Chapter One – Demons in the Parlor
Addison Stump parked next to the traditional brownstone apartment building and stared up at the third story window. It had a candle in it.
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Lance Wimberley fought the demons into the living area and herded them into a corner, his cross-guarded iron spike working as the perfect weapon. The animalistic shadows screamed and clawed at the apartment’s papered walls.
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“Dear God, don’t let him be a creeper,” she muttered to herself before exiting her car and feeding the meter a good number of quarters. She could be here a while.
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Keeping his spike pointed at the demons, Wimberley lunged for a canister of sea salt, which had been sitting ready on his coffee table. He began flinging arcs of it at the shadows, which began hissing and steaming like melted wax.
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“Lance Wimberley,” Addison announced at the receptionist’s cluttered desk. The graying blond nodded absently over a copy of Playboy. Addison noticed this, opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut again. She had more important business than worrying about this woman’s choice in literature.
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“And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse,” sneered Wimberley as the things began to shrink in agony. He slashed the air with his spike. “Now get out of here in God’s name or I will be forced to send you back where you came from!”
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Addison paused at the door of room 308. She took a deep breath and looked down at herself. She hoped she did not appear too formal in her white blouse and pinstriped pants. She had wanted to appear older than her twenty three years.
Well, despite her dress, she was here, and it was almost noon. She raised her hands to knock when there was a loud thump from inside the apartment, like the sound of a chair being knocked over.
Pausing for an instant, Addison listened. She thought she heard a raised voice coming from deep within the apartment; the words drifted, softened, through the old oak door to her straining ears:
“Now get out of here in God’s name or I will be forced to send you back where you came from!”
Addison swallowed. Another interviewee? She wasn’t sure how many people had applied for this job. Either this applicant had pulled a gun on him or Mr. Lance Wimberley was not the most pleasant man in the world. She stepped instinctively away from the door, waiting for whoever it was to “get out of there” – in God’s name and with a managerial boot up their ass.
Maybe she wasn’t so desperate to get a job after all. She was sure she could find a place at – say – McDonalds.
No, she thought to herself after another few minutes of waiting. I am not going to become a soulless automaton whose only purpose in life is to slap pickles on cheeseburgers. It will do nothing to further my career. Besides, I don’t want a hundred people’s cardiac arrests on my conscience.
Summoning up her courage, she knocked firmly on the apartment door. It was wrenched open from under her knuckles, and a man brandishing some kind of insane weapon appeared in the doorway. Screaming in surprise, Addison jumped back and clapped her hand over her mouth.
The man blinked in surprise. “Oh,” he said blankly, lowering the weapon and standing a little straighter. “Who are you?”
“I’m . . . um . . .” Addison struggled to get her composure back. She drew her hand away from her mouth and placed it on her chest. She could feel her heart thrumming underneath the hollow of her palm. Deep breath. Act professional. This could be some kind of crazy test. “Addison Stump – I’m here for an interview.”
“Oh, oh right.” Still looking mildly spooked, the man tucked his spike under his arm and stuck out his hand. “I’m Lance Wimberley,” he introduced himself. “The author,” he added helpfully.
Addison took a moment to study the man. He looked to be in his forties. His hair fell in dark, sweaty tumbles around his high forehead, his temples encroached upon by dense platoons of almost translucently gray hair. His face was long in general – nose, mouth, chin . . . even his irises were more oval than circular. He hadn’t shaved recently, salt and pepper stubble gathering around his mouth and chin and down his neck. His white shirt was pulled tight over a muscular, if rather rolled-shouldered, frame, the first three buttons open to reveal some kind of medallion around his neck.
“This spike was not meant for you, I promise,” he quickly explained, glancing down at the odd object. “Just fighting off a few demons in the parlor. You know.” He crinkled his face in a sheepish apology and invited her in. “So you’re here to apply for the position of temporary assistant. I’m assuming you read the list of requirements.”
As they wound their way around a suspiciously dark room, Addison glanced around for any telltale signs of his being a pervert. Pictures of naked, headless women, stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling, sex toys in a salad bowl covered in Dijon mustard, anything to indicate this was the time to make a break for it.
There was nothing. The furniture was typical middle-class, reasonably clean. There was salt all over the carpet . . . Salt? Addison blinked and shook her head. Concentrate on getting the job.
“Sit down somewhere. I’ll turn on some lights.”
“These demons . . .” Addison began, perching cautiously on the edge of a chair and looking around.
“Gone out that window,” Wimberley motioned with his spike before going over to an overturned armchair and hoisting it back into an upright position. “Speaking of which, could you grab that canister of sea salt and pour it on that sill?” Using his weapon like a teacher’s pointer, he jabbed at the canister, which lay open and spilling crystals on the rug.
“You want me to pour salt on your windowsill.”
Wimberley nudged the chair into position. “If you don’t mind.”
Addison picked up the salt and held it uncertainly. Reasoning that it might very well be a part of the interviewing process – seeing how well she followed unconventional and nonsensical orders – she did what Wimberley had asked her, pouring a large hill of salt grains in the middle of the sill.
“No, no, no,” Wimberley said, coming over and spreading the salt in a thick, even line along the length of the sill. “Like this. Practice on that window over there.”
Addison did as she was told silently, brow furrowed, suppressing twinges of panic. This is not what she had been expecting, not what she had planned for. She wasn’t prepared for this.
