Warlock

Ghost in the Moonlight

An incessant cacophony of sounds crashed in the distance, taunting him. He tugged the blackout curtains shut. It hardly made a dent in the chaos, but it was something. Loch rolled off the couch, if the mound of collapsing cushions and splintered wood still counted as a couch. Too many rounds around the sun could devolve anything into a formless shape. Only the occasional glance in the mirror confirmed that he hadn't met the same fate. Loch reluctantly made his way through the fog of dust to the door. It was time.

There was a certain beauty that came with decay, and the old brick building was no exception. Timeworn chandeliers swayed beneath ceilings peppered with holes, water droplets trickled from shadowy corners, dust carpeted the floors with grey, and threadbare white cloths dressed the furniture like ghosts from the building's long-ago life. A well-worn path of footprints interrupted the dust, leading from the single occupied room down the long, crumbling staircase to the first floor and out the door.

Loch glanced back into the room. It was the only room he had modernized, creating an oasis of running water and electricity. It wasn't as beautiful as the rest, but it was functional. He shut the door. Following the track of footprints, barely visible through the latest layers of dust, he jumped to miss the broken steps and walked along the edge closest to the wall where the staircase became truly treacherous. It wasn't difficult; he had taken the route more times than he cared to count. From the staircase he crossed the ghostly lobby, following the nearly invisible footprint trail to the front door. Checking that his leather gloves were firm on his hands, he opened the door.

Only the light from a tiny sliver of moon greeted him. The lights and pollution from the city blocked out the stars, even in the abandoned outskirts. Loch didn't care to search for stars, anyway. He made his way to the mailbox, and as always, only two items waited within. No company bothered sending junk mail to an abandoned building; he was a ghost to them.

Loch lifted the newspapers to his nose; they smelled of gasoline and hot chocolate. He smiled at the thought of some poor soul driving hours just to reach his lone mailbox. There were two kinds of mailmen; the kind that appreciated the ancient beauty of the city's abandoned counterpart, and the kind that feared it. He hoped that the mail carrier had been terrified, or perhaps a bit curious. It had to be odd to deliver newspapers to a seemingly abandoned building, especially when those newspapers had been specifically requested. The time between the request and arrival was likely strange, too. If all was as it should be, however, only two people knew of his requests.

Loch took a deep breath of fresh air, turning his pale face to the sky. For one blissful moment the sounds of the city seemed to stop, muted. Just for a moment. Then the world rushed back. A deep sigh joined the uproar of noise. Loch made his way back along the unlit path, walking silently up broken stairs, shoes landing perfectly in footprints. Crickets played their music with bows of green, birds slept in their nests, and mice ran circuits within the walls. Everything lived in its own separate world, and he was no exception.

With the door shut the sounds dimmed once again. Only one light lit the small room, but it was perfect. Everything was as it should be. Loch pulled a moth-bitten, ancient blanket around himself, bringing his legs up onto the couch to join him. As always, he read the international newspaper first. Its soft paper was the same material as always, its font still a variant of Times New Roman. Even with his connections providing all the information he needed, he loyally read the paper. It was the feel of the paper, the physical presence of the ink. Connections weren't entirely trustworthy, nor was listening to information as enjoyable as reading it.

The international news was depressing as always. Nothing ever went right when people made the plans. Wars in the Middle East continued with businessmen at the reigns, natural disasters devastated the poor, political unrest rocked the first world. The pattern continued. It was nothing of interest. Loch set the first newspaper aside and opened the local one. The headline caught his attention immediately: The Invisible Serial Killer. Loch skimmed the front page, flipping to the center of the magazine to continue the article. The first paragraph outlined the occurrences perfectly: "Nearly one hundred people dropped dead yesterday, each from an independent cause, each a perfect homicide. Some victims were ripped apart, some decapitated, some abruptly bloodless, some poisoned, and some died for no apparent reason except a stopped heart. Each murder occurred at a different time and place, but the victims have one thing in common; they were surrounded by witnesses. Yet none of these witnesses reported seeing anything. One moment the victim was talking or smiling, the next they were dead. Even the victims captured on camera showed no signs of illness or of being attacked prior to their death. Some are calling the killer a ghost, while others call them a time stopper."

Newspapers were only trustworthy to a certain extent. Tossing The Tribune along with the other paper, Loch walked from the couch to the phone set in the wall. A few dials and conversations later, he got a feel for what was going on and closed his eyes in thought. An invisible presence skimmed over the city, watching and listening before returning to its mind.

The deaths were various degrees of disgusting, but that was nothing new when it came to murder. What was strange was that the event, or series of events, had occurred on a seemingly random day. Even stranger than that was the fact that the story had made it into the newspapers. He knew that journalists had improved their prying and spying techniques, but when it came to such... odd things, there was a group that made sure nobody spoke. More often than not, this group simply made sure they forgot. If they weren't keeping things silent, something was wrong.

Loch's gloved fingers slowly tapped at the edge of the old blanket still wrapped around him. Like him, it was embedded with decades of dust. Like him, it was tired, barely used for anything anymore. Loch slowly returned to the couch and laid down. Dusty eyes shut, and a few moments later darkness mercifully blocked out the sounds of the world. Humanity could deal with its own problems.