Home did not quite feel like home.

There was nothing homey about the place, one way or another.

There was nothing to look forward to — nothing to come back to.

Certainly not the bed.

Certainly not the food or the rest.

And certainly not the company.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams lived in what could ideally be described as a “shack.” There was the first floor, and nothing more. There was the bedroom, hosting a single bed never made, a nightstand never cleaned, and a closet stuck 30 years in the past. There was the kitchen, empty and forlorn and never once having been used in the past few years or so. There was the living room, complete with wilted pots of plants, coffee tables reduced to ash trays, couches with who-knows-what under each cushion, and a television that no longer — or never had — worked.

The Hunter wasn’t sure which it was.

He had no time for evening programs and afternoon shows on the telly.

He had no time for a lot of things, as it so turns out.

He had no time for himself.

No time for others.

No time for the world around him.

He had no time to live his life.

He was too busy just surviving.

Just getting through the day and moving onto the next.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stood by the door, miserable and hurting and very much so still freezing all over, but at least now, he was out of the rain and out of the cold. At least, here, he was warm. Apart from the warmth however, here was really not any better than out there. One could say here was actually a whole lot worse in a whole lot of ways.

For starters, the whole place reeked of take-out, alcohol, and perhaps a whiff of mold. The air was stale; the mildew carpets were stained; the once clean, beige wallpapers had begun tearing; and to make matters worse, there was quite a bit of an infestation taking place.

It was cockroaches.

They were here, there, everywhere.

By the walls.

Under the floors.

In every nook and cranny.

Absolutely everywhere.

And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, the man who had, have, and will have crossed swords with some of the world’s grisliest mistakes, could do nothing but stand by and watch as they made his home as much theirs as well. It was a truly pitiful affair, truth be told. He had exhausted his efforts — and funds — in the past year or so trying his damndest to rid himself of their filthy, filthy presence, and even then, they persevered.

Even then, they persisted.

Their numbers knew no end.

Their hunger knew no bounds.

And it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that they were perhaps his worthiest adversary yet.

He hated their spiny legs and their twitching antennas.

He hated how they dropped and crawled and skittered all over him late, late into the night.

He hated that they wouldn’t stay dead, even if they already were.

Even if he made sure they were.

Even if they themselves knew they were.

There was one now, darting past the living room floor, paying no heed to Jonathan Wicker Abhrams as he made his way from front door to kitchen — very slowly, very painfully, and very dripping wet, still.

It looked at him.

He looked at it.

And it went, scampering way off under the couch and way off into the cover of dark.

So did the rest, the Hunter noticed.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams scanned the room.

He put his many bottles of darkly, swirling liquid down.

And he waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Until finally. . .

The creaking came.

***

It started out as it always did — with the creaking of floorboards. It was as if someone was stumbling about upstairs — someone evidently slow and big and quite the loud walker — though Jonathan Wicker Abhrams knew better. Firstly, there was nobody upstairs; he lived alone. Secondly, there was no upstairs.

Upstairs was an attic space which housed some few dozen or so tightly-packed cardboard boxes, and there was hardly space in between to maneuver. There was even less so to go stomping about.

Then, when the creaking and stomping subsided, came the whispering of disembodied voices from nowhere, everywhere, all at once, followed closely by the scritch-scratching of wood, and the flickering of dim lights.

Creak, creak, creak.

The air grew colder.

The Hunter grew stiffer.

The world grew slower.

And the rain hammered on, outside.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stared at the clock still barely hanging onto one side of his living room wall, old, bedraggled, and stained, and though the glass had most definitely lost its clarity, he could still make out all three hands ticking, ticking, ticking away.

It was two in the morning.

It was 28 minutes past two.

It was 13 seconds past the 28th minute mark, and it had been 13 for much longer than 13 should have been.

The hand ticked and ticked and ticked away, and yet, it could not make the 14th second.

It never could when came time.

Creak, creak, creak.

