See No Evil

by Scott Reu

A home for the homeless

and something that binds us all—

O, Muse, I’m so tired.

Just let it end.

1:Death

"Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow"

-T.S. Eliot

The year of 1930 brought no hope for those penniless because of the depression, and the poor souls of the city of New York were no exception. Snowflakes drifted under a streetlight on a December night, falling slowly enough to see, but quickly enough to be obscure. This night was one of the coldest the city had ever had. Trailing a set of footprints, which were fading slightly with the newly fallen snow, a man walked slowly down the street. His gait was world-worn, unusual for a man of only 25. His silhouette appeared for a moment beneath the glow of the streetlight, and disappeared. He was going home.

The man walked at a steady pace, never faltering or stopping. He had no time to stop on this night. His coat and hat, already ragged, were becoming laden with snow, and he could feel his joints stiffening from the cold air. As his feet fell onto the steps leading up to 131 La Fontaine Avenue, he fumbled for the keys in his pocket. His mind drifted to the memory which constantly plagued him: that day, almost a year ago, when his brother was taken from him. Pushing the thought from his head, he unlocked the door, retrieved the key from the lock, and went inside. His house was about as cold as the air outside, but the man was just thankful that he had a house. Mostly he was thankful for the roof, which at least kept the snow out.

It was a modest dwelling, but he really didn’t mind. It had a sentimental value that a larger property could never equal. Again, the smoldering memories flared into his conscious mind; he couldn’t help but think of the way the body looked, riddled with holes from the killer’s gunfire—how, at that moment, it wasn’t his brother. It was just a body, lying there, crumpled by pain and impact. Resolving to focus, he forced his thoughts to the present. I’ll be with you again soon, he thought, once again attempting to justify not thinking about his brother as often as he probably should have. He went over the last few weeks in his mind again. He needed to be sure that this was the right thing to do before he went through with it.

The stock market crash had gone badly for the Pascal family. Jonathan and Edward had been the only two left in the family line ever since their parents died in a car crash on the 24th of September, 1921. They were only teenagers at the time. Edward, being the older brother, took it upon himself to look after Jonathan, and, for a time, they were able to scrape together a decent living. Their parents owned their house, so the children never wanted for shelter, and, for a time, they lived comfortably off of the money their parents had in the bank. But the family Pascal was not rich by any means, and soon Edward had to take a job to support the two of them. Edward was rarely home in those years, so, to lighten the load, when Jonathan turned 16, he took a job as a freelance photographer for the Times. Life for the Pascal brothers was normal again, and it looked like the brothers could survive in this world after all. But one day, Jonathan found Edward dead on their front porch. He was distraught for weeks, and he never really got over it. Then, something chilling happened. On October 24, 1929, their stock, in which they had invested almost all of their money, had dropped in value so much that Jonathan had to sell all of it to make any money at all. He was broke, and he had no family at all. He had continued living that way for almost a year, until he had decided that it was time to do something.

Jonathan walked to the couch with the same tired gait which he always seemed to carry, and he sat down slowly. He glanced at the revolver lying on the table, which glinted just slightly in the pale moonlight. Still gazing towards the gun, he picked it up and took a bullet from his pocket. He put the bullet into the chamber, and cocked the weapon. He glanced one more time at the world of the living; the cold world which had spurned him from the day his parents died. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

He didn’t feel any pain as his soul drifted from his body, nor the bracing cold in the building with no heat, nor the body’s systems struggling to recover, nor did he feel anything at all. Jonathan Pascal was no more.

Suddenly, like surfacing from a long time submerged in water, he gasped for air. He opened his eyes, but all he could see was white. This was a strange place. Nowhere in the world looked like this vast plane, and this place looked like nowhere. Is this heaven? Jonathan wondered. He saw a figure standing in the distance. He thought he could make out Edward’s silhouette, but from so far away, he couldn’t say for sure. Walking in this place was like walking through hot mud. It was so hard for him to traverse even a few feet that it seemed impossible for him to reach the shadow of his brother. But each time he took a step, the figure grew closer, strangely closer, as if the perception of depth to which he had become accustomed was malfunctioning. He tried to run, and as he came to within a few feet of the shadow, his vision blurred from the toil of movement, instead of finding the face of the long-lost Edward, his gaze caught the accusing stare of a man one gigantic eye.

Horrified, Jonathan was taken aback. The figure was much taller than Jonathan, and where its head should have been there was a single, gigantic eye as black as pitch. It was wearing a black trench coat, and its whole being seemed to contrast the white space in which they were enclosed.

“Good day,” said the man with the gigantic eye, taking the briefcase from his side and setting it on the air. It examined him once, and then opened the briefcase which was seemingly resting on nothing. It pulled out a piece of paper with a gloved hand.

“Jonathan Pascal?” said the creature without looking up from his paper.

“Yes, that’s me,” said Jonathan, still breathless from the journey of what had been apparently only a few feet.

“Good. Cause of death?” it said, still staring at the paper. Jonathan thought for a moment. The gun…

“Gunshot wound to the head.” Jonathan said, almost cheerfully. Now the man with the gigantic eye looked up from his paper.

“Self-inflicted?” it asked, narrowing its enormous eyelid. “Yes,” replied Jonathan.

“Good,” said the figure with the large eye.

“But you must excuse my lack of manners. I am called many things. God. Satan. I am The Aspect of the Eye. But you, my friend, may call me simply ‘The Eye’.” “Where exactly am I?” said Jonathan, still as confused as ever.

“Are you a Christian?” inquired The Eye.

“Yes.”

“Then you are in hell.”

“Hell? This doesn’t look very—“

“Hellish? Alright then, you are in purgatory. It hardly matters now.”

Jonathan didn’t know how to respond to this. He supposed that the Eye was right. It did not, in fact, matter where he was, for he was dead.

“But this isn’t heaven?”

“I don’t have time for human ideology. It doesn’t matter what you call this place. If you had lived a few thousand years ago I would tell you that you were in Hades right now. Your location is of no consequence.”

“Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

“Very well. Jonathan, you decided to kill yourself for a reason. If your brother had not died, you would not have shot yourself. You belong in the world of the living, Jonathan. It is for this reason that I am offering you a way back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bring me seven human souls. In return, I will revive you and your brother.” Jonathan stared quizzically at The Eye for a moment.

“Seven?” asked Jonathan, “Why seven?”

“Because,” replied the Eye, with infinite calm, “Your soul, having crossed to Purgatory once, is not equal to its value before. A resurrection costs lives, John. And your brother has been here even longer. His soul will take quite a lot of energy to revive. As soon as you provide that energy, in the form of lives, I will return you and your brother to life.”

Jonathan paused for a short time. He wanted to see Edward again, there was no doubt. Even so, he thought, could he really take the lives of seven people? It would make him a monster. But, in the end, the guilt of seven murders seemed to him an acceptable price for seeing his brother again.

“What do I have to do?” asked John, resigned to his task.

“Excellent,” said The Eye, retrieving a stack of papers from his floating briefcase.

“This is a contract which states that, in exchange for the payment of seven specific human souls, which I will designate, I will return to life Jonathan Pascal and his brother, Edward Pascal. Sign here,” said The Eye, pointing to the bottom line of the contract with a pen which he had procured from his coat pocket.

As Jonathan finished signing the contract, the pen instantly evaporated from his hand. The paper folded itself neatly, and flew into the briefcase, which promptly shut itself.

“One more thing,” said Jonathan, wary now of the deal he had just made, “How do I take the lives of humans on earth if I’m stuck here?”

The Eye merely looked at him, almost as though, if he had a mouth, he would be grimacing:

“Your soul is on loan,” said The Eye, and then everything went black.

2:A Borrowed Soul

"Prince, though your hair is not your own
And half your face held on by strings,
And if you sat, you’d smash your throne—
—Believe me, there are real things."

-G.K. Chesterton

The rays of the morning sun pierced the window of the building in which Jonathan lived. By chance, one of the sets of blinds had fallen open during the night, so the sun shone directly onto Jonathan’s face. His eyes opened, slowly, to a blurred world. The room slowly fell into focus. John looked around, his head splitting.

“What was that?” he wondered aloud. Still clutching his head, Jonathan got up from the couch. Though he did not realize it, the revolver was still lying on the table, with a single bullet standing next to it. He walked to the window, squinting in the morning sun. He stood in the sunlight for a few moments before he noticed that was still wearing his trench coat. He removed it hurriedly, realizing all at once the gravity of his situation. Jonathan looked for any sign of his suicide. There was no blood on his couch.

He was trying to organize his thoughts when his concentration was interrupted by a knock at the door. John stepped to the door, his headache consistently splitting. He opened the door to find a man standing there, searching through his bag, which he carried on his shoulder. He was a little shorter than Jonathan, the slightest bit stocky, and wearing a blue hat and dress shirt. It took John a moment to recognize that this was the mailman. John and the mailman knew each other by name, but not personally.

“Hello John,” said the mailman, smiling as usual. “Hi,” said John, whose headache was severe enough to make speech a truly difficult task. “Got a package here for you. Been at the office for a long time, it appears. Sorry we didn’t get it to you sooner, but we just found it tucked away in the mailroom.” The mailman reached into his bag, and handed John a package that appeared to date back to before Jonathan’s birth.

“Are you sure this is my package?” asked John, whose confusion was in no way dulled by his migraine.

“Could it be for a different Jonathan Pascal?”

The mailman was incredulous.

“Of course not. The package is addressed to your house. Besides, if one thing can be said for the Postal Service, it’s that we’re reliable.” John really wasn’t in the mood to argue, as he could barely speak. The mailman handed him the rest of his letters and walked off.

Jonathan shut the door and set the package down on the table next to the gun. The package was about a foot long and half as tall and deep. It was rectangular, and felt solid. He untied the twine gingerly and unwrapped the brown paper. The unfolded packaging revealed a wooden box, the top of which was connected by brass hinges. He opened the box, and inside found several old sheets of paper. There was also a revolver similar to the one sitting next to the box, and what appeared to be the key to a hotel room. Before investigating the nature of the documents inside, Jonathan decided to go into the kitchen and make some coffee, which he reasoned would help his headache. His suspicions turned out to be well-founded, as he felt immediate relief upon taking a few sips. He took the cup back into the living room and set it down next to the box.

After examining the revolver, he found that there were three bullets loaded into it. The key, on closer examination, appeared to belong to a room in an apartment building which Jonathan passed from time to time on his way home from work. Finally, he lifted the first neatly folded sheet of paper from the box. He unfolded it carefully, and began to read the words scrawled on the sheet in script:

Jonathan,

If you are reading this, then all is going according to our agreement. I have restored you to life, but you are still weak from your encounter in Purgatory. Your headache will subside after a short time. You should immediately begin work on your first task for me.

There is a man named Frederick Jacobs. He lives in an apartment not far from your house. Jacobs is not a good person, John. He is thirty-eight years old, and he has lived off of his parents’ inheritance for his entire life. He has not, nor will he ever have to work for a single day in his life. Your task is to enter his apartment building, find him, and shoot him three times in the chest.

