Father Gunter Demon Hunter Box Set
Contents
Dedication
The Bucktown Babies
Dedication
Copyright
The Raven Flies at Night
Dedication
copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Night Mares
Dedication
Thank You
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Thank You
This, my first box set, is lovingly dedicated to my family who gives me tremendous support and encouragement, and to my fans without whom there would be no reason to write. Thank you all.
THE
BUCKTOWN
BABIES
A Father Gunter, Demon Hunter Supernatural Thriller
J.R. Pestel
This book is dedicated to my loving husband Joe. Without his encouragement and support, I would never have started writing at all.
Copyright (C) 2017 Janine R. Pestel
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2017 Janine R. Pestel
Published 2017 Janine R. Pestel
ISBN:
Cover photo Copyright Creativehearts / 123RF Stock Photos
Cover design by Janine R. Pestel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the
author’s written permission.
-1-
The light of the medium sized television set cast an eerie glow in the room. The sparse furnishings consisted of a double bed with a small nightstand, a chair, and a dresser; on which sat the aforementioned television. The air in the room smelled of old, unwashed clothes, and pepperoni pizza that the gentleman, lying on the bed, ate as his late-night meal.
He stood about average height with a muscular build. His hair still retained the sandy-blond color of his youth even though he was now in his forties. He usually kept himself clean-shaven with short, trimmed hair. He currently found himself between what he called “gigs,” so he relaxed his standards, allowing himself the luxury of a five-o'clock shadow and longer-than-normal hair. The wire-rim glasses he wore fit his round face almost perfectly.
He lay on his bed and munched a slice of pizza while he kept an eye on the news. He glanced at a photo which hung on the wall—an image of him in his younger years when he was a priest. His name was Johann Gunter. Most people who knew him still called him Father Gunter. He had reasons why he didn't like to be reminded about that time in his life, but he would smile and acknowledge anyone who referred to him by his former title.
He glanced at the photograph before he turned to another one next to it. This one, of his sister whom he hadn't seen since just before he left the priesthood almost five years ago. This particular image was taken not long before she disappeared. It was the same one, in fact, that he gave to the police, even though he was well aware they would be powerless to help him. He stared hard at the image as though doing so would somehow bring his sister back to him.
Johann reminisced about his childhood. He remembered all the fun times he and his older sister Theresa had as children. He grasped the cross hanging around his neck. A present from Theresa when he joined the monastery. He imagined his sister's voice in his head: her infectious laughter, and how anyone who stood nearby was compelled to join in.
He dropped his gaze momentarily then returned his eyes to the photo. His steely-blue eyes burned with anger, and he managed a sad smile. "I'll find ya, sis," he said as he choked back tears. "I'm comin' for ya." He lifted his can of cola in a gesture of salute and drank a sip. He then turned back to the news program he loved to watch.
Just like any other night, most of the stories were the same. Crime, racial unrest in some city over something which could likely have been avoided. Politicians who tried to tell everyone how much better they were than their opponent. The usual stuff.
One story, however, caused him to intensify his focus. It stood out like nothing else on the show this night. Almost as though struck by a case of tunnel vision, Johann zoned in on this report.
Simon, the anchor, was about to cut to the reporter on the scene. She was at a hospital in a small farming community. Gunter sat up in his bed to better give his full attention to the report. He finished the last slice of pizza he would eat tonight.
"We now go to Belinda Carstone, at the hospital in Bucktown. Belinda," Simon said. The picture switched to a young, attractive brunette. She stood in a corridor. Next to her was a doctor, who was also female. She appeared a little older than the news reporter.
"Thank you, Simon," Belinda said. "With me now is Dr. Zou. Doctor, how many infants would you say have passed away?" She placed the microphone in front of the doctor's mouth.
"If you include the three tonight, there is a total of ten this week up to today," the physician said.
"Ten?" said Belinda, almost aghast as she repeated the physician's words. "That's a lot of infants. Any idea what is causing this? What did they all die from?"
"Yes. Ten," the doctor said. “From what we can ascertain so far they all seem to be victims of SIDS: Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. And this, by the way, is not including all the miscarriages of late."
Johann opened the drawer in his nightstand and took out a map. He located Bucktown and calculated how long it would take to drive to the small town. Gunter took into account the way he drove, and the traffic this time of night, or more likely, lack of. After considering everything, he estimated it would be about a two-hour trip. He got out of bed and walked past his television. "Guess I got a gig," he said. He glanced at the TV one last time before he entered the lavatory to shave.
A while later, Johann Gunter emerged from his bath freshly showered and clean-shaven—except for his ever-present mustache. He removed the towel which was wrapped around him and made his way to his bed. He reached under it and found his satchel. He laid it on the bed and began to pack his clothing and other items he would need for the trip.
