Dusk thickened into gloom. Watts quivered in his attic bedroom, awaiting the spectral visitation he knew would come.

“...Sir... sir...” The ghostly whisper slithered under the door, accompanied by frenzied scratching. “...Have you found it...?”

Wood panels trembled. A translucent figure materialized, clawing with broken nails.

Yvette and her companion—the funerary aristocrat known as Lady of Tombs—burst into the hall, witnessing the macabre spectacle.

“Begone, wraith.” The Lady raised glowing fingers. “This plane tolerates no abominations.”

The spirit turned. Blood-caked lace trim clung to the tattered dress—a mother’s labor turned burial shroud. Gaping wounds riddled its translucent flesh. Murder’s handiwork.

“You... See me...” The ghost rasped.

“You disrupt nature’s balance,” the Lady intoned. “By life’s edict, I shall pur—”

Yvette body-checked her mid-sentence.

“Explain this madness!” The Lady spat.

“Hear her plea first. What if it’s crucial?”

“Sentiment blinds you. This thing”—the Lady gestured contemptuously—“is but corpse-echoes. Vengeance or denial—all wraiths crave. Never reason.”

The ghost moaned, “Find me... Save Mother...”

Behind Yvette’s eyes flashed the washerwoman’s tubercular frame. “Half an hour,” she bargained.

Searches proved futile. The spirit’s mantra—“Find me... hurry...”—intensified. No denial. No bloodlust. Only desperate familial love.

At the window, Yvette noted bucket-laden neighbors queuing below—the communal pump. Pestilence’s vector? Ulysses’ theories returned: contaminated water. One pump. One poison source.

Her mind blazed connections—cellar, corpse, plague. She plunged downstairs.

The cellar reeked of decayed refuse. Behind a crudely constructed wall lay the truth: a corpse rotting in watery muck, its collar’s Lilliputian bow still clinging.

Tear-tracks shimmered down the ghost’s blurred cheeks as they uncovered the horror. “Mother... safe now...”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The specter dissolved, its purpose fulfilled. Festering in groundwater meters from the pump—the contagion’s heart. Even the Lady stood stunned.

“Alert the well-users,” Yvette ordered. “Authority papers will sway them. I’ll track the killer.”

The trembling landlord arrived, confessing to lax rent collection from a “Blackjack”—odd for his miserly reputation. Yvette’s gut clenched. A grifter-supernatural.

At Blackjack’s abandoned lodgings, ransacked drawers spoke of hurried flight. Inn staff mindlessly let the debt-renter depart with luggage.

The Lady proposed standard protocols—telegraphs to ports and stations. Yvette dissented: “He’ll disembark early. Vanish.”

At the writing desk, pencil-rubbed indentations betrayed a timetable: 19:40 Glasgow Express—Platform 3. Ten minutes remained, Charing Cross Station three hopeless gridlocked miles away.

Yvette chose rooftops.

Brick and slate blurred beneath her feet. She flowed across London’s cramped skyline—night’s shadow, gravity’s jester. Below, carriages crawled through gaslit smog. Above, Death’s huntress raced.

Run, cur. Hide in nations... My vengeance flies swifter.

Black Jack lounged in the plush solitude of a first-class compartment aboard the Glasgow Express, a world apart from the rabble in steerage. His tailored tailcoat and top hat gleamed under the compartment’s lamplight, casting a gentlemanly veneer over the monster beneath. A half-finished bottle of Mumm champagne and a stack of newspapers adorned the table—props for a role he’d perfected. The thin partition walls did little to muffle the debate next door: two scholars squabbled over lunar origins, their voices dripping with academic fervor. Pathetic, he mused, twirling his cane. I’ll teach them humility at the next stop.

His true power lay not in wealth, but in influence. A honeyed word, a calculated glance—his victims folded like paper. Investors emptied purses for phantom ventures; wide-eyed maids followed him to damp cellars, eager for employment. There, he’d sermonize about his exploits, feign guilt, then butcher them mid-apology. Each scream was an ovation for his artistry.

But lately, a hitch: a ghostly photograph of his latest victim had surfaced, pursued by a mad journalist. Black Jack retreated to hotels, biding time until funds arrived. Then came them—a noblewoman and her sharp-eyed escort. His usual tricks faltered; they saw through the “landlord” charade. A chill slithered down his spine. Not ordinary.

He fled in a top hat and fresh disguise, treasures in tow. Tonight, he’d bankrupt the scholars next door, leap the train near Birmingham, and vanish. Poetry in motion, he thought, smirking.

Drowsiness struck abruptly. The scholars’ voices died. Odd, how the engine’s roar seemed to… amplify.

Yvette clung to the train’s exterior, her gloved fingers frostbitten. Inside, the oil lamp’s glow silhouetted Black Jack’s smug profile. She steadied her revolver—a custom Smith & Wesson with hollow-point rounds. The shot cracked the silence, glass exploding inward. His head burst like overripe fruit.

“Your tricks were mediocre,” she whispered, releasing her grip. Wind slapped her face as she dropped, sprinted, and vaulted onto a passing freight train. Guards below heard nothing.

Earlier, she’d pieced together his habits: first-class comforts, a fondness for Mumm. The Nightmare Ring on her finger pulsed, its soporific wave sparing the engineer. A rose thorn’s sting kept her alert. Passengers slumped; only Black Jack resisted—a flicker of consciousness. Target confirmed.

Now, sprawled on the freight car’s roof, Yvette watched the moon. Somewhere, a ghostly girl’s face blurred into peace.

Sleep well, sister.