“Do you know how to make coffee?” Wimberley asked.
“Yeah,” Addison said hesitantly, salt canister frozen in midair. She really wanted this job, but if he asked her to make coffee she might just walk out that door.
“Always a good thing to know how to do. I have a pot on the stove in the kitchenette if you’d like a cup.”
“No thanks,” Addison said, finishing the window and setting the canister down. She was jittery as it was. Caffeine would probably send her through the roof.
The two of them sat across from each other in the warmly-lit living area. Except for the salt everywhere and the spike lying on the coffee table, it seemed almost normal. Wimberley sprawled in the armchair that had been previously overturned; he had a mug of steaming coffee in one hand, and a yellow legal pad in the other.
“How would you describe yourself, Miss Stump?” he asked in a drawling voice after scanning the pad with a purse-lipped expression.
Finally, thought Addison. Typical interview questions. Good. I’ve prepared for this.
“I graduated from Oakland University with Honors . . .”
“What specific goals, including those related to your occupation, have you established for your life?” Wimberley read mechanically, interrupting her.
“Um . . .”
“What influenced you to choose this career?”
“This career” being temporary assistant for a whack-job author who hasn’t even published a book and carries a security spike? “Mr. Wimberley . . .”
Wimberley looked up, grinning his sheepish, apologetic grin over the paper. “I copied these off a website of the one hundred top interview questions.” He tossed the pad away, and Addison’s heart sank. He was going to improvise. Addison hated improvisation.
“So, Addison Stump. Addison Stump, Addison Stump.” Wimberley leaned back, crossing his arms over his stomach and staring at the ceiling. “I like the assonance and consonance in your name. The ‘s’s being so prevalent, both leading into a heavy vowel sound, with the rather sharp ‘d’s and ‘p’s sandwiching it all together. A harsh name, though. Suggestive of repression, stoicism, perhaps anal retention. I’ll bet you didn’t date in college.”
Addison gaped.
“I’m sorry, I apologize, I’m out of bounds,” he backed up quickly, before she could get up and leave. “Down to business.” Shifting in his seat, he leaned forward and stared hard at her. “Let us pretend you have just entered a building haunted by very territorial ghosts that rise up from the floorboards and surround you. What would your first course of action be?”
Still not completely over the dating comment, Addison gaped, squinted, shook her head. “Wait . . . what?”
Wimberley just watched her.
“Scream, I guess,” she offered. “Run?”
“Oh dear,” Wimberley said, leaning back again as though her answer were a foul smell he was trying to escape. “Alright. Suppose you were trapped in a runaway golf cart speeding down a hill. How would you stop it before it crashed into the thirty foot deep duck pond at the bottom?”
Smoke practically coming out of her ears, Addison struggled to come up with an answer that was plausible. “Jump out?”
“That would be a last ditch resort,” Wimberley corrected. “First, you would have to try shutting it off or engaging the service break. You could also wait for the automatic emergency system to kick in, but considering your time is considerably limited by the impending duck pond, that wouldn’t be your best option.”
Addison was intrigued despite herself. “How exactly do you know what to do when trapped in a runaway golf cart?” she demanded.
“I’m an author, Miss Stump. There is nothing I do not know how to do.” Wimberley, seemingly pleased with his own answer, plowed on to the next question. “What is the best thing to do if faced by an armed gunman?”
“Knock the gun from his hand.”
Wimberley laughed. “You’re energetic. Running, jumping, wrestling guns away from people.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not going to wait around to get shot,” Addison defended her position with an indignation that surprised her. “And you couldn’t run away: taking a bullet to the back or base of the head would be fatal nine times out of ten.” Why do I even care about this stupid question?
Wimberley’s left eyebrow quirked and he stared at her for a moment longer than Addison was comfortable with before rubbing his hands together. “Alright. Last question. You are capable of finding grammatical and punctuation mistakes in a page handed you, yes? I don’t need to insult your intelligence by handing you a test sheet peppered with misplaced semicolons, do I?”
“No,” Addison said testily.
“Wonderful. I’ll see you first thing Monday morning, then.”
“I’m hired?”
“You’re my only applicant,” Wimberley explained, spreading his hands out in a helpless gesture. “My options are limited. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I’d wager you don’t have a dozen prospective employers waiting in long salivating lines, either.”
Addison shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to admit that he was right. “You said the salary was negotiable.”
“It is. But we’ll get to the boring details later. Come tomorrow, give me a preview of what I can expect from you as an assistant, and I’ll give you the same in cold hard cash.”
The young woman licked her lips. It was the best offer that she was going to get. It had been a long time since she had held a wad of well-earned money. “Alright.”
“Splendid,” smiled Wimberley, levering himself off the armchair. Addison followed him to the door. “Wear comfortable clothes, don’t worry about being formal. And for heaven’s sake take your hair out of that bun. It makes you look like a frazzled and spinsterish middle school English teacher.”
Addison growled, insulted, as she exited the apartment and stood in the hall. “It isn’t a bun. It’s a French roll.”
“Worse – sounds like a pastry.” Wimberley leaned against the doorframe and gave her a sly smile that she did not at all feel comfortable receiving. “This should be interesting, Miss Stump.”
I’m bringing the pepper spray with me to work tomorrow. “Goodbye, Mr. Wimberley. Thank you for the job.”
“Seven sharp,” Mr. Wimberley called after her as she strode down the hallway. “Bring a red pen.”