[Hunter] Dark Web Chronicle

[NovaPheonix]

(A Messageboard based game featuring a forum and members from the Onyx Path Forums)


In the Information Age there are many wonders of technology that have allowed the world to be connected. In a world where darkness lurks around every corner, dark secrets can now be shared through the world wide web. Those who hunt creatures of the night are no longer isolated to small community watch-groups, they span across international organizations that keep the world safe under their Vigil eyes. For those who aren't part of one of these large Conspiracy networks however, the internet is just as useful. Smaller groups who would normally never be able to interact are being pulled together to form a collective. Although, those who have lurked on the deepest parts of the web would know...the internet can be an even darker and more twisted world than reality. While it may seem safe, these Hunters would never have been ready to not only meet people from across the world, but also to face the horrors that lurk within the digital world itself.

 

[SidheLives]

There are certain sounds you don't want to hear while ransacking an unoccupied home. These include, but are not limited to: sirens, a car pulling into the drive, the jingle of keys, or a door opening. These sounds all have one thing in common: they signify the eminent arrival of another person into your burglary an burglary is rarely a group affair. Delia had heard all of these sounds while working at some point in her long career. Usually they were a warning bell, leaving enough time for her to duck out a door or window and run like her arse was on fire. On a few occasions the warning bell came too late. Delia rubbed her wrists automatically at the thought, she hated handcuffs. They chafed something awful. Then her hands went back to work carefully sifting through the contents of the large jewelry box. She had learned to keep a keen ear out for any sounds that could serve as her alarm to run like hell.She had experienced a few close calls since relocating to the states, but no sightings or captures. That was how she planned to keep it, Delia had no desire to spend any amount of time in an American prison. She dearly hoped that if she was ever arrested for something major in the states that the delightfully proper authorities of Great Britain would sue for her extradition. She knew how to handle British prison.

Hock Shop Bloke

them

We got it set up. They're willing to meet with you.

them

It's got to be tonight though. Be here at 2 or forget ever getting this chance again.

me

Fine. I'll be there.

There, a real diamond ring. She stuffed it into her hip-pocket. It was incredible to her how much fake jewelry most women owned. Maybe if they thought it was real, a gift from their negligent husbands, it would make more sense. But so much of this was simply plastic crap. Delia made a sound in her throat and gave up on the jewelry box, instead starting to rifle through dresser drawers looking for cash or watches or anything else of value. That was when she heard the sound. She froze, listening harder. No hum of a car engine. No unlocking door or soft steps. She closed her eyes to listen harder and nearly jumped when her phone binged again. She cursed. Master burglar, never been caught by american law enforcement, forgets to silence her phone. She pulled the dammed thing out and checked the screen seeing two texts that had just come in. She read the messages and cursed again. Now? Of course now. Weeks waiting for just such a message and it comes when she's in the middle of a job. She shot a quick message back then stuffed the phone into her pocket as she sauntered back down the stairs. She stopped in the kitchen, one of the only rooms she hadn't been though searching for items worth hocking, and opened the fridge. The dim little bulb inside the box lit up and Delia smiled. Non-diet brown soda. She hated when they only had diet, or worse, Mountain Dew. She grabbed a can and swung the door shut before slipping out the back door into what amounted to an alley filled with trash bins, then locked the door before closing it behind her. She began walking, pulling the balaclava down around her neck and removing both of her gloves and throwing them into the bag on her hip. There was a smile on her face as she popped the top of the soda and adjusted the bag taking a drink as she reached the end of the alley. Just then she heard the car pull up and smirked as she imagined more than heard the couple discovered their ransacked home. She would cry and he would bluster as all men must do. Then they would call the police and begin the arduous task of cataloging what was missing and sitting through accusatory interviews. She stepped around the corner onto the street with a slight spring in her step and took another sip from the best soda she'd had in a long time.

It seems those texts had come just when she needed them after all.


Cordelia loved coincidences.

Cordelia Beats (1/5)


Aspiration: Burgle a home

​

 

[Vaneheart]

Office of Arthur Camden, Camden Investigative Solutions


Brooklyn, New York.


Tuesday


5:43PM

​

He sat in his brown leather office chair behind his well-used desk, staring at a rather ragged manila folder. The room was well lit, although the window shades were shut. The sounds of cars driving along the street could be dimly heard from outside; people, heading on their way home for the evening after a day’s work. His eyes focused on the blue writing scratched into the cardstock. The folder’s tab read “Munroe, Tamara”, with a corresponding case number. It was a scene he had played out many times before. The old case had been closed, deemed a tragic car accident by the authorities. Deep down he knew that wasn’t the truth. Not with what he…saw. Yet, he kept going back to it. Hesitatingly, he reached to open the folder, and then stopped himself.


He thought to himself: What are you doing Arthur? There are no more answers here. Not now at least. You might have had something, but who in the world would believe you? Besides, you’re stalling.


He let out an audible sigh. He looked around for the case folder he should be working on. His flat-topped mahogany desk was covered with a blotter, small stacks of paper, an out of date calendar, sticky notes, folders, and an old desk reading lamp. It wasn’t an incredibly messy desk, but it couldn’t be called pristine either. While there was a calculator on his desk (a TI-84 to be exact), there was no computer. His aging Dell computer (a Dimension XPS 400 Pentium D model) sat on a wooden folding table in the corner. He kept considering getting a newer model for the office, but never got around to it. He had upgraded his current model (with his daughter’s help) until he hit the upgrade ceiling. The old Dell still worked for the job he did. At least he had taken Kaitlyn’s advice and had upgraded to two large LG Ultrawide LCD monitors. While at first he figured that was too much screen to work with, now that he had them, he started to consider what it would be like to have a third.


Now where did you leave that? You know, you should really get a secretary. He considered that thought for a moment. You’ve been talking to your daughter too much. Besides, where would you put a secretary in here? The closet? His office wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination. Located on the third story of an office apartment building, the layout was much closer to apartment than office. It had a large central room, with a small kitchen/dining room adjacent; just beyond that was the bathroom with an old standing tub and shower combo. In the main room, there was a pull down murphy-bed built into the wall he had yet to use. The whole place was closer to claustrophobic than cozy. Still, it served his purposes, and it was fairly cheap, especially for Brooklyn. The place could use some dusting though. Maybe I should hire a maid?


Not finding the folder he was looking for on the desk top, Arthur checked his desk drawers. Opening the top left-hand drawer, he saw two old brown-glass ashtrays, and a half-full bottle of Jim Beam Black. He smiled to himself a little. Been a while since I brought those out. I haven’t had a cigarette in six years. He kept the ashtrays around as a reminder, and also if he had a client come in that needed to smoke. That had not happened in a while though. Seems like fewer and fewer people smoke anymore. The bottle of Jim Beam was another story. He drank from time to time, but not nearly as much as he used to. This bottle was three years old, and he hadn’t had a sip of it in over a year. Still, it's probably not the best idea to have a bottle of booze in the desk drawer. People might see it and get ideas.


He closed the drawer and checked the large one directly below it. It was filled with old case files. He briefly checked it, but he knew what he was looking for wouldn’t be in there. Looking at the folder on his desk, he picked it up carefully, and placed it back where it belonged, with its fellow archives. He closed the drawer and went to the other side. Opening the top right drawer, he found what he was looking for, sitting right on top. I don’t remember putting that there. Then again, I never do. The folder was new, and had a fresh printed label on it: Morse, Karl. He picked it up and placed it on the desk. As he went to close the drawer, he glanced at what was underneath the folder.

​

His all-black Beretta 90-Two type F pistol sat in the bottom of the drawer, in its black Galco leather holster, next to a black leather double magazine belt pouch, and a silver colored box of Hornady Critical Duty .40 S&W hollow point ammo. It was a semi-recent Beretta model. He had bought it to replace his aging .38 special revolver, which was now exiled to home defense duty. He was acquainted with the Beretta platform, having used one in both the Army and the NYPD. The decision to upgrade was possibly motivated by the Munroe case. I really should get some range time in. It’s been a while.


That would have to wait though. He closed the drawer and focused on the file now on his desk. Glancing up at the plain white and black circular wall clock, he thought Almost six. Looks like I'll be working a bit late tonight. Better get started before it gets too late.







The Law Offices of Perlman and Wright


Brooklyn, New York.


Wednesday


10:15AM

​

“So this is everything you found, Mr. Camden?”


Even sitting down, Arthur was almost eye level to the five-foot seven dark-haired, blue-eyed, handsome young lawyer. Clothed in a black formal business suit and dark blue tie, the young man looked like he could step into a courtroom at moment’s notice. He also looked young enough to be Arthur’s son. The lawyer was standing behind his desk. “Yes. The box has the pictures, my written reports on the incident: hard copies of measurements, witness statements, and testimonies, along with a waterproof USB thumb drive with electronic copies of everything. I also numbered and inventoried all of the items for your convenience.”


Arthur sat in a comfortable ergonomic office chair in front of the desk, and filled out the appropriate custody report and disclosure forms, while the young lawyer paced about and briefly skimmed through a paper copy of the official report. The lawyer frowned as he read it. “So in your opinion, Mr. Camden, it was a scam for insurance money and a fraudulent claim against my client. A “Swoop and Stop” scam?”


