Category: writing

I got up promptly at six o’clock just like always. Not having a real job, it would have been easy to fall into the slovenly, lazy pattern most people assumed I had. I knew that was a bad path to take, so I treated my hobby like a real job and tried to maintain professional hours.

Anyway, a few shakes of the head and some blinking of the eyes, and any memory of a gray face with black, hollow eyes faded away to wherever dreams go in the morning.

After calisthenics, breakfast, and a shower, I was ready to go. It was my practice to document every investigation in great detail. Where I went and when, as well as who I interacted with. I even kept track of the mileage driving to and from. Again, had to run it like a real job.

By the time I had them filed and cross referenced in my database, making the formal reports took all morning. It was good to have computer skills. That left me with lunch, posting the reports on the website, and it occurred to me that I should warn Rick that I had sent someone his way.

“Hi, Rick, it’s me, Timmy Hunt,” I said into the phone.

“Hey Timmy, what can I do for you today?” He was always offering to do things for people, which was his polite way of asking for business. He was a nice guy and did the best he could for his clients, but he needed to make his own money too.

I decided to keep it short. “Hey, Rick, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I gave your number to a woman named Mary Sweigart yesterday. It seems that she doesn’t know how to handle money since her husband passed away. Now she has a house and an apartment building to take care of and isn’t doing a great job at either. Sounds like she could benefit from your services.” Okay, maybe not that short.

Rick chuckled. “You always run into all the sad stories. At least it’s good for business. I’ll look for her call. How are you doing?”

One of the things about Rick being a nice guy was that he genuinely cared about people, especially his clients. He handled my money really well and I doubted that I would ever be broke, but he worried that my zombie sideline was maybe not psychologically healthy and that I might be better off with a more traditional business or career. It was probably odd that my financial advisor was one of the few people in my life who worried about me.

“I’m doing okay,” I said. “Expenses are down and the merchandise sales on the website are more than enough to keep the site running.”

“Well that’s good,” he said. I heard the concern and slight disappointment in his tone. “Have you thought of any ways to expand your zombie-themed empire for a better revenue stream?”

“No,” I chuckled, “not yet. If I think of something, I will definitely let you know.”

We said our goodbyes and I went on with the rest of my day.

In most cases, I rewrote the reports for posting on my website. Visitors to the site liked to read what I had been up to, or that’s what the web traffic reports said. For each report, I left out the real names and addresses of the persons involved. I also tended to leave the results more vague and the language more sensational. The most popular of the so-called cases read like they could still be signs of a zombie presence. Telling the readers blatantly that the zombie turned out to be a drunk guy wasn’t going to attract them to the site or sell them any of the merchandise that paid for the site.

It was a little after two o’clock when the phone rang.

“Hello, Mr. Hunt,” said the familiar voice. “This is Sergeant Hargrave of the Abish County Sheriff’s Department. I’ve got a few questions. Can I get you to come down to the sheriff’s station?”

The call caught me off guard, but my be-nice-to-cops defense mechanism kicked in. “Sure,” I said, “when would you like me there?

“As soon as you can get here would be good.” The words were very polite, but the tone carried a bit of command.

“I’m on my way then,” I said. “It should be about fifteen minutes.”

With that, I was on my way back to the sheriff’s office. Second time in two days, what were the odds of that?

Then a thought struck me, I hope Stan and Sammy were okay. A quick flash of the two of them lying on the ground and full of bullet holes popped in my head. A shudder ran up my spine.

I shook my head. No, that wasn’t it. There had to be something else. It seemed more likely to involve Johnny Franks. I called in the dunk guy report and gave my name. If they talked to him, he would have said he already talked to me. Why didn’t I mention that when I made my call? What was I trying to hide?

The whole drive to the office had worries, fears, and wild scenarios running wild through my brain. It was a relief to get there.

The big window had a different deputy at the desk this time. I explained that Sergeant Hargrave had called me. The deputy shared some muffled yelling in the direction of the sergeant’s office and then told me to come through.

As I passed the heavy door, Hargrave stepped out of his office to greet me. “Thank you for coming down, Mr. Hunt. I’m hoping you may be able to help clear some things up for me. Come on back.” He motioned the direction of a hallway that led further into the station and then started walking.

I followed him down. He seemed friendly enough, but I wasn’t sure why he couldn’t ask questions in his office like last time. It set my heart rate up a little.

We walked past a small waiting area, basically an alcove in the wall, with several chairs, then down the hallway lined with doors to various offices.

Despite the general upkeep, it was obvious the front part of the building was old. The plaster walls had been patched repeatedly and carried who knew how many layers of paint. The yellow varnish on the wood trim and baseboards cracked and crazed. It looked like someone replaced the light fixtures, probably back in the eighties. Even though the main scent in the air was coffee, there was a faint hint of ancient cigarette left from the days when that was allowed.

The plaster gave way to drywall and newer lights, to be followed by cinder block walls awash with white paint. He led me through a metal door in this section. The room was dark, but I could see a wood table and a couple of wood chairs. It looked like an interrogation room from a cop show on T.V.

He closed the door behind us and then crossed to the wide wall on the side of the room. I hadn’t noticed at first, but there was a window with a shade pulled down over it. Hargrave opened the shade to show another room on the other side, this one lighted.

“Are these yours?” he asked.

The other room looked the same as this one, complete with table and chairs, but those chairs were occupied. At least three of them were. What did they call themselves? Revenant Rangers? I rolled my eyes and let out a heavy breath. “No,” I answered, “but I kind of know who they are.”

Hargrave let the shade close again and then he sat in one of the chairs. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Without thinking, I sat down across the table from him and started my tale. “I was called out to look into some noises in a basement. While I was there, these boys recognized my van and stopped to ask if they could help.”

“Why would they recognize your van?” he asked.

That disrupted the flow of my story, but I recovered quickly. “They said they were big fans of my website and recognized the logo. They want to be zombie hunters.”

He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

I was used to the skeptics, but it was still uncomfortable. I decided to get to the good part. “At that moment, they were making my client uncomfortable, so I asked them to go wait by their car until I was finished. They did that. I finished up and then I had a talk with them.”

“And what did you tell them?”

I inhaled deeply to have enough air to give a long, uninterrupted description. “When they said they wanted to hunt zombies, I told them that it was too dangerous and that they should limit themselves to reading about it. I also told them that I had gone to college and, exaggerating a little, said that I was highly trained. With that settled, I gave them a couple of harmless souvenirs from stuff in the back of the van and they left.”

He just sat, looking at me.

My mind went back to something I read about the easiest way to get someone to keep talking was to just look at them expectantly until they became really uncomfortable and would talk just to break the tension. It was working because that tension was really building. The only problem was that I didn’t have anything else to say.

He shifted the tilt of his head to the other side. It was subtle, but there. “Is that the last you saw of them until just now?”