Went weight on the stairs.

Went weight that was never there.

Went weight that belonged to nothing, nobody in particular.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Went fingernails on wood.

Scratch, scratch, scratch went fingernails Jonathan could never see.

Fingernails that seemed to follow him in the dark, no matter where he went, what he did, all he tried to drown it out.

The Hunter blinked.

And there it was, at the corner of the room.

In the shadows, by the dark.

A man — no, something that merely resembled a man — was standing by the door and by the coat rack, still, unmoving, much like a statue of marble and stone. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams knew better, still.

He knew it watched him from behind the tophat.

He knew it breathed and lived and moved about when he blinked — when he tore his gaze off it, or when he left the room, or turned away.

He knew it was alive.

He knew it existed.

He knew it wasn’t just something in his head, though nobody would ever believe him — though everyone would try to convince him otherwise.

It was tall, just as he had told the good doctor. It was deathly pale and little more than skin and bones, just as he had said. It made his blood freeze and his sweat drip and both his knees feel much like jelly. It robbed him of his words, breath, and thought — absolutely everything, anything, all at once.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams kept both eyes on it, always and at all times.

He did not dare blink for too long.

He did not dare turn away.

He did not dare do much, other than reach for a bottle, pop the cap straight off, and begin drinking.

More.

And more.

And more still.

Until it was empty.

Until all that nasty, darkly, swirling liquid was inside him.

And then onto the next one it was.

And the next.

And the next, again.

And all the while, it was watching him — smiling at him.

And it never once moved.

It never did, if he kept staring.

It simply stood there, in its suit and tie, with its skin-splitting grin spread from ear to ear, and the top hat obscuring almost exactly half the face, and the smile shining through even the darkest darks. It simply stood there, blending into the shadows and into the background, almost as if it was part of the Hunter’s home — almost as if it belonged there, as if it lived there.

And the Hunter didn’t like that.

He didn’t like that one bit.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams reached for the next bottle.

He reached a little too far — a little too hastily.

His wrist met the glass.

The glass met the countertop.

And soon, the glass met floor.

There was a most audible crack coming from the bottle breaking, and a most audible gasp from Jonathan Wicker Abhrams. He didn’t mean to knock the glass on over, of course. He also didn’t mean to turn and look — turn and look away from that thing in the dark, for a little too long.

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

He didn’t mean to.

It was pure reflex.

And when he looked back, it was no longer by the door and by the coat rack.

It was standing by the couch, staring back at the Hunter.

And it was closer now, by a lot.

Jonathan could see the smile clearly now, but not anything else from there up. He could never see more than just the smile. He could never see its eyes, or its nose, or its face. He could never see much else, really. He could only ever see the smile, and oh, how he saw it — always.

The Hunter swallowed, hard.

His hands were cold.

His feet were cold.

Everything was cold, and yet, he was still sweating an awful lot.

He was burning up inside.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams wished he could curl up into a ball and vanish, but deep, deep down, in the corner of his mind and the darkest depths of his heart, he knew it’d be no use. He knew it’d follow him still, wherever, whenever — to the ends of the earth and beyond.

There was nowhere the Hunter could run.

There was nowhere the Hunter could hide.

Wherever he was, so too was it.

He had tried.

Plenty of times.

The Hunter blinked.

He blinked too slow.

He blinked too long.

Oh no.

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhram’s eyes shot open.

Quickly now, he scanned the room.

It was no longer between the couch and television.

It was no longer between the old, living room clock and the dirty coffee table.

It was in front of him, almost an arm’s reach away but not quite as close.

It was further than that, but just barely.

Barely.

He could see the individual stitching of its suit and tie, now. He could see the stains on its teeth and the veins on its arms and hands. He could even begin to smell it — smell the rotting eggs and the burnt fabric and perhaps a pinch of sulfur, even.

