Dybbuk

The smell.

It’s always the smell that brings in the call.

Not the fact that a neighbor hasn’t watered their lawn for three months. Or that their car hasn’t moved from the driveway. Or that the mail’s been piling up so much that’s it been returned to the post office. Twice.

No.

It’s always the smell that makes a concerned neighbor call the police.

Wilc hadn’t even entered the house yet, and already he knew he was going to take his coat and slacks to the cleaners to remove the smell. Maybe even buy a new suit. But that would be normal. And normal was something rarely found here in Clarion.

It had to be not normal; downright weird to make Wilc wish he was back in L.A.

Still, weird he could handle.

But Clarion?

That was another beast entirely.

Wilc checked himself before leaving the Bronco. Its worn smell, the kind of smell only classic cars filled with age and memories and real steel parts can get, helped to root him into the familiar. The normal. Like his notepad and pen. His two favorite weapons since Wilc had become a Detective. Lew always said they’d be his greatest ally.

So far, his Grandfather had been right.

He leaned over to the glove compartment, opened it and fished out a set of gloves and shoe covers. Stuffing them in his coat pocket, he took one more deep breath of his classic interior. Wilc could only hope this was going to be simple.

The door creaked open, and he stepped outside.

It was a nice home.

Apart from the dead lawn and body inside.

Single story, a soft yellowing paint with black shutters and a red door. Lots of windows, that could be promising if the victim had the kind of neighbors that were always looking out for one another. Then again, if the victim had those kind of neighbors, then Wilc would’ve made this house call three months prior. A wilting maple gave good shade and a nice picture for the future realtor.

Wilc took the brick steps up to a small brick porch.

An ashen-faced uniform nodded at his approach. Officer Young puckered like he was trying to keep breakfast where it belonged, impressive because Young wasn’t a greenhorn. Hell, Wilc could smell it from here and he wasn’t even inside. Slipping on his shoe covers, and yanking on his powder free gloves, Young took his name and lifted the yellow tape, allowing Wilc to pass under it.

The red door had been left open; the lock shattered upon entry. A quick glance told Wilc why such an action had been necessary.

There was no body, not here, in the living room.

But there was blood.

Everywhere.

Great arcs of it sprayed and speckled like some long forgotten Pollock. The kind collectors hoard and pay way too much to own. He could see the title now: Death in waiting.

Furniture was turned over, framed photos skewed or crushed or ground into the hard wood floor. Wilc looked up, and saw a curious thing there: all the cutlery. Bread knives, butcher knives, steak knives and even a paring knife. Hilt deep, they dangled there, like some shitty-modern-beyond-your-understanding-art piece.

Huh.

He moved in a little further, passed the living room, following the scene down the hallway. Wilc was careful to step over any spatter, which was difficult. It did allow him to take note of the shattered and burnt-out bulbs. The pungent telltale sign of death becoming thicker with every step. That sweet, rotting stench that’s been mixed with violence and a life cut short before its time. Most Detectives couldn’t smell that last part.

Wilc wished he didn’t either.

It was something his last partner, Isao said was a blessing.

Wilc shoved Isao out of his skull with some force. He didn’t need it.

Didn’t want it.

Right now, he needed to focus.

What happened here was evil. That was something else Wilc could smell. Sharp, tangy, with a metallic undercurrent. Like drying jasmine cured with ammonia. He wanted to spit, but he knew better. No need to contaminate the scene.

The violence led him to a door with bent descending steps.

The door was ajar, hanging desperately by one hinge. There were other sharp objects and smears of blood embedded into the doorjamb. A set of steps, solid and formed from the houses very foundation, led down into a thick stifling darkness.

Wilc reached for his flashlight.

A flip and a click, the beam didn’t do much to penetrate the darkness. It was enough to see the remains of another shattered bulb. Another sweep and he descended into the darkness. His eyes were tearing. The smell was ridiculous.

Three months’ worth of rot and stale air.

A few short steps revealed a soft, crumpled form at the bottom of the stairs. The victim’s neck twisted at a peculiar angle. The jagged edge of a bone stuck out here and there.

Victor Shaw.

Age, fifty-four. Six feet, two inches. One-hundred and sixty-two pounds according to his driver’s license. From the looks of him, a lot less now. Most of it too soft and spread out or chewed away for a good estimate.

Wilc wanted to get closer, but if he did he’d compromise the scene. Too many bodily fluids seeped out over the concrete floor, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use his eyes. Wilc looked up at the top of the steps. The fall was a likely cause of death. Whether that was done with some help or not was yet to be determined. Wilc would have to wait for Doc Rosenwig to give him something more conclusive.

He checked his watch.

That would be soon.

All the strangeness that led Wilc to this spot seemed to vanished.

No splatters of blood. No more cutleries in the walls or ceiling.

Just the body.

No.

Wilc squatted, shining the beam of his flashlight back at the victim. He was clutching something. Wilc leaned closer, the smell was stronger than ever. He’d breathe in his mouth, but that would only allow him to taste the rot. He squinted, looking past the yellowing bone and popped off fingernails.

The item was rectangular in shape. Perhaps made of wood, though it seemed slightly warped from the moisture. It peeked out, and Wilc found himself wanting to know more.

He tilted closer, balancing on the last step, attempting to get a better look. So long as he didn’t touch it, he wouldn’t compromise anything. Just a little look. It had four golden feet and one handle, grimy and tarnished with something more than age. From where he squatted, it looked like the one thing Victor Shaw could not let go of, even in death, was a small antique box and Wilc completely understood why.