The In'Ferno Effect

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Chapter 1

Monday, February 21st

Mitch towered over the werewolf’s body he had just shot through the heart without any hesitation. He watched closely as the beast took its dying breath before transforming back into human form. Then, watching in disbelief, he saw the fur beginning to disappear as the face started to resemble his business partner. Looking down at the lifeless body of the man who killed fifteen, he proclaimed, “You’ll fucking burn in hell for all the people you killed.”

With the final taps on his keyboard, Jackson Chadwick completed his long-awaited novel. This was his twelfth, spanning the course of his twenty-year professional career. His blunt works of horror have a large cult following, some critics may say. Others would pan his work or view it as mediocre at best. His first eleven were known for their basic plot and graphic descriptions that have sold upwards of fifteen million copies. However, the lack of tangible protagonists and antagonists never doomed him as it had so many failed writers in the past. 

Jackson was far from an idealist, accepting that he was a writer in a time where originality was no longer an option, with every idea and thought already used. Because of this, he feverishly worked on adding different twists and surprises, which he hoped had never been considered in previous works. He knew his eagerly awaiting fans would not be disappointed if he successfully added these untouched gems to his latest novel.

His newest one was two years in the making, whose lengthy release could be blamed on intermittent bouts of writer's block. But wanting to create more than the typical commercial horror story and more of a literary masterpiece, he labored through the dry spells. With every chapter written, there was the hope that this one would hearken back to the days when a writer could take their reader to the edges of suspense with long well-thought-out descriptions. He even came close to the edge of madness while attempting to name his newest work, now known as “The Divinity of the Wolf.”

Still, the book itself was nothing more than a run-of-the-mill werewolf story. The structure could be considered his best, with his most ingenious plot, but just another werewolf story. Thinking it was clever, he wrote about a man who was bitten by a real gray wolf on a fishing trip to Alaska, causing his descent into the lunar cycle rather than a bite from a mythical beast. He used the possibility of the two species' blood mixing together from the bleeding gum line of the wolf, beginning the protagonist’s transformation. This was an angle that had never been written before, yet a hook with a historical basis.

His research on the subject of werewolves was impeccable for a work of fiction. He utilized true medieval legends when creating his protagonist, including fiery red hair, connecting eyebrows, and a 25th of December birth date. 

While researching the medieval legends of lycanthropy, he came across a man who lived in sixteenth-century France named Jacques Roulet, a beggar in the town of Angers. As written in the court record of this wretch, the story followed the murder of a young boy and the sight of a wolf by two hunters. They came across the boy covered in blood and a wolf circling him. They gave chase to the beast as it ran into a thicket of woods, at which point the hunters discovered a half-dressed man covered in blood and hair. They awoke the man to realize it was the town beggar, who claimed to have killed the boy by accident. While on trial for the crime, Roulet claimed he could shapeshift into a wolf, a gift bestowed upon him by his parents many years earlier. He was sentenced to death, but afterwards, he had his sentence commuted to only two years in an asylum for the criminally insane. 

This was the story Jackson attempted to retell in modern form. His lead protagonist even shared the name of the murderer some four hundred years earlier, Jack Roulet. 

At fifty years old, Jackson was fairly large in stature. Tipping the scales at over two hundred and fifty pounds, much of which could never be attributed to muscle on his six-foot frame. Instead, the excess weight came from years of overeating, alcohol abuse, and a lack of physical activity while constantly working behind his desk on his latest novel.

As was his tradition, after the final strike on the keyboard, he rose from his large cherry desk with a glass of brandy. Looking down through his gold-framed glasses, he smiled at his reflection in the large computer screen that held his novel’s grand finale. Then, he sarcastically said, “Fuck yeah… another money-making piece of shit is done!”

Continuing to look at his reflection as the computer faded to black while it shut down, he noticed a black shadow scurrying along the wall, over his left shoulder. Turning and looking, he saw nothing out of place. Jokingly, he thought that his evil antagonist had not been eaten in chapter sixty-six but had instead jumped from his imagination into the real world. Or possibly his protagonist, the unwilling werewolf himself, had become a reality and about to make him his next meal. Howling with a smile, he laughed at such a thought. 

Retiring to his dark red leather chair in the writing studio, he grasped the controls of his stereo and turned on his Puccini copulation disk. The collection began with Lady Macbeth's second aria. Then, sitting back with his eyes closed, he enjoyed the wondrous operatic sounds that began filling the air.

