The NightRealm Series: [I-III]

Inspired by a film called 'OldBoy', and it's theme 'The Last Waltz'.


He stood, gazing into the dirty mirror. Looking back at him was a man in his late thirties with dark, messy hair, some stubble and a face that made him look more depressed and angry than any other human in the world. This was how he looked when he was tired. His name was Graham Terry, an accountant who was recently fired and forced to scrounge for jobs. The thought of looking for work becoming a full-time job made him laugh, as irony often did. But he was bored, and tired with his life. He realised that he had been working in a boring bank most of his adult life. He worked, went home, ate, slept, got up, and then started the cycle again. On and on it went for twenty-two years. He was looking for something, excitement perhaps. Anything that would change his life a little, if only for a short time.
He would find that excitement.


Graham moved into his small living room made up of a small T.V., a couch, and a table tucked into the corner with a computer sitting on it. He moved over the takeaway meal boxes and empty cans of beer and sat before the computer which had already been running for a few hours now. He had been browsing the internet, looking for god knows what. He had come across a small site filled with funny videos but that too was becoming boring, at least that was, until he saw something:

'THE SICK SECTION... PSYCHOS ONLY!'


His curiosity was aroused. What exactly could it mean? What viral wonders were beyond that little green hyper-link? He clicked. Nothing happened. So he clicked again, and a third time before sighing and realising that it must lead nowhere. Just as he was about to turn his attention elsewhere a box flashed up reading:

'WELCOME STRANGER. NEW HERE? SIGN UP.'


And after that was a small form asking for a desired user name, a password and his email. So he filled it in and decided to go with the alias 'surfking101'. A little goofy, but he figured it might give someone a smirk. Within seconds of him clicking 'done', the box was gone and the page turned black. A small image of a goat's head appeared and soon vanished again, leaving the black page for a few moments longer. Graham was already excited at what may come, he also suspected it may be a site intended to simply scare people by making them wait in quiet anticipation before screaming at them and flashing a silly image from a cheap horror movie. But that didn't happen. A video began to play instead.
Graham could see a basic room. White walls, dark floorboards and a steel chair in the center. It appeared to be some sort of live feed but nothing would happen. He would have been convinced that it was a still image if a fly hadn't been floating around the room for the past three minutes, bobbing against the camera's lens every few minutes.
"What is this bull shi--" His quiet word's were interrupted by the wooden door to the room swinging wide open. A man dressed in all black wearing a balaclava dragged a limp old man into the room and placed him on the chair. The stranger left the room and closed the door. Graham's eyes were fixed on the old man who appeared to be knocked out cold. He wore a black suit, a dark tie and a white shirt. He had Grey hair that was starting to receed and his face was covered in wrinkles. For a moment he appeared to be just a simple old man, until a little light bulb flicked into bright light in Graham's head. He knew who the old man was. It was a mayor from some town in Texas - Bumsville for all Graham could care - Mayor Rhinehart, was his name. He had vanished more than a week ago and his disappearance had caused the media to spark into a crazed frenzy. Perhaps it was a look alike. Graham couldn't tell. But he was interested. He desperately wanted to know what would happen next.
The man with the balaclava burst back into the room holding what looked like a bear trap. He set it down on the floor about three feet in front of Rhinehart and prised the rusted jaws apart. The bear trap was now armed and the mayor was beginning to wake. The man in the balaclava seemed a little startled and quickly left the room, closing the door behind him. There was a strange click from Graham's speakers, and then a quiet hiss. Audio had begun streaming along with the video.
"What the hell is goin' on..." Graham whispered before looking the big red' X' and clicking it. The window didn't close. The video kept on rolling as the mayor began to open his eyes and stand, shaking a little.
White words appeared below the video:
'DON'T WORRY. THE FIRST TIME IS THE HARDEST.'
Graham pressed the 'X' again, "Close, dammit!" he spat at the screen
'DON'T WORRY. YOU'LL LIKE THIS. WE PROMISE.'
He was clicking frantically and stopped when he heard something. A loud scream of agony. A male's scream. He looked and saw that Rhinehart had stumbled into the bear trap and was clutching his leg whilst wincing, desperately looking around the room and begging for help.
"Jesus Christ!" shouted Graham. Rhinehart fell to the right and writhed in pain. His foot was still attached but only by a few strands of thick, maroon tissue. The sight made Graham feel sick, and the sounds of the man's crying and begging only made it worse.
"Please! Please! Help me! Someone!" Shouted the Mayor in a trembling and weak voice as his face became lined with thick tears, "Goddamnit! someone!"
The door swung open again, "Oh thank god.. please.. help me!" Pleaded Rhinehart as the man in the balaclava dragged him onto the chair again leaving a large red smear on the floor that was visible even with that poor video quality.
The man grabbed Rhinehart and lifted the trouser leg to check the injury. He saw a small bit of bone sticking out and began to pull on it. His victim's eyes shot open as wide as his mouth, he blared a cry of intense pain.
The man in the balaclava stood and looked square into the camera. He raised a hand and slowly waved at it. A chill ran down Graham's spine. The video paused, and then vanished. The picture of the goat's head came and went as it did before followed quickly by large white lettering :