“Yeah,” I started, then, “no, wait. On my way home, I stopped at the convenience store to get something to drink. When I pulled out to leave, I’m pretty sure I saw their car go down the street headed west.”

“Headed in the direction of Field Street?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said. Then I froze. I didn’t want him to see that I froze, but I definitely froze. Mrs. Sweigart’s apartment building was on Field Street.

I think Hargrave was about to say something, but a knock on the door interrupted. The deputy from yesterday’s front desk popped his head in. He looked at me for a moment and then turned to the sergeant. “Got something for you,” he said. Then he looked back at me.

Hargrave tapped the table firmly with the index and middle fingers of his right hand. “Sit tight,” he instructed, “I’ll be right back.” He rose from the chair and exited with the deputy.

It was time to sit and try to remain calm. That wasn’t happening as well as I wanted. The kids had gone back to Mrs. Sweigart’s place and got themselves into trouble on a zombie hunt. In police custody, they talked about me and now me, the weirdo, was going to be in hot water for contributing to the delinquency of a minor or something.

Breathe in; breathe out. I needed to calm down.

Unless the boys lied about something I couldn’t disprove, my story would hold up fine. At most, I would get a stern talking to by Sergeant Hargrave. Then, if I was around when the kid’s parents showed up, they would glare at me and tell me to stay away from their children. The boys would be told to stop going to ‘that site’ and maybe get grounded. It would all be unpleasant, but that’s all the further it should go, probably.

Hargrave came back in, shut the door, and sat down. This time he had his notebook and some papers. He shifted a little to get comfortable, not a good sign, and prepared his pen for note taking. “Tell me about this client you were visiting,” he said.

I assumed that he would get everything out of me eventually, so my best bet was to be as upfront as possible. “Mary Sweigart owns the little apartment building over on Field Street. She had been having trouble with noises in the basement and asked me to take a look. I didn’t find anything other than signs of some mice. The real problem was the outside cellar door. Someone had broken the lock a couple of times.”

Hargrave stopped writing and looked up at me. The expression suggested that broken locks should have figured more heavily in the story. Lesson learned.

“So, I talked with her and one of her tenants, a woman named, hold on.” I fished my own notebook out of my pocket. “Her name was Edna, but I didn’t get her last name. She had a small bite on her leg that looked like it might be a mouse bite. I strongly suggested that she seek medical attention.”

Hargrave made a couple of slight nods as he finished writing in his notebook. “Tell me more about these locks.”

I made a show of looking at my notes more thoroughly, hoping that he would trust me more for some reason. “I only saw parts of one of the locks. It was on the ground near the cellar doors. I didn’t touch it or anything. It was a padlock and it looked like the round part where you put the key was sticking out the bottom in a weird way. I figured that was how it was broken, but I don’t know much about locks.”

He made a few more scribbles before his next question. “Did you charge Mary Sweigart for your services?”

There was still the worry about a scam. It was reasonable; I had seen my share of scams. “No, I didn’t charge her anything. I did give her the name of a financial advisor. She said she’s struggled with money since her husband passed away, so I figured she could use the help.”

I could hear movement in the other room. As people moved out into the hallway, I heard what I assumed to be a mother expressing her displeasure at having to come to collect her teen son at the police station. It suddenly felt much more comfortable to be in the small, dark room being interrogated by Sergeant Hargrave.

While we waited for the hallway show to migrate toward the front of the building, Hargrave looked through some of the papers he brought in with him. “It says here you made a nine-one-one call last night.” His expression suggested that I should tell him about it.

Again, spilling everything seemed the best course of action. “Just before I left Mrs. Sweigart’s apartment building, I saw someone walking toward the back. It didn’t look like any of the tenants, as far as I knew, so I went to see what was going on.”

He kept writing.

“When I got to the back,” I continued,”I found Johnny Franks. He does maintenance at the apartment building as a favor to Mrs. Sweigart. At that time, though, he was very drunk. He confessed that he was the one who broke the locks and was going into the basement. He said he did it to get away from his mother who lives with him.”

Hargrave interrupted, “Why did he break the locks instead of just using the key?”

“I asked him the same thing. He said he left the key at home and didn’t want to face his mother just to go get it. He said he replaced the locks, so it was okay.” I paused a moment for some reason; it just seemed like a good place to do it. I figured it gave the sergeant enough time to finish writing.

“Anyway,” I went on, “I had him promise that he would make a duplicate key and keep it someplace safe that was not at home so he could stop scaring Mrs. Sweigart and her renters. Then he begged me not to tell, and I assured him I wouldn’t, even though that seemed like a bad idea. I asked him if he was going to be okay, and he said he was going to sit and rest a bit and then go home.”

Hargrave finished the current lines and waited for the next part.

I decided to wrap it up quickly. “I left but then started worrying that if Johnny passed out there in the cold he would freeze by morning, so I made the nine-one-one call to have him checked on.”

That seemed to satisfy the sergeant on that matter at least. “It’s probably a good thing that you did. They found him passed out behind the building, so you probably saved his life.” He sat the papers down, flipped back a page in his notebook to review, and then returned to the current page. “Why do you think Mary Sweigart called you about the disturbance instead of calling law enforcement.”

I had hoped he would skip over that detail. “I have no idea, really. I’m not even sure how she would have found my website; she doesn’t seem the type. I have a guess or two, but they would just be guesses.”

“What would those guesses be?”

I really didn’t want to get Mrs. Sweigart into any trouble, but we seemed to be past that point. Maybe it would do some good. “My first guess was that the apartment building isn’t in a really good state of repair. Since she relies on the income from the building but doesn’t know how to bring it up to where it should be, she is probably afraid of being cited and having the building shut down. That’s my best guess.”

Hargrave looked up from his notebook. “So there isn’t a graveyard out back or any strange symbols anywhere?”

“Not that I am aware,” I said. “I really just think she needed somebody to come out and reassure her, but didn’t want anyone official.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

He gathered up his things and stood. “I appreciate you coming down, Mr. Hunt. I hope you will be able to avoid attracting anymore helpers and that you will continue to refer non-zombie activities to the authorities.” Though the words seemed just a tad jovial, there was still that warning just under the surface. That was a neat trick; I would have to look up how to do that.

He led me back to the front of the building. Two occupants sat in the waiting area. The first was a girl, probably in her mid-teens. She wore all black pants, shirt, coat, and makeup. We didn’t have many goths in the area, so she stood out.

The person sitting next to her was the older of the Revenant Rangers. He leaned in with the clumsy flirting skills of someone his age. When he saw me, he perked up and pointed. “That’s him! That’s Timmy Hunt, the zombie guy.”

The girl looked up at me. She tried hard to keep expressionless, but there was the slightest hint of curiosity. Just what I needed, more kids trying to join the troop.

I pointed to the boy. “Let’s see, you’re, uh, Jake, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he replied, way too overjoyed at being remembered. He pointed to the girl. “This is Sarah. Some pervert tried to get too fresh with her so she cut him and he ran off. We both have to wait until our parents get here before we can leave.”

