Dark Deity: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Asylum Series Book 3) by David Longhorn & Scare Street

Author:David Longhorn & Scare Street [Longhorn, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ScareStreet.com
Published: 2019-08-01T22:00:00+00:00

***

Doctor Blume’s neighbors had contacted the police about shouting and screaming. The door had been broken open by an officer who had found the doctor laying in her hallway. The medical examiner explained that the cause of death was unknown, but suggested it was possibly caused by a heart condition.

“Undiagnosed condition, if that’s the case,” he added. “There’s no sign of her taking any medication. But they do say we doctors make the worst patients.”

The ME paused, and Farson waited for him to continue.

“Okay,” the examiner said. “I know you do the weird ones. There are some anomalies. The marks on her wrists and ankles and the sides of her head are a little odd, I’ll admit. It’s as if she had been restrained shortly before death, but the neighbors are emphatic they only heard her voice. We’ll know more after the autopsy of course, but I can tell you now, the coroner will ask some tricky questions.”

Farson watched as the body was borne away, then looked around the apartment. In Judy Blume’s bedroom, a phone and a radio lay on the floor. Otherwise, there were no obvious signs of violence, no hint of intrusion. But he felt sure the killing was linked to the student suicides, and possibly to another death.

“Any update on that down-and-out?” he asked the ME as they left the building.

“Pretty much what you’d expect,” replied the examiner. “Belly full of cheap cider, went to sleep in an abandoned building, fell over, and cracked his skull. Might have been saved if somebody had noticed him lying there and called 999. But they didn’t, so he died. Why do you ask?”

Farson shrugged.

“It was a wild night,” he said. “And I’ve heard a few things about that area, that church specifically.”

The examiner looked appraisingly at the detective, then said his goodbyes and left. Farson drove back to HQ through the cold autumn night. He had another report to write, more relatives to contact, and more information to impart discreetly to his unofficial associates.

But first, he thought, a quick look at that deconsecrated church.

When he pulled up near St. Jude’s church, he sent a quick text message to Mike Bryson, emphasizing that he should not be called. He had no reason to suppose anyone was listening in. But he had become wary given the increased attention on Rookwood and its aftermath.

“Loose lips sink ships,” he muttered to himself. “God, I need more sleep.”

Farson got out of the car and flinched as a gust of wind blew rain into his face. The church, a blocky Victorian building of no obvious architectural merit, was just visible in the streetlights. The scene of the Scotsman’s death was not taped off. No forensic work had been done. Budgets were tight, and it was assumed that any vagrant found dead had expired from natural causes.

The detective paused at the gate, looked around. He had the distinct impression of being watched, and knew the homeless tended to congregate in this area. But nobody was in sight.

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