This was it. My swan song.
My name is Robert Grant.
I just turned 75 last weekend and typically enjoy my mornings at a café called Zaza’s sipping cappuccinos in my pajamas. I live in a quaint, cozy apartment in Montreal and am rarely interested in leaving the comfort of it.
I’m a retired P.I. – 157 cases successfully closed, 14 left cold, and dozens I never took.
But my last case continues to haunt me. One of the 14 I left cold. I often think about it while sitting at Zaza’s. It’s one I’ve never told anyone about. I haven’t been able to sleep lately and think it’d be best if I write it all out. It also happens to be the only supernatural case I worked on, one that made me a believer in many things, and one that almost killed me in more ways than I’d care to admit.
It all began on the morning of August 12, 2019… already two years into my retirement.
“Mr. Grant! Mr. Grant!” A man yelled outside the door of Apartment 712.
I admit the noise should have woken me. It was blaring throughout the entirety of the seventh floor of the apartment complex. I had been lying on the couch either napping or daydreaming… or perhaps in a state somewhere in between.
The alarm continued until my neighbor William came barreling through the front door, quickly distinguishing the smoky, near fire at the oven by waving a dish towel vigorously at the billowing smoke. I remember him pulling out a burnt, ashy black disc. I don’t quite remember putting a frozen pizza in the oven, to be honest.
“You’ve gotta be more careful, Mr. Grant,” William said to me.
“Astute observation,” I remember uttering under my breath.
“What were you doing in here anyway?”
“I was cooking. And resting my eyes.”“You usually do that at the same time?”
“What?”
“No one was hurt, that’s all that matters. How about you come over for dinner tonight? Corrine’s making a turkey,” he finally said.
He was always unsuccessfully trying to get me to visit their apartment. If he promised we would sit in silence and watch a movie with pizzas, I might have occasionally said yes.
“A generous offer, William. But I’m quite booked today.”
“Alright… Well, let me know if you need help with anything this weekend,” he said.
I gave William a subtle nod of feigned appreciation and showed him out. The thing about William is that he has always been an acquaintance trying to become a friend, perhaps no greater flaw in someone. I’m certainly too old now for new friends, and I was too old then as well. I will admit I did tape up a piece of paper on the front door, a makeshift sign that read:
Make Sure Oven is Off
My retirement routine then was not too different than it is now.
I got dressed, made my way down the elevator, and began my morning routine across the street at Zaza’s. But the morning changed when Scott dropped off my cappuccino, scone, and newspaper. As I turned to the Arts section of the paper to look at movie reviews, I received a call that would change everything. From an old client of mine named Frankie.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Look, I know you’re retired, but I got a case that I think -“
“No, no, Frankie. I’m a content old man.”
“It’s for a client that… Listen, I think it’s a day’s work.”
“A day’s work?”
“Should be. But if it turns out to be more than that, it might be a case that’ll make you believe in God. And the Devil too.”
I remember looking at my cappuccino and scone, wondering if this silly call and my sheer curiosity would drag me away from my tranquil life.
“Details?”
Frankie laughed. He knew had me on the hook.
“Those will have to come in person. Client would prefer to discuss all of this in person. Today at 1pm.”
“Where?”
“Picnic Basket. But let’s meet at IFAR”
I remember hating that Frankie knew me so well. The Picnic Basket was a cozy sandwich shop in the arts district. Known for their beautifully delicious pastrami on rye. It also happened to be one of my favorite lunch spots in the entire city.
In the afternoon, I made it over to the junction triangle, passing all the art galleries that lined the streets, showcasing local and international works of all sorts. The buildings are all independently designed by great artists, mostly covered in glass, playing with the sunlight in unique ways. The only eyesore of the area happened to be the building where I was meeting Frankie and his client. IFAR. The International Federation of Art Research. It’s a tall, rather plain-looking building. But it also happens to be one of the most important agencies in the Art World.
I stood outside of it for a few minutes before Frankie came out. Frankie is short and a bit rounder than he’d care to admit. But he’s very pleasant and always seems to know people. Walking out with him was someone I had never met or even seen before. A woman. I remember thinking she had to be between 40-55. Very distinguished-looking and was wearing a fur coat. I couldn’t tell if it was real or faux. I just remember thinking it was odd since it was so warm out.
“Robert!” Frankie yelled.
“How are you, my friend?”
We shook hands.
“Famished. You guys?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood, waiting for the introduction.
“Of course, of course,” Frankie continued. “This is Marla Chandler. My client.”
More handshakes.
“Robert Grant. A pleasure to meet you.”
“I’ve heard so much about you already, Mr. Grant,” she said extra politely. “I look forward to working together.”
I almost began to correct her that I had not accepted any case, but Frankie quickly jumped in.