'COURTESY OF BUTCHER.
HE HOPES TO SEE YOU NEXT TIME WHEN HE FINISHES OFF HIS NEWEST VICTIM. IF YOU WISH TO LEAVE... PLEASE CLOSE THIS WINDOW IN THREE SECONDS.'
3.
2.
1.

'THANK YOU FOR STAYING. YOU HAVE BEEN BILLED $320 USD. COME BACK IN ONE HOUR.'

A clock began counting down to the next hour. Graham didn't know what to do. How had they billed him if he didn't give any credit card details... Something was very wrong. On instinct he turned and ran to his front door. To the side of it sat his wall mounted phone, he picked up and dialed for the police.
He waited.
He waited still and was met with a strange voice that hissed like a reptilian being. "If you call the police. You'll end up just like the old man."
"Who are you people!?" Graham asked, trembling.
"The butcher, the goat, and the abattoir." The voice laughed.
" How are you doing this?... How did you know I was using the phone?"
"You're not very secure with your pc, Graham. We've accessed your bank account, we've bugged your phone, just in case..."
"I don't want this. This is sick."
"We gave you a chance. Three seconds to be exact. You didn't act. All of our members enjoy this service. In time, you will as well."
Graham hung up. He began pacing in his room. He was sweating and breathing heavily, his heart was like a bull trapped in a cage twenty times too small and he had no idea what to do. He couldn't call the police.. If he ran they would probably find him. They took his money just like that and he sure as hell didn't want to be their next 'victim'.
A beeping came from the computer and a little white window popped up. An instant messenger, and someone was trying to talk. Graham sat down at the computer and read blue writing saying simply 'Hello... new to the scene?'.
He had no idea how to reply. He simply typed, 'yes. Who r u?'
The reply came a few minutes later. 'Franklin. A long time viewer. Looks like the clock has been cut down. We only have to wait a few more seconds.'
Graham checked, and the person was right. The clock had skipped down to ten seconds.

five...

four...

three...

two...

one...


There sat the mayor, bleeding to death and covered in tears. He was gagged with a white cloth. The bear trap and the blood had been cleaned away. At the corner of the video was a small countdown. It was counting down seconds and was nearly at zero.
Franklin sent another message: 'This will b great! Butcher never lets us down! Just wait noobie. Youll see.'
two.. Grahams heart couldn't race any faster.
one... His stomach felt as if it was just about read to empty itself.
BOOM The Mayor's head vanished in a cloud of crimson. Thick, goo and blood sprayed all over the room. Bits of bone and bits of brain littered the area and stuck slowly raced down the wall towards the floor. In walked the butcher. Who again, simply waved.
Graham turned and ran to the bathroom. He was more than a little queasy. Luckily he made it on time and managed to fire his vomit into the toilet without missing. He fell onto the floor, weak and pale. He heard a familiar beep. Another message.It took him a few moments but he managed to stand again, though he was still shaking a little.
'Looks like our latest victim has a weak stomach, eh noobie?'
Graham's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't mean...? Surely not. Graham flicked over onto the video screen and saw a room exactly as his with a man standing at his computer who was dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and some pants. A shadow appeared behind the man.
"oh god.." He whispered as he closed his eyes, taking in quick, sharp, and cold breaths.