After a moment, his eyes jolted open, noticing the same shadow as before. Quickly crossing his field of view, his heart began pumping hard against his chest as this entity became more than a figment of his imagination. In a cold sweat, he rose to his feet to investigate the overwhelming feeling that he was not alone. But again, there was nothing there other than the overactive imagination that had made him rich. 

Years of demonic storytelling had warped his mind, causing him to see strange apparitions in the past. He believed this was just another one of those times. Sitting back down, he began to think of other impractical ideas for his next work. Grabbing a legal pad from the table next to him to capture his thoughts, he wanted to take advantage of the current state of his overactive imagination.

As he sat there, he felt the room beginning to heat up around him, causing his brow to start sweating profusely. Reaching up, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and determined he must have a slight temperature coming on. Not feeling sick, but he did remember there had been a virus on the brink of pandemic going around all winter. 

Forcing himself up from his chair, he headed to the bathroom across the hall. Looking at himself in the mirror, he saw no noticeable changes to his appearance before removing the digital thermometer from the medicine cabinet. Then, feeling even hotter than before, he returned to his chair and placed the thermometer under his tongue. 

After the device beeped, signifying its job was complete, he removed it and stared in horror at the readout. The device read an unbelievable 105.1 degrees. Never in his life had he suffered from such a high temperature. 

Dropping the thermometer on the ground, he heard the sound of glass shatter from the bathroom. He looked over in that direction before turning back to his front. Now, with his heart pumping so hard he could feel every vein in his body pulsate, he saw the shadow again. The dark form with two fiery red eyes descended upon him from the opposite wall and, with a high-pitched screech, announced, “It’s time, Jackson!” 

In intense pain, Jackson felt his upper right thigh burst into flames. Looking down, he witnessed a violent red blaze engulf his right leg, followed by his left. He batted at the aggressive flames in an attempt to extinguish the fire. Thinking himself crazy, yet the pain he felt was so real. The fire grew larger and began to consume his body, racing up to his neck and face. With his blood boiling, he screamed at a level so ferocious it seemed inhuman. Within seconds his screams and vision both ended as his face melted away. 

The fire grew with such intensity it caused his torso to split open, allowing his internal organs to spill from his body. His skin began to liquify as his intestines fell to the floor, nothing more than fiery ramparts of his former being. His lungs and heart roasted from the inside out as they charred his ribcage. His flesh began to dissolve under the extreme heat, with no possible escape from the agony. His bones crackled like logs burning in a fireplace from the firestorm that was devouring his body. 

The room filled with black smoke, and the repulsive smell of burning flesh and hair filled the air. Finally, his lifeless body finished melting under the intense temperature. His bones and muscles turned to ash as every piece of evidence of his existence was erased from this world. The flames were so hot and unstoppable they consumed everything they contacted. But, they only contacted him, his chair, the wall behind him, the ceiling directly above him, and nothing else. 

The smoke that filled the air triggered the alarm system of his large home. The phone began to ring as his life left this realm forever. The brutal death of Jackson Chadwick must have come as a welcome relief compared to the excruciating pain of the vicious flames that had overwhelmed his body. The hardwood floor and leather chair were covered in the remains of a charred human that were turned to nothing more than black ash. From a giant of a man to only one solitary unattached foot and a single silver ring were all that remained of the well-known novelist. 

Chapter 2

A Eugene, Oregon Police Car with its lights and sirens blaring under full code tore around the corner and down the street within sixty seconds. The cruiser came to a screeching halt in front of Jackson’s home, where John Carroll, a young rookie officer, jumped from his cruiser. Racing to the front door, he feverishly started knocking before noticing the smoke billowing from under it. 

With every rookie's dream of being a star, and a bit of “chrome on his badge” arrogance, he pushed his muscular shoulder through the door, racing to the source of the dispersing smoke. Stopping dead in his tracks, his eyes gazed upon a sight so unimaginable to a young inexperienced officer. 

Outside, both a Eugene Engine and Ladder Truck arrived on the scene. The Fire Chief, upset with the police vehicle in his way, ordered his firefighters to break out the rear windows of the officer’s cruiser, in order to run the fire hose through it. This was a common practice for firefighters, in order to teach their “Blue Canaries” to stay out of their way when a fire alarm was triggered. 

The fireteam headed inside the house, rounding the corner to the hall, where they saw Carroll standing in a doorway with his body trembling in fear. They slowly approached as a single unit, and not a group of want-to-be heroes. The team lead dropped the nozzle, barely missing the floor by a matter of inches, and approached Carroll. In shock from seeing what terrified the rookie, the veteran fireman screamed out, “Holy shit… what the fuck happened here?” 