“You two go to have lunch, talk about the case, and let me know if you’re taking the case. I have a meeting I can’t miss,” Frankie explained, looking at me as he delivered the last bit.
So Marla and I walked a couple blocks to The Picnic Basket.
We didn’t talk much until we had ordered and sat across from each other in a small booth in the back. At first, we just made small talk. She was visiting from New York. She knew Frankie through connections in the art world. She was an up-and-coming art historian. Then our lunch specials came and we enjoyed those for a few minutes. The pastrami on rye was as perfect as ever.
And finally, after all of the small talk about Frankie and IFAR, she seemed to get a more serious tone, way more serious than I was ever expecting. She leaned in closely, almost as if she was afraid someone was eavesdropping on us, and began a conversation I could have never been prepared for.
“Are you a man of faith?” She asked me.
“Grew up Catholic,” I shrugged. “But I haven’t practiced in a lifetime.”
“Have you followed the Montreal Police’s investigation into the missing children cases over the past year? Eight total. There have been two here this month. Two girls. Ages 5 and 7.”
“I can’t say that I have. Did they find them?”
“No. And you haven’t heard about the investigation because there isn’t one.”
“Oh.”
“There’s been a handful more in Albany and Buffalo. I believe they’re all connected.”
“Were those on the news?” I asked her, genuinely curious.
I always feel terrible that I don’t pay more attention to the news outside of the arts and entertainment. But Marla didn’t seem bothered by my lack of knowledge. She grew much quieter all of a sudden, almost disappearing into herself.
“It’s alright,” I said. “I think I’m tracking with you. Missing kids, a handful of them. And no one is reporting on it.”
There was a long bit of silence as she contemplated if she was going to continue.
“I’m going to sound crazy. It took me four hours to convince Frankie I wasn’t crazy.”
I laughed. I thought she was joking at first, but I quickly realized she wasn’t.
“I believe the missing children… that they’re all connected. There is a man I believe is running a sort of child trafficking ring. He’s known as Osvaldo.”
“Jesus.”
“No…” She said softly. “Osvaldo is a fallen angel and I believe he is on Earth collecting children for Satan. Osvaldo has been acting as an advisor to the wealthy. He’s posing as an art dealer and has made himself completely invaluable to the rich and powerful. The media is looking the other way.”
I sat there speechless. I remember thinking I couldn’t wait to slap Frankie for setting up this lunch. I think Marla could tell she was losing me.
“You must believe me! I’ve studied him by many names throughout history. That’s my background. There are stories of collectors of innocent souls who work for the devil.”
“Look, I think I could maybe help you out… if you had some sort of proof… Maybe…”
A lightbulb went off for her.
“Of course!” She nearly yelled, frantically looking through her purse for something.
I have to admit, the hair on my arms started standing up. She was so confident. She finally turned back towards me, now holding two things in her hands. Her phone and a small, gold lighter. She passed me the lighter and began pulling up something on her phone.
“What am I looking at here?” I asked.
“Osvaldo’s lighter.”
I noticed the odd markings on the case. An outline of an archaic serpent.
“Here,” she said, holding up her phone.
It was a picture of a painting, a renaissance style painting of what looked to me to be angels and demons fighting outside a farmhouse. All had various weapons.
“Are you following?” she asked. “Gold lighter with those markings.”
“A bit,” I said.
She used her fingers to zoom in on her phone on one of the angels in particular, who seemed to be on neither side of the battle but was simply there watching. Based on appearances, you would guess he was on the side of the angels. But as she kept zooming in, you could see a small gold scepter in his right hand. It had that same archaic serpent symbol etched on the side.
“It’s a nice lighter,” I said. “And a cool design. And quite a coincidence on the markings.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Frankie mentioned I might have to show you. I didn’t want to resort to this because I’m almost out…”
Marla rummaged through her bag again, pulling out a tiny, transparent vial.
She placed it on the table. There was a dark, amber liquid sloshing gently within. She then continued, her voice now trembling with the weight of untold secrets.
“Only at night, under the shroud of darkness, can we illuminate our surroundings and see the true scale of what we are facing.”
I scoffed, my inherent skepticism a shield against the absurdity of it all.
“You expect me to believe in fallen angels, in demons roaming the streets. Based on some old paintings, a lighter, and this… concoction?”
Marla simply nodded, her gaze unwavering.
“I understand your doubts, Mr. Grant. But seeing is believing, and I have chosen you for this case for a reason. Frankie told me about the cases you’ve solved. You’ve seen the darkness in human hearts; now you’ll see the darkness that feeds it.”
I examined the vial. Whatever it was made out of was icy-cold to the touch.
“You must wait until nightfall to drink this,” she continued. “It will provide illuminating light for around 30 seconds or so, I suspect. This is all I have left, but it should be enough.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I admit I laughed too much that day, but I hadn’t been religious since high school… when I was forced to be religious. So the eeriness of her speech was falling a bit flat for me.
