They had followed that magical compass with blind faith, the little black hand that pointed north-west at times and north-east and sometimes north. They had gone to every stop along the way, to realize that the man they followed had made no stops. They eventually hit a gasoline station and the clerk behind the counter who said he remembered seeing someone strange. A blind man with a white cane, who wore black shades and who demanded the gasoline station owner to help.

He told them, about this fellow (who they were sure was Richter), accordingly; “Well, the sucker was blind as blind can be and he drove like hell. Speeding, turning, real quick like and agile. Wanted to come in as quick as he got out, which was no time at all. Why, that feller gave me a hundred bucks and told me to shut up and to fill up.”

“Why are you telling us this then?”

“He’s a blind fella, how’s he gonna find me?” The toothless old man had said, not with joy but with a sort of discreet anxiety. His eyes were shifting to their sides. The night was dark, only the glow of neon dared shine. “’Sides, he had a shady look, one I've seen on men before, mean men. He’s got the look of a damn tornado. Of a killer. Of a real, right, bad person. And when you’re dealing with bad people, I think the last thing you should do is keep your mouth shut. Nothing good about it, I know. Why , I known a neighbor back when I lived in New Mexico who didn’t say lip about the feller next door to him, a cartel member!” he mused. “Always a quiet person, who watered his little cactuses outside his porch, who fed his dog scraps of pork bones. With a smell like guajillo chilis and of beer. Well, my neighbor done thought he was a silent type, that his killings could go on blind-sided. And my neighbor thought his silence meant anything. Well, he got a surprise when he came back home to his ranch one day. Whole family, dead, swept. The house, swept. A Glock, the cops called it, killed his life. All of that, for a thousand cash. Well, that cartel member was never found. What a vicious fellow. But partly to blame on the neighbor as well, ‘cuz if he had just said any damn word to the police, I’m sure all of it could have been avoided. So here I am, to confess, so that the Lord don’t hold my soul accountable for any bad doing that that man is up to.”

“Sounds like you’re feeling guilty, old man,” Michael said.

“I did then, and I do now.” He said. “Don’t trust the blind man. He ain’t no cripple, trust me.”

He gave them a brief description of the car. That was good enough. Santana began drawing it in a small notebook. Some names too, phrases that he thought would help. All of it seemed to empower the compass to further accuracy.

Half a day later, they found it. After taking the long road of a mid-desert freeway into the open plains of the desert, they had trekked off track for hours. Then, with dust painting their spoilers and wheels and bumpers, with the cloud flowing gently and the earth disturbed by the screeching half of their metal death machine, they stopped.

It was supposed to be a ranch. There were wooden stakes all across the perimeter, but the wire was ruined and rusted and curled as if in pain. They raised their legs and stepped over the short barb wire. It was an open plain, far too, and wide. The house was a quarter mile from the fence, dead center. There were some rocks, some creosote, and some Joshua trees. They had decided to lay behind a boulder, with binoculars. They saw the car parked in front of the shack, it matched the description.

"We're here, now what?" Santana asked.

"Have that camera?” Michael asked. Santana produced it from underneath his arms.

“Great, now we’ll wait to see what’s he’s doing. We’ll come up close and videotape it, maybe leave a bug or two. Got the microphones too?” Santana nodded, and like the stowaway bunny of a magician, they too appeared. Small, black things that looked quite literally, like oversized beetles.

Michael pushed some goggles onto his brother and pointed his finger on where to focus.

"I can't see shit," Santana said. There were no lights outside, let alone in the building. There wasn't anything, not even a telephone pole or an electricity generator anywhere near them. As if the stars, as if humanity had decided unanimously to build it’s glory up and around this little dark patch. An exile, by the heavens themselves.

A cold wind blew, Santana felt the sting of the freezing night on his flesh. The rock was iced. He rubbed his hands together, stopping only for a brief moment. And in doing so, lost the shadow.

Michael slapped his hands.

“Look!” he pointed to the window. Santana adjusted himself, belly down and cozy and staring into the windows, following the dragging shadow. What an impossible task, looking for a shadow in the dark canvas of the night. Candlelight! It flashed. For a moment so brief.

