The paint on the door was peeling, but the lettering on the glass was still clear as the day he had had it applied: ELIAS HAWKS, and then in smaller letters: Things Found. In even smaller letters, these hand-scrawled on paper and glued to the glass: people found also. Hawks fumbled with the key and fairly ran into his office, knocking a rack of clothes to the floor. Technically the office wasn’t a residential let, but it had been long enough since the landlord had been by. He flipped the switch and a sickly yellow glow illuminated the desk and not much else. He slammed the dusty book, EXHUMARE, on the chipped wooden surface and as he did, noticed a sheet of paper tucked into the back cover which read – ELIAS.
“That got your attention, didn’t it? You don’t know me, but my name is Laroux. If you’re reading this then things are worse than I had hoped. I am preparing a weapon that can kill the thing I unwittingly helped shepherd into being, but if I fail, then you must be the one to follow these instructions. God preserve you.
Lauriene Laroux.”
“How did she know my name?” said Hawks, aloud. Then he looked down at the paper again and saw a little scrap folded over. He unfolded it.
“Magic. X”
The weapon. Hawks hadn’t seen any inkling of a weapon, nor any sign that Laroux had succeeded in her efforts to prepare one. He had to make his own. Hopefully that wouldn’t be too difficult. He looked at the book. It had quite a lot of pages. He opened the front of it, experimentally, hoping for perhaps a contents page that said “magical weapons … page 157”. No such luck. He wasn’t even sure if he believed this magic thing yet. But what else explained the events of the last couple of days? Well, quite a lot could be done with pullies, stage tricks, fake body parts. But stage tricks need a stage manager, someone who would know where he was and what he was doing at all times. And in service of an apparent explanation that nobody would believe?
He studied the book until the early hours of the morning, when a knock startled him suddenly. He knelt down and unlocked the drawer where he kept his Peacemaker, loading it without looking and snapping the gate shut in seconds. He went to the door, the frosted glass concealing all but the broadest details of the intruder. Holding the Peacemaker steady at the door – at this range the .45 bullet would punch straight through the thin wood like tissue paper – Hawks turned the handle and pulled it towards him.
“Your light’s not usually on this late, Lizzy,” said a concerned-sounding voice. The voice was coming from Holly, a girl who lived a floor above him and yet, somehow, was still quite personable. Admittedly, Hawks heard noises coming through the floor sometimes that might have made one given to speculation quite the concern, but Hawks was never given to speculation he wasn’t being paid for.
Well, except in this instance.
“I’m working late. Or early, perhaps. Hah,” said Hawks.

The first thing the book called for was a straight knife. A margin-note by Laroux indicated that “bread knife is right out”. Hawks opened his second desk-drawer on the left side and removed a short, very sharp knife from a plate of dinner that he was keeping in there for later. It looked like it would do, although it was substantially less vicious than the knife illustrated in the book. Next, EXHUMARE called for candles. Hawks traipsed upstairs and borrowed some from Holly, who had plenty. One perched on his desk, another on the windowsill, one precariously balanced on the mantle of the bricked-up fireplace, and a black one on the brim of his hat for good measure. The black wax dripped onto his desk as he read the next step. Heating the blade. He ran it back and forth through the flame of the candle on his desk until it seemed to faintly glow.
“The blade thus must be quenched in the waters of a pool reflecting moonlight,” read the book. Hawks looked around. This is why you read all the instructions first, he thought. This is just like the car you killed. He had no running water at this time of night. He did have a bowl which Laroux said would work just fine in lieu of a pool. Something was growing at the bottom of it. He picked up a bottle of cheap, watery vodka and unscrewed the cap. The candle on his hat burned a little brighter, and Hawks moved the bottle away from his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the bottle, and poured. Whatever was growing at the bottom of the bowl was either now dead, or having a very good night indeed. He sank the knife into the bowl, half-expecting it to burst into flames. It didn’t. More to the point, it didn’t do anything. Hawks was beginning to feel silly.
The next step called for an incantation. Hawks read it from the book, sure he was butchering it. Hopefully it’s written phonetically, he thought, his hands quivering as he rose the blade over his head in imitation of the woodcut beside the incantation in the book. I’d hate to get this wrong in front of God.

The final step of the ritual was to bathe the blade in holy water. Hawks was reasonably sure he didn’t have any of that to hand. He shrugged his overcoat back on, filled one pocket with knife and the other with Peacemaker, and strolled back onto the still-wet streets. It had rained most of the night. Hawks waved to a mailman and set off walking towards the nearest church.
Church… church… why does that feel familiar? had Hawks not been standing he would have sat bolt upright. As it was he still made the motions, but it came out more like a muscle spasm. The book had said that the dead thing would have to spend the day in a churchyard. Among its own kind. For the second time in as many days, he broke into a run down the slick, shiny street in his black dress shoes.
His feet were really starting to hurt.

The nearest church to Laroux’s would have to be his first port of call. He slipped through the gate, shot a quick glance up and down, and entered the church.
The people filling the pews stared at him. The priest stared at him. The baby in the priest’s hands stared at him. Face burning red with embarrassment, Hawks walked up the aisle, turning before the altar and descending a small staircase into a bland hallway that could have been found exactly the same in any office building in the country. Quickly he found what he was looking for. He picked up the waste paper basket. Whatever else happened, he had to get rid of these people. He couldn’t risk putting them in danger.
He lit a match and dropped it into the metal can.

“I didn’t invite him!” said Irene Diss to her husband. “Why would I invite someone I’ve never met?”
“You know why,” said Michel Diss, leaving the implications in the air. Their argument, which would later lead to an acrimonious divorce and a massive fracturing of their social circle, was cut short in this instance by the strange, gangly man re-emerging from the church basement, followed by a plume of smoke.
“Fire,” he said conversationally to the priest, Father Mulcahy. Seeming to realise this wouldn’t do it, he pulled a long-barrelled revolver from his overcoat and pointed it skywards. “Fire!” he shouted.
“No, don’t!” said someone in the crowd, which was now starting to become agitated.
Hawks lowered the gun and explained that he wasn’t declaring his intention, just trying to get the crowd’s attention. The someone said that in that case he shouldn’t have brought the gun into it at all. Hawks agreed that it confused the issue, and then calmly stated that it would be best for everyone if they left now. For some reason nobody seemed inclined to argue with him.
When the last of them was gone, Hawks offered a quick, apologetic prayer in case anyone was listening, and dunked the knife in the font blade-first.
The rusty-red stain that spread from the blade didn’t look particularly appealing, but he hoped it was a good sign from a mystical point of view.
Leaving the knife on the side of the font, he picked up the basket and set it cautiously on the stone floor of the church. It would burn itself out before long. There was a scraping sound behind him, a horrible noise like the opening of the gates of hell. And the gates of hell need some oil, he thought.
He turned, revolver in hand, ready to face all comers. Then he was spinning backwards through the air, over the altar.
His head hit stone with a red thunk.
Everything went dark.