The stage was set. The view on this quiet night was nothing to write home about; with all the yachts and boardwalks at the more touristy parts of the shore. Here, at Osprey Hook, one of the nation’s largest cargo docks sat quiet, awaiting the next day’s busy flurry of shipments. Tall stacks of multicolored containers stood in blocks and rows, forming an industrial landscape designed to fulfill the demands of an entire city.
On the last stretch of street where the city ends and the dock begins was an unremarkable warehouse, with huge front doors and windows lining the top of its walls. A neon sign labeled the building with the name of the shipping company which owned it.
A nearby rooftop offered the perfect vantage point. A sniper rifle was perched on the edge, pointing down into the warehouse’s high windows with a thin laser. A zipline anchor stood next to it, linked via a steel cable to another one on the warehouse roof.
A man decked out in combat gear looked into the rifle’s scope, surveying the scene unfolding in the warehouse below.
“The decoys have done their job, boss.” he said with a smile. Said decoys were a posse of lowlifes, having been tipped off on a lucrative shipment at this location & murdering the last shift of workers in the building. It was, in actuality, an orchestrated trap.
Behind the guy with the sniper rifle were the other two thirds of the Buckshot Boys, the best firepower for hire on the market. They’ve bounced around both gang wars & real wars all over the world, clearing enemy factions many times their number with ease. Their current client here in New Valence pays them the best out of anyone, with plenty of rivals for the trio to silence. And they named themselves after guns, because that’s just their personality: Colt, Winchester, & Kalashnikov.
They wore varying combinations of camo uniforms, with combat vests & helmets (Colt, the de facto leader, wears a headband instead). Belts of ammo & grenades brought their outfits together, with each of them having a preferred firearm: Colt with his sniper rifle & machete, Winchester with his shotgun, & Kalashnikov with his twin Uzis.
“Looks like he really don’t like it when ya go all the way.” Winchester said coyly to the walkie talkie strapped to his vest.
They watched as the “decoys” were brutally bloodied and beaten to death. Their guns fired repeatedly in bursts of futile flashes, unable to strike their target. In the dark, the perpetrator was invisible. Only two glowing red eyes made their presence known.
“What’s he after?” Kalashnikov wondered aloud. “We could ask ‘im, before we’re through with ‘im.”
Colt shook his head. “Boss wants the prick brought in cold–too cold for questions. Let his people sort that shit out.”
“Yes, don’t think too hard about it, gentlemen.” said the voice on the other end of Winchester’s walkie talkie, a dramatic, regal voice. “I hope you can deliver him sweetly, for both our sakes.”
Winchester clicked off the walkie talkie and scoffed. “When have we ever not?”
The eerie silence of the docks all rested on Colt’s trigger finger. He kept a steady eye through the scope at the invisible being below. It stood in the midst of the chaos it had just caused, surveying what was left of its victims. Colt aligned his laser sight below the red eyes, to roughly where the right shoulder would be on a normal, visible person–he wagered his target was no different.
With a grin, Colt slammed the trigger, letting loose an ear-ringing thunderclap. The bullet instantly shattered the warehouse window–and punched through the invisible being in a spurt of blood. The red eyes shuddered in both surprise and pain, their pupils dilating. The fact that they were noticeably not mutilated after a sniper bullet would have been cause for concern in most people.
Not hesitating for a moment, the trio whipped out their night-vision visors before latching onto the zipline & barrelling down the cable.
As the Boys crashed through into the warehouse, the eyes darted to pierce their presence with a red gaze. Colt landed on a metal catwalk overlooking the main floor of the building, where Winchester & Kalashnikov stood. Crates & forklifts crowded the space, but you couldn’t have known; the warehouse was steeped in utter darkness. The red eyes warily shifted between their three assailants with a stare cold enough to freeze the depths of hell.
The Buckshot Boys could all feel the nerves on their spines shivering. No battlefield had ever shaken them, yet there was a growing realization that this one could be the first. Sure enough, even through night vision visors, the red-eyed being was invisible.
“Some dumbass you are.” Kalashnikov shouted boldly. “Pokin’ yer nose where ya shouldn’t, expectin’ everyone to be too scared to stop ya. Either ya got no clue what yer in fer, or yer plain suicidal.”
The eyes said nothing. They looked to the disembodied bullet wound, and then back to Kalashnikov. In an instant, they blurred and disappeared, as Colt heard a whoosh of upset, chilled air and the clattering of metal beside him. He whirled around to see the eyes not even five feet away.