The team was taken by surprise as they gazed upon the bizarre sight. Then, with no further threat of uncontrollable flames, the lead fireman grabbed Carroll by his thick arm and signaled the others to back out of the house. They forcefully dragged the frozen-in-place Carroll outside with them. 

By this time, the Duty Sergeant arrived on the scene and attempted to question him. This was of no use as his officer was pale, acting like he had just seen a ghost. The young officer seemed to have trouble remembering his name during the Sergeant’s line of questioning. Irritated, he entered the house, rounded the corner, and headed to the office. Sergeant Stevenson, a seasoned twenty-eight-year veteran, witnessed an unspeakable sight, the likes of which he had never seen.

Looking down, he saw the leather chair’s upper and lower cushions had been burnt through to the springs. A black streak of smoke, resembling the shape of a tornado, ran up the wall behind the chair, reaching the nine-foot ceiling. Once there, the smoke damage centered in the area directly over the chair. In front laid smoldering ash of what looked to be the shape of a human. At the base of the ash, there was a single severed foot. 

The only other evidence that this was a human witnessed by Sergeant Stevenson was a silver ring that rested where the right hand would have been. Other than the ring, the nightmarish human remains in the form of ash, the charred wall, the crown molding, and the ceiling, the rest of the room seemed to be untouched by whatever had happened. The grotesque image of this scene was difficult for anyone, even the most seasoned individual, to comprehend. 

Sergeant Stevenson, who was more composed than the rest on the scene, exited the house and approached his rookie. Looking over at him, he commanded, “Officer Carroll, get out your field notebook and start a chain of custody. I want you to record the name of anyone who entered this crime scene.”

In a broken voice, Carroll answered, “Yes, Sergeant. But do you want just the individuals who entered the room or everyone who entered the house?”

“What the fuck do they teach you idiots in Salem these days? I know the academy has had cutbacks, but you can’t be that fucking stupid…. everyone who crosses the threshold of this house goes on the list… everyone, got it?”

“Yes, Sergeant… I got it.”

With a look of displeasure, the Sergeant continued to dress down Carroll, “Well man the fuck up… and show me you have a pair of hairy nuts, you pussy!”

“Yes, sir, I’ve just never witnessed something so terrible.” 

The Sergeant shook his head, “If you want to be a cop, you better get used to living in a fucking horror movie every once in a while… otherwise, I’ll bounce your steroid-taking ass out of this agency so fast your head will spin!”

In a pissed-off mood, the Sergeant walked away from Carroll while pressing the button of his 800 MHz radio, “Car 27… dispatch.”

“Go ahead, Car 27.”

“It appears we have a 10-7, possible homicide at this location.”

“Car 27, did you say you have a 10-7 homicide?”

“Affirmative ma’am, I did. I need you to contact the Crime Scene Unit and Detective McCullough with that information.”

“Copy Sergeant, but Detective McCullough isn’t the detective on call this evening.”

“Yes… I freaking know this, still, contact him… I’ll take the heat for this call.”

“Copy Sergeant, the text is being sent as we speak.”

“Thanks, Dispatch. I’ll remain on scene and in command until McCullough arrives. I also need the rest of my Alpha Team down here to assist.”

Sergeant Stevenson walked to the trunk of his unmarked police vehicle, retrieving his crime scene tape. Approaching his rookie with the tape in hand, he had Carroll assist him in securing the crime scene. The Sergeant’s many years of experience was apparent as he and Carroll sealed off the entire perimeter of Jackson’s house. As a mentor to the junior officer, the Sergeant explained that a lot of evidence could be found beyond the border of most crime scenes. This fact supersedes any attempts to keep the scene hidden from onlookers.

Chapter 3

In the southwest hills of Eugene, Detective James McCullough was sound asleep next to his wife, Gina. Then, like a shot in the arm, his cell phone on the nightstand exploded through the silent air. Forcing himself awake, he sat on the edge of the bed, “Oh fuck me… what now!” 

Rubbing the sides of his face, he attempted to wake up. After shaking his head a few times, he picked up his phone and checked the text. Gina, who was still half asleep, turned over to him and whispered, “Is everything okay, baby?” 

“Yeah, go back to sleep.”

“Do you have to leave? I didn’t think you were on call tonight.”

“Yeah, I do. I guess it’s something so friggen important that apparently… only I can handle it.”

She rolled back to her other side and softly said, “Okay, just call me later.”