The Hunter could feel himself growing dizzier. His breathing was a mess, he couldn’t see straight, he was sweating all over, and he was frozen still. Slowly, surely, by the minute, the world was growing darker — the light was fading fast. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams felt himself slowly losing consciousness, and he didn’t know what exactly to do, or even if there was anything he could do.

And so he did the only thing he could do, which was stand and stare and blink and breathe, and he was already having problems with every one.

Jonathan wanted to run, though he couldn’t.

He wanted to scream, though he couldn’t.

He wanted to curl up and cry, though he didn’t.

Not that it mattered, anyways.

He was a couple seconds from passing out, and he knew.

Seven, six, five.

It kept smiling.

Four, three, two.

The rain hammered on.

One.

Lights out, and the next day started.

Knock, knock!

Except it didn’t.

The next day didn’t quite start yet.

He was still on the same one.

The Hunter blinked.

The Hunter looked.

It was gone.

***

Knock, knock, knock.

Someone was at the door, knocking, knocking, knocking away, and the Hunter didn’t know who it was.

He never had friends visit, because he never had any to begin with.

He never had guests over, because no one in their right mind would ever come.

And he never had family stop by, because, well. . .

He had none left.

Which meant someone he did not know, but who knew him, was at the door, and he didn’t quite like that one bit. That didn’t sit well with the Hunter.

Was it government?

Was it that damn Enforcer?

Was he here to scratch a name off a list?

The Hunter scurried for a weapon. He looked for anything that could strike or blunt, and came up empty handed; he looked for something that could slash and slice, and found nothing at all; he looked for his one, beloved shotgun, and remembered it was no longer with him.

It had vanished earlier today.

Or, rather, he had dropped it.

And so Jonathan Wicker Abhrams settled on the only thing that even remotely resembled danger — which was the shard of glass broken off from an inconspicuous liquor bottle.

Knock, knock, knock.

The Hunter stepped forth — moved closer.

Someone was at the door, still; Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could see through the little stained glass window he never bothered cleaning. He could see the man standing out in the cold and in the rain, with his red overcoat blowing in the wind and the floppy-brimmed fedora sitting complacently atop his head and the crimson glasses slightly wet. He could see the umbrella by the man’s side, folded and dry and hooked over one wrist, almost as if it was more ornamental than functional despite the torrential downpour as of late.

He could see the red glow of the man’s eyes despite the night and dark.

It was piercing.

It was flaring.

It was burning.

Like a flame in the flood.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams knew this man, of course.

He knew this man standing just on the other side of his door.

He knew this man who was always dressed from head to toe in every conceivable shade of red.

He knew this man who always had an umbrella with him, no matter the time of day, the weather at present, the occasion, or the company.

He knew this man who was not fully. . .

Human.

Two clicks — one to free the lock, and one to turn the handle.

The door opened.

And Jonathan was standing across the man, with the shard of glass still in his hand.

The man looked up.

He looked at the shard of glass.

He looked at Jonathan Wicker Abhrams.

He looked at the shard of glass again.

And then back to Jonathan Wicker Abhrams once more.

And then he spoke.

“Really — a piece of glass, John?”

The Hunter said nothing.

“If you’re going to threaten me, you’re going to need something much larger — and something much sharper.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams dropped the glass.

It shattered.

Again.

“I am dearly insulted. Now, may I come in?”

***

The man in question was none other than the magnificent Mr. Beauford himself, esteemed director of the Foundation, self-proclaimed war hero, and all-time enthusiast of the color red. Apart from his iconic look however — and whatever other nonsense was paddled by gossip magazines and tabloid rumors — not much was known of the man. Jonathan knew little more than everyone else did, even after all these years.

Mr. Beauford stood under the tiny, shingle overhangs of Jonathan Wicker Abhram’s humble abode. It provided little shelter against the harsh winds and the harsher rains, though the director never seemed to mind. Oddly enough, he was completely dry. There was not so much as a spot of wet on him, save for the glasses. “John? It’s cold out; may I come in?”

