Fantasy Horror Mystery dark fantasy weird

HIDDEN CITY (first 2 chapters)

By Alan Baxter
Mar 28, 2019 · 2,088 words · 8 minutes

From the author: The first two chapters of my dark supernatural noir novel, HIDDEN CITY, published by Gryphonwood Press 2018. It's like The Dresden Files meets H P Lovecraft meets Raymond Chandler.

Hidden City

(c) Alan Baxter 2018

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Following are the first two chapters of my dark supernatural noir novel, HIDDEN CITY, published by Gryphonwood Press 2018



Steven Hines listened to the city and the city spoke.

Its streets whispered secrets its curtains tried to hide. Its walls, damp with rain, hinted at lives their occupants were embarrassed to admit. Hines let the undercurrent of over four million lives piled one on top of another wash through him.

His was a jealous city. He had always loved her, but had no idea until far too late that she loved him back. His city was a psychopath. Death walked its byways, hatred roamed its corridors, murder stalked its alleys. Their closeness afforded Hines unique skills and he was intrinsically tied to Cleveport.

His mind drifted like a dry leaf on a cold wind, searching the buildings and alleyways, as his fingers rubbed the clothing the client had sent him. He sensed hints of people almost like the one he sought everywhere, but nothing close enough to give him hope. From the relative safety of his apartment in a small brownstone on a quiet edge of town, he stared through the grubby glass pane and astrally slipped from window to window, swept the usual haunts, the drug corners and sex worker hangouts. Ten dollar blowjobs and fifty dollar baggies were the currency of the street and if he found this kid anywhere, it would probably be in that economy.

The sprawl of the city was overwhelming, impossible to cover in several nights of searching. But the client had paid and he would do his best. He would seek more as he was out and about, the legwork of the mundane PI tied together with his particular talent.

With the quarry’s psychic signature floating in his mind like a scent he searched for a match in the rain-slick thoroughfares. He toured missions and soup kitchens, trawled a dozen seedy bars and twice as many clubs, and his back began to ache from immobility in the scruffy armchair. His right knee throbbed, the old injury never letting him fully forget its existence.

The phone rang, momentarily startling in Hines’s small, gloomy home. It vibrated insistently across the coffee table.

His voice was rough, like the sleep-thickened tones of a smoker in the morning, though he hadn’t touched a cigarette in years. “Hines.”

“Mr Hines, it’s Mrs Parker. Any news on Grant? Anything at all?”

“I’m working on it right now, but I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you yet.”

“Nothing?” Her tone was strained with the inevitability she refused to admit. Always there was hope, until a corpse proved that hope dead. If there was a corpse. More often than not there was no closure at all.

Hines favored her with a gentle smile she couldn’t see. “It’s not easy, Mrs Parker. Missing persons are tricky at the best of times, but a city this size… Leave it with me. I have a lot of possibilities to investigate.” He stretched out his right leg, wincing at the painful stiffness in his knee.

Parker’s crestfallen silence spoke volumes.

He opened his mouth to offer further empty reassurance when she said, “You’ll call me though? With even the smallest news?” Grief were obvious in her voice.

“As soon as I know anything. And I’ll check in from time to time.” She already knew his strike rate was low, he’d been honest with her.

“Thank you.” Parker sighed. “Grant’s just a kid, Mr Hines. Lost in the big city.”

“We’re all lost in the big city, Mrs Parker.”

The phone clicked dead.

As dead as his chances of finding Grant Parker, most probably. Although he meant it when he said he wouldn’t give up and he had found people before. It was what he did and where his reputation set him apart. Most PIs didn’t have the ability to search the way he did. Trouble was, most people who went missing for more than a few days were either long dead by the time he discovered anything, or had no desire to be traced. More than once he had found someone who resented his success. He’d had to tell those clients he couldn’t give any details on the missing person’s request. Which hurt more than the dead, the lack of closure always worse than grief for those left behind.

Hines sank deeper in his armchair, dragged a hand across his face. Just once it’d be nice to land a result quickly and clearly. Something in the aether this night gave his talent a potency he wasn’t used to. Perhaps he was in the zone, could maybe give Mrs Parker good news yet. But seventeen, fatherless, drug-user, this city. The odds were not in young Grant Parker’s favor.

The telephone rang again. He scrabbled for it, found his glass on the way and picked that up too. He sipped burning scotch and checked the screen. Abby. “Hey, buddy.”

“Too busy masturbating to answer right away?” she asked.

He grinned, swirled the amber liquid in the tumbler in his hand. “Just seeing a client out, actually.”


There was a moment’s pause. Steven sensed some discomfort. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, it’s a work thing,” she said, reluctantly.

“Oh, and here was me thinking you wanted to go out for a drink and a bite to eat or something.”

“We could do that. My date last night was a disaster anyway.”

He was genuinely sad for her. This last guy had seemed like a decent sort. “What happened?”

“Fucking married.”

Hines barked a sound of disgust. “Scumbag.”

“Why do I get all the fuckknuckles, Steve?”

“It’s not you. Pretty much everyone is a fuckknuckle. You notice because you’re one of the few who isn’t.”

She laughed and he felt better, like he’d relieved her melancholy, if only briefly. He really cared about Abby, had done since they met in school at eight years old. He was an orphan, growing up in care, and ridiculed for it because kids are mean; she had a West Indian mother and red-haired Irish cop father, which made her exotic to some, but not enough of one or the other to most. Their mutual dislocations drew them close and the bond never broke. It pissed him off when the world was cruel to her.