"What happened?" Santana asked.

"How am I supposed to know? He just vanished."

"I don’t feel good about this. Let’s just wait it out till’ morning. We can catch him later."

“Tell me? Who the hell contrives himself to sin in the morning? If you’re going to find evidence on his guilty-ness, you’ll do it here and now, late into the night.”

"Let’s not," Santana said. "Let’s pick ourselves up and leave. I knew this plan was a shit show the minute we were caught. I knew that old bitch had something terrible planned. I knew it, and you should have listened."

“We need the money.”

“We don’t need shit,” He said. “We’ll get by just fine like we always have.”

“We’ll get fucked.”

“Better to get arrested than be here,” Santana said.

“What’s the point, huh?” Michael screamed, in a hushed, low way. “To run around like decapitated chickens. What the fuck? Aren’t you sick of it? Don’t you want to live another life? Isn’t this shit just plain boring? Miserable? Come on! This is our chance, and all we need to do is take a little picture or two, film for a second or two. What’s hard about that?”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“What’s hard?” Santana said. “The fucking psycho in the god damn haunted house, that’s what’s hard.”

"What are you afraid of? The car's nearby, we can make a break for it if he gets too close."

"He’s a Wolfe,” Santana said. “He’s a god, damn witch. Not like us, like the real deal. Devil kids. You know the stories, don’t cha?"

"He ain't shit," Michael said. He crept up to the house, low, though there was no reason to low. Quiet, though he was far enough. Though there was darkness and space enough for him. Saxon came close behind, tugging at his arms, looking for his brother and often shouting "Michael! Michael!" only to hear the harsh shush of his brother. The moon was hidden. Clouds drifted like high-flying ghosts.

“What kind of evidence we looking f-f-for?” Santana asked.

“Anything that tells us he’s a murderer. A confession? Maybe, some bizarre. We just need to satisfy the old bitch, who cares what we find as long as its enough for her?”

“Why?” Santana asked.

“Because she thinks he killed her damn husband. His own father.” Michael turned, smiling like a bastard. “Funny, ain’t it?”

Santana audible squeaked.

They came to the window. There was a crack. Black gunk grew along the edges, that upon the touch made Michael wave off the grime from his hand. They peeked inside with the thin light of the camera flash, to see for any footsteps or any signs of life from the shack. Floorboards hung at angles hazardous, the nails, bent and pointy. They saw two beige L-shaped sofas, an old style furnace (with fresh coals?), and plastic wrapped along all the furniture. Some family pictures, with films of dust so thick that it looked like a layer of parchment wrapped around the photos.

"He left. So should we." Saxon said. "Let's bolt."

"Where's your courage, lover boy?"

"In the god damn car. Let's leave Michael!"

"I'm not going anywhere, I want this fifty grand, and you need to shut up." He said. "I'll be damned if I die a gutter rat. I want more of life. Why don't you?”

"What's cash without a life.” Santana tugged at his brother. “Get a grip."

They heard a creaking noise. The shaky flashlight of the camera pointed up, towards the sound. There was a stairway, the handrail hung by the edge, broken and sharp.

"What the fuck are we going to do anyway?"

"We plant the bugs, maybe hide the camera in his den. He’s blind anyway, he won’t see the flashlight." Michael nodded in agreement with himself, ignoring his brother. "Yeah, we'll put it in his room on auto and let it record.”

Michael lifted the window. Santana grabbed onto his pants, he shook him off with his heel.

"Come on, at least reconsider."

"I’m done reconsidering," He said. "I don’t have fun, Santana. Driving coast to coast is not fun. Watching you play lover boy and every ditch and rat hole is not fun. Fuck fun. I want a farm and some peace."

He came into the window and lowered the flashlight. Too warm. He tip-toed through the building, putting his back against the wall. Santana followed, close behind.

"I thought you weren't coming?" Michael asked.

“I didn’t want to.” He flashed his compass, which pointed up to the second floor.