Not even pausing to blink, Colt threw a disc to his feet, grabbed a rappel gun out of his holster, and aimed it at the opposite wall. As he was pulled away from the eyes’ vicinity, the disc erupted into violently flashing light. For every other split-second, the warehouse was made as visible as daytime, and shadows danced across the walls like a choppy video.
Colt hopped onto a crate & retracted his rappel gun, aiming his sniper rifle for the first opening the eyes gave him. The other two quickly tossed their own strobe bombs to the opposite sides of the warehouse, bathing the entire building in a disorienting, rapid-fire flash. They grinned, their visors keeping their line of sight just fine.
The eyes winced with the sudden change in brightness, as they staggered away from the lights.
Kalashnikov aimed his automatic rifles at the eyes and opened fire, relentlessly spraying the catwalk in bullets. The eyes quickly shook off the confusion of the strobe lights and zipped to one corner of the building, before jumping down to the ground and behind a pile of crates.
“Yer fast, ain’t ya?” Kalashnikov sneered. “Scared o’ lead though, huh?”
He had to relent momentarily to reload, but Winchester immediately covered him, warily approaching the crate with his shotgun raised. Colt kept his rifle trained, ready to headshot the target right when they came out from behind the crate.
The strobe bombs subsided, & for one suspenseful moment there was pitch-black silence. A bright scattered flash & harsh bang came from behind the crate, then silence again. Colt & Kalashnikov’s trigger fingers got itchy.
“Winch, you got ‘im?” Kalashnikov called, to no response.
Suddenly, the crate smashed into splintered pieces. The eyes charged forward holding the shotgun, with Winchester skewered on the end, the barrel having been shoved through his heart hard enough to mangle the metal.
“Fucker!” Colt shouted, as both he and Kalashnikov opened fire on their comrade turned human shield. The eyes threw the shotgun & bloodied corpse at Colt, who immediately retaliated with a grenade; with Kalashnikov retreating in tandem.
The eyes withdrew as the blast shook the warehouse; darting back and forth, up and over, down and under, trying to shake the relentless, alternating spray of lead the Buckshot Boys kept dishing out.
The Boys began to notice something. The more they forced the red-eyed being to move, the more of it they could see. First, a hand became visible. Then, a foot. An arm. A leg. The shoulder Colt had shot. These were human body parts.
Before its whole form could be revealed though, they suddenly lost sight of it. Suddenly, Kalashnikov’s knee caved in from behind, making him shout in pain. Two cold hands gripped the top of his head & his jaw. Before they could snap his neck, Colt dropped down from the crate with his machete, bellowing a furious war cry.
The being stepped back to dodge Colt’s swing, smacking him with a backhand strong enough to hurl teeth & blood out of his mouth. Stunned, Colt dropped to the floor.
In a decisive instant, the figure grabbed Colt’s machete & swung it behind him, lopping Kalashnikov’s head off with one slice.
Ears ringing, Colt stared blankly through his flickering night vision visor, at the blurry form of the person looming over him, their torso rising & falling in the rhythm of breathing. Blood still trickled from the bullet wound in their shoulder.
“You don’t know…” Colt huffed, as his wits started to return. “...what you’re gettin’ yourself into.”
Another chill shot down Colt’s spine as the ghost spoke.
“Who sent you.” they demanded. Their voice was deep and gravelly, yet also layered with wispy echoes, as if multiple people were speaking from one mouth at the same time.
Colt smiled with a battered grin. He quickly grabbed the last of his arsenal, a simple pistol, and pointed it at the person’s head.
In a blur, the ghost grabbed Colt’s wrist & squeezed it, crunching the bones inside as the pistol dropped to the floor. Unfazed, they spoke again, flatly.
“Answer.”
Colt screamed as he clutched his mangled wrist. Gasping through the pain, he glared straight at his tormentor. “If ya wanna–see my client so bad–” he sputtered, “then don’t worry.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
He accepted what was about to happen, and greeted it with a crazy smile and wide eyes. “They’ll find you– soon.”
Not hesitating for a second, the ghost dropped to one knee & pounded Colt’s head. It only took two punches to cave his skull in & kill him gruesomely.
They rose & stared at the body for a few moments, their anger unsatisfied. With a sharp sigh of frustration, they turned and vanished.
---
Overlooking the glitz and glamor of New Valence’s core sat Drakewell Heights. On these hills, there was a different kind of extravagance, a more dignified and old-fashioned one. In opulent estates with sprawling, perfect lawns, lived the owners of the city’s biggest bank accounts.
In an Italian-style villa, past the fountain in the front courtyard and the greyhounds frolicking in the marble-floored foyer, crackled a disciplined fire within a columned hearth in the large living room. Beside it was a large, pillowy leather reclining chair with an accompanying mahogany circular table.
