be dealing with a logophage."

I hoped not.

Trevor's eyes widened at the mention of the term. "Logophage? That sounds ominous. What does it mean?"

"It's an ancient Greek term for 'information eater'," I explained. "It would refer to an entity that feeds on memories, knowledge, or, in our case, psychometric traces."

Trevor leaned back, one hand gripping the doorframe, clearly overwhelmed by the information. "That's insane. How could something like that exist?"

"You will be surprised by things that lurk in dark corners of the world," Two added his two cents. "Monsters, aliens, and stranger things."

"Besides, if something is not real, it does not mean it is harmless. Quite the opposite." As the Two's encounter with the imaginary demon could attest. But then as I was not supposed to know about that, I did not say it aloud. "Come. We have to see the other two places where the death occurred."

"Didi's room is this way," Trevor said, entering the hallway and going left. Didi was the nickname of his deceased baby brother. Two followed right after and I went after him.

I recalled the police report. Fredric D. McGee, Box 17, Violin Road, male Caucasian, 3 yrs., 2-6, 25 pounds, blond hair, brown eyes. Occupation: None. Cause of death: blunt trauma. The victim had approximately twenty-two separate wounds, all in the head/neck area. Cranium and brain were completely destroyed…

"I sometimes wonder. Had Momma died quietly?" words continued to pour from Trevor. It sounded like a desperate confession. He had buried this deep inside for too long, and now that he began sharing, he could not stop, "She might have wrestled with Bobby in a desperate silence at first, not wanting to wake the boys and scare us with another fight. But once she realized that Bobby meant us harm, she would have started screaming. She would have tried to hold Bobby off long enough to let us get out of the house. At least that is what I think. I don't know. I was drugged with Seconal."

Suddenly, violently, Trevor slammed the heel of his left hand against the door frame. A rain of dust sifted down. As I looked at his face, I saw that his eyes were closed. His expression was strangely serene.

"What the fuck, man?" Two exclaimed and ran towards the other boy. He grabbed his injured hand and looked it over, "Why did you do that?"

"I saw hammer descending towards Didi's head, in my mind," Trevor explained. I expected him to flinch from contact, but he leaned into it. His body relaxed. "I needed to banish that image."

"And you need to hurt yourself to do it?" Two's voice was accusing, but there was a hint of worry in it. It seemed that the boys got closer than I thought. I supposed sex does that.

"Pain helps. And it was not my drawing hand." Trevor shrugged. It was obvious that it was not the first time he had hurt himself. But that was not news to me. I after all had access to all of his records.

With a quick probe, I tested Trevor's mental shields. It was as though they were ragged from his emotional state. Good. His purpose was to be bait after all. I wiped the blood from my nose, and said, "If it's too much you can stay here with Damien. I could examine the room alone."

"No, I can take it. Come," Trevor said and entered the room, pulling Two by hand. "I found Didi curled on his belly, ruined head burrowed deep into the pillow as if Bobby had killed him in his sleep. But unless Bobby had given him Seconal too, I didn't think Didi could have slept through the sounds of our mother dying. Bobby could have killed him sitting up in bed -or cowering- and then arranged him back into the peaceful sleeping position as if trying to absolve himself."

"You found him?" Two asked, his grip tightening on Trevor's hand. I of course knew this already. After all, I had access to all his records.

Trevor's voice was calm and matter-of-fact as he said, "Yes, I did."

"That sucks man," Two said, rolling his eyes.

Trevor shot him a glare, his fists clenching at his sides.

"What do you know about it?" Trevor spat. "You don't know anything about what we went through."

"More than you would think," Two said, his voice trailing off as he stared blankly at the wall. I knew what he was talking about, even though Trevor did not. The massacre at Hawkins lab and what came after.

"Enough, Damien," I interrupted before he could reveal more that was convenient for me. "We have found what we have come for. Or rather we did not."