Everything went black.

THESICK;HOUSE


There once was a man, bored and alone. He became so bored that he chose to find a new life, perhaps some excitement to spice up what little life he had left... but he got more than he bargained for. He found a man who killed people. He found a dead president and a sick little place in the internet. He would have run, sure, had the rook not seen that pawn's plan twelve moves before.

So now he sat with a splitting headache in a chair, with his arms burning from when they were bound behind him. Everything was hazy, but he definitely recognised the room in which he sat. A room with dirty, yellow walls, blood-stained floor-boards and a little black camera sitting in the corner. As his vision cleared a little he saw his feet, unscathed, and bare - just the way he left them. His hands were fine too, in fact, the only thing that was wrong with him was that he had a sore head from that little bump back at the apartment. He had no idea how long he had been in that room, no watch, no time. No window, no sun. Just a lightbulb that barely hung onto the wires that powered it. That bulb reminded him of himself, and to it, he owed a few words...

"Hang in there, schmuck." He uttered, a little drowsily. He felt he could stand, and so he did. His balance kept with him. His legs held strong. His vision became 20/20 and he realised something must be wrong - had to be wrong. He wasn't dead yet. But there was blood all over the floor where his little, wooden chair was. Yes sir, something was very wrong. But something was also very right. The door. The wooden, shabby, mold-encrusted door was open. Not a lot, not a little, but a jar. Just a sliver, if anything. But that meant it wasn't locked. And if it wasn't locked. It wasn't a wall that kept this man from his freedom. It was an exit. Exit to the world, to life?

A floorboard from the other side of that little door creaked and a shadow slowly oozed under the little gap that separated the floor from the door. What was he to do?! Fight the stranger? Heck no. Play possum. Wait and calculate like the clever fox. So he sat down and slouched forward a little, pretending to still be knocked out cold, although he wondered how well it would work. With a loud squeak the door opened, the loud thumping footsteps that followed came closer, closer, closer, closer still. The fucker was so close he could hear his rattling, and heavy breaths.
"Graham?" it grumbled, with a muffled sound.
Graham's eyes did open, but he did not move any more than that. Wait for it, Graham, Wait for it and you can show your captor that he's playing with fire, that if he wants to catch hens in the dark, sooner or later he'll catch a fox.
"Graham..." the monotonous voice of the captor droned on, taunting him. It came close. Too close. Right next to Graham's ear. He could even smell his breath, like putrid puss and farts. What the hell did that guy eat? Dead donkeys? Aha! Luck. The head turned and the captor began to slowly walk away, his heavy steps moving further, further, further still!

NOW, GRAHAM!

His thoughts blared to him, his muscles acted without guidance and he stood, "HEY!" He shouted loudly with a wild smirk on his face, the captor turned quickly and was met with a swift chair to the face! He doubled-over in pain and Graham took his chance. He slid through the door and had entered into a long hallway, strangely, it was a nicely decorated one. Warm, lit by wall mounted candles with beautiful paintings lining the oak walls. Graham could see at least two doors, one on the wall before him, down the hall and on the left, and one down at the very end of the hall on his right. His heart beat like a crazed drummer and he moved on impulse to his left. The door drew closer and he realised he was running on carpet. His footsteps were near inaudible on it, too. But more than that, it was as soft as silk, like heaven for feet. He reached the door and tried the handle. Unlocked! Brilliant! He sped in and gently closed the door but with quiet swiftness.

