Shamanlock Holmes: Soul Murder Detective
The lamplight shone down in the puddles on the sidewalk. Townsfolk murmured as a dark silhouette rounded the corner, his trench coat swept in the coastal wind.
His gaze was lowered and he didn’t acknowledge their attention.
Shamanlock Holmes, Soul Murder Detective.
He sniffed the air like a feral fox and then ran rapidly to the corner of the town cafe and lifted his leg.
Was he…going to urinate?
Thankfully, no, but Shamanlock did start jumping around on all fours and then suddenly threw his head back and howled like a banshee.
He whirled and pointed a wobbling finger at an elderly haberdasher hiding behind a newspaper.
“You told him his childhood dreams were naive? You fucking monster! You are the soul murderer.”
“But, I didn’t do anything…I don’t even know what you’re…”
“I see exactly how you did it! You gaslighted him into self-repressive tendencies and then triggered him into a fugue state and ensuing psychotic breakdown.”
“I…I...mean…”
Then as soon as he came he was gone - that mysterious, strange man Shamanlock. The villagers were in an uproar. Sure, haberdasher Harry could get a little down on his son Hamish, especially when he’d swore at his teacher last week, but it was no crime.
Sadly, the peace and communal tranquility was not to last.
Two fortnights later there was a killing in the town. A young man called John was stabbed to death in a gambling dispute. It turned out the rules of poker were more…flexible…than John had believed.
Nobody knew if Shamanlock would show up, but he did.
He was already checking his watch by the time he stood over the body as if he wanted to leave. The murderer was sobbing next to the corpse, admitting that he’d done it and felt horrible.
“There, there, son. We all make mistakes. I can see your temper and the drink went a wee bit too far. It’s no crime.”
A local lawyer overheard:
“No crime? Well actually, sir, murder is generally considered a…”
Shamanlock began going into a trance, foaming at the mouth and muttering unknown words.
“Shut your mouth, law man,” he growled, then darted his odd eyes around the tavern.
“You, young lass. Show yourself.”
A blond-haired girl crying her eyes out mouthed “me?” and stepped forward. She was Rita.
“Catch t-the murderer, Mr. Holmes! He’s right there!” she entreated him.
“Oh hush, lass. When you undermined your husband John by refusing to make him a delicious meatloaf last year it caused his defense mechanisms to activate and brought up unresolved childhood neglect, triggering him into a tailspin of codependent trauma. His ensuing addiction, three-year affair, drug problem and compulsive gambling were the result of this behavioral underm-”
“Affair?”
“Shut your mouth, soul murderer!” Shamanlock screamed, stunning the tavern into silence.
The local wagon salesman Ken urged barman Jones to shut down for the night and the people wandered away as Shamanlock took Rita into custody.
“Grave crimes against the human soul…meatloaf…trauma,” Shamanlock was heard muttering as he ambled away toward his imaginary prison.