Arthur kept his expression calm and passive. “It isn’t an opinion when it is fact. Look at the tire marks, in front of your client’s car, made by Mr. Gurich’s car, and the additional ones on the passenger side of the client’s car. There was no reason for Mr. Gurich, or the individual to the right of your client to suddenly stop there. They were far from the nearest crosswalk or stop sign. This was also not a highly trafficked zone. If you look at the tire marks in front…” Arthur quickly reached into the evidence box, thumbed through the stack of photos in a Ziploc bag, and pulled out three time-stamped photos.

​

“See these marks here? The car in front of your client, Mr. Gurich’s car, braked very suddenly, enough to leave deep tread marks in the asphalt. Also, so did the additional adjacent car on the passenger side of Mr. Morse, at exactly the same time, essentially boxing your client in. Then, if you look here, sixteen inches back from those marks, see how they deepen again?” Arthur paused a moment before continuing. “Look at the rubber tire tread markings, how they’re especially marred at the back end?” He pointed at the marks in the photo and waited, but the young lawyer didn’t respond. “He…Mr. Gurich…stopped too soon, and Mr. Morse was able to brake in time. Mr. Gurich had to actually back up in reverse to hit Mr. Morse’s car with any reasonable amount of force, and very quickly. Hence why the back marks at sixteen inches are so marred. It’s from the shock of the impact. Now look at Mr. Morse’s treads.” He pulled out the next photo. “See his markings? They’re not straight. They’re canted, which is unusual. It looks like Mr. Morse tried to avoid the front car, but with a car directly behind him, one on the passenger side, and a guardrail on the driver’s side, there was nowhere for him to go. The evidence matches Mr. Morse’s depiction of the event.”


The lawyer looked thoughtful, but said “It is still a stretch. What about the eye witnesses accounts? They do not match my client’s testimony.”


Arthur chuckled. “Those shady helpers that were suddenly “magically” on scene to render assistance, and claimed to have seen the whole thing? They're family of Mr. Gurich. All of them, cousins and nephews. They just happened to be there. Right...” He continued “The second car that was there at the scene, the one that helped box Mr. Morse in? I tracked the driver down. He and Gurich are drinking buddies from high school. They live two houses away from each other. It paints quite a clear picture of collusion.”


“You have proof of all this? If this is a scam, how and why did they pick my client?”


Arthur frowned and considered a moment. “It might have been a random mark. The only thing I could find that tied them together was that they attended the same church on Eighth Street for a few years. Mr. Gurich and his friend might have thought your client was an easy mark. They might have observed him at church. Maybe the cash he put in the offering plate each week got them excited.”


The young lawyer silently looked at the reports and at the pictures, his face impassive, then glanced at the box with the remaining evidence that Arthur had gathered.


Finally, he said “It will be hard to convince a judge with what we have alone. Some of it is fairly circumstantial. Would you be willing to testify as an expert? Your testimony could hold some weight.”


Arthur groaned inwardly. Ugh. Court. Lovely. “If that is what is required, then I am happy to be of assistance.” He put on his most helpful smile.


The young lawyer nodded once, and then carefully placed all the pictures and reports back in the box. “I will need to confer with my colleagues, and my father, before proceeding further. My secretary will give you a call if there is anything else we need from you. Please drop by her desk on the way out and give her those forms you filled out, and also be sure to give her your invoice and pick up your check.” He opened the door that led out of the office.


Clearly this meeting is over. Straight and to the point, no niceties, his shark of a dad would be proud. “Alright, thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Pearlman. Best of luck with the case”, Arthur said, shaking hands with the suited professional. As Arthur headed out of the high-rise, he was sure to drop by the secretary’s desk and do exactly as instructed.







The home of Arthur Camden


Queens, New York.


Wednesday


12:23PM

​

Arthur drove his old cobalt blue Chevy Malibu over by his office to briefly check his machine for any missed calls, faxes, clients, or notes. Finding none, he decided that today would be a great half-day. Here’s to working for yourself he thought cheerily. He locked up and left the office for home, arriving around lunch time. Traffic was surprisingly forgiving.


His home was a small, compressed-looking two story brick house on the south side of Queens. The developers had definitely saved on space, leaving very little room between the adjoining houses, allowing for only a dismally small fenced backyard. The neighborhood wasn’t terrible, though it’d clearly seen better days. He had been given the place by his father when the old man had moved into a retirement community in Florida. The house had a tendency to be hard to heat during the winter and difficult to cool during the summer. Despite its misgivings, Arthur knew he would be hard pressed to find a cheaper and better place in New York. It served its purpose.

​

Throwing his light brown trench coat on the faded burgundy reading chair in the corner, and taking off his striped clip-on tie, he went into the kitchen to make some lunch. A ham sandwich was clearly in order. While he did so he considered the case discussion from his meeting with Pearlman the Lesser.


Insurance fraud was a pretty common crime. Everyone was looking to make a big buck on it, at someone’s expense. Investigating insurance cases and tort claims wasn’t as exciting or glamorous as the work he had done in the NYPD, or even the work he did back in the Army, but it was work. Every now and then he’d get a call from the local precinct asking him to assist on a case, though it had been quite a while. Last one was a missing person’s case back in 2011.


The perpetrators in this case were particularly sloppy. They tried a simple “swoop and stop” scam for an easy cash-in. It was an easy catch. He hadn’t even needed to use his…ability to figure it out. Simple detective work. Best not to rely on a psychic crutch that no one would believe. He barely understood how that “crutch” worked himself. Psychometry. The word even sounded wrong in his head. Even so, he still felt like psychics were all spoon-bending bullshit artists.


It started out in dreams. After initially working a case, the scene and the images would come to him while he slept, flashes here and there. Eventually they became more detailed. It was startling at first, sometimes horrifying, and Arthur thought he was losing it. As time wore on, he learned to control it to an extent, and to even use it. Now (for the most part), all he had to do was touch something tied to a scene and focus on it. It didn’t always work, the insight sometimes was unclear or foggy, or it was something he didn’t understand, or know how to put together (he didn’t consider himself Columbo), but even so, this ability had helped him quite a bit over the years. Violent cases were the worst though. The images he saw, and the feelings he felt. Like the Munroe case.


He shuddered a bit, and decided to put that out of his mind. On to more cheery things. He finished his sandwich and went to check his voicemail messages. There were quite a few from various politicians asking for campaign contributions for the 2016 elections. He hadn’t donated to anyone since Clinton was in office, and fat chance he would start again now. One message stood out, from his daughter Kaitlyn. He must have just missed her call. She sounded in high spirits.


“Hey Dad, I’m just checking in before classes start. I wanted to see how you’re doing. Figured you’d be home at lunch, since you don’t like eating at the office, but I must have missed you. School is going well, but I’m swamped with twenty credits this term.” A pause. “I might not be able to come back to visit in two weeks, it’s just before midterms. But we’ll see.” Another pause. “How do you like the treadmill? Are you even using it? Do you still wheeze walking up those three front steps? Have you gone down a size from a quadruple X to only a triple X? Do they even make clothes in five X?” Arthur gave a guilty glance at the treadmill in the corner, folded up and just getting a little dust. He thought he heard a giggle in the message. That brat. I don’t wheeze. Not yet at least. “Anyway, I hope you’re taking the diet seriously, and you haven’t started smoking again. I know how working those cases can stress you out. Now that you’re on your own time, you should take some time for yourself. Go on vacation, join a Yoga class, maybe even come visit me for a change.” Hint received, Katie. “If you do decide to visit, bring some tools. The Honda is acting up again. Uncle Frank says it’s the alternator, but you know how he is.” I do know how he is. “Anyway, I love you. Hopefully see you soon. Bye Dad!” Bye dearest. He smiled. Calls from his daughter always cheered him up, even if she was a brat. He missed her dearly.


Arthur sat on his brown corduroy couch and reached for the remote, but stopped. He thought: You know she’s right. You do have some time. You’re not getting any younger.


He moved the brown couch out of the way, and pulled out the treadmill, blowing the dust off. He read through the instructions on how to set it up, and placed it in front of the TV. Why not kill two birds with one stone?




After the workout he was pretty tired, but was surprised to find that he didn’t feel as bad as he thought he would. Maybe she’s on to something. I should look into a class. Maybe get back into some boxing or Judo, or even take up Karate? Arthur used to do amateur boxing in the Army, and picked up Judo from an on-base class while stationed in Georgia. Later when he was in the NYPD, he took a Shotokan Karate class for a bit, but the work toll at the precinct eventually forced him to give it up. He really enjoyed Judo, even though his height wasn’t exactly an advantage in the sport.


Still, baby steps first. Have to stop waddling when you walk, before you can run. He would need to be in better shape before he seriously considered it. He decided to take a shower, noting with annoyance that his old water heater was on the fritz again. One of the filaments must be going bad…again.


After the shower, he gave himself a thorough appraisal in the mirror.

​

He was tall, six-foot, three inches. He had broad and slightly muscular shoulders, and rather large hands. He had short hair, once dark brown, but now was predominately full of grey strands, with the hairline only just slightly receding. He kept his hair fairly close cut, and his face clean shaven. His nose, which was a bit large for his face, had been broken a few times, but was mostly straight. He had prominent bushy eyebrows over his tired hazel eyes. He did not consider himself handsome. One thing he enjoyed was that he had perfect vision - he had never needed glasses or surgery. His face had definitely aged though; he was no longer a young man. At 44 years old, he felt like he looked closer to fifty than forty.