He heard a strange and playful tune. The song a jack-in-the-box plays when you wind it up and wait for your face to be attacked by a goddamn midget clown. Graham turned and saw a room decorated like a child's nursery. Little bears in rows, gleefully striding across the wallpaper which was a nice baby blue. A large white cot to the left (empty, he saw) and of course, the carpet was the same as it was in the hallway. A luxurious kind that was warm and soft. The tune kept on playing. He scanned the room for the source of the tune, and he saw a small box, sitting in the center of the carpet. It was multicoloured, made of cheap plastic, the little handle to wind it up was moving round in a slow circle by it's own volition in a haunting manner as if a ghost child was moving it, and the tune played still. It was a little fast, but Graham could hear that it was slowing. It slowed more. It was so slow it was a high pitched, note-by-note assessment of the song. Slowed again, Graham was tense with anxiety, he knew something bad was coming. The last note pinged.

And then nothing.

He waited, and still nothing. He moved a little closer to the box, still nothing. The handle remained solitary now, and not a single not would chime. He moved closer again, almost feeling entranced by the box as if he himself was a dim-witted child. His heart was wretching in fear and he stayed where he was now, not three feet from the box. The room went dark. The lights above had burned out. Only now did he realise there was a rather large window on the far side of the room, looking out over a huge, black forest bathed in moon-light. His heart jumped as lightning struck and filled the room with white light for a split second, giving him a small, mental picture of his surroundings. He waited for the next flash, and it came, the room stayed the same. He swore though, on that third strike of light that he saw a large doll-like figure standing in the distance. A trick of the light perhaps. A trick, of course. A trick, just like this whole damn building! There was a loud buzz and the lights sprung back into full light. Nothing had changed. Luckily. Save for the sounds in the room.
Three last chimes.
One.
Two.
Up popped out of the box a giant, hissing, snake like creature. Like a reptillian-man with clown make up, holding up clawed hands and drooling a fizzy acidic saliva. Graham shot backwards in fright and he landed hard on the flooring which seemed not as comfortable now. It was wooden now. The Jack in the box fell forward and landed on Graham's chest, face-to-face with him. It hissed like a crazed cat and it felt heavy like an anaconda. It even had strength in it's little arms which were trying to claw at his face, or perhaps even his eyes. Luckily, he managed to throw it off and he scrambled to his feet. It lay, face on the now wooden floor and making an sound as if it was crying, weeping. It began to hop to the right, swinging it's long body with each pounce. It was ready for another attack, another go at those delicious eyes of Graham's. He turned for the door and was met with a wall, the little bears on it had sinister, red eyes and all of them faced him with evil intent. They all held little kitchen knifes and he swore that they were walking in mid air. There was a loud crack. He turned, thinking it was the jack and then he fell. The floorboards had given way and he was throw downwards into darkness.

The only light in the room was that from the nursery above, the jack was looking down at him with a strange, sharp-toothed smile. Graham stood and noticed he had landed on something very soft. It was thick, and he could just make out the texture of potato sacks. But it's contents felt far too soft to be potatoes. He tried to see past the thick sheild of darkness that surrounded him, nothing, all he could hear was the noise of drops of water dripping as if he was in some sort of sewer.
Graham stood, fumbling a little over the sacks and felt around the floor for something useful. Lowe and behold. He found something that he was almost sure was a flashlight. It was long, heavy and had a switch. He flicked it and a beam of white light sprung forth out of the little plastic stick. Before him he saw wooden boxes all piled atop one another. They all had a strange, thick dust like growth set on them but it was red. He turned to further examine the room and saw a stair case, that was his first move. So he took a step towards them and then stopped as he heard a noise. Like a deep gurgling, he turned right, stone wall, he turned the light a little more, a thick iron chain... he moved it down and was met with a horrid site. A huge, grotesque creature that could not be described as human sat before him, chained to the wall. It resembled a human that was extremely overweight, sitting in a strange bemusement, it's acne laced lips lined with bits of what Graham assumed was meat. He moved the light down and saw a chicken's body, minus one head. Yes, indeed, that was meat. The large being threw it's face forward, but a chain tied around it's neck halted it and forced it back with a chocking noise. Graham tried to move to the stairs but the creature was somehow fast and was already now blocking the way. He had to think fast before that beast found a way free of it's chains and probably devoured him whole. He turned and checked the potato sacks. A small opening was found by his hand and he reached in. He felt a thick, meaty and wet chuck of something which he soon withdrew and saw that it was a big, bloody heart, all vein covered, pus lined and cold.
Graham turned to the beast and tossed the heart forward, it followed the red lump as it landed and the monster pounced upon it, letting Graham slide past it's defenses unnoticed.

