Day Three
I am now at 5,699 words in NaNoWriMo - about 10% of the way through. This chapter is largely a rewrite from my old story, but has a very different purpose now.



He chose black to make himself more than human. People feared what they couldn’t see. A child’s first fear – fear of the dark – never fully left people. In the shadows, he could become invisible. In light, he became a representation of the darkness.

He chose his clothing carefully for both practicality and symbolism. The man in black that crept in on the collective unconsciousness of every society. The shadow, the phantom.

He rushed forward, bending his body and throwing his arms to the side as he did so. The long dark trench coat unfurled like a pair of demonic wings around him. In the darkness of the alley, Lewis Miller couldn’t tell where the man in black’s body separated from cloth. Hand shaking, Lewis fired a pair of shots at the approaching blackness. The man in black kept approaching.

A man cannot dodge a bullet, but he can dodge a gun. The man in black watched where Lewis had pointed the weapon and positioned his body to make sure he wouldn’t be in the line of fire. Even so, one of the bullets grazed his leg, tearing off a layer of skin as it passed by. He had taken worse, so he kept going. He gritted his teeth, but kept his mouth closed so his victim couldn’t see the sign of pain. He had chosen black for another reason – it didn’t show blood.

Lewis tried to calm himself down and aim the gun properly. He had let himself get too unnerved by the ghost’s approach – forgotten that guns have sights on them for a reason. He tried to take his time now, to lock onto the center of the man’s mass through those tiny metal brackets.

Too late.

The man in black reached Lewis before he could get another shot off. He slammed into the man, knocking him backwards against an alley wall with the momentum. The impact of body against brick knocked the wind out of Lewis. By the time he caught his breath, the ghost had hold of his right hand. Black gloves closed around his wrist and forced it against the metal rim of an open dumpster. One hand held it in place while the other grabbed the lid and slammed it downwards and—

“Aaargh!”

The ghost in black let go of Lewis with a grim smile as he heard the telltale crack of a freshly broken arm. The gun dropped out of stunned fingers and clattered to the bottom of the rusted green dumpster.

Lewis made a fist and swung his free arm at the man in black. He struck him in the shoulder – the man wasn’t a ghost after all – but the blow came at an awkward angle. The man in black grunted but gave no other indication he had felt the punch. Then he grabbed Lewis by the collar of his leather jacket and threw him to the ground.

For a brief second after he had caught his breath, Lewis stood up and thought he was free to run. Then his attacker came upon him again, wielding a new weapon. The aluminum top of a nearby trashcan struck Lewis flat in the face. He fell down again, tasting blood.

“Mister Miller,” said the man in black. He had a quiet voice but a powerful presence. Lewis found himself straining his ears to make sure he heard properly. He didn’t think he’d get a chance to ask the man to repeat himself.

“I didn’t do anything,” he protested.

The attacker brought the lid of the garbage can down again, this time striking with the edge. He hit Lewis in the stomach, bringing tears to his eyes. “I don’t care,” he said.

“Whu-what do you want—?” asked Lewis in a choked gasp.

The clatter of the lid as it dropped casually to the pavement. The feel of the man’s hard shoes digging into Lewis’s stomach. He reached his hand out, seemingly grabbing something from thin air. A knife appeared in the gloved hand, shiny and sharp. Well-kept and ready to strike.

“Oh God, no.” Lewis’s chest got tight. Someone should be here by now. The police, a bystander – someone must have heard the gunshots.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, Mister Miller. I know you know the answers. I’ll also know whether you’re lying or not. If you don’t give me the right answers, I’m going to make twenty-three cuts. First all your fingers, then all your toes. I’ll leave it to your imagination where the other three cuts will be.”

The man in black leaned over Lewis and pressed the tip of the knife against his cheek. In Lewis Miller’s eyes, he was not human. And because of that, he would get his answers.

# # #

Donald Tice drummed his fingers impatiently against the arm of his easy chair as he watched the closing minutes of Jeopardy. He rocked his head backwards as the now-former champion revealed her final answer and made him groan in disappointment. Rubbing a hand across the day-old stubble on his chin, he wished for the millionth time that he was still allowed to drink.

“Rosa Parks, moron. How does a history professor not get a question about Rosa Parks?”

He stood up, turned off the television, and started pacing the room of his small apartment. Fists clenched, his large body lurched across the room. He walked the four corners of the living room in anger before finally sitting back down and shaking his head ruefully. This is where life on parole had brought him: getting worked up about game shows. He needed a hobby – not that finding one was easy when he couldn’t drink and had to check in every time he wanted to go somewhere where he could have fun.

With a sigh, he got up and turned the television on. The springs of his chair groaned in thanks when he got up and then creaked in dismay again when he lowered his ever-increasing bulk back down. Maybe he would get an exercise machine soon. One small blessing of being on furlough was that he didn’t have rent or bills to pay.

