SNAFU: Hunters

“I thought you said he was dead.”

Crowley nodded. “There are ways to get answers.” I could tell he was serious. My skin crawled at the notion. “Rotenfeld told me there are others working with Hitler to use sorcery to do their work. I’m going to look into that. So, time for me to head out.”

Crowley left just that easily.

I never did hear what he did for Jacques and Madeline, the people who cared for me until they could notify an army squad heading by.

That’s the whole of the story, really. I never saw Crowley again. We didn’t exchange cards or any such nonsense.

He was right. I lost two toes on my left foot. I also lost a little of my strength in my arm. I wasn’t so worried about that. I got away a lot easier than a lot of the soldiers did.

And you know what? I even got Jenny in the end. We reconciled. We married. We had kids and they’ve had kids and now there are even a few great-grand kids that come to see me around the holidays. I miss her every day. I guess I always will.

It’s almost Christmas and the snow is falling. And that always makes me think of Crowley.

There’s a strange thing going on in town lately. Not sure what it is, exactly, I just know that a few people have vanished, been gone a few days and then been seen by other folks who swear they looked like they were sickly and desperate. No one ever sees them up close, but they see them, normally moving around the river.

Last week I woke up from a dream of Crowley and I had the phone in my hand. I’m old, but as I like to say, I ain’t stupid and I ain’t dead. I looked at the call history on my phone after I woke and it said I made a three minute call to an unlisted number.

You get old enough, you can accept a lot of things. I figured I dialed some numbers on the phone when I was sleeping.

I felt that way until I got the call from an unknown number and answered it.

It was a short conversation. Crowley asked me if I was sure I wanted his help. I didn’t even think about it. I just said yes and he said he’d see me soon.

That’s why I wrote this down. See, I don’t think Crowley will do me any harm, but I think l he’ll come and see me and I expect he’ll ask me a few questions. I expect I’ll have to invite him into my house. That seems like one of the rules to me. I have to ask him for help. I have to invite him past the threshold.

And I reckon I’ll have to beg him to leave my family out of whatever is happening.

My family. They’re the ones who told me about the missing people coming back. They’re the ones who keep me posted on the latest sightings of the folks that have been called “river people” by a lot of my neighbors.

So I’ll answer his questions. I’ll ask for his help and I’ll invite him in, because I owe him that for saving my life.

And then I’ll beg him not to meet my family or talk to them and I’ll hope he still thinks he owes me one for saving his bacon back in the day.

Thing is, I’ve heard from a lot of my family. Most of them. But I haven’t heard from Lincoln. He’s my second eldest grandson. He’s the one no one says bad things about, and who, sometimes, gets the strangest look on his face. He’s the one I told this story to a long while back when he was young enough to sit on my knee, and he’s the one who likes to haunt old bookstores.

Now and then Lincoln has shown me things he bought. When he was very young it was magic tricks and books on Houdini. Later it was an occasional necklace or ring he’d found. They always had the sort of images that weren’t shown in polite society when I was a kid and everyone went to the same church.

Eventually he graduated up to tattoos. I never got heavy into the research after meeting Crowley. I didn’t want to know, you see, but I read a bit. Here and there. Look carefully at my doors and windows and you’ll see some very carefully concealed symbols that are supposed to ward off evil. Just in case, you understand.

I know enough to see that Lincoln is maybe doing things he shouldn’t.

To hunt down something that he said was minor, Crowley cut down a lot of German soldiers. A whole lot.

I can’t help but wonder what he’d do to get to whatever Lincoln might have called.

I can’t help thinking maybe if I’d never told him all those war stories when he was just a kid…

Crowley should be here soon. He might be happy to see me. I know I won’t be happy to see him. His voice was too young. I think, God help me, that the man I see when he comes here will be unchanged. I know that sounds crazy, but I guess if a man can heal from getting broken and beaten until he should be dead, holding back the years is probably not beyond him.