*END OF AUDIO TRANSCRIPT*
Chapter 4
Fear is a rational response.
The crimes are savage and arcane. Many believe the occult to be regressive in this day and age, which is why it’s such a hush-hush topic. People don’t talk about muti or sangomas or tokoloshes around the dinner table because they fear they’ll let evil into their homes. But walk around any major city centre in South Africa and you’ll see the homemade posters glued to lampposts and electricity boxes, with a blunt slogan like:
WANT BIG STRONG ERECTIONS?
I CAN HELP!
There are numerous services on offer to a person who is willing to spend money on a solution to their problems.
Plagued by bad luck? No problem! There’s a potion to help you out. Want to find a lost lover? Easy! Here’s a concoction to drink. Are you ill? No medical doctor knows more about your illness than the local witchdoctor. Do you want to make your employer suffer a bit? Great! Let’s conjure up a tokoloshe to make his or her life a living hell. It’s that simple. Whether your money will be enough to procure whatever potent remedy you need is a whole other matter, but sometimes inexplicable,
real
things do happen.
If you’re not scared, you’re an idiot.
The occult is a pseudoscience not easily explained in layman’s terms. It changes often, is misunderstood, and accurate information is impossible to find. Hard facts about muti-killings are also basically non-existent; unless you want to sift through religious mumbo-jumbo from so-called “Warriors of God” who still can’t differentiate between Satanism and devil worshipping. There is a difference, like there’s a difference between Islam and ISIS, Christianity and the KKK. Like there’s a difference between witches, witchdoctors and sangomas. The problem is people rely too much on their indoctrinated beliefs to see where one blurry line ends and the next blurry line begins.
The agency I work for is located in Stanza Bopape Street, in a house dating back to the 1940s that we converted into office space. There’s nothing special about it, even with the recent renovations. High walls surround the property, CCTVs and motion detectors keep most intruders from breaking in, and if criminals aren’t deterred there’s always the alarm system and armed response security company to come to the rescue.
Walk through the front door and there’s the original hardwood floors polished to a gleam, with a large reception area which sees hardly any action from walk-in clients. Every week there’s a new face at the front desk, because receptionists quit as soon as they find out what the work entails. Walk up the stairs and there are four offices, decorated in their own unique styles. Continue onward, past the reception area, to a reasonable-sized kitchen as well as my grandfather’s office, and the conference room where the video equipment is stored. The swimming pool is situated near the lapa where a built-in braai gets used, because sometimes the only way to handle everything is with a beer in hand and a blue bull steak on the coals. And then there’s the quartered-off part of the backyard used as a smoking area.
Snyders International has one secretary who’s been here since the agency doors opened nine years ago, when I was seventeen.
Precious Bloom doesn’t take nonsense from anyone or anything, human or otherwise, but she never goes into the field. Her hawkish eyes can see through bullshit a mile away, and she’s got a sharp tongue to match those infamous predatory glares. She smiles easily enough though, and she likes a good joke as much as the next person, but she’s also quick to say: “There’s a time to work and a time to play, and now’s not the time for
kak
.”
Profanity just sounds better in Afrikaans, as Precious likes to point out.
Christiaan Snyders, my grandfather, owns the agency—Snyders International—but he only works with us on occasion. Grandpa is usually abroad to talk about the occult at universities and police conventions as an academic, or he helps out with tough cases so the agency breaks even every quarter. Our services are paid for on an ad hoc basis, whether it’s for murder investigations, occult training, or speeches about the paranormal. Neither the government nor the church funds our work, but our expert services are often sought after and paid for when the need arises.
Take note: We are
not
affiliated with the South African Police Service Occult Related Crimes Unit, established in 1992 and reinstated in 2012, in any way. Snyders International is a private organisation dedicated to finding answers, rather than create a second wave of Satanic Panic in the general populace.
Father Gabriel is a Catholic Priest and mandated exorcist sent from the Vatican to South Africa, years ago. He became part of the team by accident after Grandpa’s path crossed with his in Soweto nine years ago. A quick call to the Vatican for permission to employ Father Gabriel on a part-time basis, procured him for the agency.
Father Gabriel is on his own mission though and only assists in our investigations when the workload becomes too much, or too weird, but it’s a symbiotic relationship. He gets the resources he needs, which the local church cannot afford, and we have an exorcist at our beck and call when we need one.
Howlen Walcott, who started off as an assistant to my grandfather to research his doctoral dissertation, decided to stay on. His office is next to mine, pimped out in clichés from noir detective agency novels and it doesn’t suit him in the least. He’s not exactly detective-looking, if there is such a thing. He’s too tall, too intelligent, too serious, and too fit. He might’ve been Scotland Yard’s most handsome criminologist had he stayed in Britain, but apparently he doesn’t like the weather. So here he is, still learning the ropes of the business, and the culture of this foreign land. People are instantly taken by his suave accent, his eloquence, the way he carries himself—almost like Benedict Cumberbatch. He wears suits and ties no matter what the weather’s like, has a five-hundred-rand haircut and carries around a pair of designer sunglasses. Howlen’s posh, yes, but behind the clean-cut façade is something else. Something dark.
I Googled him when we first met three years ago but all I got were a couple of social media listings. His Facebook profile is somewhat impersonal; quotes of notable writers qualify as status updates, a photograph of him and his buddies from university appears from time to time. There are a few films tagged in his “Favourites”—mostly horror and sci-fi flicks—and the odd YouTube cat video also show its face once in a while. He has a few hundred friends, nothing to write home about, and there’s nothing more. His Twitter is pretty much the same as his Facebook with vague updates of his day-to-day life appearing every couple of weeks. Otherwise, Howlen Walcott is non-existent on the internet.
