Curse of Helhaven - Published

“There I was, armed only with my crossbow, venturing into the dark forest. Every step felt like a gamble,” I say, my voice low and intense.

Maryanne’s green eyes widen as her pen hovers over her notepad. “What were you looking for?”

“I’m getting to that,” I laugh. Maryanne always gets ahead of herself.

“My apologies, please go on.”

“Thank you. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Then I saw it—the Werewolf —a grotesque shadow in the darkness, its eyes burning like hot coals,” I continue, my tone darkening.

The battle that followed was like a nightmare. The Werewolf was relentless, its claws slashing through the air, its howls echoing through the forest. But I was determined. I fought with everything I had, my crossbow hitting its mark while my heart pounded in my chest. My voice shakes as I remember the fight, the fear and adrenaline still fresh in my mind.

I fall silent, struggling with a detail I prefer to keep hidden. The memory of facing the Werewolf looms large, reminding me how close I came to death. But I can’t find the words to fully disclose it. Some truths are best kept secret. I’m not sure how long I’m lost in that memory, but it feels like living the scene all over again.

“Lucas.” Maryanne’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

“Huh?” I shake my head. The sooner I return to reality, the quicker I can end the terrifying tale.

“What happened next?” she asks, gripping her pen tightly. She sits on the edge of her seat.

My crossbow is ready, the monster pleads for mercy, and I’m nearing that explosive conclusion. It isn’t quite like that, but I don’t want to tell her I managed to get away by sheer luck. “I killed it, of course!” I say with a confident smirk, knowing that my skills have triumphed once again.

Her smile vanishes, replaced by disappointment. There was a time she’d cheer when I reached this point of the story.

“You always kill it. Are there any monsters you won’t put an arrow through?” Maryanne pouts.

I chuckle, deflecting her question. “Your neighbor is still alive.”

“For the umpteenth time, Mike is not a vampire. He works night shifts at a blood bank,” Maryanne groans, rolling her eyes.

“Seems a little convenient, don’t you think?”

“I seriously doubt that a vampire would move into a two-story colonial house with pink curtains—that doesn’t scream vampire.”

Maryanne’s skepticism is a crucial part of our partnership. I share tales of werewolves, vampires, and fairies with her, fully aware that to her, it all sounds like the ramblings of a madman. However, her open-mindedness allows us to navigate the murky waters of the supernatural together.

Little does she know that her neighbor Mike is one of the creatures we often discuss—a vampire. He’s clever, working discreetly at a blood bank, far from the stereotype of a bloodthirsty monster. Mike is a good man at heart, even with his affliction. Though our encounters have been tense, he respects our unspoken agreement.

Mike retreats whenever I approach Maryanne’s front door, sealing himself away in his home. It’s a silent acknowledgment of the delicate balance between our worlds, a reminder of the dangers lurking just beyond the threshold.

“If you say so,” I laugh, but she’s not amused.

“Well, even if he is, he’s been kind to me.”

I know that if there were a monster rally somewhere in the state, she would march around with a pro-monster sign, claiming that monster lives mattered too. However, I agree with her statement. Her neighbor has been nothing but kind to her, and that kindness keeps him alive. I’ve even looked away twice when he dragged men from the bar into an alleyway. They weren’t good men. Both had committed serious crimes against their families.

“Not all monsters are bad people,” I say, my hazel eyes wandering across her face. “Montana has a vampire reform school and there’s a commune for vegan werewolves in Sacramento. There’s no cure for what happened to them, only ways to help them come to terms with their physical changes.”

I admit the locations are wrong—just in case she puts them in a book—but they exist. I can’t have her putting good people’s lives in danger because she doesn’t believe I’m telling her the truth.

I grew up with this lifestyle—my parents, cousins, and generations before them all lived underground. Good versus evil doesn’t just apply to our realm; I’ve witnessed this struggle all over the country and beyond. While others see only teeth and claws, I perceive something different. If no harm is being done, why must monsters die? I respect their right to exist, and I understand their struggle. Would I ever say this aloud? No. But I do respect their right to exist.

“You tell me these things, then refuse to show me when I ask for proof.” Maryanne runs her manicured fingers through her long red ponytail. She can’t understand the inner turmoil I face, the conflict between my duty and my desire to protect her from the harsh realities of our world. It’s a battle I fight every day, and it’s not easy.

“With all due respect,” I say, rising from the recliner to kneel at her knees, “if I show you, and you put it in a book, you are compromising the lives of good people.”

“Why do you care?” she asks somberly.

I stare at her, taken aback by her statement. Sure, my stories are about monsters and ghosts taking their pain out on the human world, but I do care.

“I care about you,” I say with a smile, hoping it’s enough to steer the conversation back to something more grounded.