Sat in this chair was the owner of this excessive mansion, the owner of the Messina Rose casino. Dressed in his deep purple suit, he shuffled a deck of tarot cards, with a thick cigar in the side of his mouth to puff on.
From a record player in the corner, ‘O Sole Mio caressed the fire-lit room with a rich ambience. The man hummed along, but was interrupted by an echoey ring at the doorbell.
“Come in.” the man said in a raised voice. He subtly turned his chair to face away from the front doors.
Diego, the individual in the pink coat from the casino basement, respectfully made his entrance, but couldn’t restrain his frustration any further as he stormed into the parlor.
“We’re missing more quotas, sir.” he reported grimly. “It’s the same man, too.”
The owner continued to shuffle the deck. “Surely you’re not here to regale me with the same foul news twice.” he said in boredom. “If I remember correctly, we came to the understanding that you would handle this unwelcome intruder.”
Diego bowed his head in shame. “That’s right, sir. That’s…why I’m here. The Buckshot Boys were killed last night, most bitterly.” He swallowed hard. He could only guess what expression his boss had in that chair.
The owner shuffled a bit faster. “I see.” he said with clenched teeth. “It appears our intruder is more dreadful than we thought.” But he quickly lost the tension in his voice and chuckled. “You are not at fault, Diego, the Boys were a good call. The fault is mine, for thinking I had reconciled all my rivals years ago…”
“This insult won’t stand, sir, that I promise.” Diego clenched his fists in indignation. “No one can attack the 8-Ball and live.”
The casino owner, or rather, the 8-Ball, smiled. “Diego, my favorite trait of yours is your undying passion. But I want you to approach this carefully. We can’t fan this flame into anything that can burn us. I want you to study him; determine his motive, his means, and where he comes from.”
“And then I’ll crush this barbarian artfully.”
“Thank you–Ahhh… how interesting.” The 8-Ball stopped shuffling the tarot cards, and flicked one over the back of his chair right into his subordinate’s hands.
It was card number twelve, the Hanged Man. As the name suggests, it pictured a man hanging from a tree by the neck, with blood dripping from his temples.
“Oooh, is this a sign?” Diego said, intrigued.
“The death of a deserving man will decide the future.” the 8-Ball said, his grin showing through his voice. “Let’s hope that means victory.”
---
Nathan sat slumped at his desk, bored out of his mind. He had already played games all morning, so he was tired of that. Ravi was studying, & Alex was with his parents; too busy to go out and do something. His phone sat dead & charging by the wall, although it’s not like he used it all that much anyways.
With glazed eyes, he scribbled aimlessly on a piece of scratch paper. He was so bored, he was about to do something unheard of.
“Hey Theo, what’s your take on supernatural stuff?” Nathan asked.
“Theodore.” his roommate grumbled from his desk on the other side of the room. “And why do you ask?”
Nathan shrugged. “I dunno, it’s kinda been on my mind lately. I mean, it’s this city’s whole schtick. Vegas has casinos, we have ghosts. What’s up with that?”
Theodore scoffed. “Ghosts aren’t real. They are another classic example of the human mind’s compulsion to put a reason to everything it experiences. If it can’t find one, it makes one. Ghosts are just a poor attempt at explaining the unknown.”
Nathan laughed & turned around in his chair to face Theodore. “You sound pretty sure. So if a creepy little ghost girl like from the movies came in right now, you wouldn’t be scared?”
Theodore shook his head resolutely. “Fear creates ghosts, not the other way around. Like I said, our brain will make up explanations for itself if it’s confused, using our hidden fears as material. People’s imaginations can be turned against them, & soon enough they’re seeing ghosts in the shadows, when really they’re just scared of the dark.”
“Theeeooodorrree…” Nathan whispered ominously, like a ghost. “I knowwww whattt you’veee doneee….”
Theodore rolled his eyes. “You know, you would’ve heard all this yesterday in psychology class. If you bothered to show up for once, that is.”
Nathan dropped his act, a little taken aback by Theodore’s comment. “Wait, you guys talk about cool stuff? I thought psych class was all just brain regions & feelings and boring shit like that.”
Theodore just shook his head & returned to his studying without a word.
Nathan turned back around & took a hard thought. He had always found psychology interesting but felt that classes had a knack for making anything & everything boring. But maybe he hadn’t given it enough of a chance. Besides, he was already bored to tears skipping them anyway, couldn’t be much worse than attending.
---
Detective Graham lifted the police tape & gestured for Detective Perry to duck under. The warehouse wasn’t any less gloomy in the daytime, although the grey skies & cold drizzle could suck the life out of any scene.