“What. . .” the Hunter poked his head out. “Why. . .”

He looked left.

He looked right.

And then he looked left again.

“I’m not quite sure what it is you’re looking for. I came alone.”

“Why the hell. . .” Jonathan glanced about once more; the streets were empty. “What the hell are you doing — here?”

The director looked almost puzzled. “Need I a reason to visit an old friend?”

“Firstly, you and I were never friends.”

“That’s not entirely accurate.”

“And secondly, it’s two in the fucking morning.”

“That’s also not entirely accurate.”

“Three?”

“Try four.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams craned his neck; he checked on the old living room clock. It was ticking, and it was indeed four in the morning.

“Did I catch you at a bad time, John?” Beauford said. “You look. . . Distracted.”

“Distracted?”

“Well, I was going to say — disheveled, but that seemed rude.”

“Disheveled.”

“Yes, indeed — disheveled. You look disheveled; am I correct in my assessment?”

Jonathan said nothing. He was indeed disheveled, though “terrified” or “anxious” would have been more appropriate given the current circumstances — the current circumstances which the great Mr. Beauford had, by sheer chance, stumbled upon and into. The director was blissfully unaware, of course. He did not notice the shaky hands, the weak knees, the soar voice nor the raspy breathing.

Jonathan did not blame him.

People never believed his stories.

Most faked their sympathies.

Some did not care.

And a very few laughed.

So naturally, he took to keeping to himself — not that he minded, of course. He enjoyed his own company, and often found silence and isolation rather desirable. They were a lot less harsh than people, and a lot less judgemental of his so-called “problem.” They were also loyal.

The Hunter turned and went — away from the door and away from the dear Mr. Beauford — slowly picking up each individual shard, bit, and piece of glass clattered about, turning his wooden floors into quite the treacherous minefield.

He left the door open though, swinging and ajar.

And that was all the invitation the director needed.

“Excellent, thank you, John.”

“I didn’t say you could come in.”

“Thank you.”

The rain hammered on.

It was loud.

***

“Is this how you live, John?”

The Hunter scowled. “You don’t exactly pay me enough to live better.”

“Hard disagree. We pay you enough t—”

“What do you want, Beauford?”

The director shrugged his coat off. It did not, strangely enough, drop onto the nasty, roach-infested, clearly unwashed, stained, cracking floors; instead, it simply stayed there, floating mid-air as if in stasis — as if frozen, suspended in time and space itself.

“I heard about today,” he said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from one shoulder. “My condolences. Rest assured the scouting team responsible will be disciplined accordingly, and you will be provided adequate compensation as well, of course. Grant will see to it first thing tomorrow morning, you have my word.”

“Great,” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams sounded unimpressed.

He was indeed unimpressed.

“There is. . . one more thing, John.”

The Hunter said nothing.

The director continued.

“Cerberus patrol found something yesterday, 20 klicks out west in the desert. They think it’s a cave system — subterranean. Supposedly it’s massive — a few hundred miles in all directions massive. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“And?”

“And. . .” Beauford clicked his tongue. “There’s something in there, John — something alive.”

“Maybe it’s a bat, or a bear. Caves have those.”

“Bears don’t speak.”

“Maybe it’s a smart one.”

“And bats don’t live in castles.”

Jonathan stopped in his tracks.

The shards of glass could wait.

He turned, now facing the director.

“What?”

“There’s a castle, down there.”

“A castle.”

“Precisely.”

“In a cave.”

“Yes.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams wiped both hands on his already filthy coat and trousers; there were trickles of blood coming to, spilling from the tiny, tiny cuts in his fingers and palms. Turns out picking up sharp, glass shards while half asleep, half dead, shivering, pumped full of meds, and on the verge of blacking out really wasn’t the brightest of ideas. Oddly enough, the Hunter didn’t feel any more bothered — or in pain. He was already hurting enough as is; a few small cuts wouldn’t amount to much. “Got a picture?”

