Chapter 25

The police cruiser slowly wheeled up to and eventually parked right in front of 909 West 7th. Both the
young officer who was operating the vehicle and Mike O'Dea sat inside the car and glared on and on at
the bleak, broken down old house with similar looks of dismay written on their faces.

Mike, who by then had grown a full, greying beard that would have suggested that he hadn't shaved in
quite a while, rubbed his hard hands together as though he were anxious over something.

In his brown leather long coat, matching brown polyester pants and a tweed fedora, Mike took a
strained gander at the rest of the drab neighborhood on that slowly approaching evening. On the other
side of the sidewalk were two black men wearing black leather jackets and just standing in front of a
parked car smoking and talking to each other. Mike just cut his eyes from the men as to say they
weren't worth his time.

"Well, Mr. O'Dea, here it is." The young officer switched off the car's ignition and sighed.

Mike glanced back over at the house and heaved, "Yeah, a real piece of shit, huh?"

"If you ask me, they should've torn this place down a long time ago."

"Hell, they should destroy this entire neighborhood, for the love of God." O'Dea snickered while
unbuckling his seatbelt and preparing to climb out of the car.

"You know, when I was here last, this house looked terrible. But now...it actually looks worse." Officer
Sullivan mentioned with a sudden pale face.

O'Dea just smirked at the young man as to imply that his comment was humorous. "Hang in there, kid.
Believe me when I say, you'll encounter a helluva lot worse by the time you're done in the force."

"That makes me feel secure." Sullivan sarcastically remarked.



"Look, you're a good Irish kid." O'Dea said. "We need more good cops like you out here." O'Dea then
pointed out at the two men across the street. "Look at 'em, the dregs of society." He sneered. "They,
and any other that suck on society's tit. I hated it when they took me off the beat. I got a chance to be
out here with my nose to street. What you saw the other day inside that house was just a glimpse of
real life. Your father knew that, too. He was a good cop, and he expects his son to follow in suit."

Swallowing, Sullivan remarked, "Yeah, but I bet he never saw anything like what happened the other
day."

Shrugging his shoulders, Mike callously replied, "Perhaps not, but then again, the little bastards had no
business being in there to begin with. You jump into Jaws' mouth, don't be surprised when you're
eaten." O'Dea then reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar bill which he promptly
handed to the young man. "C'mon, let's go."

Both O'Dea and Sullivan got out of the cruiser and proceeded to march towards the house. With his
hands inside his coat pockets, O'Dea's stride was zealous while Sullivan's was cautious if not sluggish.
O'Dea paused for a moment to stare up at the radiant autumn sky and back again at the men who by
then were giggling in their direction. O'Dea just snubbed his nose at the men before stepping up the
stairs of the porch.

"You should've seen this porch." Sullivan said. "I think Officer Wayne said he found one of the boys'
heart's outside here. He said that it was still beating."

O'Dea scanned the grimy porch where several of the wooden boards were coming loose before he
stood in front of the front door. Sullivan pushed against the door's handle and stepped aside to let
O'Dea in first.

Closing the door behind him, Sullivan's tongue fumbled, "I sure hope the Captain doesn't find out about
this."



"Don't worry about Brickman; he already owes me a few favors. Besides, you're being compensated for
this. You've got nothing to be concerned about."

The floor boards creaked and cracked with every movement the men made as they walked across
causing an echo effect to rattle the silence within. There was still enough sunlight for them both to see
where they were stepping. O'Dea took a minute to scan the reddish walls and floor. The smell within
the house was stiff and putrid, like being inside a cold butcher shop.

"The guys did their best to clean the walls, but there was so much blood that they eventually just gave
up."

O'Dea took a Polaroid camera from out of his coat and snapped a couple of shots. He shook the prints
and waited for the film to develop before studying both pictures carefully and stuffing them into his
pockets.

"Tell me again why you think this is so important?"

