It began with a mirror. The face, or no face, framed by black hair, glistening red, eyes ever staring. He had flinched, then spent the rest of the night convincing himself it was a trick, his imagination, just nerves.
It began with the mansion. A missing person, a case that paid well, a lead to an old, shuttered house people knew to avoid. He felt off about it. Back then, he didn't believe in such things. He tried to tell himself that was still the case. He believed in the Lord, and maybe not even that. Ghosts were superstitions.
It began long ago. A murder. Love triangle. That was the write-up. The police didn't know how else to put. Certainly, they were not going to commit to paper the salacious details, the cult practices, the vile deeds done in a dark cellar. But it was black magic. A wizard, a priestess, goblins and dwarfs slipping their shackles. Something bad happened. It began, but didn't end.
The fog-laden streets were eerie, now. It was a late hour, timeless, and the ever-sounds of Shanghai were muted. A muffled cry. Maybe the rum-rum of a car, muffled to nothing. The occasional man, a pedestrian, a worker, a fleeing kid, passing him by intent on their own errands, their own stories, faces far and uninterested in him, the sweat, the bleeding wound, or his fear. But it was still the city, an adopted home, and welcoming grave.
Shanghai enveloped Vincent Mallory in a chilling embrace. Usually, it was for more frantic, but it felt peaceful, calm, almost solemn. It was breathing out a sigh, just for him, a send-off. That wry sense of humor, and deep cut of cynicism felt almost honored. Almost. He'd prefer to not die, but he had been taught to appreciate the things life gave you. Stumbling through the cobblestone alleyways, his step grew more unstable, a stagger. He might not make it. That was his fear. Pale, terrified, he was afraid for others. For a long time, he doubted he was a hero, but now, he was proud. He knew. There were steps behind him. He didn't turn. He didn't dare. This labyrinth of shadows whispered tales of mystery and intrigue, dangers lurking behind every turn. They seemed so simple now. The truth was beyond his wild imagination.
Vincent pulled his worn leather coat tighter, the lingering chill of the vengeful ghost still clawing at his soul. It was like ice, growing. The wound hadn't closed. It was bleeding black, now. The specter had emerged from a long-buried tragedy, from a past he barely understood. She was made. Those glances, those looks, those brief moments revealed the ritual suffering inflicted on her, almost skinless, pinned with pieces of iron and jade, fulu incantations, eyes always open, staring, mad. She was relentlessly pursuing him. She wouldn't stop.
It had been mere hauntings, earlier. He saw her first in the mirror, a face behind his shoulder, in the dark of that house. But going back home, footsteps followed him. They always followed. Far, at first, then closer. He would wake, and the door to his place would be wide open. His food spoiled. Dogs barked at nothing. At night, he could see the figure at the far end of streets, in alleys, watching, closer, coming. His torture had lasted weeks, long enough for him to believe, to learn a little, to get angry.
It might have been a mistake. But was he led there? Was she summoned up for him? Was it murder? He didn't want to accept that, and what it meant. Betrayal, good and proper. A real dagger in the back. But there was no other explanation.
Now, it was almost done. He just had to get his last business in order. They underestimated him if they thought it would be easy, if they thought he would lay down and die. He had his own tricks.
Her ominous presence grew with each passing moment, and he could hear her, now, raspy threats echoing in Vincent's mind as he desperately maneuvered the narrow passages. It was blame. What was done to her left something less than human, and totally insane. It was controlled, but saw only revenge, every face the face of the man that did this to her. He was her killer. He did this. Oily puddles reflected flickering gas lamps overhead, illuminating his weary eyes and the tense set of his jaw. He stumbled, hitting into a brick wall, but pushed on. It was so cold.
The ghost was but a phantom from the past, determined to ensnare Vincent as a pawn in her sinister quest. She only knew vengeance. She deserved it. He understood. Though her spectral form was invisible to all but him, her icy grip around his frantically beating heart tightened. His vision went briefly. He fell, stilled, and woke a moment later, face buried on the street, tasting the filth of the city. No. Not yet. He had more to do.
Seeking refuge, Vincent slipped into the recesses of a crumbling temple, the scent of sandalwood still clinging to its ancient walls. The painted eyes of golden statues watched him with serene indifference as he scratched out a desperate letter by the dying light of a candle. He could not recall how he arrived, only that he willed it, that he must. It was necessary.
His final plea complete, Vincent dropped the leaf of paper into a weathered mailbox on the edge of the city. The rusted metal creaked and groaned, swallowing his hastily scribbled words whole—a message in a bottle cast into the sea of time and memory. He wasn't sure if it would reach its destination, or if it would matter. But hope set him at peace.
As the ghost finally descended upon him, Vincent was waiting, half-dead. He watched her soft, red feet wetly fall across the cobbles. He seized. She was nearly real, a physical thing, but his mind felt more, a pressure, a hatred. Her hand reached across time, from the grave, with accusation. Then, the moment was forever, the beat of his heart drawing out on end, lasting impossibly long. Was this death? He felt a great force stir, drawn by his act of forgiveness and redemption. He had done what was required, a pawn to forces even greater. There was a game playing out in the dark, and he would never know they reasons why, or how it would end. The vengeful spirit dissipated into the night, her twisted revenge denied.
Vincent collapsed onto the rain-slicked cobblestones as darkness took him, his soul at peace. Though his name would fade into obscurity, his bravery shone eternal as a candle in the window, driving back the shadows of the supernatural realm.
It happened that Professor Zhang received the letter. He read quietly, patiently, impassively. He knew the man who wrote it was dead. There was weight to the paper, as if a soul lay inside. The next day, he would arrange for a long trip. He was going back to China, to Shanghai, and wherever the threads might take him. Called home, he said to a colleague. But it was not a homecoming.
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Interesting 🤍
Thank you. I was challenged to write a couple of short stories for October. I may share the others, too.