He poked himself in one of his fat rolls. Yep, still fat, he thought morosely. He was just less than three hundred pounds, and had quite the wide gut for it. Given his height and his weight, he definitely spent extra on clothes. This was an especially tough break since he already needed to shell out extra on shoes due to his size fifteen feet. The boys back in the Army used to love making fun of him for that.


After spending a moment berating himself in the mirror, Arthur got dressed and went out to the living room. He sat down on his brown corduroy couch, and initially thought to watch television (Family Guy might be on), but he felt uncharacteristically restless. Something his daughter mentioned nudged at him. You do have some time.


He thought back to his brother’s long-unsolved case, and the more recent Munroe case. Weird shit was going on out there, hell, I'm living proof that weird shit can and does happen. The paranormal. The supernatural. What the hell really happened that night out at Big Moose Lake? What really happened out on I-86 near Port Jervis?


He had the time now. He was largely responsible only to himself (the divorce and retirement saw to that). He had saved enough to pay for Kaitlyn’s college and most of her law school tuition.


He wanted answers. Maybe it was time to start asking the right questions?


How far would you go for those answers?


Arthur got up off the couch. Family Guy could wait. Ham sandwiches could wait. He went upstairs to his small side office. It once was an extra bedroom for when Kaitlyn came to visit, but she hadn’t stayed over in a year. He had set up a desk and a rolling office chair along with a desktop computer, although the bed still remained, in case she ever came to visit again. This particular desktop computer was much nicer, a custom rig. Kaitlyn had built it herself, and had sent it to him as a present last year, along with a new laser printer. He looked at the ragged blue folder on the desk. It was labeled “Camden, Scott.” He was quite familiar with this folder.


It was time for some research.


It was time to find answers.

​

 

[Javabee]

Sydney Shaw kept tearing into the old punching bag with a vendetta. She hammered away with almost desperation to feel her padded knuckles punch the stress of the day away. The bag didn’t stand a chance. She punched a decent hole in one side of the bag, disemboweling its stuffing slightly. She’d have to pay for this bag since it belonged to the gym, even though the hole was there when she got there…kind of…well, she helped make it bigger, so she guesses that counts. Sydney was never one to destroy property without at least paying for replacement parts.


It was tough growing up in city torn apart by gang wars. Hell, it’s tough growing up. All Sydney’s parents could do was scrape together enough money to afford her self-defense classes and hope she came home from school every night. Fighting was her muse, her escape from reality by punching and kicking through the pain. Sydney was a good kid, or at least she tried to be. Sometimes her temper would get in the way of that when she would see some hapless student receiving a beat down from the local bullies. Then she’d find herself in the principles or the police station with a bloody nose. However, she was certainly better off than the bullies getting casts on their arms and legs. You’d think they’d start learning, but they never do. Maybe that’s why she chose the law enforcement business. There would always be business. There would always be a bully’s arm to break. But now these bullies are adults, and their crimes get worse, far uglier than stealing lunch money from Sally Sobstory a few blocks down. The Police Training Academy taught her the art of firearms, and if there was one thing Sydney loved more than fighting, it was her 12 gauge that could tame an entire room of wannabe attackers from taking that next and final step further. Few things in this world are more universally understood as the unspoken phrase, “come closer and I will end you,” than a 12 gauge pointed directly at your face.


However, when you live in a war torn city controlled by gangs and the like, the gangs have their grip over all aspects of daily life, including the police and the “justice” system. Leaving the force still gives Sydney a twinge of sadness, but had she known the corruption of the justice system from the beginning, maybe she would have become a private bodyguard sooner. Now she continues to protect those same classmates of hers. Sure, they’ve grown up and are more financially well off than when their lunch money was being taken, but they’re still in just as much need of protection as when they were seven again.


Having added the costs of the bag to her monthly gym tab, Sydney emerges onto the city streets and into the night. It’s unusually quiet. By now there would have been sirens wailing in the distance or the glass of car windows breaking in a nearby parking lot. However, as she stood, rooted in the sidewalk, she listened to the silence. Cold air crepted from the dark alleys surrounding her, and the hair on her neck rose slightly, but she kept her outward appearance of calm. The flickering street lights certainly didn’t help, but she didn’t miss a beat and continued walking to her car. She got in quietly, started her car and headed home. She did, however, took several random turns to lose any potential tails before finally heading back to her apartment.


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[Delphina]

There are some places on earth where the world seems to have forgotten. My little pocket of paradise in small town Louisiana was one of them. Folks around there still drink from wells, carry shotguns to scare away the coyotes, and believe in miracles. I used to work my minor miracles of Voodoun magik for food or monetary contributions. Now, I search frantically for an herb to calm my nerves as I do a quick cleaning of Ole Rusty, my trusty yellow Jeep. I already pumped some gas into ‘him’, now it was a matter of getting my Colt back into my purse.


Earlier, I had taken a sharp turn and heard it thunk away from me. I chewed a bitterroot, tossing aside whatever wasn’t essential; relief flooded me as I spotted it. Dull and metallic and heavy with responsibility, my Colt .38 Special revolver slid back into my battered purse. The black leather satchel doubled as a medicine bag, and I could hear little tinks as tiny jars met the Colt once again. I feel safer with it nearby, especially since La Mama died.


No, that’s not right, I think to myself, slowing my breath and getting back into the driver’s seat. Wincing with the pain of recollection, I clutch the little vial of grave dirt around my neck. Murdered, La Mama, your nanny, mentor and family was murdered right before you and you didn’t do anything!


My Jeep’s shocks whine at the sharp turn away from the gas station. The lights of New Orleans are northeast of me, and so I point Ole Rusty that way. I allow myself to enjoy the fresh air as it whistles through my kinky hair, teasing at my earrings. Soon, I realize I was still white-knuckling my pendant. I am a healer and a hunter, La Mama taught me that. The highway and afternoon sun stretch out before me, and I scoff at myself, yeah, a hunter of herbs.


My psyche was right, I had hunted a few animals before but my main skills lie in herb gathering, and trail following. I can tell you how tall a man is by his boot print, and which direction the gator went, but I feel stunted without my teacher.


Her final, determined caterwaul lingers in my ears. No, you must press on, Delphina, I think to myself. Lingering on the past welcomes unhealthy dark thoughts and that can allow you to be open for darker spirits.


“New Orleans Welcomes You!” The sunset and the highway sign greets me in a deceivingly cheerful way. My dark cheeks flush, emphasizing the sun-induced freckles and mixed heritage. I can’t explain it but I know I will find answers here, but there is a inscrutable feeling of danger and dread, too. I glance over to the passenger seat, spotting my purse and knowing it has my trusty Colt inside. For a half second, I thought I saw, or at least expected to see, La Mama. But she is dead and gone now, no longer fiddling with my radio, putting an indent into my passenger seat. I am alone now, but somehow I feel I’m on a path.

 

[Skerz1]

Outskirts of Memphis, TN


Two men are hiding out in an abandoned motel.


“Leroy, what the fuck man, Travis was torn in half right behind us!” Jedediah was still reeling from what he had witnessed a day ago. Leroy sat on the bed across from a pacing Jed. His mind racing, he grabs his bag, good his .357 was still there. “leroy, ditch the truck and get us a new one!” he screams. Nodding his understanding, Leroy jumps to his feet and runs over to the table. reaching down to a small mirror he quickly sets up and snorts a rail, then out the door like he was being chased by demons. “ that kid never does say much.” His thoughts switch back to what happened. “He was there, then shattering glass and Travis’s legs were hanging in the rear windshield, the rest, where is the rest of Travis? All we had to do was go to Union City, meet the client, and sell the dope! this wasn’t part of the plan, what the fuck could even do something like that?” Jed had never wanted to do the deal in Tennessee, but couldn’t pass up the money. He never considered moving his operations out of kentucky and Indiana, but the money was irresistible. Jed sat down on the cleaner of the beds, shaking, trying to think of anything living that could tear a living human being in two? Jed had waited where instructed. He had thought of everything and nothing made sense. how? just how? Leroy returns and throws a set of keys on the bed next to jed. heading back to the table where that sweet booger sugar lay untouched since his departure from the deserted motel outside Memphis. “Where did you ditch the truck?” “Under a bridge” says leroy. “Great I bet he didn’t even clean the blood off” jed thinks to himself. “where is the shotgun Leroy?” jed asks remembering he had left it in the truck under the bench seat. “ In the new truck Jed, you should trust me more.” I should, he has been with me from the dirt up. gathering supplies, building the lab from scraps, cooking beside me. “Ok Leroy, let's collect ourselves and figure out what to do next.” Again Leroy just nods, and does another line. Jed starts to examine the room. The flowery wallpaper from the early 60’s was starting to peel, pretty good for the joint being out of business for months. The sink didn’t work but that wasn’t important, jed wasn’t interested in running water, just staying away from whatever ripped their crew member in half.

 

[Antba]

Everything was the village, family, work, play, even my dreams, were centered around or village and our people. What was done in our village from work to play we did together. Everyone had a place and there was always something to be done such that no one ever wanted for work. For years I did not even know a word for 'alone' existed as I had never known a moment of it. The closest word we had was muerte. To be without the company of others at anytime, but especially at night in our region was to be muerte, you were dead.