Beauford returned to his coat. It was still exactly as he left it; every crease, wrinkle, and fold had not changed one bit.

“Here,” he produced a sealed envelope from within its pockets. “Burn them after.”

“Classified?”

“Obviously.”

“And you’re letting me see?”

“Obviously.”

“What makes you think I'll take the job?”

“Because you’re opening the envelope, John; you wouldn’t if you weren’t interested — obviously.”

Jonathan scoffed.

Fair point.

One tear at a time, the Hunter managed to force the glue and paper apart; one tear at a time, the Hunter managed his way into a job he knew he was, in no way at all, prepared, qualified, nor mentally ready for. The last one almost killed him; this one was sure to.

But he was still doing so anyway.

He was still opening the envelope, and he didn’t know why.

And Beauford was still making himself very much at home, trotting about, going through the cabinets, muttering to himself about the dismal state of just about everything almost disapprovingly.

And the Hunter didn’t know why.

The director was always a tad bit. . .

Eccentric.

Almost weird, if Jonathan had his say.

Nevermind the director.

The envelope was open now.

There were three pictures inside, and each was in greyscale.

There was one of a huge, huge pit, some few hundred or so meters wide. True to Beauford’s words, it was somewhere out in the desert; the cactus and sand and dunes and craters were telltale enough.

There was one of the cave entrance too — inside the pit — and beside it, several Cerberus Sentrymen Jonathan Wicker Abhrams assumed were under Lieutenant Colonel Schneider’s command. Rhanes was one of them too.

The entrance itself was little more than an opening carved into the very earth. There was a hole in the furthest side of the pit walls which led down, down, down, and down some more. Apart from several lines of police tape barring entry, everything looked most ordinary.

For now.

And then there was one of the interiors.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams expected winding passageways; low-hanging ceilings; twisting, turning, labyrinthine hallways; and plenty of dead ends. He could not have been any more wrong.

It was less of a cave system, and more of a giant, empty space in the earth itself. It was less tunnels, corridors, and tight squeezes, and more of a ravenous chasm, some many hundreds of miles in all directions.

And in the center of this ravenous chasm sat a castle — an entire castle, complete with crumbling keeps; forlorn gatehouses; high, tall, watchtowers and, of course, lots and lots and lots of walls. There was a moat too, though water had long since graced its presence.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, John?” Beauford was dusting his now perfectly mundane coat. It was no longer floating. “I haven’t seen a castle before.”

“When were these taken?” Jonathan looked for a date.

There was none.

“Today.”

“What?”

“A few hours ago, actually.”

“What?”

A few hours ago, he was at Cerberus.

A few hours ago, he was with the good doctor — he was with Angela.

Jonathan remembered the Man on the Loudspeaker.

He remembered the calls and the alerts.

He remembered Rhanes rushing out.

He remembered the ride home.

He remembered the humvee.

He remembered noticing the sand grains on the dashboard and seat and whatnot.

So that’s what it was.

That’s what all the fuss was.

Figures.

“I assume then,” Beauford reached for the door handle. “That I can count you in?”

Jonathan said nothing.

The director knew, anyway.

He let the wind in; it was howling.

He let the rain in as well; it was pouring, still.

“Excellent. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams watched the director take two steps out, then turn and smile. “Still having night terrors, John? Still having. . . Problems?”

The Hunter stood just barely beyond the rain. The spray reached him anyway. “Oh, what does it matter to you? You don’t believe me either.”

“Yes, you’re right — I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t understand. That doesn’t mean I can’t sympathize. That doesn’t mean I can’t. . .”

The director paused.

The Hunter waited.

“Oh, nevermind. I’ll see you tomorrow, John.”

John said nothing.

“Don’t be late, now.”

He simply let the door slowly close itself.

And when the lock finally clicked, Beauford was long gone.

He was no longer there.

But someone else was.

Or rather. . .

Something.

Creak, creak, creak.