Graham warily scanned the docks before following Perry inside. The men & machines were laboring just like they did every other day, but you can never be too careful.
“Good lord!” Perry gasped as she took in the sight. “Was there a war in here last night?”
That wouldn't be too absurd an explanation. Blast & bullet holes littered the walls with piles of destroyed crates everywhere, painted with splatters & trails of dried blood. Three corpses told the unspoken story of their merciless deaths. Winchester, impaled through the heart; Kalashnikov, decapitated; Colt, his face bashed in. The Buckshot Boys, once a coveted asset for warlords around the world, killed the way they lived.
“Welcome to New V.” Graham said dryly. “I’m more surprised our friend made it outta here alive. Unless he stays invisible as a dead man, too.”
“You say man like it’s humanly possible to take on three heavily armed mercenaries at once.” Perry squeamishly glanced around the crime scene, holding her shirt over her nose at the sight of all the blood. “Although I can’t really think of an explanation.”
Graham shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee & burning his tongue. “I saw him in action the other night. Dunno how, but the guy’s got some serious muscle.” He quickly bit his lip, realizing what he had just let slip.
Perry dropped her shirt, revealing a face of pure shock. Grabbing Graham & leading him away from the dead body, she shook his shoulders. “You what? You saw it? When!?”
Graham sighed. “The night we did all that patrolling, & you fell asleep. The guy stopped an assault in progress, beat me to it. I saw him stop it in his own charming way.” Seeing Perry’s hurt expression, he felt a tinge of guilt. “I was going to tell you…ya know, when you’re less caffeinated.”
Perry crossed her arms & held her head high. “And you’re the skeptic one. So, you finally convinced it’s a ghost?”
Graham firmly shook his head. He lowered his voice as the coroners arrived. “You’re new, and I doubt any of the jokers in the precinct would come out & tell you this. But believe it or not, this isn’t the first weird–and violent–case this city’s seen.”
“Makes sense, it’s not called the Haunted City for nothing.”
Graham sighed, frustrated that he had to carefully choose his words. “Crime in New Valence works differently to other places. Tons of it, but it’s like it all has a single brain. Thugs are coordinated and efficient when they need to be.”
“You’re saying there’s one group in charge of everything? How come no one talks about them then?”
“One person.” Graham corrected. “He calls himself the 8-Ball. Must love pool or something, but other than that we know nothing about him.” He clenched his fist. “One thing’s for sure, he’s got some seriously fucked up shit going on where no one’s looking. Human experimentation, illegal tech imports, the whole nine yards.”
Perry gulped. From the moment she had arrived in this city, she could sense an unsettling presence lurking underneath. Most cities have one. But the thought of delving into the underbelly here in New Valence scared her.
“Could this killer be one of the 8-Ball’s experiments, turned against him?” she said in suspense. She looked at the warehouse scene, taking it all in again. “If he’s found a way to create something like this, who knows how many red-eyed creeps are out there?”
Graham nodded gravely. “That’s my best guess, although this little showdown convinced me. 8-Ball considers this guy serious enough to throw some heavy firepower his way. This could be a unique opportunity to see if his operations crack under pressure.” His eyes shifted around, and he bumped his chin in the direction of other officers in the warehouse. “And assume that no one here will do or say anything about the 8-Ball. The only thing we should mention less is politics.”
Perry was about to ask why, but quickly answered her own question. Her heart sank. “There’s no point in the law if it can be bought. But we can trust each other, right Detective?” She smiled at her partner.
Graham nodded hesitantly. “Yeah. One thing’s for sure, if the head honcho himself is involved in this, so am I.”
They turned back towards the crime scene. “Let’s get all these blood stains tested.” Graham said.“And see if we can find the killer’s DNA anywhere, make it spill his secrets.”
Perry side-eyed Graham. “I’m still not ruling out paranormal interference, by the way.” she said coyly.
Graham let out a laugh. “Of course you’re not.”
---
The night before, after the battle inside the warehouse, the night was eerily silent, as if the whole thing never happened.
Outside, a streetlight’s yellow glow flickered as the red-eyed figure passed by. Their entire form was visible, the veil of concealment finally lifted. It was clear now; he was a human male, an imposing figure of well over six feet. He wore a thick, rugged overcoat that extended down to his knees & billowed as he moved. Loose black pants ended in even blacker boots, echoing heavy footsteps into the night. A grey hood cast deep shadows to keep his face hidden, except for his piercing red eyes.
He raised a hand to his head and tapped a device in his ear.
“Did you get anything?” came an unknown voice from within the device, one weathered with age.
“No.” the ghost replied. “But it looks like they’re finally onto me.”