I felt bad for the boy’s parents if this was what he was like all the time; he had way too much energy. I also thought that if their parents didn’t come in soon, it was likely that Sarah was going to cut him too.

Still, I should at least put on a good show for the deputies. I looked down at Jake with my best stern expression. “Didn’t I tell you fellows to stay out of trouble? That investigating zombies should be left to trained professionals? So now I find you here because you got yourselves in trouble.”

The boy’s expression changed as he deflated a bit. “Sorry,” he said, “We let our curiosity get loose and weren’t thinking right. I hope we didn’t mess up anything you were doing out there?”

I wasn’t good at being the bad guy, but I tried a little more. “You be sure to stay out of trouble from now on. And that goes for your friends too, so pass it along.”

“I will, I swear it.” He held up his hand in a swearing position.

I nodded acceptance. “Good,” I said and turned away.

Sergeant Hargrave let me out through the secure door. As I left, I heard Jake telling Sarah, “I got my own car.”

I drove home and finished the website version of my reports. By the time they were posted, it was nearly six o’clock. I turned on the T. V. news while heating a can of soup.

I liked to keep track of the events of the day, but I never paid too much attention. I couldn’t do anything about most of the things in the world. I mean, I still voted on election day and stuff like that, but most of the time they didn’t need me in the way.

This time, however, something caught my attention. It was just a name: Johnny Franks.

The anchor woman read on, “… suspected in a string of burglaries over the past several months. Police arrested Franks last night behind an apartment building on Field Street. The initial arrest was for public intoxication and resisting arrest. He was found near a broken lock that matched broken locks at other crime scenes. We’ll have more as this story develops.”

Oops. As I stirred my small pot of soup, I wondered about all that. Was it just a coincidence that Johnny broke locks the same was as the other thieves or was he the thief? If it was just a coincidence, I was going to feel really bad about calling the cops on him. On the other hand, maybe he was the thief. I didn’t really know him, so I wasn’t in a position to judge.

It occurred to me that Mrs. Sweigart no longer had a handyman, and she really needed one. That could go poorly for her.

I poured the soup from the pot into a bowl. Very little scent rose up because it was just a cheap, vegetable soup. I could afford better, but didn’t want to spend money unnecessarily. Still, it was important to keep to the routines of civilization to avoid becoming a complete slob.

Poor, poor Mrs. Sweigart.

Grabbing a spoon and carrying the bowl to the table, I sat down to eat.

And stopped.

Something occurred to me. Whether Johnny was a crook or not, he would probably figure out that I narced on him. He probably would not be happy about that. He was pretty big and looked rough.

I just sort of stared into space for a bit.

My soup got cold.

A silhouette in the form of a large man, stooped over at the shoulders, staggered in a zigzag path until it vanished behind the building. The street light didn’t extend far enough for me to see any other details, and the low November clouds made things worse.

My pulse raced and my fingers squeezed tight on the steering wheel of the van. I told Mrs. Sweigart I would follow up on things, but didn’t expect to find anything. Now this.

Grabbing my flashlight, I prepared to go check. Stepping out of the van, I realized how much the temperature had dropped since I first arrived. It seemed the wind had picked up too. That’s why a shiver went up my spine and my teeth chattered. Yep, it had to be that and nothing else. I forced myself to breathe slowly. Every exhale turned to fog in the autumn air. Every inhale burned the inside of my nose. Time to go.

I ran as quietly as possible to the side of the building. The muddy yard had grown crisp in the cold, making a crunch with almost every step.

Once at the side of the building, I slowed to be more careful. Pressing close to, but not touching, the building hid my own silhouette. Unkempt grass grew tall next to the wall, crunching more than the mud.

I finally reached the corner. This was going to be the dangerous part. Or the stupid part. Probably dangerous and stupid. Mostly stupid. I took a couple of slow breaths to steady my nerves and then looked around the corner.

The man-shape loomed over the cellar doors. It seemed to lean against the counterweight pole.

It was confrontation time, brave zombie hunter.

Turning on my flashlight, I stepped from behind the corner and toward the thing. I didn’t move too far since I still wanted to be able to run away if needed. Using my best authoritarian voice, I demanded, “What’s going on here?”

The man thing raised its head and managed to turn unsteadily to face me. The unshaven face seemed a bit reddish. A light change in the night breeze blew past him and brought the scent of alcohol and sweat. The eyes squinted, but that could have been because I was shining a light into them.

He raised his outstretched hand to block some of the light and uttered, “What?”

“You heard me,” I continued. “Who are you? What are you doing there?”

“Uhm,” he muttered. “I, uh, I work here.” His slurred speech suggested that he drank here too.

Again, just some guy and not the undead. I really didn’t need to deal with this crap; the police were for the living, I should only work with the dead. Anyway, I already started it so I had to finish it. “Work here? At this time of night? You got some I. D. on you?” I kept the light in his eyes hoping that if he didn’t see me he might think I had more authority than I really did.

“Yeah,” he said. His hand dropped as he reached for the wallet in his pocket. He wore a heavy, brown coat that should be warm enough, but was otherwise in jeans and work boots. I guessed he was in some sort of construction or other outdoor labor field. He struggled to pull the wallet out of his pants pocket and then dug out a drivers’ license. “This is me. I’m Johnny Franks.”

That matched my suspicions, but confirmation was good. “You’re Sheryl Franks’ boy, aren’t you? The one Mary Seigart hired to do repairs?”

Being recognized seemed to perk him up a bit. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m here to fix, uhm, something.” He pointed toward the cellar doors.

It was time to drop some of the charade. “Well, Mr. Franks, I’m Timmy Hunt. Mrs. Sweigart hired me to investigate the break-ins of her basement. I was just in the basement and didn’t see anything that needed fixed and she didn’t mention needing anything fixed. What are you really doing here?”

He seemed to realize two things. First, he figured out that I wasn’t a cop, so he wasn’t in as much trouble as he could have been. Second, he realized that he was going to have to explain why he was breaking in. It probably helped that he was drunk.

“Okay,” he started, “I wasn’t going to steal nothing or anything. I just needed a place to hang out for a while. I can’t go home yet.”

Intriguing. “Why can’t you go home?” I asked.

He hung his head down and swayed a little from side to side. “It’s my mom,” he answered. “Since she moved in she’s been driving me crazy.” There was a stronger whiff of alcohol on the air.

I hadn’t known that Sheryl was living with her son. When Mrs. Sweigart said Sheryl lost everything, she must have meant everything. That explained why Johnny needed to find a place to stay, but it didn’t answer all the questions.

“Are you the one who broke the lock?”

He looked away. “Yeah,” then added, “but I replaced it with a new one.” He paused for a moment and added, “I’m gonna replace that one too.”