Best of luck,

--The Aspect of The Eye

Jonathan read over the letter once again, impressed with the immediacy with which the Eye had been able to contact him. He proceeded to unfold the other papers. They were each filled completely with information on Jacobs. There were two maps of his apartment, one for Jacobs’ building and one for the entire complex. There were also three sheets whose purpose John did not initially understand. They were full, front and back, with twenty-four one-line sentences, each preceded by a time. There were seven of these twenty-four hour rotations. He was baffled for a moment. The sentences said things like “Showering” and “Away from home.” Jonathan then realized that these were lists of what Jacobs was doing at any given time—twenty-four hours each day, seven days each week.

John looked at the files which contained this time information with a sort of revilement—would he really need this information to kill someone who could not possibly harm him? Jonathan decided to use it anyway, in the interest of doing this job well. “Frederick Jacobs is an unlucky man,” thought Jonathan out loud.

He set down his papers and looked down for a moment. “And God knows I’m sorry.” He picked up the papers again and began to plan the murder of the first man.

3:The Key

"Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay."

-Robert Frost

Midnight on Sunday arrived very quickly. Frederick Jacobs shuffled towards the door of his apartment. He held the key to his door in his hand as he walked down the hall. Jonathan decided that he looked either dejected or enraged. Grumbling, he slid the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door. He retrieved the key sharply, and walked inside.

It had been six days since Jonathan was resurrected. He was already feeling stronger than he had ever felt before. Something about the trip to Purgatory had invigorated him, and the strength which he now harbored was considerable. He stood in the parking lot of the apartment complex, watching Frederick enter the building. The night was chilled and oddly dark, the moon obscured by the cloud-covered sky. Jonathan didn’t even notice the snow beginning to fall.

He watched Frederick enter the building, waiting for the minute hand on his watch to move just the slightest bit. As it became forty-five minutes past the twelfth hour, Jonathan began to stride intently towards the building. He knelt at the door, listening for the sound of the bedroom door closing.

Frederick wearily dropped his keys on the countertop of his bathroom. He rubbed his face with a damp cloth, thinking about the events of the day. He remembered how he had gone in to check on his stocks, which had little value by now. It mattered little to Frederick, because he already had enough money not to have to rely on the stock market for income, but he couldn’t help thinking about those who did have to rely on that trade. So many lives ruined, he thought to himself. He was genuinely distraught that there were so may people who had been hurt by the stock market crash. He dropped the towel next to his keys and walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. The face of the man at the bank who had killed himself today was stuck in Frederick’s mind. He saw the man fall to the ground every time he so much as closed his eyes to blink. Frederick tried to think of other things, but he was just perturbed enough not to notice the sound of Jonathan opening the front door.

Jonathan silently retrieved his key from the lock of the apartment door. He looked around inside the warm building. There was myriad furniture, a large kitchen, a rack with five coats, and what he was looking for: the main bedroom down the hall in front of him. Jonathan saw that Frederick’s lifestyle had clearly not been affected by the market crash that had so destroyed his own life. This only drove him towards his goal: to take the first life.

Frederick couldn’t sleep. He was too full of guilt and rage, because he could not save the man earlier today. He decided that the only way to clear his head was to retrieve a glass of water from the kitchen. He lay in bed a moment, hesitant for some reason. He reasoned that it was just exhaustion, and sat up.

By that time, Jonathan had made his way to the door. He considered once more the implications of this, the first murder. He sought only what had been taken from him, and the only way to regain that was to follow the present course of action. That reasoning was good enough for Jonathan. He pulled out the revolver which he received from The Eye and placed his hand on the doorknob.

At the same instant, Frederick put his hand on the other side of the doorknob. Again, a feeling of hesitation. The knob turned. As they turned the knob and opened the door, John readied his gun. He was so startled at seeing the man standing in the doorway that his reflexes kicked in and pulled the trigger. The gun had been rigged to fire all three bullets in rapid succession, and as the muzzle flash briefly illuminated the doorway, Jonathan thought he could hear someone scream for him to wait, but the deafening bang caused by the gunshot drowned it out past recognition.

Jonathan crouched at the body of the bleeding man. He looked at the panic in the eyes of a man who knew he was going to die. Frederick was afraid of his fate. He tried to call out to Jonathan, but his lungs had been pierced by the bullets. He had just a little breath left, and even less time.

Then Jonathan saw something odd. There was a shimmering key tied around Frederick’s neck by a thin cord. Jonathan reached to grab it. Frederick tried to stop him, but he was losing blood and becoming very weak. Death was about to take him. As Jonathan snatched the key, Frederick’s last words escaped his lips: “It belonged to my boys,” he said, softer than a whisper, “…all I had…left...of…them.”

Then, as Frederick Jacobs’s soul left his body, the last thing he saw was the gloved hand of Jonathan Pascal, holding his son’s key.

4:Brighter Days Past

“He turn’d—there was a whelming sound—he stept,

There was a cooler light; and so he kept

Towards it by a sandy path, and lo!

More suddenly than doth a moment go,

The visions of the earth were gone and fled—

He saw the giant sea above his head.”

-John Keats

Jonathan Pascal lay awake in bed, the sheets mussed around him. He had taken a life. He wondered if that made him a monster. He wondered if his parents would be ashamed, if they knew the circumstances. Most of all, he wondered how he would tell his brother.

He thought back to his childhood. John didn’t remember much about the years before his parents died, but he remembered the days he had spent with his brother. They played baseball with friends, listened to the radio, and ran around. They laughed, fought, and cried together. But though they did everything together, the times that Jonathan liked best were the times they did nothing at all.

He thought back fifteen years, to a night when he and Edward had scrambled to the top of a hill on the edge of town. They had silently watched the sun set that night, going from fiery orange to deep red, and finally fading to deep blue. As the last traces of light faded from the night sky, Jonathan finally broke the silence:

“Ed, what are we going to do?”

“What do you mean?” asked Edward, infinitely calm.

“Mom and dad are dead. What are we going to do?”

“Well, all we can do is keep living,” said Edward, calm as ever.

“But how do we do this? How do we live without them?”

Edward paused for a moment. He closed his eyes and smiled. Turning to John, he simply said, “Our memory of them guides us. That’s all you have to believe.”

A few years later, Edward took a job moving cargo. It had decent pay, but he was out of the house at noon, and often not back until ten o’clock at night. The hours of his brother’s job were indecent, but the job provided for them. They were able to get by like this. After Jonathan took a job with the Times, they had enough money to live comfortably. Though in those days John thought about his parents almost constantly, he was no longer overwhelmed with sadness about their death. He finally understood what Edward had told him after the sunset.

Walking home from work one day, Jonathan recalled that Edward would be home early because of some incident at the docks that had to be cleared up. He walked just a little bit faster on account of the knowledge that his brother was waiting for him at home.

He stepped into the front door to find Edward in the kitchen. They talked about work for a short time, and then decided to go watch the sun set. “It’s a clear night, and I could use the rest,” Edward had said. They both stepped outside, locking the door behind them. They had just begun to walk when Jonathan stopped in his tracks.

“I left my coat,” said Jonathan, feeling forgetful.

“Well, you’d better go get it, John. It’s going to be a cold night.”

“Alright. You want to meet me there?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll wait for you. But hurry up.”

Jonathan rushed inside, and struggled to remember where he had left his coat. He looked for his hat, which generally accompanied his coat, and saw it lying on the couch. Amazed at his forgetfulness, he snatched his hat and coat from the couch, slipped them on, and hurried out the door. Not seeing his brother’s tall figure anywhere, he presumed that Edward had decided to leave after all. Wondering what Edward’s hurry was, he started walking towards the hill. It was not until then that he saw the bleeding man at his feet.

Jonathan didn’t know what to think. He didn’t breathe for a while, completely paralyzed by loss. He fell to his knees. His brother was curled up on his side, all traces of life gone from his eyes. He felt a greater sense of loss than he had ever known. As though he had lost his parents all over again, Jonathan could do nothing but hang his head and let the tears flow.

Since Edward’s death, the world had been a blur to Jonathan—the funeral, the stock market crash, losing his job—they all seemed to fade into a din. He wasn’t even living his own life anymore; he was just going through the motions. The tragedies in his life seemed to cascade around him. He couldn’t keep living anymore; not without his brother, not without his parents, not without a job, not without money.

Through all of these things had happened to him, the dark night on which Jonathan had shot himself remained the most regretful night of his life. Recalling these events, Jonathan realized something that terrified him: Frederick Jacobs’ life was not the first he had taken. He had taken his own life first. At that thought, Jonathan closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind.

Yet, though he lay there silently, Jonathan Pascal could not sleep.

5:Death Seeks Us All

"I hear it now, and o’er and o’er,
Eternal greetings to the dead;
And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave,’ said,
‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore."

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

Crouched just outside the well-lit room in the impeccably-furnished mafia lair, Jonathan replayed the events of the day in his mind. After a sleepless night, Jonathan had received a package from the mailman. The package, as expected, had contained The Eye’s instructions pertaining to his next task. Jonathan didn’t like the word. “Task” was a word applied to odd jobs and schoolwork. What he was doing was murder. He pushed the distinction away, recalling the odd directive which The Eye had issued him:

Jonathan,

Your next task will require a little more effort. Jacobs was a bit of a recluse, and so his soul was easy to take. Your next target is a very ill man named Anthony Mariano. He is involved with organized crime, but has always tried to atone for his transgressions. Because of his wholehearted effort to redeem himself, I have elected that his death be quick and painless. Inject him with this serum as he sleeps, and he will be dead almost instantly.

Jonathan fingered the syringe in his pocket nervously. There was little doubt as far as procedure; John knew exactly what to do. As the light in the room flickered and died, as it did at 9:00 pm nightly, he would stealthily enter the room, prick the neck of the crime boss, and exit the room as stealthily as he had entered.

He was still nervous, however, because he did not fully expect to exit the building undetected; he would be searched on the way out by two armed goons who would have little difficulty crushing his head like a tin can. It had been easy enough to convince the boss’ guards to let him in; he was posing as an electrician, and the lights, which had been shutting off at 9:00 each night, had become something of an annoyance to the inhabitants of this building. The wiring had been easy enough for him to dismantle, but there were enough armed guards to make him wary of even the slightest hitch.

The hour arose, and the lights flickered momentarily, then died. Jonathan was quick to his work. Mariano was already asleep, so he rushed into the room, pricked the man, and jammed the plunger down—footsteps in the corridor--

By the time the hurried footsteps had reached the door, John burst between two hulking figures, running for the door. The two goons weren’t doing anything, apparently stunned.

Why aren’t they--, John thought, as a hail of bullets burst from the two men standing behind him. Three shots hit him as he pushed the door open—back of the leg, left arm, right shoulder. Jonathan felt the sting, but rushed through the door and out into the night, eerily black because of the clouds covering the moon.

The two behemoths burst through the door, looking for some sign of their quarry, but found no bloody tracks in the freshly-fallen snow. The taller man, replacing the hat that had fallen off his head when he had charged out of the building, bent down to look at the snow. The fleeing man had left no tracks at all.

