Dirk Garrick Occult Detective #7: Whispers in the Dark: Dirk Garrick Occult Detective, #7

By Samuel Morningstar

If you have an unusual problem, only one man can help…

In WHISPERS IN THE DARK, step into the shadows and uncover the secrets that lurk beneath the surface of reality. Follow Garrick, as he navigates the murky waters of the supernatural to solve his most baffling case.

From bodies murdered with psychic energy to strange astral entities that can consume your soul, Garrick dives deep into the unknown, armed only with his wit and a keen eye for the paranormal. But beware, for every clue unearthed leads to darker mysteries and sinister forces at play.

Delve into the depths of Dirk Garrick's investigations as he unravels the mysteries that lie hidden in the shadows. With every case he takes on, you'll be transported to a realm where the occult and the mundane collide, leaving you on the edge of your seat. Prepare to be enthralled by the gripping tales where danger lurks around every corner, and the truth is never what it seems. Immerse yourself in the thrilling world of occult mystery with these gripping pulp noir novels. Uncover dark secrets, encounter supernatural entities, and witness the brilliance of a master detective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samuel Morningstar
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224957453

Samuel Morningstar

SAMUEL MORNINGSTAR is an occasional rock singer / guitarist, has more black belt certificates than he has wall space to hang them on, and likes to scare neighborhood children by dressing in black and swinging swords in the front yard. He has a Master's Degree in Psychology, but has never worked a day in that field. He occasionally refers to himself as a mystic, as he believes that makes it more socially acceptable to wear a black cape in public. He lives in Kansas City, Kansas.

Book preview

If you have an unusual problem, only one man can help.

Kansas City's foremost private investigator, DIRK GARRICK specializes in missing persons cases. But when his latent psychic abilities begin to awaken, he finds himself drawn deeper into the shadowy underworld of secret societies and occult crime.

In WHISPERS IN THE DARK, step into the shadows and uncover the secrets that lurk beneath the surface of reality. Follow Garrick, as he navigates the murky waters of the supernatural to solve his most baffling case.

From bodies murdered with psychic energy to strange astral entities that can consume your soul, Garrick delves deep into the unknown, armed only with his wit and a keen eye for the paranormal. But beware, for every clue unearthed leads to darker mysteries and sinister forces at play.

Thunder rolled.

That wasn’t a phrase that normally popped into Dirk Garrick’s mind, but his partner, Frank Hanson, had been on a Garth Brooks kick lately. Garrick himself was a fan of jazz, mostly pre-WWI. They had a rule when riding together: whoever was driving controlled the music. Hanson claimed he couldn’t fit comfortably in Garrick’s Camry, so, naturally, they always took Hanson’s truck, which, Hanson argued, could only receive country stations on its radio. Garrick had once tested this claim, switching the dial to a smooth jazz station while Hanson filled the tank. That had almost ended their long friendship.

It wasn’t raining, but it was threatening to with every passing second, tossing down droplets in small drum rolls on the pavement at his feet. The sky was so thick with clouds that the moon only appeared sporadically, like a child playing peek-a-boo. Bright flashes of lightning from the sky inched steadily closer, heralding a promised torrent of rain. Ordinarily, he’d take that as a sign to get his happy ass indoors, but tonight was weird.

He was being hunted.

He’d first noticed a presence over a week ago, far off but consistent, radiating ill intent. It vanished if he got too close. Annoying but hardly surprising. Garrick tended to piss people off regularly, and if he panicked every time his Spidey-Sense started tingling, he’d never get any rest.

But tonight was special. His stalker had appeared quite suddenly as Garrick was finishing up a two-day stake-out. He had some lovely pics of a wealthy husband and a young lady - who absolutely wasn’t the man’s current wife - doing the kinds of things that get prenups tossed out of divorce court. People having illicit affairs should really learn how motel curtains work. He hated those cases, but his fondness for being able to purchase groceries outweighed his distaste.