I have trouble finding the right words to express the depth of my feelings to Maryanne. Although she understands my intentions and knows me well, she doesn’t realize how much I care for her. Underneath my reserved facade, I harbor strong feelings for her, concealed behind my sarcastic humor and stern demeanor. I will always cherish her, guiding us through our extraordinary adventures, of which there have been many.

As our eyes meet, her disapproval softens, replaced by a radiant smile that warms my soul. In a silent invitation, she spreads her legs, igniting a fire within me. With a casual toss of her notebook and pen, the barriers between us dissolve, giving way to a shared moment of intimacy.

Lost in the sensation of her touch, my wandering hands and eager fingers draw soft sighs from Maryanne. In this moment, the lines between business and pleasure blur seamlessly.

Two hours later, I pull on my jeans and T-shirt, feeling the comfort of my casual clothes. As I step out of Maryanne’s house, the sun casts a warm glow over the street. Maryanne will likely nap and then start writing her next book. Her home is my quiet place, a break from my crazy life. The white siding and navy blue door are a welcome sight after months of hard work. It’s the closest I have to a home. But I’m not here for cozy chats or admiring the stained glass. My life is packed in the trunk of my old Dodge Challenger, ready for the next hunt. Maryanne’s place gives me a short break, but duty calls, and soon I’ll be back on the road.

Before heading into town, I stop by the hotel to freshen up. The busy lobby is very different from the quiet I just left. I need to clean up. I can’t go around smelling like a mix of Chanel No. 5 and gunpowder, especially when I’m about to enter a haunted house. The last thing I need is to scare anyone with my scent or regret not cleaning up. It’s a funny thought, but I’ve never asked the dead if they still have a sense of smell.

I met Kaleb years ago during a tough hunt when he helped me find a child taken by a group of vampires. Even those in the underworld can create moral problems. We’ve kept in touch, and recently, he bought an old Victorian house on the west side of town. Sadly, the realtor didn’t tell him about the house’s past.

Kaleb had told me his new home is full of character. The floors creak with every step, the halls are drafty, and shadows seem to move on their own. The wallpaper is peeling in places and the air smells musty, as if the house itself holds memories of its past. Though it’s not the usual creaky old Victorian, strange whispers and shifting objects have left Kaleb uneasy. He reached out to me because dealing with our kind is one thing, but facing the unknown is another. Hauntings often start small but can quickly get worse. This one is no exception—things get knocked over, cabinets open and close on their own, and loud wails echo through the halls. So far, it hasn’t turned too physical, but if Kaleb keeps waiting, who knows what might happen?

I’ve promised Kaleb I’d check things out soon. I have a few tricks to clean the place, but there’s a catch. If things go wrong, I might end up burning the house down. I’m not eager to tell Kaleb this yet. Let’s just say I’ve had a fiery mishap before and would rather not repeat it.

I’ve had my gift since childhood. It’s not something you’d find on a typical résumé, but it defines who I am. I can see and talk to the dead. I’ve been called a ghost whisperer, medium, and psychic—among other things. Growing up with this ability wasn’t easy. Imagine being a child talking to people others couldn’t see. It certainly drew some curious looks.

Over time I’ve honed my ability, learning to control it, knowing when to use it and when to hold back. It’s like having a sixth sense, a secret weapon against the unknown. Though it has led me into risky situations, it also gives me a unique view of the world. I now see it as a gift that I’m still learning to use fully. And yes, it makes for some interesting dinner conversations.

Ghost hunting isn’t just a job for me; it’s a deeply personal journey. I visit new places, investigate strange activities, and connect people with their dead loved ones. It’s not a scam—I offer a money-back guarantee if I can’t find a spirit. Sometimes I’m unsuccessful, depending on how recently the spirit has manifested. But I always give it my all because I know how important closure can be for those left behind.

I glance at my watch and curse under my breath. I’m running late because I got a bit too wrapped up in Maryanne’s company. I promised Kaleb I’d arrive by four, but it’s closer to five now. Normally I’m on time, especially when money is involved, but this job is free and I haven’t been prioritizing it.

Pulling up to Kaleb’s place, I see him and his wife on the front steps, looking tired. Kaleb runs his hands through his messy hair in frustration, while his wife gives him irritated glances. Their young daughter, happily unaware of the tension, plays with dandelions in the yard. It’s clear the spirit’s been giving the adults a hard time, but thankfully it seems to be leaving the child alone.

I turn off the engine of my vintage 1971 Dodge Charger, its deep rumble fading into silence. The car’s shiny black paint reflects the late afternoon sun, contrasting with the worn look of Kaleb’s Victorian house. I grab my essentials from the trunk—salt, a recorder, and a few special tools. Kaleb has already salted the entrances and exits of the rooms the spirit visits. Now armed, I’m ready to tackle the job quickly and, hopefully, without any fiery mistakes.