In with his clothes he placed a Bible, a .45 caliber pistol with ammunition, and a small flask filled with holy water. He picked up a long, flat case and laid it on the bed next to his suitcase. This was his last-resort weapon—his sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun. He caressed the case for a moment the way a father would touch a child's face. "I hope I don't need ya," he said. "I hope this demon goes willingly."
After he dressed, Johann took a quick glance at the television. A late-night talk show was now on that he never cared to sit through. He turned on the overhead light and switched off his TV. He grabbed the bottl
e of spring water from on his night table and stuffed the water bottle as best he could into his pants front pocket. He went out and locked his door.
He left the comfort of the little apartment building and realized the weather had turned. A storm rolled in. The thunder rumbled, and the sky glowed with many flashes of lightning. The rain was steady, not too hard, but not a drizzle either. Being mid-September, the summer was almost gone, and fall was about to begin.
The balmy night air was fragrant with the aroma of wet grass and the last of the summer flowers. It brought a tingle to Johann's skin. He made a mad dash for his car. He hated the sensation of being both wet and dry at the same time, which came with being exposed to raindrops for a short while.
He arrived at his vehicle: a 1970 Ford Mustang he restored to like-new condition a few years ago. He tossed his bags onto the rear seat and got in. Of course, when he did the work he couldn't help but modify the car just a little. His ride now sported all-wheel disc brakes, a souped-up 5.0-liter engine and a five-speed manual transmission. These all came from a newer model year Mustang along with wider-than-stock tires. He turned the ignition key in the Mustang and sat, listening to the deep-throated growl of the V8 engine. He loved the rumble the car had. He pushed in the clutch and thrust it into first gear.
As he drove, the steady "schlup schlup" sound of the windshield wipers almost became hypnotic. He thought about what the news reporter and doctor said earlier. Ten children dead this week. How long has this been goin' on? How many kids total? That doctor said there were miscarriages too. How many? He took his hand from the gearshift. He ran his fingers through his hair then placed his hand back on the shift knob.
"This ain't right," he said to himself. "There's a demon here. I know there is. I'm gonna squash it like the bug from hell it is. Can't let anyone know I was a priest, though. Beast won't come near me if it knows that. This is a job for Bill Berman." This was a fictitious person Johann created to use when he performed these investigations. Bill could be anything from a dog catcher to an FBI field agent. Glad I had that part-time job in that print shop, he thought.
While employed there, he spent enough time alone with the equipment and supplies to make himself fake ID badges for everything he could think of: FBI, police, IRS. He even made one which showed his alter ego to be a Special Agent with the CIA, although that one he only made to satisfy himself. The one he used the most was the one he always flashed at the demon before he exiled it. This one read "Father Gunter. Demon Hunter."
He drove through the rainy night. The rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers, the radio, and his thoughts kept him company during his trip. Being late at night, and inclement weather to boot, traffic was scarce on the two-lane highway. When, on occasion, he passed an oncoming car, the headlights would put on a light show. The light beams danced with the rain drops on his windshield until the wipers would wipe it away.
Johann listened to the car radio. He wanted to know of any more news about the baby deaths in Bucktown. Disappointment that there was no further news was tempered with the relief of what that meant; there were no other deaths so far. A sign on the side of the road which read Bucktown Welcomes You told him that he had at last reached the outskirts of the town.
The rain began to subside, and the reception diminished on the radio. Johann received more static than broadcast, so he switched from one channel to another, only to find static on every station he tried to tune in. Frustrated by this, he turned the receiver off.
Even in the darkness Johann saw Bucktown as the kind of hamlet where everyone knew each other. Just the sort of place a demon could tear apart with ease. In a town like this, strangers were either welcome or viewed with distrust. To be accepted, Gunter would need to blend in without any attention brought to himself. He pondered how the demon managed such a task.
With great surprise, Johann realized the driver in an oncoming car had switched his high beams on and appeared to enter his lane. Gunter could feel his heart rate quicken as he flashed his lights to alert whoever was in control of the vehicle. Not getting a response to this, Johann slammed his palm on the wheel to sound his horn.
The oncoming vehicle was unrelenting in its apparent mission to crash itself into Johann's vehicle. At the last second, Johann jerked his wheel right. He stabbed his foot hard on the brake pedal and the clutch, so the car wouldn't stall. The hot tires cried as if in pain as he struggled to control the bucking bronco. The tires lost traction and hydroplaned on the wet pavement. That made it much harder to maintain control.