It was three in the morning, and Garrick desperately wanted a shot of whiskey and nine hours of sleep. But he wasn’t going to get either, not yet. His stalker had reappeared on Garrick’s mental radar and hadn’t vanished when Garrick stormed towards them. Rather, they had only backed off a little, leading Garrick away from his car and deeper into the wilds of Downtown Kansas City.

Garrick knew a trap when he was strolling into one, but he played along for a bit, more out of curiosity than anything else. They were in a part of downtown that hadn’t been redeveloped and thus still sported abandoned buildings, overgrown grass, and random junkies shuffling around like the Walking Dead. Those folks didn’t bother him; they mostly just wanted to be left alone, and he respectfully obliged them. He was more concerned with the dealers, who were all armed, very territorial, and usually none too happy to see a white man who smelled like law enforcement wandering about. Garrick was now a private dick, but he’d been a cop once, and that stink stayed on forever, no matter how much BLACK LIVES MATTER merchandise one purchased. He’d helped the local gangs out a few times, but that wouldn’t carry any weight with an independent operator trying to move in on some new territory.

Cautious now, Garrick followed the trail deeper into no man’s land. He’d already sent his goodnight text to Sophia and received one in return, but that hadn’t eased his mind much. Her disease, which was slowly working its way through the body Garrick had spent many a long night admiring, was relentless, and he had little to no concept of how to handle his sudden sense of responsibility towards her. They’d always been casual; she had her lovers, he had his. But those other people had slowly disappeared as they grew closer, often despite their best intentions. The attraction was that of two powerful magnets - Sophia’s positive and Garrick’s negative - coming together despite their desperate attempts to stay independent. Garrick had carefully cultivated a reputation for selfishness, but Sophia’s diagnosis with Parkinson’s disease had created a sense in him that their time was limited and it would be foolish to continue his past behavior. You don’t know what you’ve got until it's gone was a saying he often heard people repeat, but being essentially a nihilist, Garrick was usually painfully aware of how precious some things in life were and how horrible it would be to lose them. He didn’t need a trite cliche to remind him to cherish those he loved. Granted, he tried his damnedest never to actually tell anyone that he loved them or even treat them in a way that demonstrated his affection, but deep down inside (where no one could see it), there was a powerful love for all the people in his life that rivaled the eruptions of the largest volcanoes. No wait. That wasn’t right. Poetry wasn’t his strong suit.

It was a love deeper than the Mariana Trench.

No, that wasn’t it, either. His love was so powerful…

A raindrop fell directly into his left eye.

He blinked savagely. Fuck it. He was too tired for metaphors.

There was a darkness in his vision that represented a life without Sophia. Garrick feared that empty void more than anything else. He had little regard for his death; indeed, he often behaved in ways designed to bring that result about sooner rather than later. But Sophia’s end terrified him, as did the idea of how much she might suffer before the darkness swallowed her.

It wasn’t fair. If anyone deserved a terrible end preceded by years of suffering, it was Garrick. Not Sophia. Never her. She was the only real light in Garrick’s darkness.

The stalker had stopped moving. Garrick dragged his thoughts back to the present. He could feel a malignant presence on the roof of a three-story building that was out of sight of the highway and the bright lights of the more developed downtown areas. Developed was a euphemism for Safe for Rich, White Folks, and Garrick always felt out of place among those who liked to pretend they were above the working class. He was utterly at home in dirty alleys surrounded by pimps, dealers, and hustlers.

There were multiple buildings here, all in varying degrees of disrepair; windows either broken or boarded up. This area had been a business district for small-time lawyers, independent insurance adjusters, and the like. Most of those businesses had been sucked up - or driven into bankruptcy - by the big corporate firms back in the late ’80s. Without a steady influx of money, the area slowly degenerated into a haven for crime. It would remain so until corporate America decided there was a profit to be made here and redeveloped it. The denizens who had made their homes here would be jailed or forced to relocate to another dilapidated area of despair.

The lowest parts of the buildings were covered in colorful graffiti, some of it obscene, but most were gang symbols indecipherable to anyone except initiated members, of which Garrick was not. Even if he were so inclined, joining just wasn’t his thing. Garrick could feel human bio-energy radiating from inside the buildings, no doubt homeless people seeking shelter from the coming storm.