Meanwhile, Jonathan walked slowly and deliberately back towards home. The snow was falling harder than ever tonight, in one of the worst storms the city had ever seen. The storm had not ceased since the night John had decided to kill himself, yet Jonathan did not seem to see the snow. His wounds, which had stopped aching by now, were not dripping with blood, and yet he did not seem to notice. He was even walking with more strength now, and yet, he did not seem to notice that, either. He did notice, however, that his pocket felt heavy, and so he discarded the empty syringe, which landed without sound in a snow bank.

And on that very evening, a particular detective was investigating the brutal murder of 47-year old Frederick Jacobs, who was shot in his own bedroom.

6:The Detective

“Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone;

Why, even God’s stupendous secret, Death,

We one by one, with our expiring breath,

Do pale with wonder seize and make our own.”

-Ella Wheeler

Robert Fawkes surveyed the apartment, his view only slightly obstructed by the end of a cigar protruding from his mouth. The two officers assigned to him, Drizzard and O’Connor, were buzzing about the room, while he stood perfectly still. The room didn’t look right to him.

He racked his brain as to why the room looked so odd. The man was rich; the room corresponded to his wealth. The valuables were all intact, after all—and then Fawkes recognized the problem with the apartment. There was no forced entry, thought the detective to himself. None of the valuables were out of place, so the killer was not trying to rob Jacobs…but then, if Jacobs had indeed invited the man into his apartment, why would he have been killed in his bedroom? The only solution was that whoever killed Frederick Jacobs must have had a key to his apartment.

Drizzard and O’Connor were still examining things, quite obviously with the purpose of looking busy, when the clear, strong voice of Detective Fawkes rang suddenly: “Who had a key to the apartment?” The two officers were so shocked by their superior officer finally speaking that they started, and O’Connor nearly knocked over a vase.

“We’ll go get that information for you right away, chief,” said Drizzard, looking relieved to exit the room and to no longer have to pretend to investigate.

Good. More room to think, thought Fawkes. He moved from the living room to the bedroom door. There the body lay, face up, with one hand on his chest. But something wasn’t right with the body, either. The detective was much quicker to discover the source of the oddity, this time: He was clutching his chest, but the bullet wounds were a foot below where his hand was. He made a note of this, considering the possibility that Jacobs had been in cardiac arrest when he was shot. Or maybe he was trying to protect something he wore on his neck? Robert knelt there, pondering, when a frazzled officer burst through the door.

“Jacobs and the landlord are the only ones with keys, and the landlord keeps his with him at all times. No luck with him, though, he has an alibi for that night.” The detective couldn’t tell whether this was O’Connor or Drizzard; frankly, the two were beginning to run together, but the news was so disturbing that he immediately forgot that they were both there. He had just run out of suspects.

Perhaps as a prelude to another sleepless night, Jonathan, upon returning home, again found himself on the receiving end of one of The Eye’s packages. The package, wrapped in the usual fare, contained only two things: a picture, and a scrap of paper, which read:

Gunshot wound--forehead

-The Eye

Confused, Jonathan picked up the photograph. He looked at it, it registered after a moment, and he collapsed onto the couch. Floating to the floor, from Jonathan’s unconscious hand, was the photograph of a radiant woman of about twenty. The picture was signed, “To my dearest Jonathan, XOXO Anna”. There were no instructions needed. Jonathan already knew where to find her.

Meanwhile, Detective Fawkes’ cigar had been burnt to a stump, and he removed it from his mouth, crushing it under his foot. Smoke rose gently for a few moments, but had faded in the cold by the time the detective had closed the door on his way back inside. The detective didn’t tell anyone, but the snow spooked him. It wasn’t natural for it to keep snowing for days on end like this, he thought. Even eerier was the fact that it barely seemed to be accumulating at all. Nearly a week of snow and only an inch on the ground? It was unheard of.

But Fawkes recognized that he was becoming sidetracked and turned his mind back to his work. Officer Drizzard had examined the lock thoroughly and found no evidence that a lock pick had been used to enter. Fawkes had paused to put out his cigar, but at the same time had considered the implications: There could only be a dozen or so locksmiths in the area with skill consummate to crafting this key blindly. The detective snapped with the fingers on his right had, indicating that O’Connor should come over to him. O’Connor took out his notepad, and Fawkes said, in his peculiarly clear and gruff voice,

“Ask around. Get me the names of the best locksmiths in town. We’re gonna have a little sit-down. Oh, and have the other officer take that lock out of the door. We’ll need it as evidence.” And, with that, the detective ambled out of the building and into the cold night air.

The next morning, in a church filled with men in black suits, a young member of the mafia was crying softly over his father’s body.

7:Post Exsequiam

“In this last of meeting places

We grope together

And avoid speech

Gathered on this beach of the tumid river”

-T.S. Eliot

The funeral for Anthony Mariano was over quickly. Even with the significant number of people who had come to pay their final respects, the mafia boss had requested a short funeral. He didn’t want people to think of him dead, he just wanted them to remember what he was like when he was alive.

Many of his confidants didn’t understand this odd request; his grieving son, however, had come to understand exactly why his father had done this. Mariano knew that he could’ve been sustained indefinitely by the various medications he was on, and so the only possible cause of his death was by means of an assassin. Anthony Mariano wanted his family not to concentrate on him, but rather to take revenge upon the one who done this. The young Anthony Mariano Jr. took up that task willingly.

Later that morning, snow was still blanketing the city of New York with a quiet deliberation. By the time Officers O’Connor and Drizzard had arrived at the scene of the murder of Frederick Jacobs, Detective Fawkes was already there. To the fledgling officers, he appeared to be brooding over something, some little detail that could break the case wide open and reveal to them, in a moment of epiphany, the name of the killer.

Unfortunately, they were wrong. The detective was racking his brain, trying to think of anything he had missed. There was nothing. The two officers had been in the apartment for five minutes before the detective noticed them. O’Connor spoke up,

“We found the best locksmiths in the area, chief. Turns out only one guy knows these kind of locks well enough to make one blind.”

“What’s his name?” asked the detective, in his usual, clear voice (which was slightly gruffer since he had been up all night pondering the case data).

“Well, there is a…well, sort of a catch…” O’Connor looked nervous now, as if trying to decide whom he was more afraid of.

“The locksmith’s exclusively a mafia man, chief,” said Drizzard, apparently tremendously easing the anxiety which had possessed O‘Connor. The idea that the locksmith whom they were pursuing—the first solid lead they’d had over the last two days—seemed to drape a cloud of despair over the two officers. Fawkes’ voice pierced the gloom as a golden arrow:

“Then I guess we’ll have to ask the mobster some questions. Get me that address.”

Jonathan awoke in a cold sweat nearly an hour later. That he would have to kill his first love…the Eye was clearly much more twisted that Jonathan had first taken him for. Jonathan wrapped his head around the idea, however, and began to think of it as a challenge. His mind traveled to thoughts of how he would gain her trust again, just for long enough—and then he stopped.

“What’s wrong with me?” John said, fumbling to regain control of himself. He felt strange when he had been thinking of how to kill Anna. Thoughts like that made him feel crazed and pale and strong and inhuman. He sought his focus again. Since John saw no way to return to the Eye, to plead with him to pick another target, he was faced with the inevitable—that he would have to kill Anna. That he would have to shoot her in the head. The same sadness which had possessed him to faint had gripped him once again, forcing him to his knees.

He began to plan the most difficult murder yet.

Detective Fawkes’ car rolled through the city streets, layered with snow. Outside his window was a bleached landscape, with indistinguishable features, but Robert wasn’t looking outside anyway. His mind was elsewhere. What sort of character would they encounter when they arrived at the locksmith shop? The questions began to form in his mind, corridors with answers leading to more questions. By the time Fawkes had a clear plan in mind, they had just arrived at the shop.

The smith was elderly, possibly in his fifties. He sat at a small desk in the corner of the shop. After a moment, the condition of the shop registered with the detective. Every surface in the room, save the floor, was papered with sketches, strewn as leaves everywhere. Upon closer examination, which was possible because the smith had not noticed (or acknowledged) their ingress, the sketches were revealed to be the innards of every lock imaginable. Fawkes supposed that every lock design in the city was somewhere on one of these walls. A deep, somewhat aloof voice with a heavy Polish accent pierced the detective’s contemplative silence:

“I didn’t kill the man, you know,” said the locksmith, still fiddling with some contraption using small tools. He didn’t look up from his work even for a second to acknowledge the three-man police force which now occupied the whole of his shop.

“That’s not the issue, now, is it?” The detective glanced at a few more lock diagrams, but then proceeded to the edge of the desk where the smith was working. He stared down at the little man, who, despite the shadow cast by the detective, silently refused to look up.

Feeling disrespected and somewhat shrugged-off by the small man, the detective decided to press his authority upon the man in a more direct manner. Fawkes reached down with both hands, grabbed the collar of the locksmith, who was now quite eager to look up, and lifted him almost three feet into the air, so that they were nearly level in height.

The smith was revealed to have a gray moustache, and was wearing large prescription bifocals. It was then also quite obvious that the man was in his fifties, due to the prevalent lines which distinguished themselves upon his face.

“Now,” said the Detective, holding the landlord’s copy of the key up to the smith’s neck, “who ordered the production of this key?”

8:A Balcony Scene

“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.”

-T.S. Eliot

It had been two years since Jonathan first met Anna. It was a Friday night at the speakeasy, and Jonathan was there for the usual drink and swing dance. Jonathan was the sort of man who belonged at the speakeasy: he was happy there, and could blend right in with the throng of occupants. But on that particular night, he had seen a girl who clearly did not belong there. She looked so…angelic, as if the entire room grew slightly dimmer in her presence, the better to lend her its light. Jonathan, usually reserved enough to know who was out of his league, decided to chance it with this girl.

Jonathan did not bluntly sidle up to a woman, as one might expect of a man in his position, but rather walked with the kind of grace possessed by poets and kings; he had a strong walk in those days. Though Jonathan was not aware of it, she had seen him as soon as she’d entered, and was judging him by the way he moved about the room. He asked her to dance, and, for lack of the words which so often came to her lips effortlessly, she agreed. They danced for an hour and a half, making conversation between the songs doled out like candy by the swing band in the corner.

She had said that her name was Anna, and that she was glad for having met him. He offered to walk her home through the New York streets, which seemed to possess a peculiar warmth that evening. Jonathan had expected her to have a larger house; a woman of her beauty in such well-tailored clothing would undoubtedly have a substantial amount of money. He did not, however, suspect exactly how large a house she inhabited. It was a mansion, by definition, and Jonathan was in awe. He walked her to the door, then turned around and left.

Following several more meetings at the speakeasy, they had begun a romantic relationship. She knew that he worked for a newspaper, and made relatively little money. She didn’t care. Jonathan loved Anna so much for precisely that reason.

