Welcome to this free ebook from Cyber-Pulp. If you love ghostbreakers, those

  stalwart detectives who face the forces of evil, then you will love our new line of ebooks, THE GHOSTBREAKERS. The first free volume, THE GHOSTBREAKERS: DARK

  BEGINNINGS, features Edgar Allan Poe, J. Sheridan Le Fanu, A. Conan Doyle, Arthur

  Machen, William Hope Hodgson and others.

  For those that love modern horror fiction, there is THE GHOSTBREAKERS:

  NEW HORRORS, thirteen new stories about daring detectives, psychics and ghost

  chasers by Mark Orr, H. Turnip Smith, Walt Hicks, J. R. Cain, Sarah E. Glenn, G. W.

  Thomas, K.K., Jack MacKenzie, Alex Severin & Kailleaugh Andersson, Virginia Cole, Jason Brannon, Dayle A. Dermatis and Loren Rhoads.

  And still in the works is THE GHOSTBREAKERS: SINISTER SLEUTHS with

  Mark Orr, G. W. Thomas, C. J. Church, Jason M. Hardy, David Bain, Steven L.

  Shrewsbury, Mark Kehl, a three person jam with M. F. Korn, David Mathew and Hertzan Chimera, Stephen Couch, Junior Joe Elsass, Jeremiah Chiappelli, Stephen D. Rogers, S.

  J. Hinton as well as others.

  And there will more great books in the series later this year. Feel free to share this book with friends who will enjoy it. Please remember that commercial use is prohibited without written permission.

  A FREE Excerpt from THE GHOSTBREAKERS: NEW HORRORS

  BODY OF WORK

  By G. W. Thomas

  “Now I have done a good day’s work.”

  — Richard III

  1:07

  Telford knows my weakness. He’s got the books. I want the books. So when he

  called me at nearly midnight I didn’t grumble or waste time bitching. I left the

  experiment I was doing on the larvae of a certain insect from Shaggai. The bugs could wait. Telford wouldn’t. He said the one phrase that always got my attention. “Black Sun.”

  I drove to his bookshop in my Miata. I don’t have a radio so I kept busy by

  swearing at the other lousy drivers. “Dickhead!” I screamed at an old lady doing forty in an eighty zone. I was soon across town, looking at the inconspicuous door of Telford’s shop. Even at this hour the door was unlocked.

  As the bell jangled over my head, Telford was at my elbow. He didn’t bother

  with, “Hello – how are you?” crap. He just handed me a yellow card covered in cramped handwriting. On it I read:

  Book of the Black Sun

  Robert Numae

  717 Probert Lane

  “I assume you sent someone already?” I asked, taking a seat in an old dusty chair.

  It smelled like cats had had sex in it.

  “Yes. We couldn’t find the book. He didn’t even crack under pressure.”

  Torture. I’d hate to be on the other end of Telford’s thugs. They weren’t clever,

  (like me – hey, I’m not full of myself – if I wasn’t good at what I do, Telford wouldn’t hire me.) but they were mean. Mean enough to pull your testicles out your nose.

  “Is Mr. Numae alive?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Telford admitted, leafing through the latest Weird Tales. “Fuck, that George Barr can draw,” he said more to himself than me.

  “You’ve checked 717 Probert?”

  Telford sighed, closing the magazine. But I had to know. I didn’t have time to

  retrace the steps of others. The standard contract was half the fee if I could find it in twenty-four hours. Otherwise only one quarter. Five hundred grand don’t buy shit in Telford’s shop. I needed the half fee.

  “The house was thoroughly searched. Under floorboards, in walls, ceilings, even

  the foundation. It ain’t there. We even dug up the yard.”

  “He must have given it to someone else. Any suspects?”

  “Yes, he had a partner. They have an antique store on Quimby. Mostly furniture,

  but some occult stuff too. We search it too. Zip.”

  “So you figure, this partner—“

  “Jesus

  Fuentez.”

  “—he’s

  got

  it?”

  “Not exactly. I think he’s looking for it, too. He killed one of my ‘messengers’.”

  (Telford’s word for goon.) “He used magic.”

  “Great. I have competition, then?”

  “Looks like it. You don’t have to take it, of course. Fowler is –“

  “No. I’m on it. And I’ll want the Book. For a month.”

  Telford looked at me. I wanted the Book of the Black Sun for two and half weeks in exchange for half million. It would have cost anyone else twice that. He nodded. “Then you better get busy. You got twenty-hour. Then it’s half pay.”

  “I’m on it.”

  1:38

  I had made it sound easy. I really didn’t have any ideas on how to start. If the

  house and the business had been searched, then where? I decided on the body. There might be some kind of a clue.

  In my line of work you have to know lots of people. The guys on the night shift at the morgue were such people. Danny Petersen sits at the desk. Bill Gage runs the bodies in and out. Danny waved hi but didn’t look up from his book, some shocker by Brian Keene. Despite my love of the genre, I went in without commenting.

  Bill was busy inside. He had a pet thing that you could identify people by the

  patterns on their tongues. I found him inking some dead fucker’s mouth.