The first part of the mystery was solved, but it brought more questions. “Why didn’t you just use your key? You do have a key, don’t you?”

Again, more averting of the eyes, presumably from embarrassment. The breeze tousled his hair, but something else caused the excessive blinking. “I left the key at home and didn’t want to face my mom.” He swayed more and thought for a moment while something filtered through his brain. He asked, “You’re not going to tell Mrs. Sweigart are you?”

That was a complex question. Obviously I needed to tell her something, and pointing out that her tenants and building were safe was an important part of that. She also needed the free labor from Johnny, so getting rid of him would place an extra financial burden on her. On the other hand, I was facing a large, drunk man in the dark behind a building on the outskirts of town, so some tact was warranted.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” I told him. “Can you promise me that you will get an extra key and put it someplace you can get it so you don’t have to break the locks? If you can do this, so there’s no more broken locks and the tenants aren’t complaining anymore, then this can all go away.”

The chance of escape took a circuitous route through his brain and almost brought a smile to his face, maybe; it could be hard to tell what drunk people were thinking. Still, he nodded excitedly. “I can sure do that,” he said. “I’ll get a copy of the key tomorrow.”

Hopefully, by then he would remember that the door needed a new lock as well.

With that all settled, it was time to get myself out of the situation and finally on my way to my bed. “Are you okay for now?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” He made an attempt at a dismissive wave with his right hand as he grabbed the counterweight pole with his left. “Yea, good, I’m just going to sit here a few minutes and then I’ll be on my way.”

I felt bad for him as I watched him attempt to sit cross-legged on the ground next to the door. The pole helped; without it he would have rolled onto his back and been stuck like a turtle.

Then another ethical issue popped up. Johnny wore a coat and was himself bulky, but it was a cold, November night and it was only going to get colder. If he passed out where he sat, he may not wake up in the morning. On the other hand, the cold might sober him up faster.

The wise thing to do would be to call the police to swing by and look in on him, but that led to a host of other potential problems. They could arrest him and cause him trouble with whatever job he had. Since he was taking care of his destitute mother, a job loss was serious. If the police ask why I was there or if they noticed the broken lock they might investigate further into the apartment building. They may want to know why Mrs. Sweigart didn’t call them to report a break in, which was a very suspicious thing to do.

“Alright,” I said, “Just don’t be out here too long. It’s a cold night and you don’t want to freeze to death.”

He made a half wave again. “I’ll be alright. I just need to sit for a few minutes. It’ll be okay.”

“Okay, then,” I said as I turned. “Just remember what we discussed.”

I walked back to my van and got settled in for home. I chose not to review any more emails; those could wait for the morning. With the van started, I drove away.

Halfway through town, the ethical dilemma nagged on me enough to make me stop. I pulled into a convenience store and parked. I hated being ethical. I wondered if that was why my father drank, you know, to turn off the ethics.

I cracked the driver side window hoping that some fresh air might help. The wind came in crisp and cool, but carried the scent of dirt and petroleum that you always get anywhere gas is sold. It also told me I parked downwind of the dumpsters.

The convenience store lights stabbed through the windshield, adding a sort of nighttime harshness to my setting. Night always did that anyway, but harsh commercial lighting brought its own seediness to the situation. It told you that you could easily go down a dark path that so many had travelled before, or you could choose to do the right thing.

The right thing was going to keep bothering me until I did it.

Putting off the inevitable, I went in to purchase a bottle of pop. The transaction complete, I returned to the van and picked up my phone. A quick web search gave me the non-emergency number for the sheriff’s office. The town was too small to have a police force of their own, so they contracted with the county to have the sheriff do all the work. I chose the non-emergency number because it didn’t have all the tracking stuff and this wasn’t exactly an emergency. I didn’t need to be recorded doing the right thing.

I dialed the number.

After a couple of rings, the voice on the other end said, “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

Crap! I forgot about it being after hours. There wouldn’t be anyone answering the non-emergency number at this hour and the calls got rerouted to the emergency line.

“Uh,” I started, “I, uh, don’t know if this is an emergency, but I saw someone lurking behind the apartment building over on Field Street. He looked like he might be drunk.”

The woman on the line asked for the exact address, so I gave it to her. Then she asked the question I dreaded, “And what is your name?”

So much for not getting involved. I gave her my name and the rest of my particulars. I let her know I was driving home when I saw the man, which was almost true, and that I waited to call until I could park someplace safe, also somewhat true. She thanked me for reporting the incident and assured me that someone would look into it.

I shouldn’t have felt so uncomfortable about any of it. I did the right thing. If Johnny died or got seriously ill from hypothermia or something, it would have been wrong. Mrs. Sweigart’s frail nerves wouldn’t have been able to take it. There would have been an investigation at the apartment building. I just hoped the police didn’t cause her any other trouble.

It had been an adventurous day with two interactions with law enforcement. In both cases, I was doing the right thing as a responsible citizen. So why did I feel so guilty? I decided it must be a societal thing. I’ve heard other people talk about getting nervous about their driving when they see a cop car even if they aren’t driving wrong.

As a kid, I only had a few interactions with the law. My father got arrested for drunk driving a couple of times and he complained about cops then. There was the incident in New Orleans where the local cops helped get me back to my class group after I got separated and, well, anyway. Then there was the day the police told me my parents were dead; but I was a freshman in college by that time.

I needed to get home and get some sleep. The cool air coming through the window felt nice, so I left it open. I backed out of my parking space and shifted into drive.

A truck from the sheriff’s department flew down the street in the direction of Mary Sweigart’s apartment building. That was good service and my part was done. My conscience could leave me alone about it.

Before I could get any further, the Revenant Rangers sped by in their car, going the same direction as the sheriff’s truck.

Nope, not my problem. I’m going home.

I walked toward the waiting boys. They all leaned against the back of a mid-nineties Corolla until they saw me approach. Then they stood upright and moved to a line on the sidewalk like soldiers awaiting inspection.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “It took a little longer than I expected.”

“That’s okay,” said the middle one, “We know you got important work to do.”

Sure, I thought, I’ve been doing important work all day. I really wanted to finish up with these fellows and get home. I may even consider going to bed at a reasonable hour. “So what can I do for you guys?”

They seemed to straighten even more and puff up their chest.

“We’re here to help,” the tall one said.

Not what I expected. “Help with what?”

That question was not what they expected. They seemed momentarily confused.

The tall one finally answered, “With your zombie hunting.”

“Yeah,” said the middle one. “We’ve read everything on your site and as much other stuff about the undead as we can.”

“You can count on us!” said the red-headed one at the end.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Based on the emails I got, I knew many of the site’s visitors were kids and many of them really wanted to fight zombies and other monsters. Most of the time, they had only movie or video game knowledge. I assumed the majority would grow out of it, at least enough to become semi-productive monster-geek citizens. It never occurred to me that some of them might show up to join the fight in person.