Garrick stopped at the mouth of the alley between two buildings and pressed himself up against the side of the structure his stalker was currently occupying.

He closed his eyes and focused on a spot between his eyebrows.

A soft *pop* and Garrick’s astral form burst free from his third eye. He floated away, turning back once to check himself out. His body was standing straight as a rail but otherwise appeared relaxed. Hopefully, any observers would assume he was tripping and leave him be. Nearby, a small, reddish-brown monkey demon with sharp, jagged teeth too big for its mouth watched him disinterestedly but didn’t seem to be much of a threat. It was probably waiting to see if Garrick got killed so it could dash over and feast on the energy a violent death poured into the ether.

Garrick floated up to the roof. A man dressed in a charcoal suit was crouched near the lip, holding a rifle, clearly waiting for Garrick to wander into his field of vision. Garrick watched for a minute, but his initial assessment didn’t change. The man was very good at remaining still.

He commanded his astral form to return to his body.

Garrick’s eyes popped open, giving him a slight tinge of vertigo that passed quickly. Instead of going deeper into the alley, Garrick moved quickly and quietly around the building. He ran some chi energy from the Dan Tien in the lower center of his torso into his legs. With a quick burst, he managed to leap three stories to land softly behind the would-be hunter. Garrick had his pistol out before his feet hit the flat roof. He took a brief moment to feel satisfied with the jump. He was slowly regaining abilities he’d recently lost. This power, however, was very much his own and not being fed to him as part of some madman’s long-term power scheme. How often he got caught up in those was surprising and a bit distressing.

To his credit, the assassin didn’t flinch when he heard Garrick behind him but merely tossed aside his gun - which clattered in a most un-metal-like fashion - and rose slowly, hands out. Close-up, he didn’t fit the hitman profile, appearing for all the world like someone’s English butler. The aura of angry intention vanished as if blown away by a cold wind.

What do you want, Alfred?

The man gave him a thin smile. My name is Richard Minx. I must say, you certainly do not disappoint. He did indeed have a British accent. It was always nice when reality decided to indulge his imagined stereotypes.

Yeah, I get lots of good reviews on Yelp. Why are you stalking me with a plastic gun?

Rumor had it that, among your many talents, you could sense murderous intent, and I needed to see if that were true.

Swell. So you don’t want to kill me, but you’re good at pretending you do. I’m really tired and on the verge of not giving a fuck, so why don’t you tell me what this little game has been about?

I’m a facilitator for a very wealthy consortium. They would like to hire your services to find someone.

I have an office, Garrick rubbed his eyes while stifling a yawn. With chairs and coffee and everything. Anyone can come in through the door.

This is the kind of assignment that requires subtlety and discretion.

Meaning it’s probably illegal, and your ‘consortium’ can’t have their lily white names attached to it.

Well put, Mr. Garrick.

Garrick turned to leave, Nuts to that. I usually get hung out to dry on those cases.

The job pays substantially well. In the seven digits.

Garrick paused. He truly hated being bought, but he hadn’t quite figured out how to get the electric company to keep his lights on for free, so high-paying gigs were always attention-getters.

Who am I looking for? Some rich fucks daughter who ran off with a kid from the wrong side of the tracks?

No, unfortunately. That would be far easier to deal with. No, we need you to locate a protege of the late Dante Randal.

Garrick hissed, an act he thought people only did in cheap pulp novels. Dante Randal had been the madman behind literally every fucked-up caper Garrick had been involved in over the past few years. His death had led to a much less exciting life for Garrick, which was not a bad thing. That guy is the gift that keeps on giving. What’s this protege up to?

He calls himself by the dubious nom-de-plume of the Toymaker.

Worst. Batman. Villain. Ever. Please don’t tell me he kills people with fiendishly clever wind-up toys.

No, it’s considerably worse than that. The Toymaker studied Randal’s art of brainwashing. He specializes in kidnapping youngsters, wiping their memories, and building custom people.

Garrick rubbed his temples. Another Sick, Evil Fuck. He sighed heavily. Sex slaves?