O'Dea took a picture of the floor before saying, "My boy, they say truth is stranger than fiction. This
entire case has baffled everyone since it first began back in February. No leads, no clues, just
speculation and people still turning up dead."

"So do you believe that these animals are still on the loose?" Sullivan stood nervously behind O'Dea.

Scanning the entire living room from side to side, O'Dea answered, "It's hard to say. If it is an animal,
it's an animal that no one can seem to spot. These murders have been far too gruesome for a human
to have committed. No, no, I happen to believe that something a lot deeper is going on here."

"Well, if it's not an animal, or a person, then who or what?"



Right then, Sullivan's radio crackled to life. "I gotta take this." Sullivan hurried to say as he whipped out
his radio from his holster and took off out the front door.

O'Dea went and shut the door behind the young man before turning back around and taking out a mini
tape recorder from within his coat. From there he began a methodical march around the living room
that would end up leading down the hallway.

Speaking into the recorder's voice receiver, O'Dea stated, "I'm currently inside the Glover residence.
With the exception of the living room, the hallway appears to be untouched."

O'Dea opened the one bedroom door and poked his head inside. He then walked over to the closet to
find nothing but an empty space within.

"I attempted to contact Lynnette Glover, but came up with no results. I'm considering paying a visit to
her parents' home where I am told she resides." He spoke as he headed back out to the hallway and
down towards the bathroom.

With extreme carefulness, he opened the door and used what little light was still shining from the
hallway to see what he was able to.

Kneeling, the man said, "The floor still has remnants of blood lacerated all over. Nothing too deep, but
one can surmise that due to the lack of proper upkeep this house is not too far from demolition. Sullivan
was right; it does need to be destroyed."

O'Dea kept on and on gawking about until he spotted something hiding behind the toilet. The man
reached over and picked it up.

"I'm currently inside the bathroom where Isaac Mercer was shot dead by Detective Bruin. I'm holding in
my hand right now what appears to be a piece of...fur." O'Dea studied the filament from side to side
before taking out his eyeglasses and inspecting closer.



"Brice may be a nut, but he's still holding tight to his animal theory. And to be perfectly honest, I can't
really blame him. The neighbors all said that Glover did not own a pet, and yet, they also said that they
heard an animal inside this house that night. And that same animal was tearing the joint apart like a
bulldozer. There was an animal inside this fucking house that night." He spoke more sternly as he
stuffed the fur inside his coat pocket.

"I don't care what anyone says; Linus shot and killed both Mercer and something else. And I happen to
believe that was what eventually drove him to take his own life."

O'Dea then stood back up. "They were harboring an animal inside this house that night. Possibly the
same animal that tore those Jamaicans apart last November. That's exactly what Linus killed. Isaac
Mercer was involved with the Jamaicans prior to his death and he brought it over here, possibly to fend
off Linus. But Linus shot both Mercer and the beast, and the beast got away to the Hollis Towers." He
anxiously explained to his recorder.

"I'll be dammed, it's been right in front of everyone's eyes this entire time." O'Dea then began to
gradually turn around and around inside the bathroom. "That's why that black bitch Glover is nowhere
to be found. She's probably running some kind of underground voodoo cult in town." Mike then stopped
twirling and gripped his recorder even tighter inside his sweating right hand.

"This is exactly what could get me back on the force. Now, from what another informant told me,
Charles Mercer was just released from the hospital not too long ago. That means I need to catch up
with him and—

Just then, O'Dea's keen ramblings were interrupted by a racket from another part of the house. The
man nearly dropped his recorder to the floor before he stuffed the thing back inside his coat and
reached into another pocket to take out a revolver.

"Who's in here?" He called out. "Sullivan?"



But instead of an answer all that he could still hear was the thumping of something stalking about like it
owned the place.

With his gun pointed straight ahead of him O'Dea boldly struck out of the bathroom, down the hallway
and into the living room. He stood in the middle of the floor and gazed all over before catching a
darkened figure seated Indian-style on the kitchen floor.