I had to let them down, but I didn’t want to crush their enthusiasm. In the big scheme of things, the world did need more zombie hunters. I couldn’t do it all by myself. However, a bunch of minors tagging along and getting hurt was not good for business or anything else.

I put my hands on my hips in the standard ‘take charge’ pose. “Let’s start with your names. Who are you?” I pointed to the short, red-headed one.

The red-haired one stood to attention. “I’m Logan Young.”

I nodded acknowledgment. “Great. Nice to meet you, Mr. Young.” I turned to the middle-height, blonde kid. “How about you?”

Like the first, he stood to attention. “I’m Zachary Burmeister, but everybody calls me Zach.”

“Thank you Zack,” I said before turning to the last one. “That leaves you.”

Unlike the others, he grinned and offered his hand to shake. “I’m Jake Tomlinson. It’s my car.” He nodded back toward the car.

I shook his hand. “That’s great.”

Then came the tough part; the let down. “Listen, guys, I really appreciate the offer of help, and there are plenty of times I could use it. But zombie hunting is a dangerous business that takes place at all hours of the night. I really don’t think your parents would approve if I let you guys tag along. Then there’s all the liability insurance and the legalities. Maybe when you’re over eighteen we could work something out, but there are a lot of barriers to having you guys along. I hope you understand.”

The small one, Logan I think, seemed to take it the hardest. His head hung to his chest and his shoulders slumped. The others had at least stopped beaming about the whole meeting, but were otherwise holding up.

The tall one, Jake, nodded slightly. “We get it,” he said. “We run into those kinds of obstacles all the time. Still, we’ve done a lot of reading and we could probably hold our own.”

“You probably could,” I said. “But remember, there’s a lot more to zombie hunting than just finding some and chopping them up. There are different kinds of zombies. There are people who want to create zombies and they have to be dealt with too. Then there’s all the other things. Remember, I went to college before I started all of this.” There was no need to mention that I only went for one year before dropping out and that I was a business major at the time.

I wanted to do something to cheer them up, at least a little. “Hey, come on to the back of the van; I got something for you.” It occurred to me that an adult man shouldn’t say things like that to a group of boys, but it was meant in the best sense.

I led them around to the back of the van and popped the doors open. They gawked at all the things I had inside, though it was just mostly regular tools, closed boxes, and a few strange talismans. To the young mind, everything was a delight.

One of the boxes held pamphlets that I often gave out with my services. I dug out a few copies of Signs of Zombie Activity and Wards Against the Undead. I gave each a copy of both booklets. “Here you go. Hopefully this will help you prepare in case you do run into zombies.”

They accepted them with all the enthusiasm of kids getting presents Christmas morning. Well, two of them did. Logan still seemed pretty bummed about the rejection. Still, he accepted the literature. Maybe the excitement of his friends would make him feel better.

“Thanks,” said Zach, I think it was Zach, the middle-height one.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jake added.

I closed the van doors. “Not a problem. I really appreciate you guys stopping and for visiting the website.” Pointing to the pamphlets in their hands, “You’ll have to let me know if you see something suspicious.”

That got a chorus of “we will” as we walked back toward the front of the van and their car. I hoped they would take the hint as I got into the driver seat of the van. “Have a good night, now, and be safe.”

They seemed to catch on. Clutching the little booklets, they migrated to Jake’s car. A moment later, they powered away into the night.

The attention both flattered and annoyed me. Obviously, it’s always good to have fans of your work. However, it was late and my day had turned up nothing of the undead variety. The closest thing to death was me, because I was dead tired. I wanted nothing more than to get home and get to sleep.

So naturally, a lumbering hulk shambled toward the back of the apartment building.

I called Mary’s phone while still in the parking lot of the sheriff’s office. We agreed to meet an hour later. It was already nearly six o’clock and the street lights were on. I took advantage of the chance to stop by the local convenience store for food. A couple of slices of hamburger pizza and a fountain drink and it was time to drive out to the meeting.

We planned to meet at the apartment building she owned. I parked on the street at that address. It was a small place, just four, one-bedroom apartments, two on each side of a central hallway and stairwell. With the streetlight, I could see that the place was not in good shape. Some of the vertical siding hung out of plumb. The small yard around the building looked muddy like it hadn’t had grass in years.

I made a note about when I arrived and put the notebook in my pocket. A quick check of my flashlight made sure that was working; that’s a very important thing after sundown. As I got out of the van, an older sedan pulled up to park behind me.

Under the street lights, the car looked like a metallic gold color. It would have been expensive at one time. A crumple in the driver-side fender suggested a lack of recent care. The driver switched the lights off, fumbled with things in the passenger seat, and then exited the car.

She was small, about five feet tall and slender. Her clothing style suggested she was in her sixties. Like the car, the clothes would have been expensive when they were new, but they were probably just as recent as the car. With one hand, she locked and closed the car door. It took two tries to get the door to stay closed. With her other hand, she adjusted her dark hair.

I turned and stepped in her direction. “Mrs. Sweigart?” I called out.

“Are you the man from the zombie place?” she asked, walking my way.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered. “I’m Timmy Hunt. Nice to meet you.”

We shook hands. Now that she was closer, I could see her better in the sodium light of the street lamp. Wearing a bit too much makeup couldn’t hide that she was easily in her sixties, possibly a little older. The dark of her hair obviously came from a bottle, but not at an upscale salon. I wondered about her story, but I always do that.

She started off while still shaking my hand. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. Hunt. I just don’t know what to do with all of this. My tenants are threatening to move out and I have a hard enough time getting people to live here. It’s too far from the city, so I have to rent to locals, but everybody is moving away to big cities and the ones that don’t either don’t want to live here or they’re people I don’t want to live here.” She hushed a little to say, “We have druggies and other people like that in this town and I sure don’t want them tearing up my apartments.”

I managed to pull my hand away as politely as I could and used it to retrieve the notebook from my pocket. “Can you show me where the events have taken place?” I asked.

She stopped and seemed to change mental tracks. “Oh, yes, this way, down in the basement.”

As we walked toward the building, I noticed the small windows along the foundation. They were not big enough for a person to crawl through unless they were a really small person. I knew enough about the building codes to know that living areas had to have egress windows so people could get out in case of fire, but I wasn’t sure about non-residential areas.

Mrs. Sweigart rambled on as we walked. “The tenants started complaining last week. They heard things in the basement but couldn’t tell what it was. I sent Johnny Franks, he’s the handyman, out to check. He said the lock on the outside door was broken so he replaced it. Then it all happened again. I had him put another lock on, but that one got busted too. Johnny thinks it was just thieves looking for stuff to steal, but that only explains the first breakin. After that, they should know there isn’t anything to steal down there. It just doesn’t make sense.”

We had walked around one side of the building and were now facing the back. The external basement door looked like the door to an old storm cellar. It was almost horizontal, with cinderblock walls forming the rest of the entrance. The door itself was made of old wood with large, metal strap hinges. Near the bottom, where it could be easily reached, a hasp sat open. The remains of a padlock sat on the ground nearby.