“Mr. Grant. I appreciate you having lunch with me. Please reach out to me by 10am tomorrow if you think you can help me investigate what’s going on. To find these missing children.”
Marla then stood up and left. I tried to hand the vial back to her as she stood up, but she wouldn’t accept it. I sat a while at the table continuing to examine the vial… I kept rolling it around in my hand. I was surprised that even the friction against my skin wouldn’t warm it.
It stayed icy-cold to the touch.
I finally left the Picnic Basket and walked towards my apartment.
Some hours passed and Montreal became enveloped in the moonlight. Just so you know, Montreal is incredibly beautiful at night, so succumbing to the temptation of following through with the vial’s contents while enjoying the cool weather was almost too easy. I walked to one of my neighborhood’s favorite parks down the street and sat at my usual bench.
It wasn’t overly busy. Some couples having picnics, a couple joggers enjoying the route, and a group of kids playing on a playground. Nothing out of the ordinary.
So I took the vial out of my pocket and downed the liquid. It was like a shot of ice-cold vodka, freezing every cell it touched as it flowed down my throat.
Something happened almost instantaneously…
The world had lost its vibrancy… as if what little color remained in the moonlight was sucked out of the world. Everything became almost monochromatic, making the scene before me even more otherworldly. I looked around the park, and not much had changed. The same groups were still going about their various activities.
But a cool wind suddenly rushed through the park.
That’s when I saw it—a figure that didn’t belong.
At first glance, it appeared to be merely a man watching the children, but as I continued to stare, his form flickered and warped. The man’s skin was ashen, his eyes pools of endless darkness, and his presence emitted a palpable menace that made the air feel heavy, as though it was malice.
It was undeniably some demonic figure. Marla’s concoction…
I could now tell it was hyper-focused on the kids on the playground.
The kids were oblivious to the predator in their midst, playing on. A couple of young girls were kicking a soccer ball back and forth, their innocence a stark contrast to the figure’s silent, stalking movements.
I realized with a sinking horror that it was inching closer, drawn by the purity of their joy. I could hear it whispering something as if it was right next to me… even though it was sixty or seventy feet away.
In the dusk’s embrace, where the wild things bask
I lurk, silent, eyeing prey for my master’s mask
Claws itch for the hunt, in the blood game they partake
A beast in the gloom, for the savage thrill I awake
Panic surged through me, a stark, ice-cold wave rushing through my entire body, a feeling as cold as the vial once felt in my hand. I couldn’t let this unfold, I couldn’t stand idly while these children, these unknowing participants in some nightmare were left defenseless.
Yet, as I moved, I felt the surreal distortion of time that the potion brought; my steps seemed slow… as if I were pushing through unseen resistance.
I reached the demon as it loomed over one of the little girls who was trying to stop the soccer ball as it quickly rolled away from her. The figure wasn’t attempting to grab her but rather was analyzing her… hunching over so its face was just inches from the girl’s. With a cry that I barely recognized as my own, I lunged at the figure, shouting like a man trying to scare off some wild beast.
“Get away from them!” I yelled, my voice laced with fear and defiance. The figure turned its grotesque face towards me, a horrible fascination in its gaze as if intrigued by my audacity, my presence.
It stared at me for a few seconds before speaking.
“Age seventy-one… Frail, weak… dying,” the figure finally screeched. “Age seventy……..one. I… see you.
Its speaking voice to me was horrid. Unearthly.
“GO!” I yelled at it. “NOW!”
My soul shivered, knowing it looked upon a being that should dwell only in the deepest shadows of lore. But then, just as quickly as the nightmare had descended, it shattered. The colors of the night rushed back into being. My shouting turned into a breathless gasp, and I found myself staring at a void. The figure was gone. The children were still there, playing as if nothing had happened.
If only they knew…
I staggered backward, my mind a whirlwind of what-ifs and disbelief. The thirty seconds had passed, and with them, the window into the abyss had closed. I couldn’t do anything.
Was the demonic figure still there and I just could no longer see it? I couldn’t be sure. I decided to stay at the park for another half hour, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. Things had gone back to normal. Picnics had come to a close. Joggers had stopped coming through. And most of the kids had left to go home. I finally decided to walk home, my mind replaying the day’s events, haunted by the demonic figure’s gaze.
Demons existed… and somehow I saw one stalking children in Montreal… in my neighborhood.. a neighborhood I felt was one of the safest in all of Canada.
I could only imagine what else Marla could tell me… Was this figure I ran across connected to Osvaldo? The missing children she mentioned? Did she have more of that concoction?
I lied in bed night thinking about Marla… about what I would say when I called her first thing in the morning and agreed to take the case.
Sleep was a stranger to me that night.