Dr Demontig - Serial Killer Read online

A long, thin black cane was raised up, and the small brass end tapped on the door three times. Within a few moments, the door was carefully opened and a rather plump lady, dressed in grey with a white apron, stood in the doorway.

  “Hello, Sir,” she said, bowing her head slightly.

  “Good evening,” said the caller. “I am here to see Mr Lang.”

  “Very good, Sir. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Dr Demontig. He is expecting me.”

  The lady stepped back into the hall and allowed Dr Demontig to enter. Demontig was a short and feeble man. His face was drawn in and his cheek bones high. He had long, straight, black hair that reached the length of his jaw line, all the way around. His eyes were the brightest of blues, and were a distraction to anyone who would gaze upon them. He was dressed in a fashion of another time, with his dark green velvet tailed coat and stockings. He wore buckled shoes, white gloves and a matching green top hat.

  “Can I take your coat and hat, Sir?”

  “No,” replied Demontig sharply.

  “Very good, Sir. I will just check that Mr Lang is ready to see you.”

  As the lady disappeared, Demontig’s attention was drawn to the fine art that hung from the walls. He was a lover of anything ‘fine’ and so he took pleasure in admiring them in great detail. A minute or two later, he was ushered into the drawing room. Demontig moved very gracefully. He walked with a soft rhythm that very much complemented the way that he dressed. The room was very ornate and extravagant. No spare space other than the floor was visible through all the decorations and collectables that covered them. Mr Lang was sat in a large chair, trying to poke tobacco into the end of his pipe, when Demontig glided in. He looked up at this interesting little man and placed his pipe down at his side, now somewhat distracted by the sight before him.

  “Mr Demontig,” said Lang, in a burly American accent. “Please, take a seat.”

  “Doctor,” said Demontig. “My name is Dr Demontig.”

  “I am sorry, doctor. Please accept my apologies. It is my poor memory you see. Too many opiates, I guess. Do you sniff?”

  “No, Mr Lang. I do not. I consider my body and mind to be a temple, which should only be fortified with fortified wine. Expensive Sherry to be accurate.”

  “Yes, of course. I have a very fine Sherry here that you may like. Please, take a seat.”

  Mr Lang went to the drinks cabinet and poured out two small Sherries.

  “Here you are. Now, I have been looking forward to meeting you, Dr Demontig. Our contact has told me absolutely nothing about you, which only adds to my curiosity.”

  “Thank you,” said Demontig, as he carefully took the Sherry and had a tiny sip. As Mr Lang headed back to his seat, Demontig’s face turned sour as the Sherry was neither fine, nor expensive.

  “So what is it that you are interested in, doctor?”

  “Well, I have been well advised that you are in the business of providing séances and spiritual readings.”

  “Yes, that is correct. Are you interested in promoting a night?”

  “That is accurate. I am hoping to cash in on this business and host a few evenings of the spiritual.”

  “Well, nothing gets people spending than a good old scare. People are lapping this stuff up. We give them dead relatives. We give them medical advice from angels. Ectoplasm. Lots of ectoplasm. Of course that is just egg whites and such, so you need to watch out for the mess. But you can get the lights to go on and off and all that sort of thing, you know a few draughts to make the candles flicker. People just empty their pockets for it. They can’t get enough.”

  “Well quite. It all sounds fascinating. So they use illusion and mis-direction?”

  “I think so. I don’t intrude on their techniques. I just organise the evening and take my cut. If that is the sort of thing you are interested in then we can sort something out. Of course, there will be an agent’s fee you understand. I charge twenty percent on top. But that still leaves you plenty of profit margin. Do you have a suitable place for the shows?”

  “Yes, I have a very nice mansion that will fit the bill. I wish you to come and view my house and we can also see my large collection of illusionist’s props. I am a collector.”

  “Okay, I’m sure I can visit tomorrow, if that would suit?”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “Well it is a little late.”

  Demontig sprung up from his seat and slowly began to pace around the room. His attention was drawn to the various curiosities that lined the walls and adorned every flat surface. Demontig began to mumble to himself as he looked around. “I like this style, but all these beautiful items, and yet he uses swine’s urine for Sherry. Ackkk…………Hmmmmm……..not a book in sight, either.”