Of course, Anna’s parents didn’t approve. They had been spared the fiscal apocalypse of the depression due to a wealthy lineage, and scarcely had a desire for their angel to consort with barely employed rabble. Jonathan only ever met them once. He truly wanted their blessing if he was to have any sort of relationship with Anna, but they merely regarded him with a sort of disdainful tolerance. If Jonathan could not have their blessing, he decided, he would not seek it any further.

There were sunny days picnicking in parks, dancing on some nights, and always a feeling of love like Jonathan had never felt before. But after Edward was killed, it was as if the brightest, the happiest part of Jonathan had died with him. Gradually, Jonathan had just stopped seeing Anna.

And now, the worst, the most terrible thing Jonathan could have imagined was happening. He would have to find Anna so he could kill her. He wandered the streets, night and day. He knew that a search of the behemoth city on foot would be futile, yet the first places he had visited were the speakeasy where they had met and her house. He could not think of a better way to look. On the third day straight of wandering the frozen avenues of New York, he decided that another search of the speakeasy was in order before he returned home.

Ambling through the door which was concealed neatly in an alley, Jonathan brushed the snow off his hat as he beckoned the bartender to bring him something strong. He had not noticed the young woman standing on the opposite wall in a finely-made trench coat, and walked exhaustedly to the bar to grab the light-brown liquor which the bartender had just set down. It was not until he had raised the shot glass to his lips that he noticed a hand on his shoulder. He fingered his revolver, turning slowly to find Anna Aldridge staring back at him with an ironic smile.

He expected that his face would automatically relax, that he would warm to her immediately, but he found that he could not. He forced a smile on his indifferent lips, which yearned only for neutrality, and took Anna’s hand. They strode out into the cold night air without a word. The whole of the journey seemed to be a trial of sorts; as though the two were testing each other to see who would break down and talk first. They arrived at Jonathan’s apartment, and Jonathan began to recount the horrible story of what he had been through:

“It all started when Ed died,” he began, “That’s when it all went to hell.”

9:Escape

“’Tis not to sight the savior—

It is to be the saved—

And that is why I lay my Head

Upon this trusty word—“

-Emily Dickinson

And twenty minutes later they were running through the streets of New York, slipping every few steps on the ever-present snow. Anna was keeping mean pace with John, owed mostly to the fact that she had abandoned her own shoes for a spare pair of John’s. They hurried down La Fontaine Avenue and rounded the corner at 180th street, their heavy breaths materializing and evaporating in their wake. Though they were running from nothing that manifested itself visually, they ran as though their pursuer was all too overt and deadly.

Immediately upon hearing the news that there was a seemingly omnipotent being forcing Jonathan Pascal to murder innocent people, Anna suggested they run from it. If the Eye did not know where to find him, she reasoned, it could not force him to kill anyone else. About a half-mile down 180th, John’s foot slipped on a patch of ice. As he fell to the ground, time seemed to slow as Anna looked back and reached to catch him. She was just a split-second too late—saw him fall—heard the sickening crack of a broken bone as his head hit the pavement, and then fell to her knees at his feet.

Jonathan Pascal saw Anna reach out to catch him. He had fallen backwards enough to know when the ground should come, to know when the pain would come. It did not come promptly at all, and soon John realized that he had already fallen but not felt it. The darkness of the city street was gone, and now he floated in some sort of a fog that he had not seen before. He was almost blind in the grey mist; he could not see his own body below him. He could not even see his own hand unless he covered his eye with it. A figure approached from the mist (Jonathan found it particularly odd that he could see a distant silhouette but not his own body). The figure of the Eye made itself remarkably clear several feet from Jonathan, who could not help but look at the demon as ridiculously proportioned now. He was wearing his pressed trench coat and fedora, and was carrying the same briefcase as he had during their first encounter.

“Good evening, Jonathan,” it said with a tone that was all at once grim and cordial.

“I trust you haven’t forgotten our deal. I trust you haven’t forgotten exactly why you were returned to this mortal realm. Contrary to what you may believe, I did not resurrect you to rekindle a lost love and escape into a sunset. I brought you back to this realm to retrieve seven specific souls for me.”

“Why me?” asked John, angrier than he let on.

“Are you so ungrateful that I have undone your suicide? Would you rather be dead on that sidewalk now?”

“Don’t misinterpret my intention,” said Jonathan, his anger flaring visibly now,

“I couldn’t appreciate this arrangement more. But why did you resurrect me? Why not another man? There must be someone worth more than me.”

The Eye sighed now, signaling discontent at having to explain something. He opened his briefcase now, and flicked through a set of folders, until he reached a particularly fat one, which he immediately extracted from the leather briefcase. He took the first sheet from inside the folder, sat down on the air, and began to read:

“Susan Hart, died at age 45. Strangulation, self-inflicted. Alfred Randell, died at age 31. Gunshot wound, self-inflicted. Robert Brigher, died at age 50, threw himself off a building. Virginia Packson, died at age 33. She slit her own wrists. Those are from today.” The Eye slid the paper back into the folder, and the folder back into the briefcase.

“This is what I do, John. I give people second chances. If I could, I would do it for free, but the world doesn’t work like that. All I can say for the time being is that you have to kill her. I regret it as much as you, but there is nothing that can be done to change it. I am going to revive you now, but I trust that you will do what you must.” The Eye collected his briefcase, stood, and walked into the fog. Jonathan had a terrific sensation, as though he was falling very quickly, and woke up, not bleeding on the curb.

Anna was kneeling by his head. He looked straight up to see a streetlamp, which blinded him temporarily. He let out a grunt and tried to block the light with his had. Anna grabbed his outstretched hand and helped him up. The street seemed to have grown darker…or was it his own vision playing tricks on him? As he rose to his feet, he began to speak to Anna, softly, in a tone older than he was.

“I’m afraid, Anna. This thing, this demon, just spoke to me while I was on the ground. It wants me to kill…it wants me to kill you. I can’t do that. Anna, I love you.” He said it breathlessly, his whole body quivering. For what felt like forever, she didn’t speak. He knew he had to kill her, but he had never met anyone else like her. When he was with Anna, he almost felt as though he could live without Edward. But he had been given a second chance, when so many people who die needlessly had not. When people like his brother, killed out of malice, didn’t get something which he now possessed, how could he toss the opportunity aside? The chance for rebirth, he reflected, was not something to be flung away like an old rag. He had to seize it, or mock the dead in not doing so.

“So I won’t do it.” said Jonathan, looking down at the slick pavement that had nearly been his deathbed. Anna just smiled, and they strode down the street. The street wove and became a street with a name that neither of them paid attention to. Jonathan tried to soak in the perfect moment from their walk, but observed to himself that each moment was as grand as the last. They joked and reminisced about the time that Anna had first met Edward. John had brought her back to his house for some coffee, yet he had neglected to mention that he had an older brother. Edward had appeared outwardly gruff toward Anna when they first met. He did not seem to be able to say a word to or about her without uttering some comment on her wealth under his breath or muffled by a cough. After Anna had left, John shouted at Edward for at least an hour about how he was going to push away the only girl he had ever loved. Ed took it all with stoic silence, and after John was done, he gave a wry smile and said that he just had to be sure John wasn’t going with her for her money. He would never, Ed reasoned, shout at anyone for more than a minute unless he felt it was a matter of life and death.

“Now would you call her so I can apologize for insulting her all night long?”

The road twisted past several neighborhoods and past dimly lit houses until it dead-ended in a dark corner of the Bronx. The stillness of the night air inflicted itself on the both of them now as they came to a halt, the last echoes of their laughter ricocheting off of the brick wall in front of them. The air froze around them with demonic speed, though only Anna seemed to notice. She didn’t say anything, but she did cross her arms and began to shiver. Noticing this, John moved to take his wallet out of his coat and offer it to her. Where his wallet should have been, there was a frozen piece of steel. He immediately had the sensation of feeling immensely stupefied. Why would I have any metal in my pocket? Thinking clearly, it would have taken him seconds to realize that instead of his wallet, he had unconsciously placed his revolver in the pocket where his wallet usually was. But from the moment the air had cooled, he felt as though he simply could not remember nor reason what was in his pocket.

He fumbled with it for a moment. “Let me give you my coat,” he said. “I just have to get my wallet out.” He fiddled with a thin section on the piece of steel, thinking it was just something hooking on his wallet. A sound, like a sickly thunderbolt, rang out and then left the alley, silent as a ghost.

10:Black and White

“No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.”

-T.S. Eliot

John could not remember anything but the hole in Anna’s forehead. Her face was contorted in disbelief, but her eyes—Jonathan believed her eyes had said, “I forgive you.” Maybe this was just wishful thinking on Jonathan’s part. The truth of the matter is inconsequential and unknown. After seeing her fall to the ground, he blacked out and woke up the next morning in his own bed.

The locksmith, whose name was later determined to be Gabriel Zalewski, had been released 24 hours after his initial questioning as there was no actual proof that he had knowingly done anything wrong. He ambled, the way the elderly sometimes do, down the cold street outside the police station and started back to his shop, which he was grateful he had locked on his departure. After half an hour of silent walking, a pitch-dark car pulled up on his left. The back window rolled down slowly. The man rolling down the window wore a fine gray suit and was immediately recognized by Zalewski as Anthony Mariano, Jr. His expression was as much smoldering as congenial; suffice it to say that Zalewski could not divine Mariano’s mood from his expression. The old man silently prepared to dodge a hail of bullets. Mariano closed his eyes and let out a sigh that sounded frustrated to Zalewski. He kept his eyes closed and spoke in a low tone.

“I have heard from extremely reliable sources that you were involved in the death of my father.” He opened his eyes again and Gabriel could see that the Sicilian hospitality which was at first visible in his eyes had evaporated, leaving only the rage, which glowed like hot coals.

Gabriel had received a rush job just a short while ago; he was to craft a poison which would kill silently and instantaneously upon injection into the bloodstream. He never asked who his projects were meant for, but he never assumed that a job could get him in trouble like this. He opened his mouth, the makings of a defense already stirring in his mind. Mariano put up a hand, indicating to Gabriel that he should shut his mouth. He did.

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say, Mr. Zalewski. It’s because you have to die, and I want to make that as easy as possible for myself. At least one person is going to die today, Mr. Zalewski, because I am angry. If I have been misinformed, then more people are going to die today.”

With the lightning-quick draw that had earned him infamy on the streets of New York, he took out a Thompson sub-machine gun from the floor of the car and brought it to face Gabriel Zalewski. For twenty seconds he held down the trigger and held the rattling gun steady on the man’s convulsing form. After he released the trigger, and with the saccharin-sweet taste of well-executed revenge still metallic on his tongue, the black car sped away into the snow. As Anthony Mariano, Jr. rolled up the window, he sat back into his seat, praying silently for his offense at taking a life and taking a small measure of peace in the knowledge that the man who made his father’s death possible lay dead in the street.

Gabriel Zalewski’s whole body ached. The hail of bullets had forced him backwards into the brick wall of Tommy’s barbershop, and he had since fallen into a sitting position leaning against that wall. He got up slowly, feeling the ache in his joints. He looked down at his tattered clothing and brushed himself off. As he did so, dozens of pieces of lead dislodged themselves from his wrinkled skin and fell to the sidewalk, clinking as they hit the ground. He continued walking in the direction of his shop and the house he had on its second floor. The thought of a warm fire was gratefully received by his aching body.

