Out of the Light Read online

  Out of the Light

  by Douglas Smith

  Jan Mirocek used to be a hunter. A very special hunter. Once, he had hunted the things that haunt the forests of the night in every culture of the world. The kallikantzari of Greece. The loup-garou of France. The kitsune of Japan. Were-beasts. Shape-shifters.

  Until one night, Jan made a mistake, and the woman he loved died. Now he shuns the dark and his own past, hiding in a big city. For the were-beasts never come here. Or do they? People are dying in Toronto, and all signs point to a shifter.

  But can Jan conquer his own fears to track down the killer? And what kind of shape shifter would be at home in a modern city?

  ~~~

  “A creature-hunter tale that kept me guessing until the very last paragraphs. I was on edge throughout the whole story!”

  —Melissa Minners, Global Pop Culture reviews

  “A police officer skilled in hunting supernatural entities encounters a new breed of shape-shifter specifically adapted to the urban environment.”

  — Innsmouth Free Press

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  OUT OF THE LIGHT

  About the Story

  About the Author

  Other Works by Douglas Smith

  Chimerascope

  Impossibilia

  The Wolf At The End Of The World

  Playing the Short Game: How to Market & Sell Short Fiction

  A Spiral Path Publication

  OUT OF THE LIGHT

  Copyright © 2007 by Douglas Smith

  All rights reserved by the author

  Cover Art

  Copyright © 2010 by Erik Mohr

  Published by Spiral Path Books

  ISBN 978-1-928048-08-4

  Publication History

  This story was first published in Dark Wisdom (USA), July 2007. It also appears in Doug’s collection, Chimerascope, available in ebook (ISBN 978-0-9918007-0-4) and trade paperback (ISBN 978-0-9812978-5-9).

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with other people, please purchase additional copies. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Out of the Light

  The morgue door swung open. Jan Mirocek hesitated at the threshold, clinging to the hallway’s bright comfort. Ahead in the dark room, under a lonely cone of light, Detective Garos of the Toronto Metropolitan Police loomed over a shroud-covered corpse. Jan glared up at the single ceiling bulb. Forty watts max, he thought. He turned to a clerk slouched at a desk in the hall. “Got any more light?”

  The man just shrugged. “Our guests don’t do much reading.”

  Scowling, Jan stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him, cutting the light even more. He cursed and pulled a small flashlight from a coat pocket, his breathing slowing as the beam brightened his path. I can do this, he thought. Trying not to look into the shadows, he walked to Garos.

  Morgues didn’t bother Jan. He knew death. And corpses.

  He just wanted more light.

  Garos eyed the flashlight, but the big man didn’t comment. “Good to see you in action again, hunter. It’s been a while since...last time.” His beefy hand swallowed Jan’s.

  Last time. At least, old friend, you have the decency to leave it at that, Jan thought. “I’m retired, Andreas. Why’d you call me?” Ignoring the frown from Garos, he studied the contours of the white shroud. Slim, short, female.

  Garos shrugged, then turned to the corpse. “White female, early thirties. Found about 1:00 this morning—just twelve hours ago—on a well-lit, still-busy, street.”

  Stabbing his beam into dark corners, Jan pulled two extra flashlight batteries from his pocket. He shook them in his hand, calmed by the clicking noise. “So? What do you need me for?”

  “You tell me.” Garos pulled back the sheet.

  Maybe it was the light. Or the darkness. Or perhaps seeing Garos in a professional role again had brought her back, brought it all back. He looked down, and she was there. Her face. The way it used to be in the mornings—peaceful—beautiful.

  Then the face shifted into someone else—something else. Jan stared at the desiccated corpse of a stranger, black sunken eye sockets and cheeks, lips pulled back from rotting gums, white hair framing grey translucent skin. The shadows closed in and with them, his terror. He ran from the room.

  ~~~

  Ten years old. Lying in bed beside his brother Pyotr, in their house in the woods. His mother’s voice rose and fell in her sing-song way of telling stories. But these stories were not of frog princes, or bears and honey pots, or little girls chasing rabbits down holes. These were...different.

