Vic Owens: Paranormal Advisor

Instead of tossing the notebook in Maya’s yard, Vic threw it in the backseat of his car and spent the rest of the day sleeping and driving around town until nightfall, when he stopped at the Moondial Lounge for what would undoubtedly be a better time.

The Moondial Lounge was primarily full of human patrons, as most businesses in Raven’s Hope were. Even with all the years of integration, monsters, while not forcibly barred from entry, were shunned from mingling in human establishments. It was the same for humans, only they were often physically removed for taking up space in monster establishments.

As soon as Vic walked through the front doors, the attention turned to him. He caught immediate stares from the regulars, but they quickly recognized him and, with grunts and grumbles, turned around on their stools and kept drinking. Others, sitting at tables and booths, kept their gaze trained on him as he passed by—their noses turned up in disgust.

The one thing Vic had going for him was that elves most closely resembled humans. Take away the pointy ears, the gray skin, and long lifespan, and he could fit in with them decent enough. But his shit attitude was a hindrance for making acquaintances, and he put it on display by giving everyone a playful wink and a wave as he walked by.

A group of small children giggled and waved back at him while french fries spilled from their little hands, causing their mother to pull them in close and scold them. “We don’t talk to monsters,” she snapped.

“Why I never,” some old codger whispered.

An empty stool awaited Vic at the bar. When he sat down, another seat opened up when the person sitting next to him decided to get up and leave. Vic ordered a beer, which thankfully the bartender retrieved without showing disdain.

The beer was crisp, cold, and went down smooth. He leaned back in the stool and took another long drink. It was just what he needed to relax after a day of too much interaction.

“Go back to whatever town you came from, loser!” someone shouted, interrupting Vic’s relaxation time.

What idiot needs an ass kicking? Vic turned to see the culprit.

A group of college-aged guys, all with matching side-part haircuts and popped-collar polos, sat around a table elbowing each other in the ribs—the worst of the worst. Glass bottles and mugs were scattered everywhere and the floor below them was covered in a golden liquid that was either beer or piss.

Neanderthals. Vic was still deciding if he wanted to confront the group when he realized they weren’t talking to him, their attention focused on the TV above them in the corner.

The newly elected mayor stood behind a podium, addressing a small crowd of civilians and reporters. He had tall, combed back hair, with manicured eyebrows and a smile worth a million dollars. Vic thought the guy looked like a total dickbag, with his perfect posture and doing the political maneuver of pointing vigorously at the crowd and shaking his fist and throwing the thumbs up like it was going out of style. But there was also something about him that Vic found intriguing, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on what that something was.

Vic tuned in to the Mayor’s speech:

“Yes, we have noticed a rapid increase of human disappearances in Raven’s Hope. And … yes, there has been an increase in violent incidents involving monsters. My committee has investigated thoroughly and found no correlation between the two. And believe me when I say that I consider both of these things a matter of grave concern.

“The question that needs to be asked is how can we coexist. Have humans done something to agitate monsters, and how can we repair these broken relationships? We need to make the town of Raven’s Hope—and the world—a better place for monsterkind! And I am putting all our resources into making this better world a reality!”

The mayor slammed his fist against the podium and a handful of popcorn bounced off the TV screen.

“Boo!” one frat boy shouted. He appeared to be the ringleader of the group. “I voted for the old mayor. We should’ve kept him in office.”

“Yeah!” one of his buddies shouted, before taking a long swig of alcohol. “Because he was old school.”

“Damn straight, he was,” the ringleader said, slapping his buddy on the back. “Not like this new-age asshole. Life was better before monsters showed up and we were forced to play nice with the freaks.”

“Here. Here,” another table member chanted.

The group chugged away, but the ringleader made eye contact with Vic and sneered at him before joining his friends in drinking the night away.

Close to relieving the ringleader of his arms and using them to beat the dipshit senseless, Vic instead channeled the rage into his hands, his sharp fingernails digging deep into the wood until he stabbed through and broke off an edge of the bar top. It was loud enough inside that nobody noticed, and Vic discretely dropped the piece of epoxied wood to the floor.

Vic overcame his emotions and swiveled back-and-forth in his stool, savoring a fresh drink that the bartender had dropped off during the distraction. Thoughts of Maya crossed his mind. He didn’t want to admit it, but maybe she was on to something. Actually hearing someone like the mayor—who was of importance and in the know—mention the increase in monster attacks and human disappearances, made it seem somewhat real. But he couldn’t imagine that she was capable of figuring that out by herself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a guy stumbling past the tables, who then proceeded to bump into Vic as he slammed against the bar, managing to stay afloat by using his elbows propped against the ledge.

“Oof,” the guy groaned.

“Watch it, soak,” Vic muttered as he quenched his thirst with yet another long drink.

“S-sorry,” the soak slurred. He motioned with his finger to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey, there. Hey, man. Do you have any numbers to call so I can get a ride home? I’m hammered.”