“I will. Now go back to sleep.”

Through his barely open eyes, he looked down at the text, which only said the address of the scene and the request of Sergeant Stevenson for his involvement. There was no crime or anything else other than to meet with the Sergeant. He pondered the cryptic message for a moment. He thought it was a strange request this time of night, and hoped that his friend and mentor was okay and not in some kind of trouble. 

He forced himself up from the bed and walked to his section of the closet. In record time, he threw on his suit from the day before. Then, with a balled-up tie in his jacket pocket, he rushed out of the house, looking like he had just rolled out of bed. After locking the front door behind him, he lit a cigarette on the fly and drove off. 

He arrived on the scene ten minutes later, looking like a zombie, and found Sergeant Stevenson’s entire midnight shift there waiting on him. Hopping out of his car, still attempting to shake off dreamland, the Sergeant rapidly approached. “James, wake the fuck up! I’ve got something shocking you need to see.”

In a raspy smoker’s voice, he replied, “Mark… it better be fucking good to get me the hell out of bed at two in the morning.”

“Hey man… not only am I your buddy… but I was your field training officer fifteen years ago… so, I know you’re the only asshole in the Detective Bureau that can even grasp what I’m going to show you.”

James seemed confused, having witnessed every form of murder imaginable, from gunshots to decapitations in the larger homeless camps of the city, he said, “Okay… first, whose house is this?”

“Jackson Chadwick’s.”

Puzzled, James replied, “Not Jackson Chadwick… the horror writer?”

“Yes, one and the same.”

Even more puzzled, he replied, “Really?” 

“I take it you’ve read his work?”

In a sarcastic tone, James replied, “Yes… and he’s the worst writer I’ve ever read. The man has no plots and uses profanity as nouns and adjectives. He can’t write a sentence without using fuck at least once. I’d rather poke myself in the eye with a toothpick before I read another of his shitty books.” 

Sergeant Stevenson smiled and said, “Well, you won’t have to. Chadwick’s dead.”

Unaware of the mitigating circumstances and in a failed attempt at humor, James replied, “For a possible lead… did you check with grammar? Because I know for a fact, Chadwick has attempted to murder it on more than one occasion. So, there’s your motive… self-defense.”

The Sergeant laughed as he replied, “That wasn’t funny… not funny at all.” 

After the joke, they approached the front door where James signed the entry log, grabbed a pair of latex gloves, shoe covers, entered the house, and followed the Sergeant to the office of the ‘missing’ writer. Once there, he was met with the gruesome sight that shocked the rest of the first responders. His eyes grew large as he gazed upon the horrific crime scene before he knelt beside the ash. Never had he seen anything that compared to this. Beginning his line of questions, he looked over the remains, “Is he married?”

The Sergeant responded, “Divorced. His wife lives up in Seattle.”

“Does he have any Children?”

“Yes, he has two sons also in Seattle, with his ex.”

“Friends, houseguests, is there anyone who knows this man locally?”

“Not that I’m aware of. All I could do was pull up his standard records. The rest of the footwork belongs to you.”

With his mouth half-open from the attempt to comprehend what happened, James said, “So we have no witnesses and a victim who appears to have been incinerated without damaging his home. I’m having a problem wrapping my head around this.”

“Well, now you see why I had dispatch page you instead of another detective. I honestly don’t know anybody smarter than you are, so if anybody can solve this shitshow… it’s you.”

James smiled at his former Sergeant, “So Mark… this is going to sound completely ridiculous. I can’t believe I’m thinking this or even going to say it out loud. I mean, this is a way out there theory.”

The Sarge raised his hands in a “well tell me” gesture and responded, “So, what the fuck do you think happened?”

“This may sound completely crazy, but have you ever heard of Spontaneous Human Combustion?” 

With a laugh, “You’re kidding me, right? Tell me you’re fucking kidding?”

James stood up and said, “No, I’m not. Think about it… have you ever seen pictures of people who’ve allegedly spontaneously combusted. This looks like a carbon copy of every photo I’ve ever seen of that outrageous claim. So, I think just maybe that’s what we have here, or possibly someone murdered him and set the scene up like they’ve seen in a picture or on TV. Maybe someone cut off the man’s foot and placed the end of it in a fire. Then they placed the leg and a bag of ash in the chair after burning just the chair.”

The Sergeant asked, “If they just burned the chair in the room, how did they extinguish the chair without leaving any noticeable traces of foam or water or whatever?”

“Good question, and one I’ve no answer for.”