Fast forward three years, a dozen drunken nights spent together between the sheets, and I still don’t know a thing about the guy.
~
I’ve entered an in-between stage, where I’m not a liquid or a solid. My legs tingle with needles and pins from my thighs to my toes and my mind responds in favour with a euphoric release of don’t-give-a-fuck. Aftershocks still rush through my body as I try to catch my breath and cool off. It’s not an easy feat when your air-conditioner is on the fritz and a working fan isn’t in the vicinity. The cool breeze, entering through the bedroom window helps somewhat, but a glass of ice cold water would be nicer. My legs are jelly though and I’m on the brink of blacking out. Besides, I’m being held hostage by a naked Brit who’s already fallen asleep after our stellar performance between the sheets.
Howlen has been blessed with Atlas’ stamina, but when he’s done, he’s
done
. Out cold. Hell, so am I.
I fall asleep with his arm draped over my waist, and his crown nested in the nape of my neck. No nightmares infiltrate my unconscious state for a change, no panic attacks or sudden startles. It’s a deep, dreamless sleep that’ll recharge my batteries properly for Case #137-ES.
All is well, almost blissful, until I hear a familiar voice whisper in a thick British accent: “Esmé, don’t open your eyes.” A hint of anxiety laces Howlen’s murmur. I grumble an incoherent question and his hand moves over my mouth to muffle the sound. “Don’t,” he breathes.
Panic jolts me away from my dreamless oasis and bubbles into my veins. My chest feels heavy with dread and indecision. Do I open my eyes and face the intruder who somehow made it past all my security measures without being heard or seen? Or do I play dead? I can feel Howlen’s heart pounding where my shoulder presses up against him and his quick breaths against my cheek, even though they’re silent.
Curiosity killed the cat, Esmé,
I think the cliché, but curiosity gets the better of me anyway.
My eyelids flutter open and my pupils adjust to the darkness in seconds.
I see it.
A shapeless
thing
in a shade darker than night hovers over me, its face inches from mine. The shadow feels more than looks sallow. It’s somehow gaunt and corpulent at the same time. There’s a menacing expression in the swirls of black dripping from nothingness into nothingness. Somehow I can make out a deathly glare fixated on me, but there are no discernible eyes in the face. A gaping maw where a mouth should be is breathing sour-smelling air into my personal space. Adrenaline pumps through my body with each frantic heartbeat. But no matter how badly I want to move my limbs are frozen. Whimpers escape my throat and get stuck in Howlen’s palm. Trembles of fear affects each molecule of my being. And yet, I can only stare at it.
It picks up on my fear, and satisfaction crosses what passes as a face. Suddenly it shrieks a high-pitched scream—one indistinct word before
poof
. The blacker than black shadows dissolves into the night.
My body is my own again.
I sit upright, casting Howlen’s hand aside in the process, and inhale thick, warm oxygen into my lungs. My hands are shaking, tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I’m only rattled. Nothing I can’t handle.
“Is this the first time this has happened?” Howlen asks.
I nod. I don’t trust myself to lie out loud yet. I’ve seen worse than a perverted shadow, in the daylight no less. At night though, I’ve had my fair share glimpsing dancing shadows in my house.
“Are you okay?”
“Give me a sec,” I answer, still weak with surprise.
He does.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. In that time, I gather my thoughts and analyse the event, wondering what to make of this intrusion.
“We’ll have to get Father Gabriel to bless your house or something.”
I cast a disapproving glance over my shoulder. “Sure, let’s tell the Catholic priest there was a malevolent spirit in my house, while I was having premarital sex. Then he can report it to God, or worse—my grandfather.”
Howlen doesn’t mean to smile, but he does.
“Shut up, Howl.”
The alarm clock’s neon red numbers read 02:32 a.m., which means I haven’t been asleep for more than an hour. There’s no way in hell I’ll get to sleep again. Not tonight. I push my fingers through my hair and the knots get tangled around my fingers.
“Are you okay, May?” he asks again, using the nickname he’d chosen for me on these occasions.
“Fine, fine,” I answer level-headed. “It’s nothing but a warning. You know how it goes.” He should know by now though he’s a sceptic through and through, regardless of what he’s witnessed first-hand. These entities are conjured up to warn people like us away from digging around. They can’t hurt us, just freak us out.
The bedside lamp switches on with an audible
click
, casting an artificial yellow glow across the bedroom. Shadows recede into the corners of the room, not disappearing entirely. I’m reminded to buy a 100-watt light bulb the next day, because the 60-watt I purchased just doesn’t cut away the gloom. The wattage, however, is ample enough to make me feel better. Pieces of clothing lead into the room from the hallway, randomly strewn across the floor. The duvet is halfway across the foot of the bed and on the grey tiled floor. My dressing table is a mess with perfume bottles lying on their sides on the silver tray, while the silver necklace tree stands at an awkward angle. The empty Durex box somehow ended up near my closet on the other side of the bedroom. I guess the discarded foil packaging and used condoms are on Howlen’s side of the bed.
A blush creeps up my neck and settles on my cheeks as I study the disarray but the embarrassment is quickly replaced with claustrophobia and disbelief.
“May,” Howlen says as he sits upright.
I steal a glimpse of him and notice worry lines creasing his forehead.
“What case did you get called out for this afternoon?”
“Tonight’s little event is not related to my new case,” I insist. It’s an unconvincing lie, because
everything
is related one way or another. I stand up and walk to my wardrobe to find a T-shirt dress to cover myself. “I’m 78% sure of that.”
“I’d like to see how you came up with your number.”
I grin and pull on the washed-out Garfield shirt for modesty’s sake. “I suck at maths.”