  “To begin his change, the werewolf put on a wolf pelt, then drank water from a wolf’s paw-print,” their mother whispered. Jan looked at Pyotr. The younger boy was wide-eyed. Jan smiled. These are stories, he thought. Just stories.

  ~~~

  Five minutes after leaving the morgue, Jan sat huddled at a window table of the first bar he had found. The afternoon sun of a Toronto winter did little to remove the chill he felt. A familiar face peered inside. Moments later, Garos eased his bulk into a chair beside him. “You okay?”

  Jan lied with a nod. “For a second, I saw...” Her name caught in his throat and he swallowed. “I saw Stasia’s face.”

  Garos frowned, his eyebrows forming a single bushy line. An old woman in Sicily had once told Jan such eyebrows were a sign of the lupomanari. She had missed the true signs in her own son. He killed nine people before Jan and Garos had brought him down.

  “I shouldn’t have called you,” Garos said.

  “I’m okay!” Jan snapped. Garos looked away. No, you shouldn’t have, Jan thought, you of all people. Jan stared at his hands gripping his beer as if it were a beast about to leap at his throat. He held life that way now, a wild thing to be feared, never trusted to lie quietly at his feet. “Who was she?”

  Garos said a name. It meant nothing to Jan. He looked up. “Why did you call me, Andreas?”

  “Did that look like a fresh corpse to you?” Garos asked.

  “The rotting doesn’t mean it was done by a shifter.”

  “Come on, Jan. We saw the same rapid body decay in shifter victims back home.”

  “Any ‘bodies’ we saw were in pieces and mostly eaten.” Her body would’ve been, too, if he had been able to bring himself to see it. “This one was intact. That’s no were-beast.”

  Looking around, Garos lowered his voice. “We’ve had other killings, similar to this. We’re barely keeping a lid on it.”

  Jan swallowed. “What’s similar about them?”

  “Victims killed at night on bright, busy streets. No robbery. Victims in good health. No drugs or sign of sexual assault. No violence except some contusions around the throat, but death wasn’t by strangulation, and...” Garos leaned forward. “...and the corpses rot within hours.”

  “Any pattern to the killings?”

  “None I can see. Both genders, all ages and professions. All over downtown. The only consistency is the body decay and autopsy results, plus the time of night and type of locations.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A witness saw a guy standing ove
r this body. She says she chased him into a dead-end alley. No door, window, fire escape. Nowhere to hide. But also no suspect—the alley was empty.”

  Jan felt cold. “That still doesn’t say shifter.”

  “Put it with the body decay, it says something weird.”

  “You believe her story?”

  “She gave a description. We’re checking it out. And her.”

  “I’ll bet your theory went down well with the brass.”

  Garos snorted. “I keep my own counsel. They’re not from the old country. Don’t believe as we do, haven’t seen what we have.” He stared at Jan. “I need your help.”

  Jan avoided his eyes. “I came to this country, to a big city, to escape the beasts of the night, Andreas. They don’t come to the cities. You don’t have a shifter. Even if you did, I can’t help you. And you know why.”

  They sat not speaking, Jan’s shame burning him. “Well, I had to try,” Garos said as he stood. He looked at Jan. “I know what she was to you. I know you blame yourself. But she knew the risks.” He squeezed Jan’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Janoslav. Give yourself a break for God’s sake.” He walked to the door, then stopped and looked back. “What if you’re wrong?”

  Jan stared at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “What if I do have a kallikantzari? A beast of the night in your big safe city. What then, hunter?” Not waiting for an answer, Garos turned and left. Jan stayed until the winter sun sank too low. Walking home, he watched the shadows all the way.

  ~~~

  Fifteen years old. Returning home from friends, far too late, through winter woods oddly silent. The house dark, even the light in the front room not burning. The door open, tilted at a strange angle. His heart leapt. He ran.

  He burst past the ruined entrance to stumble in the dark and fall amongst bloody bodies. His parents. Upstairs, Pyotr’s bed empty, room in disarray. Outside again, father’s rifle in hand, following prints in the snow. The prints of the beast.

  He found it near the quarry. Half-human, yellow eyes looked up from where it fed on his brother. He raised the rifle.

  His childhood died. The hunter was born.

  ~~~

  After leaving the restaurant, Jan walked home to his apartment over his bookstore on Queen West. His place was small but he’d left most of his possessions behind in the old country. Too many memories tied to them. Besides, he liked this area. Lots of shops and bars that stayed open late. Plenty of neon.

  Plenty of light.

  Once home, he checked that every light in every room was on. He read for a while after dinner, then went to bed early as usual. Two flashlights lay on a table beside the bed. He made sure they both worked, then he lay down leaving a lamp on. Maybe tonight he could sleep. Maybe he was tired enough. Closing his eyes, he prayed for escape from dreams.

  He awoke screaming her name, sitting bolt upright on sweat-soaked sheets. Sobbing, he fell on his side. There, bathed in light that never touched the night world inside him, he prayed again for deliverance from his darkness.

  ~~~

  Twenty-five years old, in a Paris bistro, a stack of papers from around the world beside him. Serial killings got good play. And sometimes the signs were there that spoke to him of shifters. He sat forward. Like this one. Athens paper, one week old. He paid his bill and left, heading for the nearest travel agent.

  He had hunted were-bears in Norway and were-tigers in India. He carried a ragged scar on his thigh from a leopard shifter in Kenya. Towns paid a man well to be rid of a beast, a man who knew the signs and was brave—or foolish—enough to follow them.

  Jan Mirocek had become such a man.

  ~~~

  The morning sun found Jan curled shivering in an armchair in his living room, a flashlight clutched to his chest. Jan thought about the old times and about what he’d become. He realized that he didn’t like himself anymore. He realized also, to his surprise, that he had known this for a long time.

  Finding his phone, he punched Garos’s number, taking vindictive pleasure in waking him. Garos swore, listened, then gave a phone number for the witness and directions to the dead-end alley. Jan swore back when Garos thanked him for the third time. Promising to keep in touch, Jan hung up.

  Hell, he thought. Just like old times. Grabbing his coat, he checked the pockets for his flashlight and batteries, then stepped out into a cold but bright February morning.