He eschewed his old ritual of screaming at Jeopardy and then laughing through Wheel of Fortune to see if he could find something else on television. As he raised the remote, though, the fuzzy image went to snow and then shut off entirely. The fluorescent white light bulb in the nearby lamp gave the same sputter before shutting off, as did the dull orange ceiling light visible from the bathroom. The power had gone out, and Donald immediately started making a mental list of people he could complain to.

Then one of the burners on his stove lit up.

The kitchen was really just an oven, sink, and refrigerator stuffed away in the corner of this one-bedroom halfway home. The oven was an older model that still ran on gas – technically a fire hazard, considering the cramped space. Still, it had never lit up by itself before.

In fact, it hadn’t lit up by itself now, either.

The sudden jump from light to evening darkness had left Donald without any night sight for a few seconds. As he started to see through the varying levels of black and gray now, though, he saw someone standing next to the stove. A familiar someone, even though he hadn’t seem him in person before. The man in the black trench coat had his back turned to Donald, but that didn’t comfort him any. He heard a scraping sound on the stove. Metal running across metal. Standing up carefully to get a better angle, he saw the shine of metal slide against the burner. The intruder had a knife, and he had just laid it against the flame of the burner’s fire.

“I wasn’t involved,” Donald said.

The intruder turned to face Donald finally. He moved away from the stove as he did, allowing the blue pilot light to serve as a candle for the conversation. His eyes shined in the darkness like an animal’s capturing the bluish flicker and reflecting it outwards.

“But you know about it,” he said.

“I watch the news is all,” said Donald. “Some dumbass busted into the Cassotto place. They musta not heard the stories. Or they got stupid and forgot. But I don't know anything else about it.”

The stranger blinked once. Forgot? Could someone have forgotten about him? Could someone have forgotten about him? People had such short memories, even when it came to danger.

“Whoever they were or whatever they thought they were doing, I wasn’t involved,” continued Donald. “I’m one of the old guys. I remember the stories. Even if I wanted to jeopardize my parole like that, why would I put my life on the line? I know the price—”

“Shhh.” The intruder lifted a gloved finger to his mouth and cut off the large man’s ramblings with a simple hiss. “Sit down.”

Donald did as he was told. He turned his head toward the blank television set, trying to imagine Alex Trebek’s waggling chin on the fuzzy screen. Instead he heard a scraping sound as the intruder pulled the knife away from the burner. Donald closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later, the man in black had crossed the room to stand in front of him.

"People forget things they shouldn't. I'm going to remind them."

He raised the knife. Instinctively, Donald tried to pull away. The man in black was faster. One hand clasped around Donald's left wrist, pressing against the inside veins and forcing the palm open. The Other hand pressed the flat of the blade against the palm. Donald gave a shout as the hot metal sizzled on his skin. His attacker closed the hand, forcing Donald to squeeze a fist around the heated metal. With one hand holding Donald's palm closed, the other darted toward his neck. Black fingers locked around his throat, cutting off his breathing. Donald, a larger man by far, grabbed the man in black's wrist, trying to pry open his airway. Despite the advantage in size, the man in black didn't budge. Trying to force his arm away was like trying to shift a concrete pillar.

"I've already come close to killing one man tonight, Mister Tice," hissed the intruder. "After you, there will be no more trips to the hospital - only rides to the morgue."

The blade had started to cool down now. To compensate, the man in black tightened his grip around Donald's left palm. Donald gave an involuntary whimper as he felt the knife break skin.

"You used to know people, Mister Tice. According to what Mister Miller told me earlier in the night, you still do. You're going to get the word out. Those people who attacked Shelley Cassotto didn't act on their own. I want the name of who sent them. Have whoever knows write it down and drop it off at the last mailbox in town. For every day I don't get a letter, someone will die."

The man in black fell silent then, but kept the pressure on both Donald's hand and throat. A buzzing in Donald's ear drowned out all other sounds in the room. Colored spots started to form in front of his eyes, as though his vision were a strip of melting film.

The intruder let go of the hand with the knife in it. The blade dropped to the carpeted floor as his hand joined the other at Donald's throat. Donald struck feebly with his blood-stained left hand, but couldn't find any strength to put behind the blow. His struggles grew weaker. Then the spots in front of his eyes burst into stars and faded to blackness.

When he woke up again, the power was back on. The television had been turned to a dead channel. Donald got up, nearly spilling onto the floor as blood rushed back to his brain. He looked at his apartment's outer door. It was locked, just like it had been before - the deadbolt was still in place on the inside.

He might have been able to convince himself he had been dreaming, but for two things. The over burner was still on, and his left hand sported a peculiar series of cuts lined with red burned skin.

Donald slumped back into his chair and closed his eyes. For the first time he could remember, he desperately wished he was back in prison.