  “I’d like to see the Numae corpse.” I flashed him a Ben Franklin.

  “Top drawer, on the left,” Bill offered, finishing his print.

  I rolled Mr. Robert Numae out and started looking for mystic tattoos or ritual

  scarrings. I wasn’t disappointed. He had the Sign of Dagon on his left hand. (I bore it on the right. Some people were such amateurs!) On the bottoms of his feet I saw the

  Shugron Ritual scarring which involved walking over white-hot glass shards. But it was the tat on his stomach that commanded my attention. Two images: a dagger and a key, surrounded by small > shapes. I wasn’t familiar with this sigil. Was it some

  Freemason-ish silliness or a clue?

  I checked what was left of his face. I wanted to have some idea of his appearance.

  I took mental note of his height, weight and other personal measurements. Then I rolled him back in.

  2: 20

  I went home. I had to feed the bugs some more blood. While I was pouring the

  thick coagulated mess into their feeders I had an idea. The blood attracted the bugs. I needed a similar ploy to flush out the partner, Fuentez. I could make him think I had the book, then when he came to get it, I would grab him. He had used magic on Telford’s goons. I’d be more careful.

  I made a quick stop at my magic room, selected a few things. I loaded my shotgun

  with Special Shot #6, silver fragments mixed with holy water and sulfur. The mix was a good all-round shot. It could knock a werewolf down with one blast. It could kill men, too. As for less-well defined things, it worked about as well as anything.

  The last thing I needed was a decoy, a prop to make Fuentez think I had the book.

  I had plenty of cases with leather handles, the ones I usually used for transporting the goods back to Telford. Rare books need lots of protection. Inside the fireproof liner was foam with a big rectangle cut out. The bait would go in there. But it would be useless unless Fuentez saw it. I’d have to go to the house…

  3:18

  717 Probart was a crappy little rancher on a street filled with others like it. At 3 in the AM, most of the inhabitants were asleep. I walked up to the steps without trying to hide. I looked about suspiciously, as if I wasn’t supposed to be there. I went in. The door was locked but mere locks could not keep me out. I stepped in, shotgun sprouting from my coat like an unwelcome relative. Nobody came at me.

  I turned on my flashlight and checked the entire house. My gun was ready for any

  monkey business. I almost shot Numae’s cat, starving now after hours of neglect, but I restrained myself in time. I wanted Fuentez, not the cops.

  I began a second search. For the most part, Numae was oddly ordinary. No kinks.

  A girlfriend, long gone from the hair cuts in the pictures. A military background. No PhDs. Just a fun-loving retailer.

  But I dug deeper. A secret stash in the toilet was filled with grass. Not particularly good stuff. I left it. A box of papers in the den proved old tax forms. The antique business was successful but not suspiciously so.

  The one arcane clue I found was a wall map in the den. On an image of the US of

  A were six colored push pins. They were in a circle around a small town in Wyoming.

  Dagon’s Bridge. Nothing else. That was it.

  I forgot about clues. If Fuentez was watching it was time to bait the trap. I pulled the largest book I could find off Numae’s shelf, a collected Shakespeare— you know the kind, with the tissue paper illustrations— wrapped it in a blanket from the hall closet. I put this bundle in an old coat and headed out the front door. Slow and obvious. I put the bundle in my truck and drove away. It was 3:53 AM.

  If he were watching, he’d think I’d found it. I scanned the rearview. There! A car a block backfired up its lights. I took a corner just to see. The non-descript sedan was still with me. I eyeballed the make and model. Dark green, expensive but not in a Mercedes class. Olds probably. Typical Rotory Club kind of a vehicle.

 
; I had my prey. All I needed was a place to reel him in. Telford’s wouldn’t do. Nor my place. I knew an abandoned building just off the freeway. That would do nicely. Lure him in – slap the Incantation of Bokrog on him and then the shotgun if needs be. Only I never got there.

  4:12

  It was still dark. The sun wasn’t due for almost two hours. He had lots of time to hit me. And he did. There was a loud bang and then sharp points cut into the roof of my Mazda. I pulled the shotgun, aimed it at the point above me—and the thing that was tearing up my car. I didn’t wait to see what it was. The shot punched a hole into the ceiling, ripping away something’s face as well. A sloppy mess rolled off the roof , smearing my back window with black blood.

  A small minion, probably a byakhee. Where there’s one, there’s –

  The second one attacked by windshield. I cocked and fired the gun but was too

  late. My car spun out of control, hitting a fire hydrant. I slammed into the steering wheel, only able to break a special tube before passing out. The next byakhee to touch me died in a shower of purple flame.

  Fuentez had no such trouble. He had the case out of the trunk, after a short

  struggle with a crowbar. The fact that he hadn’t finished me off showed me he was an amateur. I looked up through bloody eyes to see him in my side rearview.

  He had the bundle. I couldn’t allow him to see inside it. I threw the car into

  reverse, gunned it. The bent frame threw the car back like a boomerang. It was enough to scare him back. By that time I had the car door open and the scattergun pointing at his head.

  “Down on the ground. You move your hands or say one word and you’ll be pulp.”