The old timers say change never came to our region, that people had to leave to find it instead. As a young man I thought this was all the motivation I needed to leave. I know now it was meant as a warning. What they don't say is that change can follow a person back, and what can happen when they bring it to the people close to home. I can remember the man who returned and what changes he brought home to our village. Now as the saying goes I have all the reason I need to never return.


I'll call him Lazarus as I have forgotten his face and his name. That by the way is a trick of mine, I don't remember the faces or the names, it one little thing helps make me good at what I do. Lazarus came back with money and stories to spread claiming to be hiding out and laying low a coyote gone to den. The first change I remember came in my dreams, I began to dream of bright city lights, shiny new cars, country sides so different from my own it was like whole new worlds opened each night in my sleep.


When the Sicarios came for him I remember it was one old man and one young man, even in those days the cartels never came through our region unaccompanied. They came upon our village very late in the day. What started with talking and quickly ended in blood. Something fancy from the city and a work a day blade traded several deep cuts. Change had come again, the young Sicario and Lazarus the coyote were both dead, the villagers had scattered into the night, some in groups of two or three, others panicked and went into the dark alone.


I remember exchanging a look with the old Sicario over the bodies of two dead men, listening as distance stole the villagers who ran in groups while the darkness swallowed the ones who panicked much closer to hand. That night I had never wanted to be farther from home, and the last thing the cartel man wanted was to be alone at night in the cursed wildland of Veracruz. A deal was struck and we got out together into the morning and I picked up a new life and new knife.


You see I was in a good routine until the dreams changed. You think they would have started after the night in the house the dreams of home right? No I started having dreams of home, of the darkness the night before I woke and went to work. I know I can never, should never go home, and when I am awake I know that I never will. Asleep in my dreams I always go back, I am always alone, and the darkness always comes.


Some people say that to do what I do for money makes me a monster. I am a human who gets paid by humans when other humans die. Sometimes it gets messy. Sometimes I make it messy to make it look like monsters. I've known a few gangs that wear monster masks, or use a monster theme. Until recently the only monsters I believed in lurked in the darkness just outside of Catemaco on a series of tiny cursed islands in a best forgotten body of water. But after what I saw in that house I begin to wonder, what else lives in the darkness?


So I am looking for others who want to hunt the darkness. I am reaching out for others touched by the darkness who want to reach back with a blade in hand.

 

[Dwerth]

In a cramped back office sits a small, bespectacled individual. Quiet and reserved, you might think that he is ignorant of this dark world. Until you see his eyes. Sharp green eyes behind wire framed glasses. Wearing a suit though he works alone, the majority of his office reserved for reference books and file cabinets that provide him company through the working day.

Von Thunderhead

• Crimson Avenger
• Nov 15, 2015

You think that I have never seen a doctored favorable variance before? There are a dozen ways to cloak your dealings that are harder to find. Hmm, if that is what you want others to find, where are you hiding the real money?


Attached to the Easton Post Office there lies a small two story building with no front sign saying that anything lies within. That is exactly as Guisepe likes it: the supreme hunter finds his prey without a lure.

Uncle Sam

• Crimson Avenger
• Nov 15, 2015
• 1

 

[Fazb Ark]

“I’m not like the others; I’ll still be here when you wake up.” Richard said while thinking to himself that this is what he’s paid for and the money will still be around after she’s gone.


“I know”, she said sleepily. “It’s just that I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”


Shortly after, she was asleep and it was time to get to work. Sneaking out of bed he slowly left the room and made his way to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Better to have it as an excuse in case she wakes up rather than having to make up a lie on the spot.


Dick started his rounds by looking for the security system panel so he would know the quickest route to it so he could disable it when he returned in a few weeks. Going room to room he finally found the study.


He’d hoped that the study would be as pristine as it was on the last day her late husband stepped foot into it. Like so many widows, the study was the last room ever to be gone through. Every detail, every useless statue, every dusty book, and every valuable, all preserved in one last attempt to remember the spouse as they once were-alive.


He opened the door to the study, slowly as to not make a sound, and proceeded to enter the grand room and flip on the light. Standing in the doorway he quickly smirked and raised his eyebrow when he saw the scope of what the old man had compiled. Numerous paintings adorned the walls, all of which were of course hideous replicas of great masterpieces, or so he thought. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with grand bookshelves containing hundreds of books and dusty items. A solid (and expensive) desk was in the middle of a plush oriental rug near the window on the far wall. “I’ll save you for last.”


First he walked to the nearest bookshelf and began to run his hands across the long row of antique books, but then withdrew his hand and reminded himself that he mustn’t leave a trace here. Dust, after all, is something that is eloquent and cannot be put back once disturbed. It would be obvious that someone had brought life into this all but dead room long after the original occupant had vacated. It would be several weeks before he came back to collect his haul, she would’ve forgotten him by then, or at least had a few more “guests” that could take the blame.


Several heavy books caught his eye, obviously old first editions that could fetch a very pretty penny.


His eyes then darted to the fire place next to the bookshelf. Two antique dueling pistols hung over the gaudy and ornate marble mantle. “Hmmmm, very nice” Dick muttered under his breath.


He moved to the next bookshelf past the fire place. A wooden display box was on the top shelf and he could see a gold pocket watch. It looked like a family heirloom. A few more books caught his eye and he made a mental note of their placement on the shelf.


Finally, it was time to search the desk.


He had just enough time to realize the drawer to the desk was locked before whipping around to see the silhouette of a silver fox in the doorway, the dim light creating a provocative (and oddly arousing) figure.


“What are you doing in my husband’s study!?” She asked in an accusative tone.


“Just got up to get some water and I was looking for the little boys’ room, but I guess I was a bit lost, easy to do in a house that is more of a maze than a house.”


“Well, you just come back to bed,” and she grabbed his hand and drug him out of the study. Dick looked back at what he had just found, “I’ll be back for you” he thought as he finally turned away and followed her down the long hallway to her chamber. He loved when they wanted him to stay the night; it normally meant breakfast the next day. Also, this house in Pasadena was a lot nicer than his apartment in LA.

 

[Vaneheart]

The home of Arthur Camden


Queens, New York.


Wednesday


6:43PM

​

Arthur had been scouring the internet for a while, looking for as many stories surrounding Big Moose Lake as he could find. It was haunted, according to some. He had been unaware of the folklore, all those years ago.


Located the Adirondack Mountains, Big Moose Lake is a rather large lake, around three miles long, and one mile wide. The lake covered over a thousand acres, and could get very deep. Sporting a number of cabins and docks, it was regarded as a good place for fishing and other water sports. It was also remote, and the lakeside cabins were not that expensive, for New York at least. That’s why we had chosen it: cheap, remote, and good fishing; a place where two brothers could have a good time, away from the bustle of city life.


Legend stated the lake was haunted by the ghost of Grace Brown, who had been murdered by her lover, Chester Gillette, out on the lake. Various sightings had described her ghost as a woman in a white dress, sometimes roaming the Big Moose Inn, or even in the lake itself. Interestingly, but not surprisingly, Mr. Gillette proclaimed his innocence of the crime all the way to the grave. Arthur saw a book detailing the case on Amazon that looked decent, and he decided to order it.

​

Her ghost wasn’t the only eerie being that supposedly roamed the lake. There were various other sightings and numerous claims, ranging from Bigfoot, a hockey-mask killer, fairies, other ghosts, poltergeists, and even the Jersey Devil (who must clearly be lost if he was that far north). Despite all these sightings, the murder and disappearance rate in the area was low for New York.


Arthur remembered how the lake looked that day. Covered in a cold mist, the lake felt peaceful.

​

Yeah, very peaceful. You’re a great detective. Sam Spade would be jealous. If you had been smart, you would have stayed home, got drunk and watched football with Scott instead. Maybe set up a tent in the back yard and told ghost stories. To this day, Arthur couldn’t remember clearly what had happened to his brother Scott. It was all a drunken blur of mist, shadows, and darkness. The screams. The screams were the worst.


He never saw Scott again.


Arthur became agitated with himself, and frustrated with his search. His results had come up less fruitful than he had hoped. Even so, he had printed out some promising articles, but they linked to additional printed works that were not directly available. He had also printed out a number of maps of the lake that he taped to the wall for reference, which were covered in yellow post-it sticky notes.

​

I should get a post-it board. Arthur figured he could get some of the extended sources off of Google books, Lexis Nexis for the specific case files, and EBSCOhost for old works, but he had gone through that before, years ago. You might want to consider some alternate routes. Put some more tools in the mental toolbox. It's not like ghost stories and occult lore get scholarly peer review.


He felt that he just didn’t know enough about the supernatural. The paranormal was a wide field to look at. Psychics? Ghosts? Poltergeists? Bigfoot? Time to broaden my perspective.


Arthur decided to hit up Amazon.com for a few more resources he might need for the research. While he didn’t mind using the desktop computer, or his Android tablet for the work he did, Arthur still preferred real books for long-term reading. He felt that too much time spent staring at a electronic screen was hard on the eyes, and there was something familiar and comforting in the feel of a book.


