The Ghosts We Made

1.

The flicker of the neon sign outside my dingy office window throws just enough light on the scrap of paper someone slid under my door. I pick it up, unfolding it like it's a delicate artifact that might crumble to dust if handled too roughly. My gaze slides over the hastily scrawled words. "Midnight. The old Langston warehouse. Come alone." No signature, no clue who might have sent it.

I crush the note in my fist, a sense of foreboding gnawing at my gut. That place has been nothing but a haunt for rats and ghosts of industry long past. A perfect spot for a clandestine meet—or an ambush. Yet, there's that itch at the back of my mind, that whisper that this isn't some prank. It could be the lead I've been waiting for in the Morrison case. The one that's kept me up nights, poring over files until everything blurred into a meaningless jumble of names and faces.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath. Curiosity always gets the better of me. But this time, it's not just curiosity; it's that relentless drive to find the truth. Even a creature like Morrison didn't deserve such a dark end. Someone out there knows something they shouldn't, and I need to know what that is.

Grabbing my coat, I check the .38 snub nose revolver tucked in my shoulder holster---a familiar weight against my chest. The night calls with its siren song of secrets and danger, and I'm already out the door, striding down the dimly lit hallway. My footsteps resound on the linoleum, a staccato rhythm that matches the racing of my pulse.

"Be smart, Thorn," I chide myself softly. Every shadow could be friend or foe. In this city, you can't tell the difference until it's too late. But I can't turn away from this, not now. Maybe it's the detective in me, or maybe it's that stubborn streak that won't let me leave a puzzle unfinished. Whatever it is, it's got its hooks in deep, and I'm already halfway to the warehouse before I can talk myself out of it.

"Midnight," I repeat, the word echoing in the hollow silence of the streets. Midnight at the old Langston warehouse. It's a promise, a threat, a tantalizing possibility of answers. And I intend to uncover them, whatever it takes.

The rain's a relentless assault on the collar of my trench coat as I stand before Langston's forsaken monument to commerce long abandoned. Puddles gather like murky oases in the cracked asphalt sea, each drop an echo of the city's disdain for forgotten places. The warehouse looms, a skeletal husk, its windows shattered eyes staring blankly into the void.

As I approach, the sound of water dripping from rusted gutters plays a discordant symphony. Graffiti tags bleed down the walls, vibrant scars of color on the gray palette of decay. They're the territory marks of street artists and gangs, hieroglyphs that speak of life amidst desolation. The decrepit building has a story, each broken pane and defaced wall a chapter in its grim narrative.

My hand rests on the butt of my revolver, the grip cold through the fabric. It's a small comfort, a steel companion whispering the possibility of danger at every shadowed corner. The door creaks open at my touch, protesting the disturbance after so many silent years.

Inside, the cavernous space swallows me whole. My footsteps are the only conversation here, the tap of my shoes against concrete a lonely call and response with unseen specters. Shadows play tricks on my eyes, shapes moving just beyond certainty. The air tastes old, heavy with sour musk and mold. Water drips somewhere in the distance, a metronome keeping time with my racing heart.

I pause, letting the silence fill my ears, searching for the whisper of another's presence. But there's nothing---just the slow inhale and exhale of the building, breathing around me like a slumbering giant.

"Answers better be worth this," I mutter, my voice swallowed by the vastness. Morrison's unsolved murder hangs over me, a specter more haunting than any ghoul this place could conjure. That message, the promise of a lead, it's got me chasing shadows. But I'm no stranger to the dark; it's where truth likes to hide, curling up tight until someone brave or foolish enough comes looking.