The bartender looked around for a moment, then leaned in uncomfortably close to the drunk patron and whispered, “You don’t need to waste money on a ride. What are you driving?”

One of the drunkard’s elbows slipped and he smacked his chin against the bar, but recovered like nothing had happened. “Moped. I’m renting a farmhouse outside of town, on the other side.”

“Perfect,” the bartender said. He rested his elbows on the bar, mirroring the drunk he was speaking with. “Just take Westfall Lake Road and follow it all the way around Lake Westfall. It will spit you out where you need to go. And the best part? There’s no traffic this time of night … especially no patrol cars.”

The guy’s eyes widened with realization. “Dude! You’re a genius.”

“Always have been,” the bartender replied, nodding his head in agreement and flashing a gleaming smile. “Now, beat it before you get in trouble.”

Vic shook his head as the guy struggled to exit the building, watching through the front windows as the guy hopped on his moped, surprisingly put on a helmet, and skidded out of the parking lot. Then, Vic turned his attention to the bartender, who had gone back to work like he hadn’t just given horrible advice.

Un-fucking-believable. The balls on that bartender to have suggested such a thing—and in earshot of multiple people—then move on without a care in the world. To be fair, Vic had done plenty of shitty things in his life. And he was aware that he wasn’t a likable person … or elf. Hell, he enjoyed being a miserable bastard if it meant keeping the masses off his back. The bartender had stooped low, but Vic wasn't about to try and make a citizen's arrest in a human establishment, because it would go south for him in a hurry. He had no desire to die on this night.

***

In the middle of the night, on a lonely stretch of gravel road—surrounded on both sides by the small, murky Lake Westfall—a moped putted along.

The driver was Tommy Stafford, an early twenty-something college student, who was on his way home from an afternoon, and evening, of binge drinking at the Moondial Lounge. He would’ve called for a ride, but the helpful bartender had offered some sage advice and saved him a few bucks. But he was struggling to keep his ride upright—veering from one side of the road to the other. Though in his head, he was traveling straight as an arrow. Luckily, he’d taken the precaution of putting on his helmet before leaving.

A dull, yellow stream of light shone from his lone headlight. Dense cloud cover had blotted out the moon and stars, leaving a heavy darkness on all sides of him. It made him shiver, even with it being hot as hell outside. Suddenly, the urge to piss hit Tommy like a gallon of cheap beer.

He brought his moped to a stop and stumbled off, struggling for a minute to set the kickstand. Making an executive decision that it would be better to pee in the lake, he turned the bike so the headlight faced it. He dropped his pants all the way to his ankles and listened to his stream splash against the water, turning the quiet purr of the moped motor into a faint background noise.

“Oh, man. That feels fantastic,” Tommy stated as he finished up.

A ripple, that wasn’t caused by him, spread across the water. After a shake, yank, and zip of his pants, he studied the spot where the disturbance had occurred. At first, there was nothing. But then another ripple appeared. Curiosity got the best of him, so he stepped closer to the edge until his foot slipped in the water, soaking his sneaker.

“Fuck me,” he slurred, followed by a round of laughter. His dry foot slipped, and he slid in, up to his ass. Mildly irritated, he started turning to climb out when he saw a bony hand emerge from the water and wave, beckoning him with its index finger.

Tommy eyed the skeleton hand quizzically. “Either I’m beyond wasted, or this dead hand wants me to come closer.” He shrugged his shoulders, brushing aside his fear, and waded in deeper until the water was past his waist. Once he got close enough to touch it, the hand lowered and disappeared under the water.

Blindly, aided only by the faint light of the moped headlight, Tommy swished around under the surface, trying to find the mysterious hand. He almost gave up and left, when a skull rose from the water. It didn’t stop until it stood eye-to-eye with him. But it wasn’t just a skull—it was an entire skeleton! Tommy stumbled back as he stared into two black pits that bore into his soul. It was unnerving, not seeing the whites of eyeballs, or pupils … or skin.

The skeleton tilted its head at an angle, then thrust its hand forward and wrapped it around Tommy’s throat, leaving him gurgling and gasping for air while punching at the bony face. Tommy managed to knock the jawbone loose on one side and it dangled, swaying in the gentle breeze. But the skinless being maintained its death grip—using its free hand to scratch him across the face, knocking his helmet off in the process. Warm blood streamed down Tommy’s cheeks and black spots swam in his vision until his sight drifted away, his body slumping lifelessly.

For a moment, the skeleton continued to stare at Tommy’s body. Its shoulders slumped, and it almost seemed to sigh before scooping Tommy up and lowering itself into the water, taking both of them down below.

With the fight over, the lake went back to being smooth and disturbance free, as if a skeleton had not just attacked a man and dragged him under the water.

Tommy's helmet floated lazily to the edge of the bank where he had slipped in minutes earlier. The only sounds came from a chorus of croaking frogs and the gentle purr of a moped motor.