After he had opened his shop and tinkered with some new tumblers for a half hour, he went upstairs to his home. So intoxicating was the thought of a few hours rest that he forewent his usual fireside reading session (accompanied by a cup of Earl Grey tea on these cold winter nights) and walked straight to his bed. The Eye had left another package on his bed, larger than any of the previous ones. He set it aside for the evening. His curiosity was sated not by discovery this evening, but by sheer exhaustion. The package would wait until morning, when he would devote his full attention to it. For now, all his aching bones desired was sleep.

When Jonathan Pascal awoke from a flighty and restless sleep, he received no package, but simply a letter from his otherworldly master:

Jonathan,

My associate is currently crafting a weapon for your next target. The detective James O’Connor will find evidence of your involvement in the murder of Frederick Jacobs in exactly three days. You must kill him before this happens, as your imprisonment would make it impossible for you to fulfill your end of our contract, and I would, regrettably, be forced to repossess your soul. Before sunset, you will receive the key to O’Connor’s home and a very special knife. More instructions will follow at that time. Until then, please go over the enclosed schedule of Mr. O’Connor’s locations for the next two days.

Good Hunting,

-The Eye

Descending into the hidden forge beneath his workshop, Gabriel Zalewski re-read the note enclosed in the package. He had found the instructions odd at the time, but did not think any more on it. Following orders was his priority when it came to dealings with the Eye. The metal he had received in the box was of a strange nature. It had proved extremely lightweight and easy to work with, but once it had been folded and set, he had to use a great deal more heat to re-work any imperfections. When finished, the blade was brilliantly white in color, and almost seemed to emit a faint glow.

The note had said to be extremely careful with the blade’s edge, as the slightest prick could be fatal. Zalewski was intrigued at this prospect, but did not tempt fate by disobeying the Eye. He outfitted the blade with the scabbard sent to him and wrapped it in a spare piece of canvas. He set it on his nightstand and turned his back. He began the familiar counting sequence—One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand—and when he turned back, the package was gone. The day’s work done, he relieved the anguish of the screeching hot water kettle, poured a glass of tea, and sat in his barcalounger. After pausing to take a sip, he set down his mug and picked up his leather-bound translation of Faust.

At 4:37 pm, Jonathan looked up from O’Connor’s schedule to see a light-brown piece of canvas and a note sitting on his coffee table. Not so much startled as curious, he unraveled the canvas to find a glowing white hunting knife in a plain black leather scabbard. The note told Jonathan to be careful with the blade’s edge, as it was forged from an unearthly metal which immediately healed the wounds it caused, but created massive internal bleeding in whichever part of the body it cut. He was to stab James O’Connor in the stomach with the blade, in order to make it appear as though he had poisoned himself. The note said that the blade would kill instantly.

Near midnight the next day, as the hand on Detective James O’Connor’s watch grew dangerously close to the position that would mark the end of his patrol, he strode down a dark boulevard in an unsavory corner of the Bronx. The streets were uncharacteristically lifeless for an evening in this neighborhood, but as far as O’Connor was convinced, the quieter the better. He’d had the impression that he was being followed twice during the last hour, but he felt silly both times he looked over his shoulder to see a pigeon fluttering away in the shadows.

Getting the feeling of being tailed once more, he decided that the stillness of his beat wasn’t going to break any time soon, and turned right at the street corner five minutes early, headed toward his small, empty apartment on 106th. He forgot about the feeling of being watched for a moment as the thought of his last suicide attempt floated into his mind. As a police officer, he had easily seen enough horrors for a hundred people. Sixteen years on the job had taken its toll on him, and he knew that he couldn’t stand to see another rape victim or mutilated corpse. He had to erase those memories from his mind. He knew that the only way to do that was to end it all. His neighbor had heard him choking as he dangled from a makeshift noose, and got him down at once. His best friend and partner, Ken Drizzard, was distraught for weeks; he made O’Connor promise never to try it again. To call if he felt that same crushing sadness again. To get therapy for all the images that he could never scrub out of his memory. It occurred to O’Connor as ineffective and ridiculous treatment of a serious issue.

But then he asked himself why Ken Drizzard cared so much about this. Drizzard had been there for James since they met at the academy and they had been assigned together through a sort of mentor program. Drizzard had just been through a terrible divorce at the time, and now O’Connor felt terrible for even considering leaving Drizzard alone in the world. He resolved never to try it again.

His internal dialogue was interrupted by his police officer’s instinct for trouble. More than before, he could not shake the feeling that someone was following him. He said a silent prayer for safety and glanced over his shoulder. He could have sworn he saw something move—not a pigeon, but something big. Man-sized. All he could see through the darkness was a pair of garbage cans and a storefront lit by a lamp above the doorway. He kept walking, quietly unclasping the button on his holster.

There were several paths that led to James O’Connor’s apartment. The fact that Jonathan knew a faster route than the one O’Connor was taking was sheer luck. Having hid behind a set of trash cans, almost detected by his target, he felt as though he could not take any more chances in following him through the streets. He jumped a fence adjacent to the cans and took a parallel road to the dumbbell-style apartment where his target had a room.

O’Connor unlocked his door and did not bother to turn on the lights. He started to walk across the apartment to his bed, but stopped in his tracks seconds after closing the door. Something was amiss in the room. Something was new here, but he could not place it. His felt a dread in his gut which traveled to his chest, quickening his heartbeat. Someone was here.

“You’re here to kill me?” O’Connor said, an almost imperceptible quiver in his voice. Jonathan said nothing. He stepped from the corner of the room, unsheathing the softly glowing blade.

11:Morbid

“So I would have had him leave,

So I would have had her stand and grieve,

So he would have left

As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,

As the mind deserts the body it has used.”

-T.S. Eliot

Ken Drizzard stood in his dress uniform at the funeral of his dearest friend. Since he wanted to remember the good times he had with O’Connor as much as he wanted to hate him for going back on his word and killing himself, his mind rejected the dichotomy of these emotions and decided to focus itself elsewhere. He did not understand the concept of dress uniforms.

Since he joined New York’s finest, he had only ever worn his dress uniform three times: first, at his induction into the NYPD, second, at the ceremony presenting him with a medal for bravery and heroism (he had stopped a man from shooting himself, but not without taking a round from that man’s gun), and third, at the funeral of his dearest friend. On the first occasion, he had worn a fancy uniform because he had become the latest in a long line of constables on patrol. This surprised no one in his family, and impressed no one on the force. On the second occasion, he had essentially received a medal for getting shot while doing his job. In the army that was worth a purple heart, but in the streets of New York, it happened all the time. The fact that he had succeeded at his objective of saving this man after being shot by him was perhaps the only thing that made this act noteworthy.

And now he stood, in his dress uniform, at the funeral of his dearest friend, found without a scratch on him in his apartment building. The internal bleeding was a sign of poison, the coroner had said. The lack of poison was a sign that he poisoned himself with some household chemical, the coroner had said. Since Drizzard had seen the bottle of lye on the floor next to the body, he knew the coroner was right. And since he had come to that conclusion, he had not been able to process it. So he stood on that snowy day, when the cold ground swallowed up his dearest friend and the snowflakes melting on his face were indistinguishable from the tears which flowed so freely.

Jonathan hated to kill O’Connor. He tried to think of it as a blessing that the man had almost welcomed the blade’s deep gash, but his face, weirdly twisted between pain and gratitude, was still etched on Jonathan’s brain. He wished so much to be rid of that memory…and then he was. He still remembered killing the man, but the details had all run out of the picture. He found that he was able to look on it as an outsider, and not feel any responsibility.

He dismissed his apparent control over his emotions and opened the parcel he had found on his doorstep. That particular package contained a photograph of another cop walking with O’Connor.

Realizing immediately that the package contained no written instructions, John looked for some kind of weapon with which to assassinate the officer shown in the picture. He found only two things in the parcel: a schedule of events for the other detective (by the name of Ken Drizzard), and the address of a locksmith named Gabriel Zalewski.

His first instinct was to kill the smith and take whatever the Eye wanted him to have. This instinct developed itself in his mind up to a point at which he began to plan the murder, but after a short time his humanity checked that instinct and directed him to go see the man. He could kill him later if necessary.

Ambling down the corridor formed by the behemoth that was Wall Street, Jonathan took notice of twilight’s broad palms stretching over the sky and breaching the clouds. The realization that it would soon be night spurred him to move even more quickly toward his destination in the Polish corner of town. Tall pillars and ancient stone monoliths gradually gave way to smaller and smaller brick buildings, and eventually to one-story shops and houses. At the intersection of two roads whose names Jonathan did not bother to note, an invisible line was cast, dividing the brick buildings from the wooden homesteads. At the corner of that intersection was Zalewski’s shop. It was the last two-story building Jonathan could see for miles, and was slightly wider than it was tall. It had fallen victim to disrepair, much in the way that many of New York’s building had of late, but its proportions gave it the appearance of an old, stout man looking out over the residences of the Polish borough.

Upon seeing a sign on the door which read “Ring and Enter”, Jonathan did not ring, but did enter the locksmith’s shop. The scruffy old man who kept the counter ignored Jonathan in much the same way as he had ignored the detective, and busied himself with the guts of a lock. Much in the same way that he had gauged the temperament of the detective by his patience and candor with an elder, he now judged Jonathan. Much unlike the detective, Jonathan waited patiently and quietly for Zalewski to finish his work. After twenty minutes of standing silently, Jonathan politely asked if the locksmith might be done soon.

Jonathan was quite unaware of it at the time, but his voice had taken on a rather hollow timbre that Zalewski recognized instantly. He could always tell when one of the soul broker’s poor minions spoke to him. In deference to the wishes of the Eye, he responded in a meager tone that cloaked his inner strength and more accurately corresponded to his elderly visage. He subdued his normally thick Polish accent and began his charade of ignorance:

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. You’ll have to forgive me the faults that accompany age. How can I help you?”

Jonathan fiddled with the handle of the revolver he had concealed in his left coat pocket. He waited a few seconds before speaking, so as to seem pensive. This was only difficult because, in reality, he had played out this exchange a thousand times in his head.

“Ah, yes, my name is Jonathan Pascal. I was hoping you might be able to tell me who made this key.”

From his right coat pocket, Jonathan produced the key to Frederick Jacobs’ apartment. He set it down hard on Zalewski’s counter, so that it made a resounding clack on the wood. Zalewski quickly looked the key over and, recognizing his own handiwork, was now positive that this man was a servant of the Eye.

“I made this, Mr. Pascal. And I see that my master is the same as yours.”

Jonathan was taken aback by the old man’s instant admission of his complicity with the Eye. He then pressed Zalewski for information on his latest package.

“I was told to come and see you here. Do you have anything for me?”

“Not today, I’m afraid, but I know of what you speak. Return here at this time tomorrow and it will be ready.”

Without a word, Jonathan strode out of the store and Zalewski went back to his work.