“So, you believe that Chadwick may still be alive?”

“No, I think the fucker’s dead. I just don’t think that these are his remains.”

Sergeant Stevenson, rubbing his predominant chin while nodding ever so slightly, “No, that makes sense. Somebody who hated this man attempted to cover up the murder by throwing off the investigators with a scene resembling a case of Spontaneous Human Combustion. That sounds like the perfect crime, no prints or wounds on the body that could lead to a suspect, yes the perfect crime indeed. That’s why I had dispatch call you.”

James smiled, “That’s the angle I’m going to start with, yet what if… just think about it, what if… this is a true case of Spontaneous Human Combustion.”

“You know, Jimmy… this is Eugene, a city where anything’s possible.” 

Removing his pen and a disposable alcohol wipe from his pocket, James wiped down the cheap plastic pen before using it to pick up the silver ring still visible through the ash. Performing this routine would eliminate any possible outside contaminants from contacting the piece of evidence. Studying the strange ring, he questioned himself about its origins. He knew the symbol on it but was just attempting to remember what it was called. Looking up, he finally remembered it was the symbol of a Freemason. 

The Sergeant asked the inevitable question, “What type of ring is it?”

“It’s just a silver ring with the Square and Compass, the symbol of the Freemasons.”

“So, Chadwick was a Freemason?”

“How the fuck am I supposed toknow, I guess… but I don’t know that much more about them, other than this symbol.” 

The Sergeant responded, “Well, all I know is that there is a chapter up in Portland. Maybe you can call them and ask if he was a member? And if he was, they might know if he had pissed anyone off lately.” 

In a sarcastic tone, James replied, “Well, thanks, Sergeant Obvious! I would’ve never thought to do that.”

“Hey…I’m only trying to help, don’t be a douchebag,” the Sarge responded as James returned to inspecting the piece of jewelry.

After a moment, the Sergeant’s eyes all but popped out of his head as he had an epiphany, “Wait… I figured out how to extinguish the chair without a trace of foam or dousing it with water.”

“Okay, tell me how?” 

“You could smother the flames with something like a heavy wool blanket.”

“Good call… I’ll have crime scene test for samples of wool or other heavy fibers. I’m sure that some strands would have been burnt off the blanket in your theory.”

With that being said, James looked over the chair and ashes intensely. He took in the entire scene, hoping to burn the image into his head. Slowly and methodically, he moved his eyes from the dismembered foot to the chair, the ceiling, and back to the chair again, taking in every square inch in his field of view. Attention was even paid to where he removed the ring from, so he could place it back in the exact spot for the crime scene photographs. Upon the initial examination of the evidence, he noticed something that grabbed his attention. He froze in place, prompting the Sergeant to question, “What is it?”

“I think it’s a burnt human hair or one of your fibers.”

While James remained perplexed over the ashes, Carroll entered the room. Again, he fell silent at the horrific sight. The Sergeant turned to him, irritated by the emotion shown by Carroll, and asked, “What the fuck is it, Meathead.”

“Crime Scene has arrived.”

James responded, “Good, send them in, Rook.”

Carroll headed back outside, where he motioned to the Crime Scene Officers to exit their vehicle and join the investigation. The two jumped out of the van, a small-statured male, and an equally small female. They both entered the house after signing the chain of custody with their tool cases in tow. Once in the office, the male Crime Scene Officer, Fred Vernon, turned to his female partner, Jackie Austen, in bewilderment. “Jackie, have you ever seen such a crazy thing?”

“No… this is freaking incredible, to say the least!” 

James interrupted, “I want the pictures, raised prints, and any other evidence taken from the scene on my desk by ten o’clock this morning… okay?” 

He looked at the Sarge, “And I need you to test for traces of wool in the ash if it’s possible.”

Jackie, who was in the process of removing her high-resolution camera from her case, replied, “Not a problem, Detective.” 

James turned and walked out of the office and noticed something on the ground in the doorway directly across the hall. Looking inside the opening and turning on the light, he saw the bathroom mirror had a large spiderweb fracture in the center. His keen observational skills immediately noticed that the fracture appeared to come from pressure applied from behind the mirror and not from the front. He believed this to be strange enough to require further investigation. Loudly he called, “Hey, Jackie!”

From the office, she responded, “What is it?”

“After you’re done in there, could you dust for prints in the bathroom and snap some shots of the mirror for me?”

“Yeah sure… that won’t be a problem, James.”

“Thanks, Jackie… I owe you one.”