“So I might need to ask you some stuff,” she said.

“Sure, shoot.”

“Off the record. The department can’t know I’m divulging…”

“Yeah, yeah, usual rules apply. What’s the deal?”

There was a pause. He heard a clicking, knew she was nibbling at her thumbnail, like she always did when she was worried, indecisive. He let her think.

Eventually she said, “Fuck it. You wanna get pissed?”

He grinned again. “You never have to ask me twice.”

“I’ll meet you at Murphy’s in an hour. I can ask you about this stuff then.”

Steven nodded, then felt foolish because she couldn’t see it. “Sure thing,” he said. “And when we’re loaded we can track down this married fuckknuckle and kick his ass.”

Her laughter came again. “I love it when you get all big brotherly.”

“I might not be your big brother, but I do see it as kinda my job.”

“I know.” Her voice was suddenly soft. “I appreciate it. See you in an hour.”

She hung up and he cradled the phone for several moments while he sipped twelve-year-old malt. Like a big brother. He really did feel that way. Perhaps that’s why the brief fling in their late teens had felt so weird and they’d gone straight back to being buddies. They’d needed to try the lover thing, it became unavoidable, but it had been a fumbling comedy of errors and just not right. If you know someone long enough, they’re as good if not better than family. Steven and Abby worked best that way and it was something they both valued pretty much above all else.

Knowing Abby’s appetite for drinking, he decided he’d better line his stomach. Thankfully Maeve Clemens had been by the day before. His friendly neighbor, her tiny body preceding her round behind everywhere she went, like she was a half-human, half-bumblebee. She was the sweetest woman Hines had ever known, and often “accidentally” made too much of one meal or another and dropped the leftovers by. Yesterday it was chicken and rice, and it served him well as ballast.

He smiled as he ate. He was the youngest resident in the building by a good thirty years, not yet forty, though he was showing a little gray in the tight curls above his ears, bright strands against his dark skin. But he liked what Abby called his old folks’ home. It was peaceful and he was looked after.

He finished the food, downed the last of the glass and stood, limped to the door. He tied scratched and faded Doc Martens to his feet and dragged a long, dark coat over his jeans and dark blue, heavy-knit sweater as a shield against the autumn cold and seemingly endless rain.

Janusz was in the lobby checking his mailbox as Steven headed for the doors. The old man’s papery white face was screwed up, a dripping cap clutched in one gnarled hand.

“Hell of a day to be going out,” Janusz said.

“Ain’t it always?” Hines asked with a grin.

He left the Pole’s wheezing laughter behind and paused at the top of the short flight of stone steps leading to the street. He flexed his right leg a few times, warming it up for walking. Sometimes it was worse than others, but just lately all the wet weather seemed to be making the old injury more of a hindrance than ever. Well, he didn’t need to hurry and he’d still get to Murphy’s well before Abby. It was better than drinking in his apartment alone.



A dank, slick alleyway on the edge of Cleveport City. Rain drips from fire escapes, runs down the walls in grimy sheets. A man, wrapped in ragged, filthy coats and socks but no shoes, stumbles into the gloom between the tall buildings, seeking oblivion. His grizzled face is twisted, permanently on the verge of collapsing into hysterical tears. He shakes the brown paper-wrapped bottle in his dirty hand. It sloshes encouragingly.

In the deepest shadows at the alley’s end he finds comfort on piles of broken garbage bags, vomiting their contents onto the old cobbles. He sinks to the ground, stifles an insistent sob, swigs. The cheap liquor burns and the pain begins to numb. He swigs again. And again.

His blurring gaze falls on a dark greenblack patch among the trash, shimmering faintly. The man leans forward, blinks. The patch is a miniature phosphorescent sea with a strange forest of minute mushrooms gently waving on dark stalks mere millimeters tall. The man cocks his head, his tired ears catching a sound like bells, like the distant voices of angels. The bottle clinks dully against the cobbles, forgotten, as he moves forward on hands and knees. He leans in, the softly glimmering domes draw him forward with glowing green, with mysterious song.

The man cries out as every mushroom top bursts, his face scant inches away. Clouds of swirling particles swarm up through the air like green smoke and engulf his head, invade his mouth, nose, eyes, burn his skin.

He stumbles backward, wailing softly as he claws the flesh of his cheeks, gouges knuckles into eye sockets. He collapses onto the garbage sacks, more rotten detritus pulsing out. For a moment, he’s still, but for the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he gulps shallow breaths.

He calms, a smile flickers the corners of his crusty lips. His eyes blink open, solid greenblack glistening orbs in a pale, filthy face. He pulls himself to his feet, strips off layer after layer of clothing until his scrawny frame stands naked in the gloomy rain. He laughs, deep, phlegmy. He stalks out into the night, a hunger like he has never known even in his deprived lifetime chewing at his soul. Car horns blare and people shout and laugh as he staggers across the road and into a small side street, hidden from the crying night again in the shadows of tall buildings.


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Steven Hines listened to the city and the city spoke. Cleveport told him she was sick. With his unnatural connection to her, that meant Hines was sick too.

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Alan Baxter

Author of dark weird horror and fantasy.