Charm City (The Demon Whisperer #1)

Charm City: Prologue

"Who is more foolish, the child afraid of the dark or the man afraid of the light?"

~Maurice Freehill (1899-1939)

Three years ago | Saint Berenice's Rehabilitation Center | Malden, Massachusetts

Boston (AP)--Police may have uncovered new evidence in a cold case that has baffled authorities for the past fifteen years.

Ten-year-old Sarah Foster disappeared from her home in Belmont in 1998, the same night the body of a local teen had been discovered in a playground in the same neighborhood. Although no connection between the two victims had ever been found, authorities believe they may have uncovered a link that may lead them to finally solve these cases.

Evidence has recently been recovered from the belongings of a former patient of the Green Field Care Facility, in Malden.

Workers at Green Field claim that Norma Alliant, who passed away last week, had become lucid in the hours leading up her passing. Day shift nurse manager Janna Thomas said she didn't pay attention at first, since Alliant was known for frequent vocalizations. But when Alliant mentioned the name of the girl who'd disappeared, Thomas said she took notice.

"She talked about that little girl as if she knew her," Thomas said. "I know it was a long time ago, but we all grew up with the stories. We all feel like we know Sarah somehow. And we all knew the horror stories about how Ritchie Evans was killed. But then Norma got agitated, screaming about Sarah and that boy that was killed at the park and she started scratching herself."

Thomas said Alliant was in danger of hurting herself and required sedation. She passed peacefully that evening.

The detective was contacted shortly after the autopsy, when the coroner noticed the self-inflicted scratch marks bore a striking similarity to mysterious symbols that had been associated with the case. The coroner recognized them only because he had been the same doctor to examine Evans' remains.

"These symbols were evidence that had never been made public," said Corcoran. "We have reason to believe that there may be others who have information regarding these unsolved cases."

Alliant had no local family. The whereabouts of her next of kin are currently being investigated.

Members of neither the Foster nor the Evans families could be reached for comment.

Police are urging citizens to contact officials if they recall anything about either the Foster or Evans cases or if they recognize these strange symbols.

"In other news..." The news anchorwoman switched topics without blinking, as if the report were just another day in the life. To her, it was.

It just wasn't her life. No worries.

Simon Alliant stared at the screen, his brain a blank buzz. Sitting on the edge of the metal hospital bed, he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, grimacing. A heavy moment dragged by.

The buzz snapped off. The rage took over.

He snatched up the remote and switched off the TV, then threw the remote at it, then dragged the set down off the rack. The television crashed onto the floor, sparks and shards flying in all directions. Dark eyes lit by a mad gleam, he searched the starkly-furnished white room, looking for something else to destroy, something else to ruin.

Something other than himself, for once. Just this once.

Panting, he sank to his knees, heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. Defeated. Teeth gritted, he groaned, a sound of deep pain. Always, defeated. No matter how hard he fought, no matter what price he paid, he always ended up here, on his knees, begging for help from the one source he should never, ever, not ever again seek.

Sullenly, he rolled up his sleeve. Maybe, just once. One more time and that will be it. He'll come out on top. A tattoo of a circular-shaped rune, the size of a quarter, stained the inside bend of his elbow, directly over the vein. He rubbed it, eyes unfocused, his frown deepening. The only one he ever could lie to was himself. And this was the only time he believed those lies.

Times like this, lies were the only comfort he had.

Grimacing, he took a slender object out of the pocket of his thin cotton robe. He pulled the cap off with his teeth and spit it out. Muttering under his breath, he positioned the object over the tattoo and squeezed his eyes shut.

The words made little sense, even to him, but they were perfect, precise, articulate, growing louder and harder with each repetition of the verse. When his voice reached a frenzied pitch he jabbed the object downward into his arm, into the tattoo.

The tattoo glowed.

A streak of orange zipped around the outermost ring of ink with a metallic sizzle. Neck bent painfully back. Eyes flew open wide, pinpoint pupils making tiny splots against irises of pale gray. He sucked air in through his teeth and he let out a ragged cry before going limp, sagging to the floor, eyes half-closed. The object rolled out of his slackened fingers.

It wasn't a needle. It was a thin wooden dowel, stained and carved and worn smooth by too much handling.

It was a wand.

Not all addictions were chemical.

He blinked once, then again, his vision blurring, his hearing muffled by the pounding of blood in his ears. He barely registered the clank of the lock sliding open, or the door flung open against the wall, or the frantic voice of the orderly who rushed in.

The attendant slapped roughly at his cheeks, trying to revive him. The weary smile on Simon's face never faded, not even as he passed out and the world faded away, stranding him in boneless, blissful oblivion.