Again, he was in that hall. Again his feet were being caressed by the now familiar carpet. This hall had many doors, and many little candles liting it. On the left there was a corner that lead to a large staircase that went downwards, Graham peeked round and saw two, large double doors. Front doors. Main doors! He rushed and was slammed into the doors. He should been more cautious and perhaps realised that they may be locked. And locked they were. The windows at either side of them were boarded up. He sighed deeply and figured that he should get out of the -- he paused. Thumping. Familiar thumping, and not far too. He faced the nearest door on his left and darted through it. The door was closed behind him and he held his breath as the thumping moved slowly, away.
The room was warm and smelled faintly of brandy. It's walls were covered in books that looked old and weathered but in oddly good condition. In between two large bookcases sat a calm fire and before that fire, a large, leather chair. Graham could see an arm holding a large glass of some kind of alcohol, the silence was interrupted by a slurred, old man's voice that said:
"Well. Aren't you going to come on over and let me see your face? Don't worry, I won't bite." It was a strange accent, southern-english perhaps. Graham did as he asked and moved into view of the man. The man was small, and very wrinkled. His head bore a neatly cut hairdo that was all white. The man couldn't have been any younger than 60, Graham thought.
"Where am I?" he asked the man, his throat croaked a little. He hadn't spoke in a while now, now had he eaten or drank anything.
The old man looked him in the eyes and smiled, "Well, what's this place like? You've been carted off, you thought that you were dead, strange sights, visions, monsters that shouldn't exist... it's quite... hellish isn't it?" He gave a little smirk and Graham's heart lept a beat, "don't worry. It's not really Hell. It's just like it. A lot that I should explain, there, about this place, but I cant, Not yet. You have to learn for yourself."
"what do you mean...?" Replied Graham, bewildered
"There is a big, big secret and you've stumbled upon it, young man. Technically you're not dead, but technically you're not alive. A sort of, half-life right now. You're sitting on the brink, my friend."
"I don't understand... I'm dying?"
"If you let that brute cut you up for the children to eat."
"You can hardly call them children."
"Something we agree upon. But children they are, still, and forever. The big man feeds them and they don't kill him, a little deal they have."
"And you?"
"I'm one of them, actually."
There was an odd silence in the room now. An eerie weight sat on Graham's shoulders, and he thought of another question:
"how do I get out of here?"
"The door. But which one! Oh, which one!" The old man laughed heartily, "Did you try the front doors? That's always a good bet."
"Yeah, but --"
"How do you know you're at the front of the house?"
Graham quickly realised how stupid he had been about three seconds ago, "Is there a safe way out of here?"
"Well there is... sort of. I've never tried it and no one's gotten as far as you. Just, go up the stairs and head through the door with the mark on it."
Graham turned and began to leave, he sensed the man would have nothing more to do with him.
He stood at the large staircase again, he ran up and checked for any hulking psychopaths. None. Good. All of the doors alone the wall before him looked exactly like one another, he looked closely and then saw it. A minuscule scrape on the wood of a door. He ran to it, it was unlocked, he opened it and fell! He landed on something soft that was moving, writhing beneath him. What little light there was show a pile of white, limbless bodies all shuffling under and over each other like mindless worms. He began to sink with the bodies. There was no way he could fight them, they were like a strong wave, within seconds he was submerged in the sea of bodies. Their weight was intense, it felt as though his bones were being crushed by elephants. Then all of a sudden he opened his eyes and realised that, though his body still hurt, he was outside. In a forest. It was daytime and the ground was covered in golden-brown leaves. All the trees had gone bare and the wind was cold, but refreshing, Graham turned and saw the mansion. The boarded up double doors that opened onto once-beautiful marble stairs. The doors burst open and there was the captor dressed in tight, black leather clothing that resembled a bondage suit of some kind. He was holding a chain and the fat beast burst outside like an overweight dog. It broke free of it's chain and of it's master and began running on all fours like a twisted pig. Graham panicked, turned and ran. He was running abnormally fast for someone as unhealthy as him, but this was the least of his worries, the beast was gaining on him, whining in heavy breaths of instant-exhaustion. The black trees were whizzing past and Graham saw that the forest ended. As did the ground, and opened up onto a giant, raging ocean. He stopped, slid and turned. The beast hit his chest and with a loud squealing roar, knocked Graham off of the edge. He began to fall fast. The wind roaring past his ears. He hit the water and bounced up. He was in his bed. His room. His home!
The morning sun spilled through into the messy room and he was never more glad to see his pig-sty of a home! One thing was different. One major thing. On his wall was carved a giant symbol of a strange face that looked as if it had fire spitting from it's edges, it's mouth open and tongue lashing outward, the eyes wide and wild. The image brought a hint of fear to Graham, but after everything he had just witnessed, things would never scare him, like they had that night.