Arthur spent some time pouring through Amazon for some occult works, mumbling to himself as he did so. “Hmm…The Occult, by Colin Wilson…alright. Ah, and he also has a book titled The Supernatural…that’s convenient. Five star product rating even.” He added the books to his checkout basket. “Hmm, The Key of Solomon the King: Clavicula Salomonis…I think that’s where my lucky amulet comes from. I’ll add that too.” Before too long, I’ll need to get a new bookshelf for this office, this new war room of mine. Maybe I should move this operation to the basement? Kaitlyn will think I’m crazy if she sees any of this. He was browsing for cheap bookshelves when the upstairs phone rang. He frowned and checked his watch. It was after seven.


Arthur went to his bedroom and picked up the handset of the cordless landline phone, and glanced at the caller I.D. It was from Kaitlyn. Two calls in one day? That’s ominous. He answered the phone. “Hello?”


She sounded excited that he picked up. “Hey Dad, I’m glad you’re still up. Are you busy?” Still up? It’s only 7:15PM; does she think I’m in my seventies? Still, he was grinning “Hi Katie. What’s up?” She continued “I’m doing some research for a paper. It’s for a criminal justice class, and the subject matter is true crime. Guess what I found?” Arthur figured it could be anything. The world was a dangerous place, with an overabundance of crime, but he curiously wondered what could have gotten his daughter excited enough to call him a second time in one day. “What was it that you found, my easily animated daughter?” She paused for effect, before stating rather flatly:


“You.”


Arthur blinked in surprise. “Me? You’re right; I would not have guessed that.” He briefly paused, still a bit surprised, before responding “What is it about? Did I make the Guinness world record for the most donuts and coffee consumed in a single stakeout?” She laughed. It was a good sound to hear. “Ha! No dad, not that, although I’m sure you made a lot of headway there. No, it was about the Leo Rayne case.”


He froze, almost dropping the handset, as an electric chill passed up his spine. “You remember that, Dad, back in 1993? The Greyven family murders in New York? I remember hearing about it later. Wasn't it all over the news at the time?”





How could I forget?


Arthur’s voice was uncharacteristically cold as he flatly stated “I remember.” She paused a moment, perhaps noting that something in his tone, before continuing. “Well, you never mentioned to me, mom, Uncle Frank, or anyone that you were involved in it. But here you are in this photo about the case.” She paused, and sounded like she was thumbing through something, maybe a textbook. “Here. The Leo Rayne and Karl Lesky murders: A Case Study, page one-fifty-one. You’re the third figure from the left, standing in the back. Officer Arthur Camden, NYPD. Wow, you were a lot thinner back then. Young too, you look around my age.” That’s because I was your age, brat.


Her voice darkened. “Are you leaning on a crutch? Why are you leaning on a crutch in this picture?” He could clearly picture the disapproving frown she had. He didn’t respond, so she kept narrating her findings. “Looks like overall credit for the capture…kill, went to an Officer Albert Holden from the NYSP, New York State Police, Highway Patrol Division. Karl Lesky was apprehended later, at Manhattan General Hospital.” She then asked, in a somewhat stern and lecturing tone “How come you never mentioned anything about this, to anyone?”


Arthur was momentarily at a loss for words. He hadn’t thought about that case in over twenty years. He carefully considered his next words, before letting out an audible sigh. “Well Katie…” He paused. “I didn’t really play an important role in it.”


An image momentarily flashed in his mind of the cold darkness of a winter night, more than twenty years ago, of a monstrously huge and heavily-muscled, long-haired man in a stolen brown highway patrol jacket, lying face down in the red-soaked snow. His right arm and massive hand was outstretched to a small caliber pearl-handled stainless revolver, his fingers just inches out of reach.


The memory passed, and he continued carefully “I was on guard duty at the hospital, and I failed to apprehend Leo when he tried to make his move.” He continued in a lighter tone, hoping for a little levity. “Hell, just about everyone was on duty those awful nights, a full show of force, especially with how big that case got. Later on, I was on site when they found him and carted the body away.” She seemed genuinely surprised. “You were on guard duty? When he broke into a secure Manhattan General ICU ward to get at Naomi Greyven?”





Naomi Greyven.


He hadn’t heard that name in a long time either. “Wow Dad. You sure got lucky. It sounds like that man was really dangerous. You could have been seriously hurt, or even killed.” You have no idea my dear. “He killed at least six people, including experienced police officers.” She paused, considering. “Wow, so it really was you in this picture. My dad is in a book.” She sounded a bit impressed.


Arthur frowned. “Well, it’s just one photo, it doesn’t really count.” He stated rather matter-of-factly “I’m already in a high school yearbook, so I’ve already made it into a book. No big deal right?” She snorted a laugh. “Those definitely don’t count. Alright, well, if I send my paper to you, will you look it over? Maybe give me some of the inside details about it? It would be great if we could talk about the case. You know, give me a fresh perspective. Are you still at that Yahoo account?” He considered her request. “Yeah, still at the Yahoo account. Alright, I'll take a look at the paper. Do you know if you’re going to be able to make it home to visit yet?” She responded “Not yet, but I’ll know soon.”


“Alright, let me know. I would love to see you. It’s been a while.” She sighed. “I know, I want to see you too, but you know how it is.” I sure do know how it is. “Anyway, thanks Dad. I have to run. I love you.” He smiled and replied “I love you too. Have a nice night. Don’t get into too much trouble.” She hung up. He pressed the end button.


That conversation was unexpected, he thought grimly. Calls from his daughter usually cheered him up, but this one left him a little troubled. He hadn’t been completely forthcoming with Katie, but he hadn’t lied either. He still hated himself for withholding things from her. Some things are just better left dead and forgotten in the snow. He hoped that helping with her paper would suffice. He did not want to discuss the case any more than he had to, especially not in regular conversation, or for a class.


After placing the phone handset back on the cradle charger, Arthur returned to his small office. On the way, he glanced at a wooden framed picture of himself in the hallway as a young man in a police officer’s uniform.

​

He considered the picture a moment, taking it off the wall. That seems like a lifetime ago. He placed it carefully back on the wall and returned to the small office room.


He yawned, and sat back down in the black leather office chair. It’s only 7:40 Arthur, you can’t be tired already. You’re not an old man. Arthur briefly wondered if his father, who had retired to Florida, went to bed this early.


He went back to looking up bookshelves on Amazon. I wonder how much the shipping will be? Maybe I should get an Amazon Prime account. He yawned again, his eyelids drooping. He leaned back from the computer screen, and considered getting a glass of water as his head sagged down towards his chest


He fell asleep.


And dreamed.







I know this place. Arthur looked around. He was in a dimly lit single-bed hospital room, in the secure ICU wing of Manhattan General. He was sitting in a plastic pale-green chair, across from the matching green door that led out into the hospital hallway. Through the one small square window he could see it was dark outside.


He glanced down at himself. He was wearing his old blue police officer’s uniform, complete with his old black leather basket-weave-pattern duty belt, and his old trusty Beretta 9mm sidearm. He looked at his hands and physique closer and realized he was not a young man as he was when he served on the force, but rather as he was now, much older, and much heavier than the last time he had worn this particular uniform.


He blinked in confusion before his eyes were drawn to the steady sounds of beeping coming from a Connex vital signs monitor. Arthur studied the young woman lying on the hospital bed, her head and face covered in white gauze bandages. She was blonde, and had previously sported long straight hair. Her eyes were closed, but he remembered them being onyx, a peculiar color. Her right eye was puffy and bruised. Her face was thin and angular, and she was tall with an athletic build. Even in this state, however, her attractive features shone through.


I know her. Naomi Greyven.


Her assaulter had beaten her with a club, before he brutally sliced her face with a knife. Her would-be killer had also attempted to scalp her, and partially succeeded. She barely survived the ordeal. In the future, she would have a facial scar from this, though it would mostly fade with plastic surgery and time. Her hair would never be the same, even with implants and surgery. She would still be beautiful, if different. She had been sedated, as other than a mild concussion, she was not expected to be a coma risk.


He remembered he felt immensely sad for the unfortunate young woman. She had worked at a small bakery, and had been swept up into this whole affair against her wishes.





Karl Lesky and the Will, that’s what started it.


His attention was suddenly diverted from the patient by heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway outside. Rising from his seat, Arthur moved to the door and looked out the small wire-glass window. He saw nothing in the dimly lit hallway. He still heard the ominous footsteps.


He cautiously opened the door and peered into the hallway.

​

He saw nothing, yet he continued to hear the heavy footsteps echoing from further down the hall, slightly to the right. He shut the door quietly behind him, and was both surprised and annoyed to see that, unlike the real incident, there were no additional officers outside guarding Naomi Greyven’s door. He reached down to his duty belt for his flashlight baton to illuminate the unusually dark halls, yet found that it wasn’t on his belt. Well that stinks. Better risk it.


Arthur carefully moved further down the corridor at a quick pace. The heavy footsteps grew louder. He felt he was nearing the source. Just off to the right. He crept around the corner.


And saw a dark silhouette at the end of the hallway.

​

He recognized the silhouette...a very tall, broad shouldered figure, with a menacing stance.


Leo Rayne.