"Hold it right there!" He pointed his revolver at the person.

The individual's face was hidden by the shadows within the increasingly dimming kitchen which only
frustrated O'Dea even further as he cautiously approached the person.

"Slowly get to your feet with your hands up!" O'Dea said aloud.

Gradually, the person lifted their head. The sun was going down for the evening, so seeing the person
clearly was near impossible. O'Dea could tell just by the bulky build that it was a man; a man with
dreadlocks. Ever so carefully he raised his hands in the air.

"Stop right there!" O'Dea snapped. "Okay, who are you, and why are you here?"

The man dropped his hands back down to the floor before glancing to his left and to his right. Still,
O'Dea could barely see the man's face. He could tell that he wasn't wearing a shirt of any kind, and that
whatever sort of pants he was wearing looked to be shredded to pieces.

"Where dey at, mon?" The man spoke in a hoarse Jamaican accent.

Turning up his face, O'Dea asked, "Come again?"

"Me sister, and me brotha," the man continued on, sounding completely confused.

"Okay, pal, I don't know why you're here, but you need to get—



Just then, O'Dea ceased his speech to take a moment to reflect. Immediately he thought of Lynnette
and Isaac and began backing away.

"Alright, pal, just hold it right there. I got back up outside. Make one move and I'll blow you away."

"Dey not here, mon." The man woefully groaned.

"Who's not here?"

"Dey gone," he continued on.

"Who, Mercer, Glover," O'Dea zealously questioned. "Do you know where Lynnette Glover is?"

Soon, the man in the kitchen began an ominous chuckle that lasted nearly an entire minute before he
settled back down.

"No, no, mon, we here for de girl."

"Who's we? What girl?"

"Little Lynnette, no Isaac."

"I fucking knew it." O'Dea gritted his teeth in a whisper. "Okay, just come out of there and we can go
down to the police station and try and figure out together where Ms. Glover is."

But just then, the man inside the kitchen sat absolutely still, so still in fact that it appeared to O'Dea that
he was lifeless.

"We come here to dis country for de girl. I try to get her, but she get away from me."

O'Dea could hardly even understand the man's dialect let alone what he was trying to get at. And the
more the man remained in the shadows the more anxious O'Dea seemed to become.



"What...what the hell are you talking about? Are you talking about Lynnette? Do you know anything
about the animal attacks this past summer?" O'Dea kept panting. "Listen...just come forward real slowly
and—

"I still smell tha fire, mon."

"What fire are you talking about?"

"I feel it all over me. I tried to kill 'er, but she get away."

"Who did you try to kill, for Christ's sake?"

"De girl...Lynnette," the man's voice began to deepen. "But me brotha have no mercy upon me."

By then, O'Dea's knees were beginning to wobble beneath him. The situation was becoming more and
more agonizing by the second, and the seconds were dragging by like hours in his mind.

"So let me get this straight, you tried to kill Lynnette Glover, and you say that your brother tried to kill
you?"

"Me brotha is a very powerful mon."

"What's his name? Where is he? Come down to the station with me and we can work this out."

All of the sudden, O'Dea's nose began to catch the aroma of something burning. The man kept his gun
trained on the shadowy man inside the kitchen while trying to figure out where the smell was coming
from.

"Sullivan!" O'Dea hollered out. "Sullivan, get in here, I got a suspect!"

"Your mon not come here. No one save ya now, Yankee boy."



At that instant, the man on the floor jumped right to his feet. O'Dea tightened his slippery finger around
his gun's trigger.

"Stop right there, dammit!" He nervously yelled.

The man in the kitchen stood perfectly immobile before his two eyes began to shine right through the
kitchen's shadows.

"What in God's name?" O'Dea began to shiver.

"When ya get to hell, tell my brotha dat I cannot wait to see him."

"Don't you make one more move!" O'Dea himself started to back away.

Drawing further and further out of the shadows, the man's harsh voice uttered, "I be there real soon,
mon. I be there real soon."