Jonathan walked down the now-dark streets of the Polish borough in the general direction of his house. The empty city streets reminded him of Anna. It was not remorse he felt, but curiosity. He wanted so much to remember what had happened on the night of her death. Yet whenever he tried to recall the moments leading up to her murder, those measly ten minutes or so, he drew a complete blank. It bothered him, having gaps in his memory like that…

After a short walk, he came upon an abnormally-shaped object buried under several feet of snow. Unsure of what manner of thing might have this oblong shape, bulging more in some places than others, he gave it a light kick. It rattled slightly in the instant of impact, but was quiet afterwards. He finally decided to recover it from the snow bank it had formed. He grabbed the side of it and heaved it out of the pile of snow with all of his strength. And to Jonathan’s surprise, he was gripping the handle of a positively ancient-looking guitar case.

It spent the night on Jonathan’s couch while he retired to another hollow sleep.

12:A Very Old Guitar

“And I then: ‘Someone frames upon the keys

That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain

The night and moonshine; music which we seize

To body forth our own vacuity.’

She then: ‘Does this refer to me?’

‘Oh no, it is I who am inane.’”

-T.S. Eliot

It was two hours after the break of day. Jonathan ran his palm over the leather, which had obviously been black at some point in time. It was now a sort of pitiful grey, cracked and creased in places. Nicks and pockmarks adorned its sides and front, leaving the impression that the case and the instrument it held were not neglected, but rather seasoned by age. The gold clasps which tenuously held the top of the case to the bottom were polished, sharply contrasting the state of the case. They glimmered a bit in the mid-morning sun, casually yet irresistibly inviting Jonathan to pull them open.

He obliged, though not as roughly as he wanted to. Checking his instincts, he slowly and delicately undid each antique clasp, as though undressing a woman. Jonathan savored the moment, committing the feel and sound of each click to memory. As the last of the locks was undone, Jonathan paused; he took a moment to admire the case once more before allowing his eyes to feast upon the instrument inside. Slowly, he pulled the top away. The interior of the case was adorned with velvet and sheepskin, and contained the most perfect guitar Jonathan had ever seen. He let himself drink in the smells of maple, mahogany, ash, and the faintest trace of cheap tobacco. The guitar itself looked ages older than the case; its finish was worn off completely, and it bore almost as many nicks as its case. The high E- and B- strings were faintly rusted, and on the face, just below where the neck met the body, someone had carved the phrase “fluctuat nec mergitur”. Jonathan decided that it was French or Latin, but could speak neither, so decided to ignore it for the moment.

He gingerly lifted the guitar from its ancient shrine, releasing a million particles of dust into the stream of light which stemmed from the front window. Raising it to the appropriate position, Jonathan willed his fingers to form a G-major chord.

The wondrous thing about guitars of a certain age is how perfectly they remain tethered to their tuning. This patchwork of wood and metal, held fast by a million tweaks and tunings, could easily outshine any newer guitar in terms of tone and tune. Most guitars just played. This one sang. Its high strings rang like a perfect glass bell. Its middle strings moved the chord forward like a perfectly harmonized tenor voice, and its bass strings, the E and the A, were a chorus of men singing as they hauled tons of coal up a mountainside.

Jonathan felt bad for not knowing how to play more on this masterpiece of an instrument. He could only play a few chords, and knew only a handful of songs, but he could not help feeling an attachment to this guitar. He liked it because of its air of history, and how nicely its very essence met the definition of “instrument”. It was precise; a mode of measurement and an executor of expression. It was a thing of beauty, this ancient guitar, and now it was his. He was its liberator, and it was his muse.

It woke within him something long absent; a feeling of warmth that he had managed to do without since his return to the world of the living. It was very much like finding a ten-dollar bill tucked between the pages of an old book. He had known the feeling once, but had not noticed its absence until he felt it once again. Since his suicide and experience with the afterlife, he had come to place far less trust in the terms humankind used for the afterlife (and, really, for all things metaphysical). They were just plain wrong, as far as he could tell. But if such a thing as a soul existed at all, he felt as though he had one again.

Meanwhile, Gabriel Zalewski was having quite a different moment of epiphany. Outwardly, he was a kindly old man. He looked like one, and perhaps even functioned like one to some extent, but he had not been a human, in the normal sense of the word, in forty-two years. Forty-two years ago, he too found himself in a gray field, bereft of all but mist and shadows. He had taken his own life, and been offered a second chance, and he, too, had heard the Eye say, grimly, “Your soul is on loan” just before he blacked out. And for these past forty-two years, he had done the bidding of that horrible demon, and still he had not been re-united with that most ethereal of possessions.

Being without a soul is not painful. It is not a terrible sensation of emptiness, or a tremendous invisible burden. It is, rather, a sort of numbness that gradually and almost imperceptibly sets in. At first, it’s almost a blessing for the sort of work the Eye demands; you can’t feel pain, or sorrow, or remorse. But after a while, you lose the ability to feel any emotion at all. You become shriveled—a gremlin, much like Mr. Zalewski.

Gabriel Zalewski had a moment in his life that seemed to him like a very momentary break in the clouds of his soullessness. He, very suddenly, came to the conclusion that it would be impossible to regain his soul by cooperating with the Eye. He had done that for long enough, and he saw that it had made him a monster—a tool for evil. He knew, at that moment, that he had to do whatever he could to impede the Eye’s dark work. He would need to stop the Eye’s servants from taking any more lives.

He would need to kill Jonathan Pascal.

13:A Day In The Life

“And if you close your eyes,

a river fills you from within,

flows forward, darkens you:

night brings its wetness to beaches in your soul.”

-Octavio Paz

At 9:57 pm, Robert Fawkes trudged through his front door, clearly weighed down not only by the snow that covered his entire person, but also by the news of the latest unsolved homicide, which had reached his desk just as he was about to punch out at five. He then spent four hours puzzling over the very few available pieces of evidence pertaining to the murder of Anna Aldridge before he set out to walk home in the snow. Since he was a senior detective, his apartment was moderately-appointed, and well-kept by his wife, Marie. In a way, the apartment building reflected the mind of the detective—it was made of simple bricks, but it was in no way simple. It was solid, and it had a definite purpose. Both the mind and the apartment were beautiful, but not in the traditional sense; they were really beautiful in the same way that a Steinbeck novel is beautiful. But that is all beside the point.

He first hung his coat on the coat rack in the corner adjacent the doorway, and then set his hat atop the rack. The house was dark and quiet, which led him to assume that Marie had gone to bed. Though he felt bad for having stayed so late at work (and for having ignored her by doing so) his definite purpose was to solve these murders that seemed to come to him in greater numbers every week. The biggest part of him was devoted to investigation and interpolation, and he could no more have changed that about himself than the building could have transformed itself into a tree.

Despite that, however, he was still a human being and aware of his wife’s discontent with his obsession for work. He did his best to spend time with her—he took her out to dinner on occasion, and he almost never forgot to acknowledge their anniversary, but the fact of the matter was that he was almost never at home; and so, Marie suffered.

Marie Fawkes knew what she was getting into when she married Robert. She had known him to be an extremely dedicated detective, and had never aspired to change that about him. Even so, she had always subconsciously held a tiny bit of hope that he would eventually grow out of his fixation on his work. Suffice it to say that he never did.

Robert was still thinking about the details of the latest homicide as he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his plain white dress shirt. He was so preoccupied by the thoughts swimming around in his head that he almost did not notice Marie leaning out of the bedroom door.

He did not jump with surprise (police nerves ensured that he rarely ever did), but simply said, “I’m sorry I’m late, dear. Did I wake you?”

“No, I’ve been up,” said Marie in a voice that was languid and just the slightest bit sultry.

“Did you eat?”

Marie did not reply, but walked out the bedroom door into the hall. Robert could only now discern that she was naked. His thoughts immediately turned to sex—to all of the things he wanted to do with her. But the thoughts that immediately followed were of a far more grim nature. He thought of rape victims, and of terrible things he had witnessed. Where he should have been aroused, he was stricken with sickly paralysis.

He lost his balance, and took one step backward to compensate. Marie walked toward him slowly and with determination. He could only guess what she was thinking; she knew too well how the terrible things that he had seen restricted his baser urges. Still, though, she advanced, and he could not help but look her over. She was very definitely a beautiful woman by anyone’s standards. It was not the beauty of a Steinbeck novel that graced her form, but the beauty of a warm moonlit evening, or a softly-sung lullaby. She was slender, with long black hair and very dark blue eyes, and her features were very distinct; not quite sharp, but always very clear.

Robert was four inches taller than Marie, and he was very fit, even for a detective. His hair was short and brown, but it was so light that he was often mistaken for a blonde. The bottoms of his sideburns had started to turn white about two months earlier. His eyes were a very light and clear blue, except around the edges; the edges were so dark they were almost black. His face showed the weight that his career had imposed upon him, and yet his features emanated the very distinct quality of having been chiseled by some ancient master sculptor. They always looked very permanent.

For an instant—though it seemed to hang, and time seemed to dilate and slow within it—all of the horrible memories etched in his brain disappeared. For a moment, all the detective could think of was the astonishingly beautiful creature before him. And in this instant, Marie hungrily grabbed the back of the detective’s neck and kissed him.

It was a long, warm kiss that melted the detective’s inhibitions and nullified his paralysis. He stepped forward again, and felt the warmth from the woman in front of him. He kissed her back slowly, and not forcefully, but in a way that echoed his strength. Marie let out a little moan.

And then everything went very quickly. She unbuttoned the rest of his shirt; he grabbed one of her breasts. She took off his pants; he kissed her even more passionately. Somehow they ended up in the bedroom.

Robert practically threw Marie onto the bed. It had been almost two years since they had last had sex, and yet neither really felt compelled to say anything. It was an emotional maelstrom in which they were both now entwined, and, realistically, anything either one of them could say would only detract from the experience.

Sparing not even an instant, he leapt from the foot of the bed and, in the same motion, entered her. She gasped, and then let out a staggered moan. Robert went slowly and strongly, much in the same way that he kissed. She could almost not bear the intensity of the pleasure stirred by the feeling of him inside her. Her face showed both that intense pleasure that she had almost forgotten how to feel and the pain of having had to wait so long for it. He moved with her in a symphony of sensation and sound, and as the fever of climax rose in them, he looked into her dark blue eyes and saw that he should have had so many more nights like this one in the last two years.

And as they came, together, to the moment of climax, of the most heightened pleasure, and he spilled his very essence into her, it was as though someone had flipped on a light inside Robert’s head. Dripping sweat, he pulled himself out of her and repositioned himself to lie by her side. He draped his hand across her breasts. She was still breathing heavily and letting out sighs of utter contentment. And at that very moment, the detective had a great epiphany of the sort that only very few of us are lucky enough to have.

In that moment, he saw the power that a night like this could have to restore him from the depths of apathy and cynicism. It was only on a night like this, Robert realized, that he could see what humanity really was; it was not in the murder scenes and blood stains that his life appeared to revolve around; it was in nights like this one.

And in the moments immediately following that one, Robert Fawkes came to a realization that he knew would lead him to the perpetrator of all three of his most recent homicides.