The dark figure disappeared around another corner and continued walking away. Arthur quickened his pace, and pulled his Beretta from the snap holster. He thumbed the safety off. Not this time fucker. Not this time. He advanced to a run, almost sprinting in pursuit of the figure. Even so, his quarry continued to be elusive. The silhouette lingered just out of sight, vanishing around the next winding corner in the darkness. The hallways seemed to stretch unnaturally long, as if the building itself was eagerly trying to prevent Arthur from reaching his target.


He knew where Leo was headed. He remembered. The first basement level, where he escaped out the fire door. He frowned momentarily. I had a Mossberg shotgun that time. He looked down at his hands and grinned. His Beretta had become a Mossberg 590 shotgun.

​

Arthur racked the slide, chambered a twelve-gauge buckshot round, and thought grimly: I’m putting you down motherfucker. This time I won’t miss. He was filled with a cold rising anger and grim determination. He thumbed the safety off the shotgun.


Arthur quickened his pace to a dead sprint, his shotgun held in a patrol carry position. He turned the corner where he knew the door to the hospital stairwell leading down to the basement would be. His breathing was heavy from exertion, but he was unwavering in his determination to continue. Arthur raised and shouldered his shotgun as he quickly spun around the corner, sweeping rapidly to catch his target in his sights.


He saw nothing.


Not even the door he expected, just a dead end wall that matched the pale green and brown walls of the dreary hospital hallways. Arthur paused, confused, and lowered the shotgun down to a low ready position.


What the hell? This isn’t right.


He turned to check behind him. The hall he had just come down stretched on, but he heard no more footsteps, and saw no sign of the shadowed figure. Frowning, Arthur sighed, and slowly turned back around to check the dead end again.


And Leo Rayne was suddenly right there, inches in front of him.

​

Leo was just as bestial and monstrous as Arthur remembered him. He was freakishly tall, much taller than even Arthur himself, and built like a linebacker, with hugely muscled arms and shoulders, along with a slim athletic waist and powerful legs. He was wearing a black hoodie underneath his black leather long-sleeved biker gang jacket, along with faded and dirty blue jeans, black leather finger-less gloves, and huge black leather Acadia combat boots.


Arthur was momentarily stunned. The killer went from a scowl to a slow, wide grin of recognition, displaying his crooked and yellowed rotten teeth from years of heavy meth use. Leo’s black hood fell back seemingly on its own accord. Strands of his sweat-covered long black hair hung in front of his long angular face, covered in black stubble with an unhealthy sheen to it. His wide and wild deep-set onyx-black eyes held both crazed amusement and dreadful menace. He had a stare like a predatory animal.


Leo growled in a gravely deep voice,“You...,” before he started to slowly chuckle, the sound resonating from deep within his throat. Absurdly, it seemed that Leo was pleased to face Arthur again.

​

"Motherfucker...!" Arthur frantically tried to move, but he was too slow, and it was too late. Leo’s massive left hand quickly shot out and grabbed Arthur by the collar of his uniform. He yanked Arthur closer, simultaneously positioning his forearm and shoulder to pin the shotgun across the officer’s chest. Arthur struggled, and remembered that Leo was freakishly strong. Whether that strength came from years of lifting weights, using steroids, or heavy amounts of crystal meth was anyone’s guess. It was probably a combination of all three.


As Leo firmly held Arthur in his grasp, he easily lifted Arthur off the ground with only his left hand. Arthur continued to struggle, but could only watch in terrifying horror as the killer raised his right hand, which held the wicked bleached-bone handled hunting blade that Leo would forever become famous for. The blade glistened in the dim hospital light, as if it was already wet from blood.


Leo swiftly drove the blade in for the kill as his slow, deep, maniacal laugh filled the air.




Arthur woke from the dream with a violent start, almost falling out of the black leather chair. Fuck! Holy fuck! He frantically spun around, looking at all corners of the room, expecting an attack from the shadows at any moment. He was drenched in sweat.


The long dead killer’s word echoed in his head. “You…” as well as that slow and gravely laughter. Arthur quickly ran his hand across his gut and his chest, checking for wounds. Nothing, I’m still here. I’m still all in one piece. He frantically checked his scalp for good measure. His hair was still there. He looked around the now dark room, lit only by the soft glow of LCD screens, displaying the Assassin’s Creed screensaver his daughter had installed on the computer when she last visited. He gathered his composure and took a moment to slow his breathing. He placed two fingers on the right side of his neck to check his pulse and heart rate. Wow Arthur, you’re losing it. You’re going to give yourself a coronary. Leo Rayne is dead and gone.


He glanced at his watch. 10:22 PM. I dozed off in the chair. It must have been all the exercise earlier. Maybe I was more tired than I thought?


His earlier conversation with Katie had brought some painful memories to the surface. Arthur got up from his chair and went to the upstairs bathroom to get a glass of water and wash his sweat covered face. Dabbing his face dry, he glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked old and tired. He had seen that face many times over the recent years, yet he wasn't sure he liked it anymore.

​

If you had to tangle with anyone like Leo Rayne now, you’d be in bad shape. You’re not as young or driven as you used to be.


Arthur briefly considered going to bed, perhaps the wisest choice at this hour, but he was still on edge from the nightmare. Looking back at the office and the now-cluttered computer desk, he pushed the errant memories to the back of his mind. No reason to get worked up over a long closed case.


He shrugged to himself (an attempt to loosen the tension in his shoulders, more than anything else) and sat back down in the chair. He was determined to do more research. It was still early. There was still more time.

 

[Javabee]

An average weekday, and average life as an average bodyguard. Sydney follows her client – side by side – almost like a couple, though if anyone asked, she would muster up a cute laugh and say, “Oh no, he’s just a friend. I’m no gold digger!” Worked every time. Sydney is slight, and wears a good amount of layers in the cold weather of Fall. She could be any dumb brunette, following a millionaire like a doe-eyed puppy. This millionaire, Owen Michaels, was an old schoolmate of Sydney’s. He remembered how she stood up for him and they had kept in contact over the years. When he heard she was leaving the police force and looking for work, he immediately offered to hire her as his personal body guard. It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Bodyguard work was certainly easier than police work, and this time, Sydney can be her own boss. The pay was significantly better than the PD ever was, and she enjoyed her client’s company and he enjoyed hers, but it was never like that.


Mist surrounded the two as they walked quickly down the sidewalk to Owen’s next meeting. He was preoccupied with his cell phone talking with potential bidders, but Sydney was playing dumb as a fox. Her eyes scanning every possible threat. Suddenly, out of the fog, two thugs in baggy jeans and hoodies loomed in.


“Where’s your money, ass hole?” One thug said.


Owen and Sydney halted. Sydney quietly slipped her hand into her pea coat, resting her fingers on the handle of her .45.


“No one here to protect you, you rich, dumb fuck. Cute girlfriend, though. Wanna kiss, bitch?” The other thug said.


“I’m sorry, do I kno—,” Owen began to ask when the thugs pounced upon them. Sydney was ready for them, sliding in front of Owen, putting her body between the attackers and her client, she quickly drew her gun while with one hand while she blocked one thug’s wailing roundhouse punch. One shot to the kneecap brought him crumpling down in a heap of blood and screams. The second thug didn’t see the Billy club appear from her jacket before it was struck hard against his face with a resounding CRACK, breaking his jaw. He, too crumpled to the ground in a puddle of blood and gurgling whimpers. Sydney stood over him.


“The only thing you’ll be kissing is pavement…bitch.” Sydney said as she holstered her gun and stowed her Billy club. She turned to the very shocked Owen, still frozen in place, phone clutched in his hands, and said, “Better call the police, Owen. This is their mess, now.” The thug with the busted knee cap moved a little and a glimmer of silver fell out of his baggy jeans.


“What’s this?” Sydney asked the thug.


“Fuck you, bitch!” He grunted in pain. She gave his shin a soft kick and he screamed in agony. She stooped down and retrieved the item. It was an ornate silver necklace. The pendant was intricate. Sydney couldn’t recognize what symbol the pendant was. She checked the clasp to find it was 100% silver. She looked at the pendant.


“Wow, this doesn’t look like a regular gang symbol I’ve ever seen. Where the hell did you get this?” The thug wrenched his head up until their eyes met.


“You don’t wanna know, bitch.”


“Honestly, is that the only word you know? I’m going to find the rightful owner of this necklace and have it returned.” Sydney said, casually placing the necklace in her coat pocket.


“Won’t do you any good," he muttered. "She's already dead. She was dead when we found her. OD’d chasing the dragon.”


The police arrived to the carnage strewn before them.


“What the hell, Sydney?” A cop asked, approaching Sydney and Owen.


“Why do you always go for the kneecap? Those things don’t grow back, you know?”


“I’m more worried about my client’s life than some thug’s kneecap, Riley,” Sydney stated.


“If you would be so kind to get my client’s report of the incident, he’s late for a tall drink before his meeting.”


After the reports were written, Sydney guided the still numb Owen to a pub and bought him a shot of Jack and told him to nurse it. As they sat at the bar, she took out the necklace from her pocket and held the heavy pendant in her fingers, reaching for any idea of what this symbol could mean.


“If that thug was right, and the woman was dead when he took it off her, maybe I could do a little research on this thing before I turn it in…” Sydney thought. She delicately wrapped the chain around the pendant and placed it in a bar napkin before putting it back in her coat. She then ordered herself a shot of whiskey.

