Chapter 2: Ghosts of the Past

  The rain fell like needles against Jack’s skin as he walked through the darkened streets of Gravenhurst. The city’s towers rose like jagged teeth against the stormy sky, their windows dark and empty. Water pooled in the gutters, swirling with oil and ash, reflecting the fractured glow of the neon signs that buzzed overhead.

  Jack’s coat was soaked through, the cold seeping into his bones as he moved down the alleyway toward the address Marie had given him. The sigil on his cheek ached beneath the skin, a dull, persistent throb he tried to ignore. He pressed a gloved hand to it, jaw tight, breath fogging in the air.

  The apartment complex loomed up ahead — a four-story brick structure with narrow balconies, most of them cluttered with rusted bikes, hanging laundry, and broken furniture. The kind of place where people kept their heads down and their doors locked tight.

  Jack pushed through the main entrance, the door creaking on its hinges. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet carpet and stale cigarettes. A dim, yellow bulb flickered overhead, casting a sickly light over the peeling wallpaper.

  Room 403. Marie’s brother’s room.

  Jack moved down the corridor, passing closed doors and the low, muffled hum of televisions and arguing voices. A baby cried somewhere down the hall. The sound echoed through the narrow space, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the rain pattering against the windows.

  When he reached the door to 403, he stopped. The door was locked. Jack’s jaw tightened, eyes scanning the corridor. He slipped a hand into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the tension wrench and pick hidden within a frayed leather pouch.

  Jack glanced down the hallway. Quiet. No one watching. Just the hum of the flickering light overhead. He knelt down, sliding the tension wrench into the bottom of the lock, feeling for the pins with practiced ease. One by one, he lifted them, each click a soft, satisfying sound. His hand moved with a steady, patient rhythm — precise, controlled, almost methodical.

  A second later, the lock gave way with a soft click. Jack stood, pocketing the tools, his expression blank. He’d picked a hundred locks in his life. This one felt no different.

  Inside, the room was small and cluttered. A single mattress lay on the floor, sheets twisted and stained. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and empty beer cans and takeout containers were piled in the corner.

  Jack stepped inside, eyes scanning the room. The walls were bare except for a single poster of a heavy metal band, the edges curled and yellowing. On the nightstand, a single photograph sat face down. Jack picked it up, flipping it over.

  Marie and her brother. Smiling. Younger. Happier.

  Jack set the photograph down, his gaze drifting to the floor. There, beside the mattress, was a torn piece of paper. He crouched down, fingers brushing the frayed edges. The paper was covered in hastily scrawled numbers: 043. 043. 043.

  Jack frowned. The number felt familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He slipped the paper into his coat pocket and stood, eyes drifting to the closet. The door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of darkness visible between the wood and the wall.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Jack approached, gun raised. With a swift motion, he yanked the door open. Inside, only clothes hung from the rod, a few boxes piled at the bottom. But something caught his eye — a notebook, wedged between the boxes. Jack pulled it free, flipping it open.

  The pages were filled with drawings — rough, jagged lines, scrawled symbols, numbers repeating over and over. The same number. 043.

  Jack shut the notebook, his jaw tightening. He tucked it under his arm and stepped back into the hallway. As he closed the door to 403 behind him, he glanced down the corridor. A couple of doors were still shut tight, but one was slightly ajar, the light spilling through the gap.

  Jack moved toward it, eyes narrowing. The door opened just a crack — just enough for a single bloodshot eye to peer through. The old man behind it was gaunt, skin pulled tight over sharp cheekbones, his breath wheezing as he spoke. "What do you want?"

  Jack kept his expression neutral. "Just some questions. You know the guy in 403?"

  "Nope," the man said quickly, too quickly. His eyes darted to the side, and through the thin crack, Jack caught a glimpse of something that made his jaw tighten — a photograph of Marie’s brother pinned to the wall, his eyes blacked out with a marker.

  "You sure?" Jack pressed, leaning closer. The old man’s eyes twitched, and the door moved slightly, just enough for Jack to see another photograph — this one of Marie herself, a red circle drawn around her face.

  "I said I don’t know him," the old man repeated, voice cracking. His hand clenched the edge of the door, knuckles white. Jack could hear something else now — a faint rustling sound, like someone moving inside. The old man licked his chapped lips, forcing a smile. "Now if you don’t mind —"

  "You hear anything unusual?" Jack cut in, voice low, eyes locked on the man’s.

  The old man swallowed. "Nothing. Didn’t hear nothing."

  The door began to close, but Jack planted a boot against it, just enough to keep it from shutting. "You sure about that?"

  The man’s face twitched, the muscles beneath his skin pulling tight. "I said —"

  From inside the apartment, a creak. Floorboards. Movement. Too heavy to be a rat. Too deliberate to be nothing.

  The old man’s eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. "Just... leave," he whispered, voice trembling. "You don’t want to be here."

  Jack held the man’s gaze for a long, tense moment. Then, he stepped back, letting the door swing shut with a slow, heavy click.

  The hallway fell silent except for the hum of the overhead light and the distant wail of a siren. Jack stood there for a moment, the notebook heavy in his hand, the number 043 echoing in his mind.

  And in that silence, he could swear he still heard the creaking floorboards from the other side of the door — as if someone was standing just behind it, waiting.

  Jack stepped outside, the cold night air biting through his coat like a thousand tiny needles. The rain had eased to a soft, misty drizzle, the kind that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones. The streets were empty, washed clean but still filthy — a city that couldn’t hide its sins no matter how hard it rained.

  Jack lit a cigarette, the end flaring bright against the dark. He took a long drag, the smoke filling his lungs, grounding him. Across the street, a payphone stood under a flickering streetlamp. The glass booth was smeared with grime, and the receiver dangled from its cord, swinging gently like a noose.

  Jack walked toward it, boots heavy against the wet pavement. Inside the booth, the air was stale, reeking of old piss and tobacco. He slipped a coin into the slot, the clink echoing louder than it should have.

  His hand hovered over the rotary dial. For a moment, he just stared at it, the rain tapping against the glass like skeletal fingers. Then, with a sigh, he dialed the number. Each turn of the dial felt heavier than the last, as if the phone itself was resisting him.

  The line clicked. A single ring. Then another. Jack waited, the cigarette burning between his fingers, the ash falling in slow, spiraling patterns. Finally, a voice picked up on the other end — smooth, calm, and dangerous.

  Jack didn’t say his name. Didn’t have to. "I might need a favor," he said, his voice low and flat.

  The line crackled, the silence stretching long and thin. Jack’s jaw clenched, the rain tapping harder against the glass.

  "Yeah," the voice said, smooth as velvet. "I figured you would."