  ~~~

  Twenty-five, in an Athens bar. Listening to a young cop named Garos complain. “They won’t let me talk to the press.”

  Jan nodded. “They always hush it up.”

  “Damn bureaucrats. Well, thanks for the lead.”

  Jan shrugged. “Thanks for backing me up. I probably wouldn’t be alive otherwise. Didn’t figure on two of them.”

  “We worked well together,” the big man said.

  Jan looked at him. “I’m thinking of taking on a partner.”

  Garos grinned.

  ~~~

  The alley was as Garos had said. Nothing but a few bits of trash. A neon sign over a bricked-up door at the end of the alley advised that “Clancy’s Eatery” was now on the next street.

  “You the guy who called me?” a voice said from behind him.

  Jan turned, startled. She stood at the entrance to the alley. Five-six maybe, short brown hair, long black coat over a slim figure. “Kate Lockridge. You called me, right?”

  Jan walked up to her. “Jan Mirocek. Thanks for coming.”

  “You don’t look like a cop.”

  She had nice eyes, he decided. “Friend of one. Garos.”

  “Big guy from last night? He was okay.” She looked Jan over. “Okay, let’s talk. But not here. Gives me the creeps. I know a place nearby. Lousy food but great coffee.” She started to move to the street, then stopped, scanning the alley again.

  “Something wrong?”

  She shrugged. “Place seemed brighter last night. Guess it’s coming in here out of the sunlight. And things are always different in the dark, right?” She walked to the street.

  Yeah, he thought. Things are different in the dark.

  ~~~

  Thirty years old, in a little tavern in a little village in Poland, waiting for Garos to get to the point.

  Garos coughed. “Mara and I, we’re getting married.”

  Jan had seen this coming. He nodded. “And you want out.”

  Garos reddened but nodded back.

  “I wish the best for you both, Andreas. You know that.”

  Garos smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you. These have been good years, my friend, but Mara needs a different life.”

  And I need a new partner, Jan thought.

  ~~~

  Late afternoon. The Big Mistake was almost empty. They sat at a sunny window table in the long narrow tavern. A jungle of neon signs, each a visual scream of a beer brand, coloured the dark room in a random rainbow. Kate called to the bartender. “Two coffees, Harry.” She turned to Jan. “So what do you want?”

  “Garos asked for help on these...this killing.” He watched a corner of her mouth curl up. “We worked together in Europe.”

  “How so?”

  “I was an advisor on one of his cases.” He hurried on before she could probe any further. “So tell me what you saw.”

  Her story was the same. “...I reach the alley and there’s no one, nothing. Including no way out. Well, you saw, right?”

  Jan nodded and sighed. He asked a few more questions, but it added nothing to the story. “Listen, sorry I wasted your time. Let me buy the coffees.” He reached for his wallet.

  “So is this body rotting like the others?” she asked. Jan stopped in mid-motion and looked at her. She smiled. “I’m a reporter for the Toronto Star, Mr. Mirocek. We need to talk.”

  Jan sat back again. A reporter, covering the killings. For a moment, despite the sunshine, he felt an old darkness close in.

  ~~~

  Thirty-one. Working alone again. He met her i
n a village in Poland, a reporter up from Warsaw to cover the killings in the town. Her name was Stasia. He trained her. He loved her.

  A year later, she was dead.

  ~~~

  Harry brought refills while Jan gathered his thoughts. Was it a bluff, trying to see how he’d react? No. She might guess that the separate killings were linked but not about the body decay. “How’d you know about the corpse?” he asked when Harry had left.

  “Corpses,” she corrected. “Got a source in the Coroner’s office who likes to supplement his income.” She leaned forward. “That’s why Garos called you, isn’t it? You know why the bodies are rotting like that, right?” Her voice was eager.

  He began to growl a denial but stopped. What could she do? No paper would print it. Besides, he didn’t believe it himself. He shrugged. “You’re right. I’ve seen those signs before.”

  She flicked on a micro-recorder. “What’s it mean?”

  “It’s a sign of a shifter killing,” he said, straight-faced.

  Her brow furrowed. In a very pretty way, he thought. “Shifter killing? What’s that?” she asked.

  “Shapeshifters. Garos and I used to hunt them. He thinks you saw one.”

  Pause. “Shapeshifters?” Her eagerness melted into a dead-pan that hardened into a glare. “Like a were-wolf?”

  “Shifters aren’t limited to wolves.”

  She clicked off the recorder and stuffed it back in her purse with a near ferocity. “A were-beast. Right. Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Mirocek.” She stood up and grabbed her coat.

  To his surprise, he realized that he wanted her to stay. “So how do you explain the rapid decay? How did the Coroner?”

  She bit her lower lip. “I can’t. Neither could they.”

  He stood and faced her. “I can.” He could smell her perfume, a hint of vanilla.