Zombies don’t usually have the presence of mind to remove a lock from a door. It is assumed that they would just break through the old wood. So far, this looked more like humans as the monsters.

Following my usual routine, I asked, “Have you notified law enforcement?”

“Well, no,” she started and then looked at the ground for a moment. “I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t want to bother them. I know they’re busy with things and don’t have time for, you know, things.” She trailed off.

I’m not a master detective but I think it is suspicious when people don’t call the cops over a break-in. It’s even more suspicious when the person has to come up with an explanation for not calling the cops and can’t give a good one. The cops in rural Iowa are rarely too busy to look into a repeatedly busted lock on a basement door.

I just smiled politely to her. “I’ll take a look,” I said.

Using my flashlight, I carefully examined the ground around the door. The mud meant that there were plenty of shoe or foot impressions, but none of them gave enough detail to interpret.

I stooped down to investigate the broken lock. I expected to see either the pinch of bolt cutters on the shackle, the U-shaped part, or a crack in the body from hammer blows. Bolt cutters would be reasonably quiet. Beating a lock with a hammer would not be, and would likely get attention from any people in the area.

Without touching the lock, I could only see the parts facing up. The shackle and body seemed unharmed. The locking mechanism protruded from the bottom of the body about an eighth of an inch. Someone had damaged the locking mechanism and opened the lock. There were no clues as to how they did it. That would be more of a police matter, not a zombie matter.

I stood up to my full height. A quick breeze made its way into my jacket to give me a chill. The flash of headlights suggested a car passing on the street. It was time to go into the basement.

Like many cellar doors, this had a rope attached to each door. The rope led up at an angle to a pole beside the hinge of that door. A counter weight hung from the other end of the rope to help lift the door. In this case, only the door on the right had a counter weight, the left one being long gone.

I lifted the right door, taking advantage of the weight. Propping the door open against its pole, I could shine my flashlight down into the opening. Wood stairs led down into the darkness. Cobwebs hung from every available surface. Stale, damp air wafted out. The light didn’t show much more than the stairs, their wall, and a concrete landing at the bottom.

Seeing that it was probably safe, I placed my right foot on the top stair. Gradually shifting my weight, I made sure that it felt firm. Old wooden stairs were not always reliable all the way through. From that position, I levered the left door open as well.

I’ve always hated stairs built like these. The treads were usually good solid wood. In basements and other utilitarian applications, there were no boards used for risers, those vertical parts between the stairs. That meant that anyone, or anything, could reach out from under the stairs and grab your ankle while you went down. Playing at a friend’s house as a kid, someone did that. It didn’t just scare the crap out of me, but it sent me down the rest of the stairs. I spent the rest of that summer with my arm in a cast.

From the bottom of the stairs, I could see the rest of the basement. It was just one big room that ran beneath the entire apartment building. The flashlight showed furnaces for heating, a coin-operated washing machine and dryer, and stacks of cardboard boxes slowly crumpling under the weight of their contents. Another set of stairs led up to the central hallway of the apartment building. I finally found the important thing, the light switch next to me on the wall.

I turned on the light. It was a single fluorescent fixture with two tubes. The dark bands on the ends of the tubes said both were near the end of their lives. The fixture itself was a cheap thing suspended from the ceiling with simple chains. The wire plugged into an outlet that was screwed into the socket for a regular incandescent bulb.

The state of the basement said that everything was done as cheaply as possible. Plumbing looked haphazardly patched. Various small leaks made puddles on the floor. The door to the fuse box hung awkwardly from the box. One of the fuses looked like it may have been just a penny.

Something moved to my right.

I spun toward the motion and thought I saw something dart under a cardboard box. It was probably a mouse. Still, my investigation needed to be thorough. I moved toward the mouse.

As interesting as it always was to investigate any situation, I was a little disappointed in this one. It was my second call for the day and it was going to be another blatantly non-supernatural situation. I didn’t mind Stan so much; he seemed like a good guy trying to deal with things. This apartment building was a different matter.

My guess was that Mrs. Sweigart didn’t want to call the police because they would cite her for all the things wrong with her building. Who knows, they may even close the place down. That might be sad for the tenants, whoever they were, but it might be in their best interest.

A hole at the bottom of the box showed signs of chewing. Just inside the hole, torn pieces of paper suggested a mouse nest. I knew it was common for mice to build nests in unattended boxes, but they usually needed to be near food. Where would this mouse find food?

I looked up at the ceiling. If the mouse could find food, it was probably finding it in the apartments. My mind filled with the image of a cluttered, filthy apartment covered with half eaten things and wreaking of rot. I did not look forward to investigating that area.

Unfortunately, that was my next stop. I headed up the interior stairs, checking them carefully as I went.

At the top, I found a closed door. The knob turned freely, but the door wouldn’t open. It felt like there was a lock on the other side, somewhere about three-quarters up. No point in going that way, it was time to head back.

I went back down the interior stairs and crossed over to the exterior. At the base of the outside stairs, I took one last look at the basement. Assured that I hadn’t missed anything, I turned off the fluorescent lights and ascended back to the ground level.

Mrs. Sweigart stood waiting, her hands clenched together in front of her. “Did you find anything?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t find much of anything. There are signs of mice, so you will want to ask, Johnny was it, ask Johnny to put out some rat poison. Other than that, I didn’t see anything. Can we check the other areas of the apartment building? I would also like to talk to the tenant who got bit.”

We turned to go to the front of the building.

Three young men in long coats ran around the corner of the building. One of them pointed my way and shouted, “There he is! I told you it was him!”

Mrs. Seigart screamed and dunked behind me.

Catching my composure, I took a better look. They were three, white kids in their middle teens. Their long coats all matched and were in good shape. The jeans and t-shirts underneath seemed newer as well. The tallest and middle one had blond hair; the short one had red. They grinned as they ran over.

I put my hand back to steady Mrs. Sweigart as she pressed against my back in terror. I held up my other hand, palm out, toward the approaching teens. “Who are you guys?”

“We’re big fans,” said the tall one.

“Yeah,” said the small one, “we read your website all the time.”

The middle one chimed in, “We were driving by and saw your van. I can’t believe it’s really you.”

My website received occasional fan email. Most messages weren’t positive. This was the first time fans had actually run up to me in person. To say I was off guard, well, I was definitely caught off guard.

It also hit me that my reflexes needed work. If these guys had been hostile, either thugs or the undead, they could have beaten me easily. Maybe chasing the undead was not a good career choice with my self-defense skills, especially if I kept having investigations where the bad guys were probably meth heads. But then, it wasn’t a career, it was a hobby until I could figure out what else to do.

