Prologue

Rain pattered on the cobblestones and disrupted the reflection of the flickering lamp flames in the puddles. Frantic footsteps could be heard, working their way through the winding streets. A few moments more, and a bowed-over figure of stumbled around a corner. Shouts rang out, forcing the figure onward, shuffling desperately through the shifting, liquid mirror of the street. A lamp briefly illuminated the figure, revealing his top hat and long cloak, which he clasped tightly to his neck. He startled as the shouts rang out, suddenly much nearer, and sped on through his rasping breath. Escape. He had to escape. He weaved recklessly through the abandoned streets, rattling doorknobs as he went. All were locked tight, as they should be this time of night. The shouting steadily grew louder as the man's steps grew slower and heavier. He ducked around a corner and flung himself into a recessed door, flailing as it burst open, dropping him into a darkened room. What little breath he had left was stolen from the impact of the hard floor on his back. He battled for a few precious seconds for oxygen before scrambling to his feet. Every muscle protested as he jerked his way upright. He was stopped from tripping his way back into the streets by the glow of a fire as it suddenly ignited behind him. He spun around, only to freeze in horror as he recognized the hooded shape rising in front of the hearth.

"How kind of you to visit. I believe you have something of mine. I would like it back. Please."

The voice was raspy and seemed to come from all directions. The hooded figure began to move toward him. The man bolted, aiming for the door, only to slam full force into the heavy wood as it slammed shut. He lay on the cold floor, stunned, unable to react as the hooded figure glided over to stand above him. No face could be seen, hidden deep in the hood of the heavy cloak, but two yellow pinpoints of light stabbed through the darkness where the eyes might have been. Only seconds later, another door was flung open, a few yards from where the man lay, and two large forms tromped into the room. The raspy voice spoke again.

"Pick him up. And if you let him slither away again, you'll get twice what's coming to him."

The burly shadows advanced and roughly grabbed the man's shoulders, hauling him up so his feet dangled above the floor. A gnarled, skeletal hand slipped out of the robes of the figure before him, slicing slowly through the air until they reached the opening of his coat. The hand slipped under the collar, reaching into the deep hidden pocket before emerging with a long, slender stick just as gnarled as the hand grasping it. Another twisted hand appeared and possessively stroked the stick as the figure slowly backed away. The captive helplessly watched with dread and terror as the hooded figure hissed and stabbed the stick toward him. He began to feel a breeze swirl around him, picking up speed until it felt as though he was in the eye of a tornado. The hooded figure held the wind for a moment more before making a grand, sweeping motion, ending in a resounding clap of thunder. The figure began to chuckle, a sound reminiscent of bits of chipped rock in a tin bucket. The thugs gaped at their hands, which still grasped the man's slender shoulders, but their eyes saw only empty fists. As terms of the curse dawned on them, they began to grin at each other. They threw the newly-invisible man to the floor, who landed with a sickening slap. They heartily pounded the others' back and guffawed at the clever joke before thudding back out into the rain behind the hooded figure. The man lay against the too-familiar feeling of the cold dirt floor, trying not to panic as understanding began to flow through his mind. His life would continue, but he would never again truly live. He was no longer a man; he was a ghost.