“Move!”
It was the last thing I heard before Regan slammed into me and we careened across the stone floor. The halberd -- she told me later that’s what it was — hit the ground next to us, and a voice boomed out from behind the mask like the fucking skies had opened up and an angry god was looking down on us. “Get out!”
I wasn’t about to answer, not even look back. Lindsay was still filming though, and the book — it was still nestled in the arms of the statue. “Regan, get Linds,” I screeched. Oh my god, I did screech. I fucking sounded like a banshee. But she was on it, rushing over toward Lindsay who was still trying to film the ghostly symbols dancing across the room. I was going for the book, my eyes on the ghost of Victor Hughes, and his locked on mine, as his rotten mouth worked, opening and closing, spitting out the next clue we needed. Of that, I had no doubt, but we still needed the book.
I zigged and zagged, which was totally my jam after those years on the Towson soccer squad as the left forward. The tables themselves were a maze, but no match for the top scorer in the conference two years in a row. And then the statue was in front of me, Victor’s mouth closing, then his eyes, and then he was gone, the silver spine of the book the only thing remaining in sight. And I grabbed it.
Behind me, tables groaned as the figure in the black mask stormed ahead, crashing through the congested collection of historical accouterments. “Thief,” it bellowed, but I wasn’t up for an opening statement by the prosecution just then. I turned, ducked and almost fell, felt as much as heard the swish of the axe over my head. Was he really trying to kill us for stealing this book? Is this who killed Poe? Had we led him here? Jesus fuck!
But he was already a few steps closer when I recovered, the halberd cocked for another whack, and this time maybe too close to avoid. I dodged left at the last second, and the axe end of the thing slammed into the floor and clattered away. His weapon down, he lunged, but I spun to my right, just out of reach. We danced as Poe’s cryptic characters swirled around us, Lindsay screaming at me, “Almost got it. Go go go!” I bobbed, I weaved, slipping around one of the tables he’d already broken and knocked to the floor. Fuck. If I’d worn boots and not heels, I thought, but who planned to be attacked by the Masque of the Red Death during a fun dance party?
Oh yeah, I recognized the costume, only his mask was a horrible death face made of mottled, reddish skin, as if he was a burn victim back from the dead. His costume was all black leather, ripped open in the front, the blotchy, marled skin of his chest exposed and absolutely disgusting. I cried out when his gloved fingers caught my shoulder and screamed when he found a handful of hair, yanking me back, the book spinning away from my grip and into the darkness as I whipped around, trying to free myself.
“Regan!”
Suddenly, a blazing white light erupted from the statue next to me, where my favorite recently-passed Poe impersonator was, and that ghostly light -- there was no other way to say it, burst out across the room, blasting right through the big, masked bastard suddenly with the rusty, but thoroughly deadly poleaxe — another term I’d learn later from Regan — in hand again . He stumbled, maybe half-blinded like I was. And then, in a fit of I don’t know what, maybe something from my childhood watching Scooby Doo cartoons, I remembered that the monsters were never really monsters, but just assholes. And I stepped forward, and kicked him square in the balls.
Goal!
The massive figure let out a screech that put mine to shame, and he doubled over, dropping the spear thing, and I turned and ran.
We were halfway up the ramp to the trapdoor, when I slammed on the brakes. “The book!” I’d left it back there with that asshole. And he had a weapon and tender balls. He wasn’t going to just let me traipse back down there and ask all nice-like for my secret Poe manuscript. What the fuck were we going to do?
But Regan wrapped an arm around my shoulders before I could even move. She pressed the book into my chest. “We’re good, Ses. Let’s go.”
Author Note: These mini-mysteries, which I’ve started to write as part of spin-off short adventures for Sesame and her favorite bitchachos, Regan and Lindsay, are fun, but they’re also a way for me to get to know the characters better and learn to hone in on Sesame’s voice. While I’m still rewriting the first novel, Sesame Swallow Private Investigator, here’s another opportunity to put Sesame into different situations and have some fun with her.
This is the second mini-mystery I’ve written. The first was entitled Sesame Swallow and the Xmas Caper, which you can find in six parts at NoMysteryInc, the official home of Baltimore’s Sexiest Sleuth. The first one was a straight mystery with this quirky crew. This one is more paranormal because Sesame is aided in solving the mystery by the ghost of the victim, one Victor Hughes, an Edgar Allan Poe aficionado and ghost tour guide in the fictional town of Ravenwood, PA.
I have other holiday-themed mini-mysteries planned, including a superhero team-up featuring Sesame and Sherlock Holmes, albeit a younger, hotter, more modern version that one you’re probably accustomed to reading. I’m also working on erotic mysteries for Sesame because she likes a little more fun with her adventure. The first of the erotic mysteries is done, but it’s not available currently. (I first published it on Medium, but I closed that account.) The second is half-way done already. We’ll see those soon enough, but not before I’m done with the novel.
Either way, fun times, and I hope you enjoy this little out-of-context excerpt.