“Well,” I started. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. I needed to get rid of these guys so I could continue my investigation, but I didn’t want to alienate fans. “I tell you what, if you guys can wait by my van until I wrap things up here, I’ll be happy to have a chat with you.”

“Cool,” said the tall one.

“No problem,” said the middle one.

“Are you on an investigation?” asked the small one.

That set the others off. “An investigation? Cool!” “Can we help?” “We can help really well.” “We know all about zombies.”

Gesturing with both of my hands, I managed to quiet them. “I appreciate your enthusiasm and your desire to help, but I can’t let that happen right now. You know, client privacy and liabilities and things like that. It won’t take too long, so if you can just go wait a little bit, I’ll be right with you guys.”

That seemed to settle them, at least on the idea of helping. They went back around the corner, excitedly gibbering among themselves as they went.

I turned back to Mrs. Sweigart. “I am terribly sorry about all of that. They’re gone now. Are you olay?”

She was obviously shaken by the event. She held her arms tightly around her chest and stared at the ground. Her whole body shook, probably from fear, though it was getting chilly out.

I put an arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the front of the building. “Let’s get inside where it will be warmer and there will be more light.”

She didn’t say anything as we entered the common hallway. The light was dim, but still brighter than the evening sky.

The hallway showed as much neglect as the rest had shown. Foot traffic had beaten a gray, flat path through the carpet, both on the floor and up the stairs. The wallpaper peeled at the seams and at a few random tears. Scuff marks and worn-off finish showed the age of the mailboxes on the wall. The faint scent of lotion and poor hygiene floated in the air.

Mrs. Seigart continued in and sat on the stairs. She put her head in her hands and shook as though sobbing.

Comforting people wasn’t in my skill set. Growing up in an alcoholic household doesn’t include empathy training. If I planned to stay in the zombie business, I was going to have to bone up on the people skills.

I decided to give her a moment and then ask her if she was alright. “Mrs. Sweigart, are you okay? Do you need anything?”

She slowly raised her head to look at me before shaking her head no. “I’m sorry,” she said, “things have just been a bit, I don’t know.”

I tried to give a sympathetic smile. The intention was there, but again, no skills.

“My Harold, you see, he used to take care of everything. Then he passed on and I didn’t know how to do anything.” She swallowed hard. “All I have left is this place and the house where I live. The rent here pays the basic bills and taxes, but I can’t pay to keep things fixed up. My friend Sheryl was going to help, but…” She trailed off.

Without knowing, I gave a curious expression suggesting that I needed more details about Sheryl.

“Sheryl was going to buy half of the building here so we could be partners. We agreed on a price, but she was just a little short. I was okay with that, but she insisted on getting the rest of it. She lost everything in one of those Internet scams you hear about on T.V. We couldn’t do the deal. It’s her boy, Johnny, he’s the one who comes over to help out some time.”

It was a good thing I wasn’t a cop; a sob story always hit me hard. My first instinct was to try to help, even if there was nothing I could do. This time, an idea popped into my head.

“Mrs. Sweigart, I have a thought,” I said. I turned to the remains of the last page in my notebook. I always wrote small notes, tore them off, and handed them to people this way. It was what the last page was for. I wrote the name Rick Novak, and, consulting my cellphone, a phone number. Carefully tearing around the information, I handed the note to Mrs. Sweigart.

“This is the name and number of my financial advisor. He’s a really great guy and really smart. Tell him I sent you and that you need an evaluation. He will be able to help you figure out how to get your finances in order. He also knows all the legal, ethical tricks to make sure things work out.”

She looked at the paper and then back at me. You would think I just told her that her dog was going to live. She smiled and her eyes widened. The impression was that she had just been left to drift after her husband passed, however long ago that was, and no one ever told her there was help available.

The apartment door to the right opened. An elderly woman, probably in her eighties, popped her head out. “Mary, is that you?”

Mrs. Sweigart answered, “Yes, it’s me. How are you tonight, Edna?”

Edna, was a frail woman, probably. Sweat pants and shirt hid any actual shape. She came out of the door further, propping herself on the frame. “Oh, I’m pretty good. Nothing to complain about. Is this a new tenant?” She nodded toward me when asking.

“No, he’s here to look into those noises in the basement.” Mrs. Sweigart stood up and straightened her pants. “This is Mr. Hunt. He’s already been down to the basement and found mice.”

Edna’s eyebrows rose. “Mice? Well, that’s not good. I never have liked mice.” She paused to think for a moment. “Do you recon that’s what bit me?” She extended her left leg forward, raising her heel off the ground. Reaching down, she tugged up the leg of her sweatpants, revealing a small, red wound.

I looked closer. “It’s about the size of a mouse bite. Have you had a doctor look at it?”

She twisted her leg slightly to get a better viewing angle. “No. Do you think it might have rabies?”

Being prone to crawling around dark spaces, I did know a little about mice and rats. For example, I knew that mice and rats rarely carry rabies. “I don’t think rabies would be an issue, but it might still get infected. They may need to give you some antibiotics or something. Of course, I’m not a doctor, so I don’t know any of that for sure.” I always felt more comfortable if I gave a disclaimer. I could never understand why people assumed that zombie hunters were experts in anything.

Seeing that this wasn’t going any further, and realizing that I wasn’t going to be billing anyone again, I decided to wrap things up.

“Mrs. Sweigart, it looks like my particular services aren’t what you need.”

She deflated a little.

“But not to worry,” I continued. “My recommendation is to add an outside light or an alarm to the outside basement door. If you don’t have the budget for a real alarm, just get the sign that says there’s an alarm. Sometimes, that’s enough. Do that and call the financial advisor and you should be okay.”

That seemed to help.

Again, I’ve always been too soft hearted for business. “And, in the next week or so, I’ll drive by during the night to see if there are any other signs of trouble that I can deal with.”

That brought the smile back.

With that, I was out of the apartment building, leaving Mrs. Sweigart and Edna to chat about whatever they were going to chat about.

That’s when I remembered my waiting fans.

The sheriff’s office started life as a small office building. The brick walls of the old building looked much like they would have in the sixties. The thicker concrete walls and grate-covered windows in the back had been added later. A high fence surrounded the motor pool and the jail area. At least there was plenty of parking in the well-lit front.

I entered through the front door to face a thick glass window. A large steel frame surrounded the window as well as a heavy door to my right. A young deputy worked at the desk on the other side of the window. He looked to be in his mid twenties and physically fit. If he stayed at the desk for his career, that wouldn’t last long.

He noticed me and then spoke into a microphone. His voice came out of a speaker near the ceiling. “Can I help you?”

I wasn’t sure where my microphone was supposed to be, so I just spoke loudly. “I found the remains of a meth lab and want to report it.”

He seemed to look me over. Deciding I was okay, probably, he leaned back and called to someone in a nearby office. I could sort of hear, “Hey Dave, you got a minute?”

He listened to the response and nodded to himself.

Turning back to me, he asked, “Do you have any weapons? Guns, knives, throwing stars, anything like that?”