 

[SidheLives]

It was a brisk night and Delia was glad for her layered coats and the balaclava acting as a scarf around her neck. She rubbed her hands together for warmth as she walked down the darkened streets then found a pair of fingerless gloves in her bag to pull on. Catching sight of the pack of cigarettes in her bag she pulled one out and slipped it into her mouth, her fingers automatically finding the zippo in her right back pocket, lighting the cigarette with one snap, and sliding it back in one smooth practiced motion. The first drag was always the best and Delia always made sure to enjoy it. The menthol cool warm air pulling into her lungs, the way the cherry brightened as you inhaled, and on a quiet night like this, the soft sound of the paper crisping to char. She exhaled slowly, tasting the smoke as it passed through her mouth again. There were a few things that she would splurge on, and nice cigarettes were always one. She couldn't stand American cigarettes though, tasted like chemicals and arse. It was while trying to import French cigarettes (yes yes, the French are terrible and they suck at football and everyone should hate them but dammit they rolled a nice cigarette) that she had met the bloke at the hock shop. He worked a lot of under the table imports and exports so he was able to keep Delia stocked with foreign tobacco at a reasonable cost. The fact that he also had no problem buying stolen goods and providing illegal substances was also nice. When Delia had found out about his more large scale import and export operations she knew there was another entity involved, because there always is. It doesn't matter what country you're in, there are always men with accents in expensive suits who are "honest businessmen" and "pillars of the community."


Cordelia liked those men.


Those men paid well when they needed something. They were loyal to those who did good work for them. And they were careful.


Cordelia wanted to know these men.


She had started asking the bloke at the shop (Tommy, well Tom, but she called him Tommy) to get her a meeting with one of these men over six months ago. She said if he got her the meeting she'd take care of the rest. But the little wanker was terrified of rubbing those Armani suits the wrong way and refused to be so up front about it. He said he'd been talking her up, subtly, about her skills and the reputation she left behind in England. After a few months people had started to recognize her name Tommy said, people started asking him about her. But not enough to move on it he said. She'd wanted to strangle him. Delia had been many things in her life, but patient wasn't one of them. It was a little over a month ago that he told her he had found someone to meet with her. She'd been practically sweating the entire time. She doubled she would cock it up hard enough to get herself on a hit list, but she could end up on a blacklist, and if that happened she may as well pick another country and move. Being blacklisted by any mafia, if it was big enough, was enough to kill you as a criminal. It was like being stranded in a desert. No one would buy from you, no one would sell to you, and no one would give you a favor. She'd only seen it happen to the full extent once before, right before she left London.


...He really shouldn't have killed that woman.


As she had the thought a flash of memory went through her, a dream, the dream. The screaming and the blood. She stopped walking and closed her eyes tight carefully breathing. As quickly as it had started the moment passed and Delia continued on her way as if nothing had happened.


She stopped again just outside a tube station (subway? that sounded right) and flicked away the butt of the depleted cigarette. The tube would be the fastest way to get there. She considered it for a moment, she even put her hand on the rail leading down. Then she shook her head and turned away, heading up the street on foot. One terrifying flashback was enough for the evening. She didn't need to go looking for another. It's fine she thought as she pulled out her phone to check the time, she could walk and still make it to the shop before two. Besides, it was a lovely night.


Just then, to the east, a roll of thunder cascaded through the sky.

 

[SidheLives]

It was 11:33pm exactly when Arthur's office telephone rang, the loud sound discordant with the still night. Compared to the quiet surrounding Arthur in his fevered research the ringing phone sounded like a scream. A scream that echoed through the night and seemed to go on and on.

 

[Vaneheart]

A Wendigo? What's a Wendigo? Arthur was still researching online, when the phone rang. I guess it can wait. I wonder who is calling me this late? Maybe it's Katie again. He looked at his watch. 11:33PM. It was way past his usual bedtime.


Arthur moved from his makeshift office to his bedroom and picked up the handset of the cordless landline phone, but in his rush to get there, he neglected to check the caller I.D.


"Hello?" he said, trying not to sound out of breath.

 

[SidheLives]

"Hello?! Hello?!" The voice on the other end of the telephone sounded breathy and panicked, and barely over a whisper. "Is this Arthur Camden? The detective?" The man sounded out of his mind with terror, he didn't wait for a response to his question and kept going in the husky crazed voice. "Oh god please, you've got to help us. I know you, we all remember what you done, you've got to help us." A baby started crying in the background and several voices, male and female shushed the child. "Something isn't right Mr Camden, we need your help. The police won't listen, they think we're crazy. But we've all heard the sounds at night and seen... things out the corner of our eyes." He stopped speaking as he caught his breath. "Tonight is worse, so much worse. You've got to help us please, we got no one else to call." Finally the man quieted for Arthur to reply. There was no husky breathing, just the soft sound of a baby whimpering and the tight tension as the man on the other end of the phone waited to see if Arthur would help, or abandon them like the police had done.

 

[Vaneheart]

Arthur listened carefully to the whispering and panicked voice on the phone. He was a little surprised, as Arthur usually did not receive work-related calls at home. How did they even get this number? And they "know me" from something I've done? My work is typically really mundane and boring. Sounds like they might be on drugs. Still... He briefly considered telling the man to call back at his office in the morning, but recalled some of his own experiences, and how far out there they might sound to someone else. The poor guy sounds terrified. Might as well at least hear him out.


Arthur carried the handset back to the makeshift office and dug out a lined notepad and a pen. While he did so, he calmly replied in a professional tone "Yes, this is Arthur Camden of Camden Investigative Solutions. If I am to assist you I will need more information from you." He paused momentarily, before continuing. "I need you to calmly tell me your name, and a number I can reach you at. In addition, I need to know everything in detail about this situation, where it has been occurring, and what you told the police or any other agency included in this matter." He carefully began taking notes. "Every bit of detail, no matter how inconsequential it may seem, could be important to the case."

 

[SidheLives]

The man on the other end of the phone sighed and the small sound was filled with relief. When he began speaking again he still whispered and the panic was gone from his voice, but not the hard edge of terror. "My name is Dolph West, Randolph West. Me and my family, Shelly and our two kids live at 821 Warren Avenue in Jamaica. My number is 718-576-4308" He took a breath and a woman's voice could be heard, but she was whispering too and so no words could be made out. The only thing that was clear was she sounded as frightened as the man. "We know it sounds crazy Mr Camden, but there's something in our house. We thought it was squatters at first, our basement floods sometimes so we never use it and it's old enough to have a root cellar entrance. When the noises first started we called the cops and they came and searched the house, but nothing. Three times they came, we begged them after things started moving and disappearing. If we call now no one even shows up." Dolph made a sound that was very much like a sob. "We're terrified but we got nowhere to go. Our daughter says it's the boogy man and will barely sleep. When she does she wakes up screaming bloody murder and crying." He got quieter still before going on. "It's not like normal nightmares Mr Camden. Sometimes she's screaming and flailing but won't wake up, like something's got her. It was after the dreams started that we starting seeing... things..."

 

[Vaneheart]

Arthur listened carefully to Dolph's story, taking careful notes as he did. The poor guy sounds in bad sorts, yet this whole case seems more than bit out there. Someone or something in the house? Some kind of sleep possession? Maybe seizures? I really need more to go on so I know what I'm up against. For all I know, it could just be a squatter, a bad gas leak, and an undiagnosed case of epilepsy.


Eventually, he replied "Alright Mr. West, I will investigate your case. First, I'll need you and your family to leave the house and go somewhere safe." He paused, carefully considering the Queens neighborhood, then said "You mentioned you have nowhere to go. Would you be willing to stay at a motel for a few days? There's a Par Central Motel, just off of the 678. I can give you the address, and I can call ahead and bill it to my business account for a night or two. Just long enough for me to complete my investigation. All you have to do is pack up the essentials for you and your family and go. We can work out reimbursement details later." He hoped the family would leave for their own safety. It would also give them some distance from the problem, so that he could discuss it with them objectively.

 

[SidheLives]

Contrary to most cities which begin to quiet and slow as the sun sets New Orleans is just starting to wake up. As the sunlight fades on Delphina's Jeep lights begin to flick on, bars open their doors wide, and music starts to distantly play. The city is like it's own sun rising with bright, shining neon signs flickering to life all around. On the outskirts of the city it's a slow wake, and while the French Quarter and Bourbon Street welcome throngs of locals and tourists alike, the road the young woman drives along seems to demand five more minutes of peace.


It was in this moment of peace while stopped at a red light that a strange energy seemed to fill the vehicle, a presence which cannot be seen, smelt, or tasted. It seemed to build up for a moment like water in a tub then the radio of the Jeep flipped on. The dial swung this way and that loud bursts of static interlaced with snippets of music and talking loud enough to shatter the dusk calm. Then the dial swung again and the crisp voice of a woman singing echoed out of the speakers:

Look at your window a thousand miles away​

Look at your window a thousand miles away


And you will see me and see that I am true


A thousand lonely days a million sleepless nights won't stop my love for you...






The song and the energy built up in the car seemed to fade as the woman's voice goes on. No, not fades, but leaves. It seemed to slide past Delphina's face and arms, almost caressing her, as it escaped out the cracked driver side window. And just for a moment it seems to carry the scent of rosemary.

