Monday, October 16, 2017

Secret Basement Lab Alphabet: G is for GHOSTLY AVENGER



G is for GHOSTLY AVENGER

He hurried into his home and locked the doors. He paused for a second, back to the door as if worried someone might try and burst through, and he listened for the sound of footsteps that would indicate he had in fact been followed.
There was nothing. Just his own heightened breathing and the susurration of crickets outside.
Already three members of The Huntsmen Club were dead, and the rumor of the thing hunting them, the figure in the black cloak with the death’s head, had started to play at his nerves. Roland Winterburn wasn’t a man who frightened. He was a man who pulled strings; he was a man who drank pretentious bourbons that cost more per bottle than most of his employees made in a week; he was a man who owned a yacht which traveled the waterways of the world, in search of new game, new thrills, new depravities.
But Roland Winterburn was terrified. He scurried down the dark hall, into his study. He dared not turn the lights on in case someone was after him. Even if they had followed him home, it was best not to alert them of his whereabouts. With the lights on, the windows became opaque black panels from within, and he would become instantly visible. Keeping the lights off he could easily stay obscured in shadow while easily seeing anyone creeping around outside.
In his panic, Roland ambled through the dark, bashing his left knee against the scalloped corner of his large desk. The stuffed owl that sat on the edge, forever staring blankly from a tiny perch of balsam branch, toppled and landed on his foot. His heart jumped violently.
“Get a grip!” he chastised himself.
Trying to steady his nerves, he made his way around the desk by trailing hand-over-hand along the edge of the desktop. He fumbled with the top drawer, noisily sliding it out and extracting a revolver. If The Huntsmen were being hunted, so be it. But he wasn’t going to be meek prey for some specter. He was a Huntsman, for crying out loud. He had his dignity!
“Rooooooooolaaaaaand Wiiiiinterbuuuuurn!” It came in an echoing whisper that flooded the room like smoke.
Winterburn squeezed the revolver compulsively. His hand was slick with sweat.
“What do you want?” he begged, ashamed at the weakness in his tone.
“Your time has come,” the voice returned. There was such finality in the way it was said.
Roland couldn’t pinpoint where the voice was coming from. He fired, blindly. A flash of the muzzle and the bullet went into the corner, near the bookcase. The room filled with laughter—a deafening cackle that sent an icy shockwave through his bloated body.
He fired again, aiming at random, squeezing the trigger rapidly until the gun clicked empty.
A white skull seemed to float out of the darkness of the fireplace. “Death to the death dealers,” the skull said through its tight ivory rictus. Beneath the skull appeared a shard of moonlight, the glint of a steel knife. It shot out, plunging hilt-deep into Roland Winterburn’s chest.
As Winterburn fell, his hands futilely played at the handle of the knife, trying to extricate it from his chest. The skull watched as his victim’s mouth made its last silent motions, uselessly pantomiming a call for help like a fish out of water gasping for life. Before the life had fully dissipated from the magnate, the skull kneeled down near his supine face and produced a small photograph, holding it in front of Winterburn’s eyes.
“A death for a death,” said the skull. Satisfied by the brief flicker of recognition in the waning Winterburn’s eyes, the realization of who his killer was, the skull rose and left the house.
There were still two members of The Huntsmen who awaited punishment, and the night would not stay dark forever.

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