The vehicle sped past as though it laughed at him, and Father Gunter tried to get a look at the person he now considered an attacker. The automobile traveled at such a high speed that Johann couldn't see the perpetrator at all. He did, however, take note that the auto was a black, late-model Dodge. His years of being a "car guy" came in handy. He recognized the shape as being that of a Dodge Challenger.
"Asshole," he yelled. He made a hand gesture as the vehicle careened by him and missed his door by mere inches. He sat in the quiet, his eyes glued to his rearview mirror as the car's tail lights disappeared. The sound of his heartbeat seemed to match the rumble of the idling engine in his vehicle. His heated breath almost fogged his windows.
He stared out his windshield while he allowed himself to calm down and recompose. He wiped some sweat from his face and ran his fingers through his now disheveled hair, then continued on his way. He hoped this was not an omen of how the townspeople would receive him.
A lit, multicolored sign ahead caught his eye. The bright-red neon outlined the head of a buck deer and the yellow neon spelled out the name of the establishment. It read Bucktown Inn. Below that, the word "vacancy" flashed on and off in white. "Looks like I found myself a home for the next few days," he muttered out loud to himself as he parked at the office. "Time to be Bill Berman.”
An older gentleman at the counter greeted him as he entered the small rustic lobby. "Evenin', stranger," the man said. He eyed Johann up as though he did something wrong. "You be needin' a room?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," said Father Gunter. He tried to sound a little more sophisticated than he was, "For a couple days or so." He opened his wallet and produced a driver’s license with a photo for ID. The clerk glanced at the photograph, then at Johann, and back again at the license. "Okay, Mr. Berman," the attendant said. He took out the motel guest register. "I can put ya in room 66. It's right down that way. Just follow the building around. You'll find it," he said with a nod, as he pointed.
"Well, thank you kindly," Johann said as he signed the register. The old man gave him his key.
"The room rate is twenty dollars a night. On the day you leave, check out is at eleven o'clock. Every mornin' we serve a continental breakfast of a hard roll and coffee. Except for Fridays. We have bagels on Friday."
"Thank you, again," Johann said. "By the way, can I get a wake-up call?"
The old man gazed at him and almost laughed out loud. "We don't do that here. This ain't no fancy Hilton, you know. There are plenty of roosters in the area. You'll hear 'em," he said as he made a gesture toward the outside.
Johann held his gaze on the old man for a moment. He didn't know quite how to answer that. "Alright, then," he said. He gave the man a pleasant smile. "Good night. I look forward to your continental breakfast." He adjusted his glasses on his nose, turned and walked back out to his car. Did he really say roosters? he thought to himself.
A few minutes later Johann found his room and parked his vehicle in front of the door. He opened the door and turned the light on. He carried his bags in and laid them on the floor near the closet. He opened his satchel and took out a photograph of his sister.
It was a nice little room. Near the window on the far side was a coffee table with two chairs. In front of that was his bed. On either side of the bed were night stands, each with a lamp on it. At the foot of the bed was a dresser with a television set perched on the wall above it. Next to the closet was the bathroom. The ceili
ng was roughly textured, and white. The walls wore blue wallpaper.
He removed the jacket he wore, and stored it in the closet. The remote control for the television was on the nightstand. Johann placed his wallet and keys on the stand, along with the photo of his sister, and picked up the remote control. He needed something to help him relax, and sometimes a late movie would be just the thing he needed.
He sat on his bed and formulated his plan. I need to get into that hospital, and talk to doctors, he thought, what would be the best way to do that? He drummed his fingers on the side of his head as he thought. What would make these people feel compelled to talk to me? FBI would be a little strong. Nobody would believe that. He chuckled at himself for thinking something so ridiculous.
He reached over and grabbed his wallet. He opened it and started going through all the fake ID cards he made for himself. Finally, he found one that would work perfectly. He smiled as he removed it from this billfold.
I almost forgot that I made this one. Inspector for the Centers for Disease Control. Of course. That would be perfect. I could almost have carte blanche to talk to anyone I wanted to with this. As long as I can come across as believable.
Knowing the CDC is headquartered in Atlanta Georgia, Johann started to practice his southern drawl. It was a cinch he couldn’t simply show up out of nowhere, The CDC wouldn’t do that. No; he would need to call the hospital and convince them he was someone from the Center. He would tell them he was calling to let them know the CDC dispatched an inspector to investigate. He needed to find a way to disguise his voice when he called the hospital the next day.
Being a small town like this, I’m sure they’re not used to having the CDC come around. Hopefully, I can scare them enough that they won’t ask any hard questions that I can’t answer—hopefully.
Reasonably sure he could pull it off, he formulated his plan. Right after breakfast he would come back to the room and put his plan into action. He reached over and rubbed the frame of the photo of his sister. “Good night, Sis,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”