[III] - Ties That Bind




One week...
"Graham? Are you there? If you get this message... Call me, okay? We really need to talk..."

Two weeks...

"Graham... I know you're angry at me, but it's been three weeks. Come on, just call me... I miss you."

Three weeks...

"Graham, I'm really worried about you! Why won't you answer your phone. Your friends can't get through to you... if something's wrong, you have to tell us. Call someone... anyone... Give us a sign that you're okay."

Four.


1

There were two men standing outside of the apartment that belonged to Graham Terry. They were police, one in his late forties with dark hair and heavy stubble, the other no more than twenty - a fresh cop on the beat, his first night. The older officer knocked the door quite loudly, it echoed throughout the tidy hallway eerily as he did. He spoke, hoping to reach someone on the other side of the wooden door numbered '29'
"Mr. Terry," he knocked again "If you're in there, please open up."
No reply. Not a single noise. So he banged louder, it hurt his knuckles but he was in no mood to care, "Sir, open up. We're the police. We just wanna check on you, make sure you're okay. Mrs. Kramer said something about damp, is there a leak?"
Still nothing. The officer was beginning to become more tense "Please, open the door, or we'll have to kick it open, Mr. Terry and we know you don't want to have to pay for a new lock. So Just open up!" His banging was fast and furious and then it stopped. He sighed and looked to his young partner who stood with wide eyes and a strange little smirk on the edge of his lips. The older officer stood back and nodded regretfully which acted as a trigger - a signal - to the younger man. Almost instantly his leg was fired towards the door, just under the dirty, brass knob. The wood gave way easily, and the door swung open, hitting the wall a small table.

The room that they had opened up was dark, the windows were sitting open showing the adjacent apartment building and the heavy rain. It was cold, and as the two men stepped in - guns cocked, never blinking - they could see their breath on thick puffs before them.
The older officer whipped out his flashlight and turned it on. The strong beam of white light pierced straight through the shield of darkness and showed a sight the two had never seen. The furniture was all gone. The carpet torn into shreds. The wall paper ripped as if a lion had gone insane in that very place. And all over the floor was a thick, red liquid augmented by gooey chunks of a strange, meat. Their hearts were beating faster than ever before. The light moved along the drenched floor, towards the center of the room and it showed a large, oozing pile that slowly writhed in an entrancing and hypnotic way. The older officer squinted his eyes to make out the pile of moving mush on the floor. He gasped as he recognised something: A skull... It had eyes on it. Some of the muscle was still on, too. A spine was just visible through the mesh of blood and torn up muscle, it lead down to a pile of strangely intact organs... even the heart was still beating.
"How the hell is he still alive...?" He whispered
"What the hell? Oh my god!" Shouted the rookie as he began to realise what he was looking at. Without a second's hesitation he grabbed his mic and was calling for an ambulance.
The eyes in the skull lolled to the right and locked with those of the older officer, who was now froze in that Medusa-stare. The mouth moved slightly and let free a slightly hiss of a whisper, an almost inaudible sound. The officer leaned in closer, it whispered again. He still couldn't understand, so he again, moved closer. The tips of his black, polished shoes gently touched an intestine, his head inched closer. Closer again. And Closer once more until he was only ten away from the skeletal face of the thing laying before him.
It whispered once more, "Hel'...'E....Peash..." It's words were like that of a young child with a speech impediment, or perhaps of a drunk, but no matter how it spoke, the officer understood perfectly. It wanted help.

