Youngstown Demon
There were very few people out. It wasn't late enough for the usual bar crowd, but it wasn't early enough for the after-work arrivals either. The streets were pretty empty.
The sun set almost two hours ago.
You are soon walking down the normally well-lit alleyway beside your office building, two of the lights is out tonight, though, and the side road is dark. The echoes of your footsteps bounce off of the walls to reach your ears. A row of parallel parked cars line the side of the street as your feet fall on the sidewalk. The hairs on the back of your neck raise and one of the voices tells you to keep an eye out while the other tells you to be patient.
Headlight beams glare from behind you, a car having turned down the side street. It casts the long shadow of your silhouette onto the sidewalk before you. The car drives slow, creeping up; chasing your shadow slowly counter clockwise. Both the vehicle and your shadow are soon beside you, keeping pace. The driver rolls down his window and an excitement builds within you.
"Excuse me," comes the voice from the telephone call.
The others, normally giving you instructions in any given situation, are silent. [/i]They[i] don't speak, not this time; they can sense that there is no need to say anything. You already know.
Once the window is down you are able to see the driver, his bugged out and glassy eyes staring back at you.
It's Charles. Charles Morton.
"Did you need a ride?" he asks.
You make your way over to the car, wondering if he's just being friendly or if there is something more sinister at work. You reach the window and lower yourself so that your face stares coldly at his. "Hello Mr. Morton," you say.
"Hi," he says. "I- Do I know you?"
"Adler, Bomonte, Mordred, and Katelli," you say.
"Oh, right. The secretary," he says nervously, keeping that phoney friendly smile on his face. "I knew you looked familiar."
"Is the offer still up for a ride?" you ask.
"Well sure," he says. "Just hop in."
You walk around to the passenger side and get in. He smiles at you and asks you where he's taking you.
"Kimmel avenue," you say, taking pride in the slight falter in his smile.
"That's a rough area," he says almost conversationally.
"It is. Are you still willing to take me?" You say.
He swallows. "Yeah."
You smile a thanks to him and laugh inwardly. Pride, foolish pride.
He puts the car in drive and starts driving. He turns the volume of his radio a little louder and classical music comes out of the speaker. "Tchaikovsky," you mutter. It was his Andantino Piano Concerto No. 1.
You stare out the window while he makes several poor attempts at conversation. As the car gets slowly closer to its destination, you start to think about your options.
Kimmel avenue is a rough area, home of one of the most notoriously dangerous project homes in the area; Kimmel Brookes. Dead bodies turned up in the patches of woods beside the Kimmel Brookes all the time there. You'd just have to get the hell out of there.
On the other hand, there are the abandoned factories, densely populated by crackheads, and other notoriously terrible people. Dead bodies were found here all the time. There is a security guard who patrols the area in his car, but he is less than observant and is generally asleep during the evenings.
Morton turns onto Albert st., you have only moments to make your decision.
The sun set almost two hours ago.
You are soon walking down the normally well-lit alleyway beside your office building, two of the lights is out tonight, though, and the side road is dark. The echoes of your footsteps bounce off of the walls to reach your ears. A row of parallel parked cars line the side of the street as your feet fall on the sidewalk. The hairs on the back of your neck raise and one of the voices tells you to keep an eye out while the other tells you to be patient.
Headlight beams glare from behind you, a car having turned down the side street. It casts the long shadow of your silhouette onto the sidewalk before you. The car drives slow, creeping up; chasing your shadow slowly counter clockwise. Both the vehicle and your shadow are soon beside you, keeping pace. The driver rolls down his window and an excitement builds within you.
"Excuse me," comes the voice from the telephone call.
The others, normally giving you instructions in any given situation, are silent. [/i]They[i] don't speak, not this time; they can sense that there is no need to say anything. You already know.
Once the window is down you are able to see the driver, his bugged out and glassy eyes staring back at you.
It's Charles. Charles Morton.
"Did you need a ride?" he asks.
You make your way over to the car, wondering if he's just being friendly or if there is something more sinister at work. You reach the window and lower yourself so that your face stares coldly at his. "Hello Mr. Morton," you say.
"Hi," he says. "I- Do I know you?"
"Adler, Bomonte, Mordred, and Katelli," you say.
"Oh, right. The secretary," he says nervously, keeping that phoney friendly smile on his face. "I knew you looked familiar."
"Is the offer still up for a ride?" you ask.
"Well sure," he says. "Just hop in."
You walk around to the passenger side and get in. He smiles at you and asks you where he's taking you.
"Kimmel avenue," you say, taking pride in the slight falter in his smile.
"That's a rough area," he says almost conversationally.
"It is. Are you still willing to take me?" You say.
He swallows. "Yeah."
You smile a thanks to him and laugh inwardly. Pride, foolish pride.
He puts the car in drive and starts driving. He turns the volume of his radio a little louder and classical music comes out of the speaker. "Tchaikovsky," you mutter. It was his Andantino Piano Concerto No. 1.
You stare out the window while he makes several poor attempts at conversation. As the car gets slowly closer to its destination, you start to think about your options.
Kimmel avenue is a rough area, home of one of the most notoriously dangerous project homes in the area; Kimmel Brookes. Dead bodies turned up in the patches of woods beside the Kimmel Brookes all the time there. You'd just have to get the hell out of there.
On the other hand, there are the abandoned factories, densely populated by crackheads, and other notoriously terrible people. Dead bodies were found here all the time. There is a security guard who patrols the area in his car, but he is less than observant and is generally asleep during the evenings.
Morton turns onto Albert st., you have only moments to make your decision.