"Some. But, the Toymaker can indulge in more advanced programming. There are those involved in active conspiracies requiring loyal agents to carry out tasks without necessarily knowing they’re loyal agents."

So, you’re with the Dominion, then?

No, but I’m given to understand my employers were approached to join and refused. Dante Randal’s failure and subsequent death caused the Dominion to shut down their mind control experiments. They’re too busy dealing with inhuman terrorist groups these days. But, their clean-up was sloppy, and now men like the Toymaker are free agents to the highest bidder.

Look, this all sounds wonderful, but travel upsets my tummy, so I’m going to have to pass.

Travel isn’t required. We believe the Toymaker bases himself here, in Kansas City.

Why? This is hardly the Mecca for worldwide conspiracies.

Indeed, but we believe he’s using Dante Randal’s old contact network to procure and ship victims out. And since you were the most active in hunting down and executing Randal, you are the logical choice to find someone subverting his empire quickly.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Old Dante was shot in the head during a mugging gone bad. Read the police report.

"Are we playing games now, Mr. Garrick? You were there that night, though I doubt you pulled the trigger personally, given the large caliber of bullet used and your well-known penchant for much smaller weapons."

The yawn that Garrick had been battling finally won out. This little back and forth could go on all night, and he needed sleep. So, I find him. Then what? I’m a private eye, not a killer for hire.

No. Your job is to find him and report back on his location. My employers will take it from there.

Not sure I like the sound of that.

No one does. But, there are no prisons that can hold a man like the Toymaker, and no court would deign to hear a case of criminal psychic brainwashing.

This was, naturally, the same ethical conundrum Garrick often found himself in. One last question: did Daemon Kincaid send you?

Who? Minx said innocently.

You’re not a very good liar, Mr. Minx.

Minx had the good grace to look sheepish. I should have known not to try deception on a man noted for his psychic abilities. I tell you truthfully, if Mr. Kincaid has any knowledge of this operation or its target, I am unaware of it.

He was telling the truth on that one, but that didn’t mean someone higher up hadn’t performed some deceptions of their own.

I’m not saying yes or no. I’ll look into it. If I find anything about this Toymaker, I’ll let you know. How do I contact you?

Minx extracted a small white card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Garrick. His name and a phone number were the only things printed on it. Garrick was a little disappointed in its lack of a snazzy logo.

Also, how did- Garrick felt a shift in the air and glanced up.

Mr. Richard Minx was gone.

Shit.

*

Stewart Cherish was terrified of the dark. When caught without lights, his breath came in short, harsh gasps, heart pounding like the bass drum from one of those heavy rock bands he claimed he hated (but secretly enjoyed), and he had an annoying tendency to soil his underpants a little. Once, when the electricity had gone out in his apartment complex during a particularly vigorous snowstorm, neighbors had been forced to call for an ambulance, so loud were his wails. The paramedics had not been particularly thrilled to have to respond to a panic attack; after all, there had been accidents all over the city, and folks with real injuries desperately needed their skills.

His terror was mystifying as well as debilitating. Typically, one would expect a past trauma to account for such dramatic present behavior. But Stewart had lived a very uneventful life. His father, now retired, had managed a senior community. His mother had worked part-time in the office of a nearby elementary school that Stewart and his younger brother, Allan, had attended. He and his sibling had gotten along, his parents never fought (except over whose turn it was to water their garden), and he’d lived in the suburbs of Olathe, Kansas, until adulthood. No crime, no drug dealers hanging out in parking lots. Stewart had grown to adulthood with average grades, a few dates here and there, and had gone to Kansas University, majoring in computer programming.

He now worked at Direct Information Group, a software productivities firm, and lived in an apartment five minutes walk from the office in an older subsection sandwiched between downtown KC and the Missouri River. Stewart got up every morning at 6:00 A.M. sharp, grabbed his lunch – consisting of a peanut butter sandwich made the night before and an apple – from the fridge, placed the lunch in his briefcase, dressed in the same dark brown suit with white button up shirt (he had five suits, all