"See, the only way you can see the demons is if you are under the table drunk. So, bottoms up, buttercup. We gotta fight."
(Credit for the original prompt goes to the people over at /r/writingprompts, see the original thread here!)
A Midnight Visitor
“Move, move. *Move*!” the words tumbled out of the old man’s mouth in one exasperated gasp, an adenoidal tone that drew thoughts of chiding grade school teachers and hoity-toity Europeans.
“Who are you, sir?” Blain stood in the door way of his home shying back against the skittering leaves and cold December breeze, a Glock 22 clutched in hand, kept out of sight at the small of his back. He relaxed a bit, staring down at the geriatric bag of bones who stood, hunched, at a near four foot ten. Four foot five if one was being generous and counting the wisps of white hair that clung to the side of the man’s scalp. An incredulous sneer twisted Blain’s lips, he wasn’t on the clock, why was he having to deal with weird stuff? A waft of old-person smell hit him square in the face, a foul mix of ‘nursing home’ mixed with ‘vagrant who lives out of the 76 Gas Station bathroom’. “It’s midnight.”
“You got cotton in your ears boy? I said *move*.” The old man stiff armed Blain in the chest with surprising vigor, driving a lumpy leather handbag into his chest.
“Hey!” Blain tucked the Glock into his belt line. He had a tolerance for old people, but it didn’t stretch too far past physical contact and flying arthritic fists. “What’ve you got in this thing, man—*sir*?” the professionalism of his training kicking into gear. The old man maintained a bleach-knuckled grip on the bag, Blain noticed a small black gym back in the other hand.
“I’ll tell you a-as we move.” The old man stuttered and fixed Blain with a startlingly hard gaze, rheumy eyes a piercing shade of blue. The adenoidal tone of voice shifted to one of command that motivated passiveness into action, a tone Blain himself used daily on the streets.
Good Lord. A 5150. Blain sighed, the least he could do was let the old man in out of the cold while he waited for his buddies to arrive and haul the man back to the nearest hospital for psych evals. “Come in.” Blain stepped aside, letting the old man shuffle through, a tireless pep to his step. Blain scanned the porch for anyone else, perhaps he was on one of those hidden camera shows that judged the reaction of people in odd situations. As far as he could tell though, staring past the naked willow tree that stood alone in a pool of moonlight that spilled across a five by four foot island of grass, there was no one else to be seen. Just his Tundra parked behind a red Malibu beneath a pair of street lamps.
Still, something tugged at Blain, never mind the odd occurrence of a late night visitor, but something in the man’s voice belied an urgency. He shut the door and secured the bolt in place, turning after the old man who’d made a quick path for the dining room.
“What’re you doing?” Blain cut through his kitchen toward the sound of chairs scraping on hardwood, snagging his phone up from a small bar top sink which currently served as a temporary holding place for all of his junk mail and past-due bills.
“You see, the only way you can see the—” The old man started, he was a flurry of motion around Blain’s table, an animated cartoon of the hunched form that had been in the doorway no more than a minute before.
“*Stop.*” Blain thrust a hand out toward the man as he hefted a bulbous ceramic vase from the center of the table. The old man ignored him, shifting the vase to one corner where wilted roses within shed pedals onto the floor.
“You see, the only way you can—”
“I’m calling the police, guy.” Blain thumbed the pass-code into his phone, watching as the old man unrolled the handbag across the cleared table revealing a myriad of crosses made from various materials, and glass vials full of some clear liquid.
“I wouldn’t do that.” The old man shook his head and grimaced, we don’t need any more lives at risk than we have now. “You’re Ophilia’s friend right?”
“What?” Blain pulled his Glock. He knew when he was being threatened. The old man noted it with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Yes, what does she have to do with—”
“Do you have any Bacardi?”
*Bacardi?* Blain cocked an eyebrow. “Bacardi? Like, the alcohol?"
"Any will do really, just a personal preference." The old man shrugged.
"Look, alright, this must be a joke. Tell Ophilia the gig is up.” Blain didn’t want to mention the borderline shameful amount of alcohol he had tucked around the house—his breakup had hit him a little harder than he’d cared to have admitted. “I have a bit.” *How many of the guys back at the precinct were in on this little charade? Roberts was on shift right now, he’d be able to take the old man back to wherever it was he’d escaped from.* “Let’s go back out front.”
“Sorry,” The old man paused, studying Blain, “I guess I should’ve asked for Malibu. Come to think of it you look like a Malibu drinker. Ophilia is gathering the others.”
“What the hell do you want guy? Others?” Blain found Roberts number in his contacts, keeping a keen eye on the old man. *How did he look like a Malibu drinker? What does that even mean?* The old man shoved past, flipping open cabinet drawers and pantry doors.
“Ah.” The old man shuffled through the dozen-or-so half filled bottles. “More than enough. They’ll be here any minute. *Bacardi.* Perhaps we can get you to an AA meeting after this.” The old man pulled two handles from the cabinet. “Can always count on you lawmen to have alcohol handy.”
“Wait. Who’s they?” Blain set a hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“Demons.” The old man shrugged free, back toward the dining room table.
“Demons?” Blain lifted the phone to his ear wheeling back toward the front door as the line began to ring. The old man’s reflection played out on the black face of the oven like it were a TV screen for a moment as he rummaged around his gym bag. The sound of Velcro ripping tugged at his curiosity, Blain gave his Glock a cursory look. “Go get your drinks elsewhere.” He didn’t have time for this—the old man was going back out front.
“No cops Blain.” Blain turned back around to see that the old man had donned a Kevlar vest.
*“Gun, gun, gun.”* Blain shouted reflexively, retreating back into the meager cover offered by kitchen counters and appliances, dropping his phone and raising the Glock as he registered the shotgun cradled in one arm. A tactical piece better suited for the SWAT team armory than this guy’s own collection.
“Drop it.” Blain ordered, his heart racing. “Drop the weapon guy, or you’re gone.”
The windows of the house began to rattle, the front door shuddering against its bolt. The smell of sulfur and brimstone permeated the walls. Through the window blinds a reddish glow began to pulsate softly. Blain watched sharp white beams of light dance along his backyard fence through his sliding glass door. Tactical lights cutting like knives through the midnight blackness. The old man hit a light switch on the wall, plunging the area into relative darkness.
“What the hell is going on!” Blain demanded. Between the Academy, and twelve years on the street, he’d never experienced this before. He drew a ragged breath, attempting to calm his heart’s frenzied beat.
“You see.” The old man was just a bulky mess of shadows now, faintly illuminated by the light spilling through from outside. He’d emptied the contents of one of the small glass vials into one of the Bacardi handles and offered it forward to Blain. “the only way you can see the demons, is if you’re under-the-table drunk. So bottoms up, buttercup. We gotta fight.”
Matthew Taylor is from beautiful, sunny Southern California. He has an avid love for Science Fiction and Fantasy.