CHAPTER THREE

The Roaches Motel, Route 50, Chicago . . .

 Zeek stood at his door, facing the number thirteen as he fiddled with his key, simultaneously holding onto his brown paper-bag of groceries. There was a knack for getting the key to work. It took careful, persistent wriggling, and a tongue held out in concentration.

“Just ’cause I can’t pay my rent don’t make me no floozy!”

Zeek turned his head to see Mr. Moore, the landlord, hobble out of room fifteen, his pants half down and struggling to get a shoe on. The other shoe came hurtling out of the open door and the man ducked just in time for it to go sailing over the railing, landing on the parking-lot below. The door slammed shut.

Zeek’s slow, careful wriggling of the key suddenly turned into fast, urgent thrusts.

“Come on! Work you stupid key,” he muttered.

A moment later he felt a presence behind him and turned to see Mr. Moore staring down on him with wide eyes, brows lifted, pushing folds of skin up into his frizzy hair.

“How long you been standing there, Crabshit?” The man was holding onto his pants, stopping them from falling.

“I-I heard nothing, Mr. Moore.”

“You got my rent money yet?”

“Ah, sure.” Zeek grabbed his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and awkwardly held his groceries as he handed every scrap of cash he had to the man.

“You shittin’ me? That’s barely half.”

“I’ll pay the rest next week.”

Mr. Moore stood to his fall height, crossing his arms in a rigid scowl. His pants slipped down to his ankles, showing off his love-heart patterned underpants.

“I’m no floozy, either, Mr. Moore,” said Zeek, and he stepped into his apartment and shut the door.

Zeek’s cat, Pickles, wound figure eights between his legs as he walked to the table. He stumbled in circles on his toes, carefully avoiding treading on his cat. Then he dropped the grocery bag down, threw his keys next to it, and crouched to give Pickles a scratch on the cheek. The brown tabby purred and swished his tail about with contentment.

Then Zeek snatched the cat up from under the arms, and held Pickles face to face with him, kissing the air between them. “Who’s a cute, kitty? Yes you are. Yes you are!”

Pickles stared blankly at Zeek, who was still kissing the air. “Are you a hungry, kitty? Are you? Are you?”

The cat meowed. Zeek placed him down, reached into the grocery bag, and pulled out a box of dried cat food.

“Now, I know how much you love the chicken and turkey, but I thought I might spoil you with seafood tonight. Salmon and shrimp!” Zeek sniffed the box and tried one, scrunching up his face. “All yours kitty.”

The box rattled as the dried food tumbled into Pickles’ dish. The cat sniffed it and began crunching it down. Zeek patted him a few more times, and as he did so, the room suddenly grew dark and heavy. As if a storm cloud had made its way into his small apartment.

Zeek’s brow furrowed as shadows stretched, the air growing crisp with an icy chill. His eyes narrowed, glancing to his room, thinking about his cupboard and the hammer on the top shelf. His crowbar sat in the boot of his car, but iron is iron when it comes to spirit energy.

A presence filled his apartment and the sheer force of it made him take a step back. Pickles stopped eating and hissed out at the shadows, hairs standing on end.

Zeek’s skin crawled, as if a million baby spiders hatched from his pores, running up his spine, meeting at his scalp and causing all his hairs to mimic Pickle’s back.

“Who’s there?” he cried out.

Pickles meowed before leaping up into Zeek’s arms.

 Zeek pulled Pickles tighter into his chest. “Show yourself!” he cried.

Before him, the surrounding black shadows slithered like serpents, coalescing into form: a tall, dark figure with a flowing black cloak and hood. A red skinned hand grasped a tall scythe, and the other lifted with an outstretched finger.

The air sucked out of the room and a deep resonating voice boomed around him. “Zeek, Tobias, Solomon, CRABTREE.” The words that came next chilled Zeek to his bones ... "I have come for yoouuuu!"