The door creaked at every movement. It would not stop crying or whining or croaking. It felt like they were stepping on corpses, on the after-field of a long drawn war, where the bodies were still freshly dying, and them, the lone fools dancing and prowling and walking around and on top the dead. So, the house cried, like a dying man.

They went through the first rooms. With their hands in front of them like sensors in the darkness. The light funnel was too small for them to catch every detail, most of their maneuvering was careful. They felt the wobbly urns and pictures frames and paused, each and every time they almost tripped up.

What room was it? Santana smelled something, hot. Stew. Cooking and brewing small bubbles on a calm flame.

Another noise. A bubble pop? No. Steps.

The compass immediately turned, it dragged up as if pulling Santana’s arm. It pointed high up, to the second floor, quivering as it pointed.

"Let's just leave our shit here. We'll ditch."

"What do you expect to do? Catch a murderer making dinner? We need him in the act."

Michael slithered through. Santana shook his head, moaning, suckling on his tongue. They investigated the bottom floor which consisted of the following: a boiler room, a living room, a kitchen and a restroom (that had been unkempt, mind you). And all that remained - besides a little under-room below the staircase - was the top floor. Whatever was up there. Whoever was up there.

Feet shuffled. The compass moved a little to the left. Santana yelped. Michael held his mouth, and they both listened. More fumbling. Something was being dragged about the floor above. Michael came up each step, with deliberation, with a clenched fist, with fear. He removed his shoes and laid them and walked with his socked feet. Micahel put his weight on his dexterous leg, his right, with his heart pounding and his eyes dancing and his nape sensitive to the shifts in the air. He had his arm out, his tattoo glowed. A bolt of blue electricity zapped at the ready, a taser for the ‘sonofuhbitch’. The clouds split for a second. Less than a second, a sliver in time and space. Moonlight broke and shined through the window into the abode. It nearly blinded Santana, whose eyes were blurred and who covered his face with an open palm. The light cut straight center to the staircase, separating him and his brother. His brother, half of which was in darkness and half of which was out, into the light.

They approached, nearer, closer to the top and to the noise that kept growing louder. Metal banged.

It sounded like a foundry of metal and flesh. A foundry rundown and working its dying self, divorced from civilization and the hands of man, lonely machinery. So the noise went. Tap - smack - crack. And the man worked.

And upon the last step, as carefully as Santana tried, he made a noise. A low creak. They both froze. No, no. All three of them froze, for the sounds stopped.

The shuffling footsteps ceased, Santana held the guardrail, his back turned to run. He pulled Michael by the elbow, trying to fish him back out, into the moonlight and out the door. A door opened. His footsteps approaching.

Michael waited, hesitantly. The noise kept coming. Louder. Louder. Close! The breathing was near. Michael’s feet turned. Then, silence. Immediate silence, as if the noise had been snuffed like candlelight, with a pinch or a blow of wind.

"Michael?" Santana pulled. "Let's get the fuck out."

"Michael!" He squinted and focused on his brother, half of which was in moonlight, the other (chest and up) was in the darkness.

"Michael!" He whimpered.

He yanked hard. Pulled on him. Tore his shirt and jacket, tore the sleeve, tore the man. There was a sudden smack. The sound of breaking bone, a confused groan, stuck in between crying and anger, like the moaning of a touched, simple man. The moan of the stupid.

His heart stopped.

Michael moved back, in confusion, in a pirouette. His body, stuck in the conflict of his confusion. An arm swung. A leg ran.

Santana screamed.

There was a dent in his brothers head. A crater, near the left temple. It was caved in, his eye was pushed out and hanging by the string of his nerves. A bloody cane tapped along the guardrail.

Santana screamed as his brother fell, twitching at the stairs.

Santana screamed as he ran out the window. The glass breaking behind him. Towards the car, the engine started. Crying. Moving the wheel. Screeching the tires. Crying.

Driving.

He looked behind him through the rear side mirror. He looked, because he had to, because that’s where his brother was. He saw the shadow of the man.

The shadow looked on from that broken window. Richter Wolfe's cold black eyes, shining only briefly. His face and gaze, tailing the car that zoomed out and disappeared into the horizon.