“No sir” I said and splayed my hands open. I don’t think the hands helped; he obviously meant any weapons on my person.

“Come on back.” He pressed a button. The door next to the window buzzed and something clicked.

As I closed the door behind me, another deputy exited an office on my right. He was probably closer to fifty, and not as fit as the young guy. His face gave an air of being friendly but not to be messed with. That made sense in his profession.

“Come on in,” he said, pointing his hand toward the door. “Have a seat.” He followed me and then crossed to sit behind the desk. “I’m Sergeant Hargrave. I understand you found a meth lab.”

The man’s office wore the signs of work. Piles of papers and folders littered his desk. More files and papers sat on cabinets along the walls. One wall held a map of the county. The logo on the very large coffee cup had mostly worn away.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” I stammered. For some reason, law enforcement offices always made me uncomfortable.

Hargrave opened a desk drawer, retrieved a form, and prepared to write. “Let’s start with your name.”

I answered his basic questions about me: name, address, phone, and anything else he might need to contact me or look me up if he suspected anything.

“Timmy Hunt, you say.” He tapped his temple lightly with the tip of his pencil a couple of times. “Why does that sound familiar? Were you related to Gary and Irene Hunt by any chance?”

“Those were my parents.” It had been a big story in these parts, when I was nine years ago when I was twenty.

Dad was very successful as a salesman, but drinking got the best of him. I was a freshman in college when he got angry and beat mom to death. One of the neighbors saw and called the cops. Dad tried to outrun them and rolled his sedan in a cornfield a bunch of times. Just like that, I was an orphan.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “Now, tell me about this lab.”

I knew from previous experience to leave out the zombie stuff unless absolutely necessary. “I was at Stan Loffland’s place out on F-34. His dog has been getting upset at night, so he arranged to have me check things out with him. We walked around some of his buildings and eventually to a pile of debris from an old corn crib. The boards and grass were arranged into a small nest-like depression big enough for a few people to sit. There were some scorch marks, containers for starter fluid, coffee filters, batteries, and other little things. I didn’t get any closer or touch anything and told Loffland to contact you guys.”

The deputy wrote everything down as I spoke. “You told Loffland to call us? Why did you decide to make a report as well?”

“Well,” I started. Honestly, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but I was mostly worried about the old man. That would have to be my answer. “Mr. Loffland is an older guy and I was worried about him. I thought it wouldn’t hurt if both of us reported the issue, and it might be good in case he didn’t get around to it.”

He nodded and wrote more. When he was done, he placed the end of the pen on his lips and stared at me for a moment. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to figure me out, freak me out, or just try to think of his next question. Who knows, maybe he was trying to hold back a fart.

“Mr. Hunt, what is your relationship with Loffland?”

Uh oh, this is it. This is where things get bad. “He called me yesterday to ask for help. Today was the first time I met him when I went to his farm.”

More writing. “And why did he call you for help if you didn’t know each other?”

“Well,” time to be delicate, “he was under the impression that he had a paranormal problem and I’m an amateur paranormal investigator. You know, take a look at things and let people know the knocking sounds are just pipes and stuff like that. I think he said he found me on the Internet. His was a typical case. An old dude gets spooked because his dog barks at an old graveyard at night so he calls me. I go out and figure it’s just junkies or raccoons or something.”

“Um hm,” more writing. “And how much did you charge Loffland for your paranormal services?”

The default assumption among the cops I’ve met is that any sort of paranormal investigation is a scam to rip off gullible people. In the case of some bad actors in the business, that was definitely true. I always tried to be as kind and honest as I could.

“I didn’t charge him anything. I even left him an extra amulet at no charge. Sometimes people feel better if they have something like that. I’m not going to take money from some poor old man who’s just scared and alone. Besides, it’s probably going to cost him enough to get that mess cleaned up, if he’s not stubborn enough to try to do it himself.”

Hargrave sat back and stared at me again like he was trying to reevaluate what he saw. A shift in his head suggested he had his new path. “Do you charge anybody for your services? If not, how do you make any money?”

Those were good questions. “I’ve charged some people. There’s been a few who were obviously faking things to either get attention or to harass someone else. I debunk what they’re doing and send them a bill. I’ve had a couple who were just trying to mess with me; they got charged. But most of the time, it’s just frightened people. A lot of the time, they are alone and don’t know what to do. I can’t take money from them. The jerks pay enough to keep the website up, and that’s about all I need.”

The deputy nodded his understanding and wrote a few more things. “If you’re not making a living from this, what do you do full time? How do you live? Pay the rest of your bills?”

This is actually the embarrassing part. “I still have money left from my parents. There are investments that are doing pretty well. As long as I don’t go overboard, I can live pretty comfortably.”

What was with all the writing. This guy must go through a fortune in pens. “Is it correct to say that you are unemployed, as in don’t have a normal, paying job?”

“That’s, correct,” I said. “I had been in college to study business like my dad, but then, you know, stuff happened, and I kind of lost the drive. I’ll probably go back to college before too long; I just don’t know what I want to study.”

The change was subtle. I don’t even know which parts of his face changed. It seemed like his expression was more sympathetic. Maybe just one-tenth of one percent more, but it was there.

He held up his papers, presumably for review. Nodding, he sat them back down and looked back at me. “Is there anything else you would like to add?”

Now that my emotional barriers were down, it was a lot easier to see why I wanted to make sure I reported the meth lab.

“I’m really worried about Stan Loffland. If his dog’s been barking at the meth guys on multiple nights, they’re going to come back. Stan and Sammy will go out to confront anybody that shows up in the night. I don’t want some tweaker killing the old man. That’s what’s got me worried. He’s not safe out there, and he’s stubborn enough to ignore that.”

Hargrave stood up, giving me my cue that we were done. “We’ll have somebody head out to check on him and the meth site. We appreciate your concern and civic mindedness. If you think of anything else, you give me a call.” He handed me his business card as he escorted me out of the secure door. “Have a good day and drive safe.”

Before I knew it, I was back in the parking lot walking to my van. I climbed into the driver’s seat and plopped down. The reporting experience had been more emotionally draining than I anticipated. It was probably pent up emotion from the search of the graveyard and corn crib mixed up with genuine worry about Stan and Sammy. It didn’t help that the deputy brought up my parents.

I looked over the business card. “Sergeant Dave W. Hargrave”. It would be good to have a better relationship with law enforcement, but how to make that happen was a mystery. I put the card into my shirt pocket.

Time to go. I dug out my keys and put them into the ignition. A quick turn and the engine started: good old reliable van. Starting also woke the cell phone on its charger. An indicator showed email.

My website’s “Contact” and “Request a Consultation” forms sent their data as an email. This let me respond from anywhere on my phone’s email app. Someone named Mary Sweigart thought she had zombies in her basement and needed a consult. She says one of her tenants has been bitten.