The Lesser Key of Callan
A monster-of-the-week inspired series of novellas that follow Callan, Caleigh, and Hoot as they investigate paranormal disturbances in their small town.
The claws barely missed his carotid, but in Callan's book, barely missed was as good as totally and completely missed. Especially when it concerned a harpy that he'd intentionally offended by pointing a rifle at her and unintentionally offended by continuing to suck down air after pointing a rifle at her. Lee was better at the subdue half of their stalk and subdue mission statement, but he hadn't heard from his sister in nearly four months, so he tucked the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and aimed for the trees.
His mistake, thinking she'd go for the obvious kill. Lee's last words to him echoed in the beat of the harpy's wings as she shot towards him, abdomen grazing the dirt. Come off it, Cal. You're not half as smart as you think you are. A whistle from his left distracted the beast long enough for Callan to smash the stock against her skull, stunning her to the ground. He tipped the barrel towards her and lined up his shot, right between her eyes.
A beautiful creature, all teeth and feathers. Round body that narrowed into legs and feet tipped with talons. It must've been hell, knowing what it meant to fly and ending up on her back beneath a man-made weapon. As good as a cage. As good as clipped wings. And her wings— he'd draw them once they cleaned up. He could sketch them a million times over and never quite get them right.
"Where did you come from?" he murmured, knowing she wouldn't answer. They never answered.
It was all the study he was allowed before she bared her teeth and began thrashing again. If only she'd listened to him— but that opportunity had passed with every corpse he was now responsible for burying. If he had time, he'd map her bone structure, trace her evolutionary roots until he hit bedrock. If he had time, he'd soothe her with a song.
Callan Kay did not have time. She screeched, and birds leapt from tree to sky. He squeezed the trigger.
From the Journal of Callan Kay:
When considering lethal force, one must be knowledgeable about the similarities between shape shifters and entities capable of possession. A shape shifter may wear the face of a loved one, but a possessing spirit will be the loved one. They are capable of accessing memories, secrets, and other information to convince their opponent to stand down. The victim, in most cases, is still inside. Use discretion to determine if eliminating them would be merciful.
-C.K
There are theories that all supernatural occurrences are demonic in origin. Though unproven as of publication, the author is inclined to agree. Multiple wells of magic scattered throughout the known universe are statistically less likely than all power being drawn from one central location. Does that mean that in conducting our own rituals, in enchanting our blades and scribing our runes, we, too, are dipping our toes into the Styx? It’s a well-documented phenomenon that most hunters go mad before they reach middle-age. An occupational hazard, or a consequence?
-C.K
We are the keepers of the gate between this realm and the other. It's our responsibility to maintain and wield this knowledge against forces that might act against the greater good of humanity. A noble cause, in the author's opinion, and one worthy of study and practice. Someone has to hold the line.
-C.K
Callan and Hoot Versus Ooze
Callan knelt to gather scraps of newspaper from the floor, keeping his eyes on the ooze as it inched closer. "You're beautiful, you are." He was no longer talking just to talk. If these were the last words that the creature would hear, he'd make them truthful. He'd make them mean something. "Imagine a herd of you out in the wild. Remarkable. I hope—" His back hit the wall. "I hope wherever you go next, you meet a kinder fate than this."
It deserved more than Callan could offer, more than a match struck and flame catching on a rolled up newspaper. It was living— it was alive. It deserved a hymn or a lullaby. Last rites, a proper send off, and to be remembered by someone other than Callan.
This close, Callan could mark each pore that composed the ooze's body, tiny holes that expanded to engulf its food. But it wasn't digesting the trash. Live prey? Was it a preference or a dietary restriction? It must've used some form of acid to digest its food, as there was no evidence of mastication. Like a venus fly trap, Callan thought. And there, at the apex of what Callan considered to be its head, a tiny opaque spot that must've been a brain or something like it. A central functioning complex.
He wondered what colors he'll have to mix to get the correct shade of green. He'd sketch the flame too, the way that the creature absorbed even the light, casting no shadow. Perhaps he'd even sketch himself, an arm outstretched, a caress or a strike.
The ooze's breath was not warm like a mammal's would be. Not cold either, but perfectly matched to the temperature of the room. There must've been a homeostatic process occurring, primitive as this creature may be. That it had a brain was evidence of a complex and miraculous evolutionary process. Who were its genetic ancestors? A malleable body! Passive consumption! What Callan wouldn't give to dissect it, to merely bear witness to its routine without human interference.
But the ooze was close to him now, and it was too late to change his mind. Too late for an apology. His next breath reached the very dregs of his lungs. He cradled the torch and dove.
Callan never wondered what it would be like to swim through gelatin. It turned out that it wasn't like swimming at all. Suspended within the ooze's body, he fought against the reflex to gasp. Garbage was lodged near the elbow of the arm not holding the makeshift torch. Unable to move or breathe, he counted the seconds and hoped that the digestive enzymes didn't extinguish the flame.
Warmth surrounded him, liquefying his gelatin cage just enough for him to shift his body. The burn was chemical, acid tearing through his clothes and prodding at his skin. His lungs screamed for relief, but he denied his body's impulse. Sucking in a lungful of slime was a sure way to get an infection, and he was not as resilient as the ooze when it came to absorbing indigestible items.
He wondered idly, as he often did when he was in situations such as this—though he'd never been in this specific situation before and hoped to never be again—if this would be his death. Long ago, he accepted that he'd perish on a job, but he imagined it to be more heroic than this. Wielding a flaming sword instead of a scorched newspaper that was spitting embers.