"What?" "What?" both spoke at once, their expressions mirroring confusion and surprise. I could sense the tension between them dissipating for a moment, as they focused on me.

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my words. "If you were not so distracted you would have noticed it too. The psychometric residue from your brother's murder is missing. We are done here. There is one more place to visit."

"The bathroom where Bobby hanged himself," Trevor said with a resigned sigh.

I raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement and turned to head for the bathroom. Trevor and Two followed closely behind, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. As we approached the bathroom, Trevor hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open.

I looked to my left and saw the faint gleam of light on dirty porcelain, the buckled shower curtain rod above the black chasm of the tub. There Bobby had fastened the rope and stepped off the edge of the tub.

"They found me here, curled into the tightest possible ball," Trevor said, his voice heavy with emotion. I turned to see him standing in the small space between the sink and toilet, his eyes fixed on the spot where he had once cowered in fear. Two was still holding Trevor's hand.

But I observed the scene with more than human eyes. The inhuman black eyes of the Five Colored Slime were attuned to the Ether. Not the anaesthetic, but the Fifth Element. Through the eyes of the familiar, I could see the echoes of the past that both father and son had left. Where they were, and more importantly where they were not. My shirt was no barrier to such sight. 

"Damien, what can you sense," I asked. I already knew, but it was an opportunity to further evaluate his skill, and perhaps teach him a little.

"I can sense where Trevor hid, but not where his father killed himself," Two said, after a few minutes of concentration, "Perhaps that thing only feeds on death?"

"Not an unreasonable assumption, if a bit premature. But you have made one little mistake. Look where the suicide happened. Tell me what is different about it. Compare it to other sites."

Two closed his eyes and did that. A small trickle of blood flowed from his nose, showing that he pushing it. Being a natural-born psychic, unlike me who had gained that power through self-experimentation, his nose would bleed only when he exceeded his limits. I was more sensitive. Using any psychic power resulted in bleeding. Even my other supernatural powers created a similar backlash.

"I see what you mean. I can sense no emotions, but the event is clear," Two said, "What does that mean?"

"It means that by the time he hanged himself, Robert McGee was a mere hollow shell. Completely devoured from within," I said, in a neutral lecturing tone.

"My father was not to blame?" Hope and disbelief mixed in Trevor's voice as he said that.

"We do not know that. This entity could be just a scavenger, rather than an initiator. The absence of other similar incidents does indicate that. We need to lure it out."

"How can we do that?"

"Is there a particular place your father liked to draw?"

"His studio, it's just down the hall."

"I think that is our next destination. Lead us there, please."

The two large windows were intact, and the room was dusty but otherwise clean.

"What now?" Trevor asked.

"You draw. Damien can keep you company, and I will hunt. It's a monster season."

Trevor brushed off the tilted surface of the dusty drawing table and sat on the sawed-off bar stool next to it. It creaked under his weight but held together. Two took a position at his back.

"What are you drawing?"

"A superhero comic."

"You don't seem the type."

"It's a deconstruction."

"What's a deconstruction?"

"It's like taking all the classic superhero tropes and breaking them down. My main character is a guy who's trying to be a hero, but he's not really equipped for it. But the twist is, the person he's chasing isn't just some evil mastermind. He's more like a victim of circumstance. It's a story about gray areas and questioning what makes a hero or a villain."

"What gave you that idea?"

"There was a picture Dr. Johnson gave me. A boy in flames. I practically dreamed the plot afterwards."

While the boys were talking I found a relatively clean spot on the floor. I sat down in a meditative pose and took out the blindfold from my pocket. It was the latest addition to my arsenal.

The blindfold was made from the bark of the mallorn tree in the greenhouse and embroidered with silver thread. The main motif was the stylized eyes with Tengwar runes on the edges which translated from Qunya read: to see is to know, to know is to master.

It was a tool meant to help me reach that place in between. No need for bathtubs.

I put it over my eyes, and the hunt was on.