Help me, please, help me...help me... please... please... please....

2

It was the next day, not a few hundred miles away, that the same two men were talking to a perplexed coroner before a table covered in bones and organs. The coroner was Dr. Emmerich, a young man with chestnut hair and small glasses before blue eyes, he spoke softly to the two men with a hint of concern
"I don't understand how this could have happened... Tests show that he was alive for a whole week before you guys arrived. Imagine, laying on a floor like that for a whole week. It must have been hell."
The older officer butted in, a well known trait of his "But how come he didn't bleed to death, or just... die... I mean, he had no skin, muscles, no nothin'!"
Emmerich paused for a moment, for once in his life he didn't have an answer, "We don't know. None of this makes any sense. All we know is that this guy was called Graham Terry and --" He stopped and looked past the two officers to a new man who had just sauntered in with an air of self-importance about him.
The man wore a simple black suit, tie and shoes with a white shirt underneath. His hair was jet black and his skin was very tanned, which would lead one to think he was of a Mexican background - not too far from the truth. He walked up to Dr. Emmerich and spoke clearly with a Brooklyn accent,
"Hello, you must Dr. Emmerich. I'm Detective Ramirez. I heard about what happened and well... I'm interested to say the least." He turned to the two officers, "Could you two give us a little privacy, please?"
The two silently mumbled and quickly scurried off, quietly speaking to each other about how much of an asshole they thought Ramirez was.
"Is there something I can help with... As you can see I have my hands full" Said Dr. Emmerich, motioning to the disgusting mess to his right.
"Is there any way a person could have done this to Mr. Terry? With, or without a struggle?"
"Well, he wasn't sedated from what we can tell... and obviously we can't check for physical signs of a struggle. If a person managed to do this, they would have had to be extremely skilled. They'd need an anatomical knowledge of a surgeon, if not better."
"I see. So you've got nothing." Ramirez said bluntly, which drained all emotion from Emmerich's face
"Yeah. Nothing but this pile of goop."

Det. Ramirez turned and left as briskly as he came, without saying a single word more to Dr. Emmerich. He wasn't normally that rude, but he was focused -- determined to find out what had happened. He had a name, so he would start there.
He stood in the busy street, the streets damp and the sky overcast. Despite the previous downpour the place was busy with people scampering all around going from here to there. Ramirez often stood on busy streets, watching people going through their lives often wondering what it would have been like if he had become a banker or a lawyer. Their lives were fast paced, but his was slow and almost never moved. He had to analyse every detail that surrounded him and take a mental picture of everything at a crime-scene. His thoughts were empty on this, however, his mind completely blank. That was until his cell-phone rang loudly in his right pocket. Quickly he fired his hand in to get it and he held it to his hear,
"Yeah?"
A high-pitched voice of a young man told him that Graham Terry's only living relative was his son who, luckily, lived only a few blocks away from where Ramirez stood.

3

There were things that Josh Terry had wished would happen to him. And somethings he wished wouldn't. But what was to become of him, he would never have dreamt of.
He sat in his apartment, over looking the dreary city, on a leather chair. He often sat in silence and looked out the window, usually because he was bored, but he'd tell people it helps him think or something silly like that. He scratched his hair-covered chin and sighed. The room was quiet and if he listened close enough he would probably hear the dust settling around him. There was a light flap. Like paper falling gently. Josh turned and looked to his door to see that a small brown envelope had been slid under his door. He stood and retrieved it, checking the peep hole though he saw no one there, he sat down with the envelope.
The small brown paper in his hand was wrinkled and slightly torn on one of the corners. He opened it up with relative ease (usually he would have to completely obliterate an envelope to get inside) and pulled out a small, piece of crinkled paper. On the paper was writing that looked like it was written in a hurry without much consideration taken into how someone was supposed to read it. Josh squinted and tried his best to decipher the words before him, his eyes almost adjusted to it and it quickly became easier to read.