  He ran his fingers across several ornaments and then turned to look at Lang, rubbing the dust off his perfectly white gloves. “No, tonight would suit me. I have my driver outside and he will also bring you home again. I can offer you some fine Sherry. One hundred pounds a bottle.”

  “My God,” said Mr Lang. “That does sound like a fine drink.”

  “Come tonight and I am sure that you will leave with a bottle for yourself. I am busy from now onwards and so would like to complete this deal tonight if possible.”

  Mr Lang sat down in his chair again. “Well it would be rude to turn you down, Dr Demontig. What a very kind gesture. One hundred pounds a bottle. Wow”

  At that point the maid came back into the room. “Do you still need me, Sir?” she asked.

  “No, no, no,” said Lang, waving her off with his hand. “You go to bed. You can clean up in the morning.”

  The two men sat quietly whilst Mr Lang had another attempt at stocking his pipe. He was a careless man, and half of his tobacco landed on his leg. Demontig sat staring at his disappointing glass of Sherry, his green top hat perched delicately on his lap. The silence was broken when a large bang was heard from the floor above. Both men looked skywards.

  “Sounds like a pottergeist, eh doctor?” said Lang.

  “It is pronounced Poltergeist,” said Demontig, irritated by Lang’s ignorance. “It is German for noisy ghost. I do not believe you have any ghosts in here, but I am sure there is something very wicked present.” Demontig gave a wry smile. Lang was confused by the statement.

  “Do you not believe in ghosts?” asked Lang.

  “Of course I do not. Ghost and ghouls are very much like religion. They are designed by those in power to control those who are subordinate. Promise them things so they behave, and if that does not work, then threaten them with things until they fall into line. I tell you that your great dead aunty is telling you to pay Demontig for more readings, and so you do it. I tell someone to pay their taxes or God will be unhappy, they do it. The mystical is a great way to impose power over those who believe. I do not believe and so you cannot overpower me. Anyway, I do not have to believe. Only those that are going to pay their money need to believe. Is that not so?”

  “I’ll drink to that,” chimed Lang.

  “I would rather not,” replied Demontig, who looked sourly at his still full glass of cheap acrid Sherry.

  The two men donned their hats and made their way out to the waiting carriage. They climbed aboard and, without any signal, the horses were snapped into action and the carriage shot off down the driveway and out onto the cobbles of the main street.

  The moonlight glared off Demontig’s face, making him appear ghostly. He looked away from Mr Lang, disinterested in anymore conversation.

  “Is this your manservant?” Lang said, nodding in the direction of the driver.

  “Yes, this is Dog.” Demontig continued to look away, aloof.

  “Burley big bastard eh, doctor?” Lang said, rapping Demontig on the shoulder, jovially.

  “Quite.”

  “So Doc. What line of work are you doctoring in, may I ask?”

  Demontig remained unmoved by the question.

  “Medicine?” asked Lang

&nbs
p; “No!” huffed Demontig.

  “Physics?”

  Demontig didn’t answer.

  “Philosophy?”

  “Chemistry?”

  Demontig suddenly lost his temper and swung round to look at his companion. “Really, Mr Lang, it is of no consequence what I am involved in.”

  Lang smiled knowingly. “I’ll take that as a yes. Very interesting subject. Do you make any opiate remedies?”

  Demontig huffed again, and turned his body so he was completely facing away. But then, he turned back to Lang with a sly smile now crossing his lips.

  “You are very astute, Mr Lang. I am a chemist. A rather remarkable one at that.”

  “What have you discovered, Doc?”

  “Please do not call me Doc. It cheapens me. I have discovered a powerful serum that helps me to render anyone at my mercy. It makes the victim physically dead, but mentally alive.”

  “Wow, scary stuff.”

  “Quite.”

  Demontig reached into his jacket and pulled out a large brass syringe. He held it out in front of Mr Lang’s face and Lang gazed at it in amazement. Demontig then looked up, perplexed.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Lang.

  “Can you see that in the distance?” asked Demontig, nervously.

  Lang leant forward in his seat and stared out into the darkness. “No, what is it?”

  With the syringe in his hand, poised, Demontig looked at Lang’s exposed neck before him.

  “It is Mis-direction.”