14:Homer and Aeschylus

“Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”

-T.S. Eliot

“This is but a story, the same as any other, with players that exist in countless stories that have been passed down between countless bards and pilgrims since the dawn of time. This story is Crime and Punishment; it is the tale of a suffering anti-hero pursued by the seemingly bewildered detective. This story is Faust, where a man makes a deal with the devil and loses his soul for it. This story is many more fables and novels and poems all at once, and aspires to offer yet another statement on the human condition. But how do you define that condition, exactly? What is humanity?

“Perhaps the detective is right. Perhaps it is in the human instinct to procreate and to share one’s life with others. Perhaps it is in love. Most people are capable of this basest of urges. But is love unique among the race of men? We cannot really say for certain. The instinct to procreate, however, lives in all beings. It is the most basic evolutionary imperative, and so all living things share it. We can conclude, therefore, that love does not make humanity.

“Or is Mr. Pascal correct in his observation that humanity is in our passions and creativity? Does his battered guitar somehow represent all that makes our species dominant on Earth? Perhaps. Birds have their song; though it is mere communication, it is unique and often pleasing to the ear. Furthermore, nature has produced flowers and landscapes too beautiful for words. It is foolish to assume that humanity has cornered the market on creativity and beauty.”

Thus, The Aspect of the Eye concluded his monologue. He was somewhere in the vast white plane over which he held dominion. He had made a single, dilapidated wooden counter appear with two beers. He had also created three stools. He was seated upon the leftmost one. The man on the rightmost stool was facing toward the counter, staring at where the shelves of liquor would be in a bar. He spoke slowly and with precision. His voice was deep, and, upon listening to it, one generally got the impression that the man knew more than he was letting on.

“I have my own theory. Humanity is loss.”

The Eye scoffed in amusement. The man slowly turned his head to face The Eye and spoke again.

“Do you want me to explain it or not?” he asked, clearly annoyed.

“No, please, go on,” The Eye said.

“Here’s what it is. Everyone loses things. Everyone loses people. It’s a unifying factor. The distinguishing factor—what makes us different from other living things—is that we move on, and we help others to do the same. If a bear cub loses its mom before it learns how to get food, it’s as good as dead, right? But if the same thing should happen to a human kid, he can go live with relatives, or go to an orphanage and eventually find parents there. He’s capable of living the rest of his life.”

The man took a sip of his beer. The Eye had no mouth, and so the beer was purely symbolic for him. The Eye looked down at the beverage for a moment, and then he abruptly stood. The counter and the one-and-a-half beers melted and dissolved into the misty white floor. The man stood up, and the stools, too, liquefied and became a part of the floor.

The Eye began to walk away. The man shouted, his voice inflated by the sense that he had bested his captor:

“How many of your inmates have ever gotten that question right before, cue-ball?”

The Eye’s silence confirmed that the man was the first to provide an answer with which he completely agreed.

“Goodbye, Edward,” said The Eye.

Edward Pascal’s face was suddenly washed over with the dread of anticipated pain, and with a low wail, he, too, melted and became a part of the misty white floor.

15:The Sound of Thunder and Steel

“But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head grown slightly bald brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.”

-T.S. Eliot

The next day arrived for Jonathan Pascal as a matter of course. He thought fondly of his new guitar as he strode through the snow to Gabriel Zalewski’s shop. Upon arrival, he found the building devoid of signs of life. He tried the doorknob, but found it locked. There was a note at the doorstep, which he promptly snatched. Electrified with annoyance, Jonathan turned away from the shop.

Suddenly, everything got dark. The sun, it seemed, had immediately set. The streetlamps did not light, and no one’s house lights seemed to be on. Jonathan’s acute ears detected the sound of a blade being unsheathed directly behind him, and he turned around. He could only see a faintly glowing white blade. He stuffed the letter that he had taken into his coat. The man holding the sword spoke:

“I am sorry, Jonathan. You are a fellow also in chains, and so I want you to know how much it pains me to do what I am about to do.”

Jonathan recognized the voice as belonging to Gabriel Zalewski. Zalewski raised his sword with surprising speed, but Jonathan quickly turned himself to avoid the swing. Zalewski followed through, and the sword stuck in the concrete for a moment. That moment was long enough for Jonathan to land a punch in Zalewski’s side. Zalewski flew sideways and Jonathan seized the sword, which had previously been left sticking in the concrete.

Jonathan swung from the shoulder, but Zalewski dodged and, with demonic speed, ran around behind Jonathan and began to strangle him. Jonathan was surprised as much by the strength of the elderly man’s grip as the fact that he was asphyxiating. He had not felt pain in such a long time…the sword fell to the ground and clanged very loudly. Jonathan slumped. Gabriel spoke slowly, his voice thickly accented as always.

“It’s odd, isn’t it? The pain. When your soul is on loan from him, you’re almost immortal. But there’s a chink in that armor. The Eye’s slaves can only be killed by each other. Now stop struggling, and it will all be over soon.”

Jonathan’s movement was incredibly labored. His limbs were lead. He tried so hard to reach his pocket…he knew that if he could only reach his pocket, he could draw breath again…he had to reach the thing inside…

A single gunshot rang out in the unnatural night. A smoking hole had appeared in the back of Jonathan’s coat pocket. Gabriel Zalewski fell to the ground, almost in slow motion.

Jonathan gasped for air. It was painful to breathe—his lungs burned badly with every breath, but at the same time, they were grateful for each breath. Every time he took another breath, it burned a little less, until eventually it returned to normal. He expected the world to return to its normal light, but the Polish borough remained swathed in darkness. Jonathan was puzzled, but simply stood.

The Eye suddenly blinked into existence before Jonathan. He was quite faint—almost transparent, and his speaking voice was a far cry from its usual deep timbre. It was as a loud, raspy whisper:

“This was not the man I intended for you to kill, but I suppose it will suffice. Ken Drizzard will live. But this defection is…unexpected, to say the least. I will send word to you through another of my associates. Until I am able to do arrange for that, relax, and try not to draw too much attention to yourself. Good day.”

And with that, the Eye tipped his fedora and blinked out of existence again. Light flooded the sky, and Jonathan, blinded, fell backwards and hit the pavement hard. He rose and looked around, squinting. He saw no trace of Gabriel Zalewski’s body. Profoundly confused, he tuned around to face Zalewski’s shop.

Where a building had stood but a minute ago, there was a vacant lot. Gabriel Zalewski was no more. Everything that made him up might as well have never existed.

The sky was still bright, gloomy, and pale with the unnatural winter. Jonathan dropped the sword, turned around, and started walking home.

16:Man Sees Himself

“and, rubbing his eyes,

concludes that he does not like what he sees.”

Jonathan was wracked with unfamiliar emotions—with things that he had not felt since before his suicide. For the first time since that fateful night, he was filled with the urge to, weeping, fling himself off a building for the things he had done. He was not merely a murderer, but a serial killer. He stood in his apartment (which seemed to revolve in a sickly torrent of vertigo), but ultimately he could not stand on his feet anymore and fell to his knees. For the first time in almost two months, Jonathan Pascal wept.

He wept for the people whose lives he had ended prematurely. He wept for himself—for the fate he would have to endure no matter what he chose to do. He wept for Anna, and for the love they could have shared. He wept for his chained peers—the indentured servants of the Eye who, in all likelihood, would never be free.

The grief hit him in waves. It would swell momentarily, pressing its weight into his stomach, and then, inexplicably, it would calm and subside. Finally, it ceased entirely, leaving him ravaged. He stood again, and silently retrieved the note he had taken from Zalewski’s doorstep. He walked slowly to his couch, and looked closely at the letter. The front of the envelope contained the most frightening thing Jonathan had ever read:

“To the murderer of Frederick Jacobs, Anna Aldridge, Anthony Mariano, James O’Connor, and, in all likelihood, Gabriel Zalewski:”

Jonathan broke the seal on the back. He unfolded the single piece of paper inside, trembling both from his most recent breakdown and from fear that he might be discovered for the monster that he had become. He read, hands still shaking:

I realized a few days ago that my only hope of determining your identity rested with Mr. Zalewski. I expected a trail of evidence that would lead me to the murderer or murderers at large in my city. I did not expect that trail to be anywhere near as short as it turned out to be. Mr. Zalewski confirmed that there was indeed a single murderer, that he was male, and a resident of New York City. He would not give out your name, but rather insisted that it was his duty to kill you himself and that afterward he would give me all of the information he had on you. If you are reading this, he has failed. Before he left to confront you, however, Mr. Zalewski left me some promising evidence. Rest assured, I will find you, and when I do, you will not be able to hide from the things you have done any longer.

--Detective Robert Fawkes, N.Y.P.D.

Jonathan was even more shaken after reading this, and immediately went to his bedroom. He suddenly felt tired, and very old. He lay down on his couch and almost immediately drifted off to sleep.

For the first time since he killed himself, he dreamed. He did not dream of the things one might expect of an innocent man driven to murder. He did not dream of his victim’s faces, or of his eventual punishment. He dreamt of a small, cold room filled with darkness and himself. Though he could not see anything, he heard the voice of the Eye:

“This letter is also unexpected, an indeed unfortunate. Assuming that the detective is not bluffing and, in fact, has evidence of your earthly crimes, he could apprehend you and so ruin your chances of taking the remaining two lives. Your path is clear: you must kill Robert Fawkes before he can expose you. Since the man who supplied you with weapons is gone, you will need to procure your own weapons and ammunition. Purchase a new revolver and kill this man before he learns your identity.”

And Jonathan woke up. Though he was becoming disturbed with how one-sided his conversations with the Eye were becoming, he knew that he did have to kill Robert Fawkes. He did not want to kill anyone anymore; something about the guitar, or perhaps something about having to kill another man whose soul was on loan form the Eye…something had unlocked the humanity within him.

And even though he could feel that he was slowly becoming more human, Jonathan got his coat. He would need a revolver and some bullets.

17:The Best-Laid Plans

“I'm truly sorry Man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle,

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!”

-Robert Burns

Detective Robert Fawkes stood in the doorway abandoned warehouse in Manhattan, quite alone and genuinely unnerved. As a police officer, he was accustomed to situations steeped in danger and tension. For some reason, however, the calm that pervaded his attitude most of the time was shattered on this particular evening. He was not sure why he had agreed to a midnight meeting alone. For the third time in the last minute, he checked his watch. It was 11:40; there was time enough to recount the events that had led up to him standing there, waiting (in all likelihood) to die.

That morning, the detective had found a note under his door. Unbeknownst to the detective, it was the day after Jonathan had received his orders to kill him. The note was in Jonathan’s messy, slanted handwriting:

“The only way you’ll find me is to meet me alone in the warehouse on Atlantic Avenue in Manhattan. Come alone.”

Robert Fawkes considered for a moment the series of events that would most probably occur if he did not meet the murderer that night. This murderer would likely go on to kill at least one more person, probably more. He could have further analyzed the impacts of that decision, but in reality he only needed that one. He was a police officer, and if by sacrificing his own life he could save someone else’s, then that was his duty. He would meet this murderer.