' Please, Don't panic. I'm a good friend of your father's.
Something is happening, something big. Right at this moment police will likely be making their way to your door to talk to you about your father's 'death'. Don't listen to a word that they tell you, he isn't dead. He just isn't alive...

I know how crazy it sounds, but you have to trust me. Don't sleep. They'll get you that way. Stay sharp. I'll be in touch.

~ Prant '

Josh had no idea what to think.
Was this a joke?
Should he take it seriously?
What the hell kind of pseudonym is 'Prant'? If it even is a pseudonym, that is.
The letter had caused him to go into a small flurry of though, wondering if his father really was dead. He didn't know if what the letter said about his father was true, but it was right about the police. They did arrive. Right on cue.
They knocked three times. And he answered quickly, shoving the note into his back pocket as he did. He was met with a young looking police officer and a man in a black suit. The man in the suit spoke calmly,
"Are you Josh Terry?"
"Yeah... Who wants to know?" He realised instantly that he just asked the dumbest question of all time.
"I'm Detective Ramirez, I'm investigating your father's death. If you hadn't already heard then I'm sorry to break the news like this. Can I come in?"
Josh nodded and lead him in, Ramirez left the young officer to stand outside before casually sitting on Josh's leather swivel chair.
"So, what kind of relationship did you have with your father?" he asked,
"We didn't talk much. When him and mom got divorced I went with mom and well, he sort of kept his distance after that. I'm not sure I can be much more help than that."
"We'll see. Did your father have any enemies, that you know of? Was he a particularly aggressive man, perhaps? "
Josh paused. He just told this man he knew nothing, yet he persisted to ask these questions, "Like I said, I didn't talk to him, and no, I was never told that he was aggressive."
Ramirez stood and pulled a small white card from his pocket, "If you think of anything that could be important, be sure to call me... I'll let myself out." and he left quickly, the card gently slid into Josh's hand. The door was closed quietly and the room held a strange aura in it, as it the man had left some of his personality behind. Josh stood, looking at the card that had only a phone number on it.
9-1-1
'Smart ass' He couldn't help thinking.
The strange silence was broken by a shrill ringing, the phone. Josh rushed to pick it up and his ear was met with only a few words from what sounded like a woman's voice,
"Diner on the corner of the street. You know the one. Three minutes. Hurry."
She hung up and without hesitating Josh rushed out, forgetting to even lock his door.
The person who called was accurate, he did know the diner. He ate there all the time. Every morning he would order waffles and coffee. He was in no mood for those now, he thought, as he quickly strode through the cold air.
The sky was looming above, dark and overcast, full of clouds and threatening more rain. Perfect. And it did. The rain began to fall heavy just as he made his way through the red doors or the Diner that he knew so well. Then he realised. How exactly would he know who called him, he obviously had never met the girl. He scanned over the few faces, and saw only on person sitting by themselves. A young woman with damp and messy blond hair, she looked round and noticed him. She made a quick gesture and turned away to face the window as Josh came over and sat opposite her on the red and white, leather seat.
"So," He began "just who are you?"
"Kayleigh." Her eyes darted from Josh to the window and back again, as if she was anxious or nervous about something.
"So you're not this 'Prant' guy?" her eyes paused for a brief moment at that word. It seemed to have struck a chord with her, but Josh didn't think she was going to tell him why judging by the way it made her look.
"Did... your dad ever say weird stuff, about his dreams?"
"What do you mean...?"
"Did he ever say that his dreams were real? stuff like that?"
"No, I don't talk to him. Did he go crazy or something?"
"Crazy?" Her hands were shaking along with the rest of her body in an odd rhythm, "he's one of the few who are actually sane."