  “I – I –“ he stuttered then lay down quietly. I almost killed him. If I had heard so much as an “Ia!” I’d have plugged him.

  Getting out of the car, stiff with the impact of the collision, I did a quick once up to make sure no more byakhees filled the sky above us. An amateur like Fuentez would hardly be expected to control a flock of them. I actually had a grudging respect for the kid. He had taken on Telford’s bullies and now his best book collector. But every

  amateur eventually makes a mistake. Fuentez had run his race and lost.

  “What you do in the next ten seconds will determine if you live or die. Strip.

  When you are naked – and I’m sure you can’t cast a spell – then, we’ll talk. Anything else and – bang!”

  The antique dealer rose, started pulling off his shoes. Minutes later he sat naked on the wet street. I didn’t hear any vehicles. The nosy neighbors still slept I hoped. It would be a quick conversation.

  “I want to know everything about Numae and the book. No tricks and be quick.”

  “He-he didn’t tell me much. Just that he had this book, which he’d, paid a lot to see. He called it Black Sun.”

  “Go

  on.”

  “He didn’t trust me. He knew I had more background in the Lore than he did. He

  told me he had found a way to hide the book. I thought you’d found it. The blanket—“

  “No, just a decoy. Get up. Raise your arms.”

  He rose cautiously. I checked him for tattoos. He had a Sword of Kamath on his

  right shoulder. Nothing else.

  “Numae has a tat on his stomach. A dagger and a key. Know anything about it?”

  He looked nervous. “No.”

  “That’s too bad.” I raised the scattergun.

  “Okay, okay. In my car. I found it in the house yesterday.”

  “Lay

  down.”

  He did reluctantly. I pulled a test tube from one pocket and poured the yellow

  stinking liquid over him.

  “It’s the urine of the Cats of Ulthar. You get up and I’ll speak a single word.

  You’ll wind up kitty chow. So don’t.”

  I went to his car. The door wasn’t locked. On the rider’s side seat was a silver

  dagger. I knocked it aside with the gun barrel. No protection spell. I picked up the knife and examined the blade. There was a key shaped indentation in the metal.

  “Fuentez,” I yelled then looked down the street. He was gone. Oh well, the cats

  would get him come the first full moon. No matter what he washed in.

  My car was toast but the olds would do for now. I checked the dash clock. 5:20.

  Time for breakfast….

  Read the conclusion in The Ghotbreakers: New Horrors.

  And now without further delay…

  THE GHOSTBREAKERS: DARK BEGINNINGS

  INTRODUCTION

  THE MURDER IN THE RUE MORGUES by Edgar Allan Poe

  GREEN TEA by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEVIL’S FOOT by A. Conan Doyle

  THE GREAT GOD PAN by Arthur Machen

  DRACULA: CHAPTER 16 by Bram Stoker

  THE STORY OF KONNOR OLD HOUSE by E. & H. Herron

  A VICTIM OF HIGHER SPACE by Algernon Blackwood

  THE HOG by William Hope Hodgson

  INTRODUCTION

  By G. W. Thomas

  LET’S talk pop culture. I’m seven years old. I’m watching the safest program in

  the world : The Wonderful World of Disney. It’s one of my favorite episodes—one of the ones where we got cartoons instead of Fred Allen narrating a nature show. We loved the cartoons. But today’s show features a cartoon that will change my life. I don’t know it.

  My parents don’t know it. Walt Disney didn’t know it.

  The cartoon is “Lonesome Ghosts” (first released December 24, 1937). It’s a 36

  year old cartoon but it’s new to me. And it has three detectives going into a haunted house where mischievous spooks torment them. My first ghostbreakers are Mickey,

  Donald and Goofy. I have no idea there is a long tradition behind this cartoon. I know nothing of John Thunstone or Jules DeGrandin. I don’t even know what a pulp magazine is.

  Jump ahead four years. Now I’m twelve and I’m watching afternoon TV. This is

  before Oprah. This is before VCRs. I’m watching a movie. On TV. In the afternoon.

  (Hard to believe.) It’s a fairly new re-run: The Nightstalker starring Darren McGavin.

  Suddenly, Mickey, Donald and Goofy are gone. Now it’s Carl Kolchak running through the night trying to get that story. (And I’m not alone. Another fellow by the name of Chris Carter is also watching around this time. But more of him later.) Even those Scooby Doo cartoons aren’t doing it for me anymore. Kolchak’s vampires are real and not Principal Dingwell in a rubber mask.

  From that moment in 1975 I was hooked. Comic books, TV movies, TV shows,

  anything with ghostbreakers in them and I was there. Ten years later it would be RPGs like Call of Cthulhu. (I always played the P.I. character.) I was an addict for life.

  Jump to 1993. Chris Carter (remember him?) releases a new FOX TV show called

  The X-Files. It starts in small until everybody starts grooving to the Alien Abduction thing. But I’m there from Day One. Ghostbreakers. New, modern, plausible and scary.

  And I was there until the first film. After that, the show became a soap about freaky people. Ghostbreaking wasn’t the key any longer. (So, Chris, if you’re reading this.