He knew that bringing backup would scare off the culprit, but he also knew that he did not necessarily have to come alone. He found a map of that part of town and looked for suitable locations at which he could position snipers. After twenty minutes of frustrated searching, he rolled up the map. Because of the unique combination of tall and short buildings surrounding the warehouse, snipers would be all but useless. He would be truly alone.

Jonathan had spent the better part of the day scheming—how would he kill the detective once he was in the warehouse? Should he even bother to dispose of the body, and if so, how?

Even amid these questions, he was very pleased with himself for having devised his plan to lure the detective to a secluded location. He would not have thought of it had he not happened to come upon Frederick Jacobs’ key while rummaging about. The key no longer held its faint glow, but it did bear an inscription with an address. Jonathan had been just curious enough to drop by that address on his way back from buying a gun. From the very moment that Jonathan slid open the rusty door to the huge, empty warehouse, ideas began to stir in his mind. He knew that he could somehow use this building to his advantage.

Detective Robert Fawkes stood in the doorway of the abandoned warehouse, listening very intently to the sound of his own breathing. Listening, quite consciously, for any other sound that might disturb the stillness of the night. And, though he was quite convinced that he was entirely alone, he was most definitely not.

Jonathan had been standing in the back of the warehouse since before nightfall. He had not made any sound at all since the detective had shown up, but rather had been contemplating exactly how he would go through with this murder.

Jonathan pondered his two options. He could have shot the detective almost half an hour ago if he had wanted to; he could just as easily shoot him now. This man was, however, a force for good in the world. He represented order in a world that was threatened on all sides by chaos. Jonathan felt that he owed something to this man. Maybe it wasn’t even a debt that he felt, but rather more of the guilt that had begun to run back into his life.

Nonetheless, he felt compelled to reveal himself—to let the detective have some small victory. In essence, his second option was to deliver an ultimatum, and allow the detective his last words before killing him. It seemed the humane thing to do…even, perhaps, the right thing to do. Jonathan had not done the right thing in a long time.

“Detective Robert Fawkes?” Jonathan called out. The detective visibly started, but spoke as though unfazed by the knowledge that he was not, in fact, alone.

“That’s me. You the serial killer?” The detective did not make an effort to mask his unbridled hatred for the man with whom he was speaking. This man had killed five innocent people. He wasn’t really even a man in the detective’s eyes; he was something less than human—he was a monster.

Jonathan did not know how to respond to the detective’s address. Was he, in fact, a serial killer? That was not how he had started. When he and his family were living peacefully, he was a person. A real, whole, human being. But tragedy after tragedy struck him like waves crashing against a cliff. And, like a cliff, he had eroded. Over the course of the last two weeks, he had committed unspeakable sins; he had even killed the woman he loved. He wasn’t really a person anymore. He was a serial killer—a monster. Jonathan drew his revolver and spoke, quivering.

“I am…I am the Aspect of the Eye. I am a monster. I am death.” Jonathan’s world was collapsing. The stone ceiling of the temple that was his mind was crumbling and dissolving. He was the serial killer. With four little words, the detective had obliterated Jonathan’s frame of mind. Jonathan started to walk toward the detective quickly. He raised his arm to point the revolver at detective Robert Fawkes.

“Killing me won’t change anything,” said the detective, quite confident that he could capitalize on the killer’s obvious overwhelming guilt and arrest him.

“You would still be a murderer. I would just be one more body on your conscience.”

“On the contrary. After I kill you and one more person, I can be at peace. My brother and I can have lives again.”

“Look, I don’t know your circumstances exactly, but I can see that you’re an intelligent person. You don’t want to be a monster. We can work this out. Why don’t you put the gun down?” Jonathan grew enraged.

“Don’t patronize me!” Jonathan had fire in his eyes. He had spent enough time talking to this man. He sighed. He looked down, gun still pointed at the detective, and spoke. His voice was almost a whisper.

“None of it means a damned thing. I just wanted you to know that my name is Jonathan Pascal.”

Things happened very quickly after that. Jonathan cocked and fired his gun. The bullet went straight through the detective’s forehead and out the back of his skull. However, in the instant before the bullet met his brain, Robert Fawkes saw everything clearly. He saw, all in a flash, the report on his desk stating that a young man, Edward Pascal had been murdered in front of his own house. It had been an open-and-shut mob drive-by shooting. Edward had apparently taken out a loan that he was unable to pay back, and the mafia had killed him. He saw two boys, on their own, without parents to guide them. He saw the monster that his serial killer had been in his brain transform into a tortured soul with more than just a motive and a gun. This serial killer was a man driven mad by loss—as Edward would say, a man driven mad by his own humanity. The detective, in the total oblivion of sudden understanding, died at peace.

The bullet did not stop after it exited the detective’s skull, however. It blindly rushed into the thick steel wall immediately behind the detective and, striking that wall at exactly the wrong angle and speed, ricocheted and flew directly into Jonathan’s heart.

18:Into Memory

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.”

-Robert Frost

Jonathan lay bleeding on the warehouse floor. The pain was unbearable. He was going to die alone. More than that, he was going to fail his brother and himself. He should have been thinking of so many other things at that moment, but the wound in his chest screamed. Jonathan Pascal thought only of his failure, and he died alone, weeping.

The same feeling of surfacing from a long time submerged in water washed over Jonathan. This time, however, he found himself standing in the Eye’s realm and carrying a heavy suitcase. He tried to put it down, but it stuck to his hand. Jonathan was perplexed, but was also too depressed to be affected by the strange behavior of objects. This time, his walking was unobstructed. He did not feel as though he were walking through hot mud, but his depth perception still appeared to be off. There was a silhouette in the distance—a mile away, at least. He took three steps, and was suddenly face-to-face with the Eye. He hung his head.

“I’ve failed.” Jonathan felt his ultimate shame stirring in his stomach. It was a terrible sort of boiling-hot nausea that overtook his whole person and made him want to cry. The Eye laughed a terrible, sickly laugh.

“Quite the contrary, Jonathan. You’ve simply managed to kill two birds with one stone. You see, you were always going to be the last victim. It was only ever a question of how.” The Eye chuckled again, uncontrollably entertained by the terrible irony woven by fate.

“So what happens now?” asked Jonathan, now incredibly suspicious. “If I’m here, how are you supposed to restore me and my brother to life?”

“Oh, Jonathan, that was never the plan. I am not some genie, bound to grant the wishes of its liberator. I am Death! Ultimately, I control everything, and I do not grant favors. I simply needed an instrument to do my bidding. You were useful for that purpose, but look at you now!” The Eye gestured to Jonathan’s suitcase.

“All of that baggage, and how easily you walk through my realm…it’s not healthy, John. So, no. I’m afraid that you will not ride off into the sunset with your brother and find a way to survive all this loss. You are one with the void now. Repent.”

Jonathan slowly sank into the floor. His feet and legs felt as though they were squeezed in a vice, and they burned, as though he were dipped in acid. It was a terrible torturous pain, and as he descended, it ascended. Eventually, he was swallowed by the floor.

Still in unbearable pain, he found himself in a space that starkly contrasted the world above. It was entirely black, with only himself and another glowing form in front of him. He could plainly see that it was Edward. He could hear Edward shouting something to him, but he could not hear it. It was as though, even though they were only feet apart, they were actually separated by miles. Jonathan walked forward, but found that each step moved him only millimeters closer to his brother. He trudged forward for almost an hour, screaming from the strain of walking while in such intense pain. At last, he reached his brother. Jonathan threw his arms around Edward and wept. Sobbing both because of the burning vice in which his entire body seemed to be held and because of the rush of simultaneous relief and shame that he felt, Jonathan spoke in a raspy, quiet voice.

“Ed…I tried to help us. I really did. But the things I did…I don’t deserve to be called a man anymore.”

“I know about everything that happened,” said Edward. His voice was very soft and serious.

“John, I forgive you. The Eye isn’t really death. He’s temptation, and loss. And you’re only human.”

The Pascal brothers fell to their knees. They slowly faded away from that black plane of purgatory, both of them at peace. This is where their story ends.

19:Death

“What dreams may come, both dark and deep

Of flying wings and soaring leap

As I surrender unto sleep.

As I surrender unto sleep.”

-Charles Anthony Silvestri

Robert Fawkes’ apartment got quieter after his death. There was a lovely service at which he was honored posthumously for having captured the serial killer Jonathan Pascal. It was held on the first cloudless day of winter. This, one might say, is significant especially because of the bittersweet quality of a cold and sunny day. Just as we curse the wind and embrace the sunshine, so we mourn the passing of a hero and rejoice in the defeat of a monster.

Interestingly enough, neither the detective’s name nor his quarry’s name is remembered today. The real lasting effect of their deaths was the quiet that swept the detective’s apartment. That quiet was broken for a split second and ensured for an eternity by a gunshot. This gunshot marked the suicide of Marie Fawkes exactly one week, two hours, fifteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds after her husband’s death.

Marie’s circumstance was entirely different from Jonathan Pascal’s. She was really Robert Fawkes’ mistress, as he was married to his work. But she did not mind that so terribly much. He was simply the best part of her life. He was a constant in her existence. He was strong-willed, and after living side-by-side with that kind of will, losing it becomes crippling. The only real option when confronted with that sort of vacuum is to become a part of it.

Marie Fawkes found herself in a strange white plane. She walked through the air that felt like hot mud, and looked in horror at the face of loss. The Eye spoke to her, still savoring the bittersweet ending of his last servant’s tale. He was cordial and arrogant as always.

“I would like to offer you a deal,” he said. He explained that she would need to take seven lives in order to resurrect herself and her husband. He knew what her reply would be. No one in her position could refuse.

“No,” said Marie Fawkes.

“I’m sorry?” The Eye was utterly incredulous. How could any human decline the opportunity that he offered?

“No,” she repeated, “I think I really just want to sleep. It has been far too long.” Marie lay down on the strange, misty, white ground and promptly fell asleep. The Eye, still quite unable to accept the events that had passed, turned around and walked away.

Marie Fawkes turned away from Shiva, Death, Chaos, Loss, Desire, and everything else that the Eye represents. Marie Fawkes faded away—not without making an impact on the world, but rather without succumbing to the things that make the best of us lose our humanity.

Epilogue

Did any of this ever really happen? It is difficult for us to believe that it did. It is also entirely beside the point. I could mention other things that are beside the point, but I will not, for the sake of your valuable time. What is not beside the point is that Marie Fawkes is not a better person than Jonathan Pascal. Jonathan’s life was fraught with tragedy and, while that does not excuse his transgressions, it does help to explain the motives for his actions. He committed suicide to be with Edward once more. Marie committed suicide because she wanted to become one with the vacuum of will that her life was inevitably rushing towards without Robert. Her circumstances were different. Nevertheless, I can see where you might favor her because she chooses not to go down the same path that Jonathan stumbled down. I simply felt that novels deserve happy endings of one sort or another, and furthermore I wanted to convey the idea that hope pervades all. If death began this tale, then hope, I felt, should end it.