Without notice the man in the kitchen lunged out at O'Dea. O'Dea, out of sheer fright, fired his gun four
times at the man before falling backwards onto the floor. Disoriented, O'Dea writhed about on the floor
before finding himself covered in a pair of torn pants and what appeared to be pieces of burned flesh
which the man quickly wiped off his self.

O'Dea promptly got to his feet breathing in and out as though he had been running for miles. He looked
down at the floor where the pants and charred skin was lying. With shaking hands he meticulously
picked and prodded at the mess on the floor.

He could still smell the scorched remains as if it were fresh. Words were beyond him at that point. All
O'Dea seemed to be able to do was just stand and stare down at the floor before he turned to the
kitchen to find it completely empty. It was as though someone or something had sucked the very life out
of him at that moment in time.



"What the hell is going on in here?" Sullivan breathlessly crept up behind O'Dea.

Still caught up in the thralls of terror, without thinking, O'Dea wildly spun around and began firing his
revolver straight at Sullivan's neck, which ended up sending the man crashing down onto the floor.
O'Dea himself stumbled backwards, landing squarely back on his rear. The moment O'Dea at last
came to his senses he saw a bloody Billy Sullivan lying on the floor holding his bleeding neck while
writhing about in agony. Sweating and out of breath O'Dea sat absolutely still and watched in paralyzed
shock as the young man fought for every last breath become succumbing to the grip of death. His body
jerked for at least ten or eleven seconds until at last it went completely still.

O'Dea remained on the floor for the longest time before finally gathering the energy to get up and circle
the dead man's body while still holding onto his gun. He turned his head around to look back at the
empty kitchen once more. He then looked back down at Sullivan whose eyes were wide open in a dull
gaze. O'Dea didn't even pull out a simple gasp let alone a word; he only stood in the middle of the floor
and shook incessantly. Soon enough, however, a chorus of whispers began to arise within the small
house. O'Dea spun around and around like a dog chasing after its own tail in search of where the
uproar was coming from.

"Who...who's in here," he tried to catch his breath.

But the whispers only grew louder the more O'Dea kept going back and forth across the floor like a
lunatic, waving his gun in the air.

"Holy mother of Christ," he slobbered all over himself. "I'm sorry!"

In his delirious state the man couldn't decide whether to race for the front door or faint to the floor. No
matter what he found himself completely engulfed inside the ravages of insanity to the point where he
was pointing his still warm gun at the walls around him.

"Come...come out and show yourself!" He began to weep.



Just as O'Dea was about to head for the front door, on the wall directly in front of him he noticed it
actually moving, or breathing in and out. The man stood and watched in horror as the wall kept
pulsating before what looked to be a snout with fangs made an imprint within the wall, appearing as if it
wanted to tear right through.

O'Dea attempted to fire his gun only to have it click repeatedly due to a lack of bullets. Without haste
he rushed for the front door, opened it and slammed it as hard as he could right behind him. Sweating
profusely and huffing and puffing was all Mike O'Dea could seem to do while stumbling backwards off
the porch and tripping over his own feet in the process. He got up to see not only the two men that
were on the other side of the street still standing and gawking at him, but also other neighbors curiously
observing just what on earth was happening.

O'Dea suddenly remembered that he had a gun in his hand; he also realized just where he was as he
caught sight of the police car that was still parked at the curb. Ever so cautiously he slipped his revolver
back into his coat pocket before gathering his collapsed senses and walking down the street only to be
seized by the striking sight of the blood orange and red sky before him. It was such a remarkable
sunset that cool evening that even O'Dea had to pause at its stunning display. Not that he was
enthralled by the image, but just the very sight caused his still racing heart to take brief pauses in
between beatings. He was motionless before the sight of Sullivan and the creature behind the wall
came rushing back into his brain.

O'Dea took one final glimpse backwards at the neighborhood onlookers before resuming his mournful
march down the block.


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