[media]


​

[/media]

 

[SidheLives]

"A motel?" Dolph repeated the word, half to Arthur and half to someone not on the phone with him. He seemed to take his head away from the receiver to speak in hushed tones to a woman, Shelly his wife. Through the telephone a few words are discernible. He'll help? ... He believes us? ... No of course not sweetie, the boogie man can't follow us.... Then Dolph is back on the phone speaking and sounding more himself, or at least what he must sound like when not gripped by fear and despair. "We'll go to the motel Mr. Camden. We'll get our things together and go tonight, right away." Movement in the background indicated that someone, probably Shelly and the little girl had begun to get things, and themselves, together. "Shouldn't take us more than an hour to get there." He released another ragged sigh. "We can't thank you enough Mr. Camden, we really can't. Just your listening and being willing to trust us is more than anyone has given us since this whole mess began." A baby started to cry just then, loudly. "Oh shi-" Dolph seemed to catch himself "-h tzu. I have to go Mr. Camden. I'll call again in the morning, or you call at the motel. Anything we can do to help you help us. Really. Thanks again." Then the sounds on the other end of the line became ambient: the baby crying, Dolph walking, clothing and items being shuffled into bags, and -just before the call ended and the line went dead- the faint sound of a knock at the West's door.

 

[SidheLives]

The road in southern Tennessee where the abandoned motel sat was a dusty, long unused one. Abandoned buildings like the motel were the norm, but spaced out. A closed down gas station here, several miles down a building that once may have been a diner. It was a dead road. It had been bypassed by newer highways over many years until only it's bones remained.


And it was quiet.


As the sun began to sink low in the West there were crickets hard at work in the long grass that surrounded the motel on three sides. Their music was the only sound. Soon there would be bats who -waking in an old farmhouse or under a broken porch- would set out to look for food. But now it was just the crickets. So when a car approached down the spine of what remained of the road it was obvious, the sound out of place with the insects and the dust. When it slowed and it's tires crunched loudly on the gravel, which was all the remained of the motel's parking lot, the crickets stilled. Even nature cowering from the sound which didn't belong.

 

[Vaneheart]

The home of Arthur Camden


Queens, New York.


Wednesday


11:44PM


Arthur was about to suggest that Mr. West call him at his office in the morning, but frowned in surprise as the line went dead. That was sudden. Was that a knock at the door I heard? He checked his Rolex watch. 11:44 PM. Odd time for late night visitors. He briefly considered that this mysterious visitor might somehow be related to the case, or perhaps the possibility that the West’s were in immediate danger, but shrugged and thought No, he said that the…disturbances have been occurring from within the house, possibly the root cellar, not outside of it. Besides, what kind of a ghost, boogeyman, or murder-hobo knocks on a door? He laughed at the absurdity of it. “Really Arthur, you’ve been reading up on one too many ghost stories.”


Arthur resigned himself to not getting any sleep tonight. It was time to work. The detective immediately went online and booked a motel room for the West’s on the Par Central Motel website, going for the most reasonable room they had available that would accommodate a small family. Once that was done, Arthur yawned and stretched a bit, before heading back into the bedroom to undress and change clothes. He looked in his closet, which consisted of mostly the same outfits. “Gee, I think I’ll wear the white dress shirt and the dark trousers…again. Maybe with a striped tie…again.” He smirked. A detective has to keep up his image after all.


After getting dressed, Arthur hurried downstairs and made some coffee. Once it was brewed, he quickly gulped down a cup, then poured the rest into an olive drab thermos. It’s going to be a late night. Might need some for the road ahead. He grabbed his brown trench coat from the corner reading chair where he had tossed it earlier, but paused as he briefly considered two things. He said their basement tends to flood, and it’s that time of year. They also implied whatever is going on might be coming from there. The second thing he considered was In case this goes bad…or worse than bad, I should leave a note for someone.


Arthur went towards the back door, near the laundry room, and grabbed his tall black rubber rain boots, and put them by his coat near the door. Then, he went back upstairs to the small office. Sitting down at his makeshift desk, Arthur composed a quick note:

To Whom it May Concern:


At around 11:44PM on Wednesday, month of 2016, I accepted a case from a Mr. Randolph West, who had called my home in the middle of the night. The description he gave of the situation involved some unusual circumstances, that I cannot discuss in detail here, but I felt I should investigate it immediately. Mr. Randolph West’s address is 821 Warren Avenue in Jamaica, New York. His number is 718-576-4308. I have attempted to persuade him to stay at the Par Central Motel off of 678, room 147, but I am unsure if he has arrived there as of writing this. I will be investigating an unusual disturbance at his home address.


If I have disappeared, or worse, this was the last case I was working on.


Sincerely,


Arthur Camden

Once the letter is written, Arthur stuffed it in an envelope, writes “In case of incident” on it, and places the envelope on top of the keyboard.

​

Satisfied that, if something happens, at least someone might know where he was last at, the detective headed downstairs, grabbed his boots and coat, locked the door, and went to his car.




Office of Arthur Camden, Camden Investigative Solutions


Brooklyn, New York.


Thursday


12:14AM


Arriving at his office apartment building, Arthur immediately heads to the elevator and presses the button. Nothing. He presses it again. Nothing. Looking down on the floor in front of the elevator, he sees a face down piece of white paper. Turning it over, the paper reads “Out of Order.”

​

You have to be shitting me.


With a groan and a sigh, he gives the old stairs a dreadful look. “Well, if the West’s boogeyman doesn’t get me tonight, these stairs will.”


With a huff and a puff, Arthur ascends the stairs to his office on the third floor. Gasping out of breath, and wondering not for the first time if he actually does have asthma, the detective entered his office and turned on the lights. Smells musty in here. Might be another ceiling leak. Maybe I should hire a maid instead of a secretary?

​

Shutting the door behind him, Arthur takes a moment to catch his breath, then quickly gathers the items he’ll need to begin investigating the case. He grabs his stakeout bag, his laptop, his tablet, and his secondary investigations bag.


Hmm, this might be dangerous. Could be a crackhead down there with the gas leak. Or worse.


He briefly thought about Wendigos.


Arthur opened up his office closet, unbuttoned his dress shirt, then pulled out and strapped on his dark Kevlar vest to wear under his white dress shirt. I should really get a white vest, or start wearing darker dress shirts. Without the coat, it looks a little obvious to those that know what to look for.


Once dressed, Arthur sat in his leather desk chair and opened up the top right desk drawer, pulled out his Beretta pistol, holster, and double magazine pouch, then fastened them on. As an old habit, Arthur checked the chamber of the Beretta to ensure it was loaded, before putting it back in the holster in condition one, safety on.

​

Now I'm ready to work.


Arthur glanced at the door exiting his office. The thought of going down the stairs immediately, didn’t appeal to him. He checked his Rolex watch. It was 12:34AM.


It took me that long to get up the stairs?! Wow Arthur. Wow. I need to keep using that treadmill or I'll never make it in to work again.


He paused and thought Still, that means the West’s should have checked in by now.


Arthur powered up his aging desktop computer, but rather than wait for it to boot up, he picked up his desk phone and called the Par Central Motel front desk. While it rang, he noticed the Tamara Munroe case file in a ragged manila folder, sitting on his desk. Did I leave that there? “Hi, this is Arthur Camden. I ordered a room for the West family under my business account. Room 147? The confirmation code is 553812. I was wondering if they had checked in yet?”

 

[SidheLives]

"Par Central Motel." A tired sounding young woman answered the phone, but she did her best to sound cheery despite the hour. "Oh. No problem Mr. Camden," she said in response to his request. She seemed a bit more alert now that she knew it wasn't a prank call or some drunk looking for a room. "5-5-3-8-1-2 you said?" She was clearly typing the number into a computer as she spoke, the soft clicks of a keyboard distant from the phone receiver. "Oh yes here it is, room 147 just like you said." She paused as she read. "Hmm, it looks like the West family hasn't checked in yet sir, but Mr Randolph West did call to confirm that the room was booked."

 

[Vaneheart]

A cold chill swept across Arthur. He nervously tapped his fingers on the surface of the ragged Munroe casefile on his desk. "They haven't checked in yet? Can you give me a call as soon as they do? My cell number is 718-966-6155. Thank you. Have a good night." He hung up the phone, and stared blankly at the Fedora Core login password prompt on his computer screen. They should have checked in by now. Maybe they were held up? Maybe something happened?


A sense of urgency overcame Arthur. He glanced at the computer screen. No time for research now. I'll have to do it once I get there on the laptop. Time to check on the West family in person.


Arthur quickly grabbed his coat, his laptop, the various bags, locked up the office, and headed down the stairs in a rush to his car, ignoring the protests from his lungs and knees. He loaded everything in and drove off, heading to 821 Warren Avenue in Jamaica, the home of Randolph West and his family. As he drove, he glanced at his watch. 12:43AM.

 

[SidheLives]

"O-of course Mr. Camden." The girl sounded as if she was quickly jotting down the number. "Is something wrong? Should I call th-" Then Arthur had hung up.


The streets were uncharacteristically busy for so late, both with vehicles and pedestrians crisscrossing the streets with seemingly no regard for their own safety. There were several times when traffic completely stopped while groups of people in what looked like a pub crawl of some kind made their way unsteadily across the road.


[Roll = Wits+Composure]