Spring-Heeled Jack (10 page)

“
If Dr. Nelson is so against
Zebulon,” he said, “why would they send their son here?”

The detective looked up to the sky and
shrugged. "It was probably the boy’s idea. It seems that his father
thinks Zebulon is just some money gobbling monopoly. Which, I
guess, to an outsider is what we look like. Without a doubt,
Zebulon is the most influential and renowned mechatronics and
science corporation in the world, but it certainly isn’t a
monopoly. Nor is it a money gobbler. Zebulon does all it can to
take care of the world around it. Its employees are well taken care
of and it funds dozens of charitable services.”

McCloud smiled and patted Atticus on
the back. “Now, I’m a bit biased in my views, though. You see lad,
I owe everything to Zebulon.”

“
What do you
mean?”

McCloud smiled and said, “Eighteen
years ago, back around the dawn of the second world war, my family
moved from our home in Scotland to America in hopes of a better
future away from all the terror.

“
I was already a member of
the police force back home, so when we arrived in the ports of New
York City, I set my eyes on becoming a member of the American
police. But, I didn’t have much luck. Here was some Scot going
around with no history, no connection, and no promise. All seemed
hopeless until I met a man named Peter Pipes over a pint of
Guinness. Little did I know at the time, but Pipes was Zebulon’s
chief of security.”

“
Why was the head of Zebulon
security in New York,” Atticus asked.

McCloud was silent for a bit before
answering. “To be honest, even to this day I’m not sure. I guess it
was Fate. She is such a lovely lady after all.

“
Anyway, Peter saw promise
in me, something no one else did, so he put in a good word for me,
and then low and behold I got a job as an investigator for
Zebulon’s New England division. I made sure to work harder than I’d
ever done before. After only a year, I was promoted and moved here
to Zebulon World Headquarters. Not long after that, Peter resigned
and I became the new head investigator and chief of
security.

“
You see lad, Zebulon gifted
me with a better life than I could ever hope for. Without ‘em, I’d
still be a nobody wandering the streets of New York, and for that I
am eternally grateful.”

“
That’s amazing
detective.”

McCloud smiled. “Thank you,
lad.”

The detective pulled a small pocket
watch from his coat and clicked it open. His smile turned into a
frown as he stared at the clock face. He slipped it into his pocket
and got up from the bench.

“
It’s been wonderful talkin’
to ya lad, but sadly, I need to get back and run some
errands.”

“
I understand.” Atticus
yawned. “I should probably hit the hay myself.”

McCloud laughed. “Lad, if you ever
want to talk, business or otherwise, don’t fret to stop by the
police station. Simply ask for me and I’ll let you right
in.”

Atticus’ eyes shot open. “A-Are you
serious?”

“
But of course!” McCloud
smacked Atticus’ shoulder and said, “you, my boy, got promise. I
see a little bit of me in you, and I think with the right push,
your skills could one day surpass even my own.”

Atticus was dumbfounded. He felt so
honored he almost fainted, but that could’ve just been because of
how tired he was.

Detective McCloud gave Atticus one
last smile, a hand shake, and then left. As he faded into the
distance, Atticus felt his eyes get heavy. He’d had a long day and
it was time he clocked in for the night.

Back in his room, Brock was sitting at
his desk studying; probably for algebra. He wasn’t the best with
numbers. He hadn’t even noticed Atticus walk into the
room.

As Atticus made his way to his bed, he
slipped off his red plaid jacket and plopped it on the floor. He
collapsed on the bed with a thump and closed his eyes. He began to
slowly drift off to dream land when he heard Brock mutter
something. He assumed it was just a, “How did your investigation
go?” or something of the like. Honestly, Atticus wasn’t
listening.

He gave his best attempt at a thumbs
up to say, “Everything is fine,” but he got the feeling it came off
as, “Eh, it’s okay.”

Atticus’ body felt heavy and
everything went numb. He felt his mind drift to sleep.

And then the nightmare
happened.

Atticus was back in the darkness. The
same darkness he dreamt of earlier that day. It was still just as
earie: no temperature, no light, no floor, no anything. Nothing,
except for the squeaking. That same terrible bicycle squeak he’d
heard before still sent shivers running down his spine. But this
time it was so much worse. It was closer. It wasn’t just an echo in
the distance. Whatever was causing the squeak was closer to him
now. It wasn’t just a sound with no source. Atticus felt the sound
from behind him getting louder and louder, little by little. Every
squeak made his hairs stand on end and his heart race.

Then, just as the squeak sounded like
it was right next to him, it stopped. Atticus couldn’t move. He was
too afraid. The now lingering silence was driving him to a new
level of terror that he’d never imagined. Atticus knew this was all
just a dream, but that didn’t make it any less
frightening.

Atticus began to turn his head to the
source. What he saw was something that left him completely frozen
with fear. An old man with dark gray skin and greasy jet black hair
stood before him. He wore a tattered old black suit, a destroyed
top hat, and oddly enough rode a rusty and ruined bicentennial
bicycle. The man’s eyes were completely white; no iris, no pupil.
It wasn’t possible for him to see anything, but he seemed to be
staring right at Atticus. But, worst of all, the man had a wide
blinding white Cheshire cat smile.

The man didn’t say anything. He didn’t
do anything. He just sat on his bicycle, perfectly balanced, and
stared at Atticus.

Atticus thought to himself over and
over again that it was just a dream and that everything would be
all right, but it didn’t feel that way. The Gray Man felt deadly
and unpredictable.

“
W-Who are you,” Atticus
asked.

The Gray Man gave an awful chuckle
under his breath. Without saying a word, the man began peddling his
bicycle, his body barely moving as he circled Atticus.

Atticus felt his stomach in his throat
and it was getting harder to breathe. Atticus wanted to run, but
his legs wouldn’t listen. It was as if the Gray Man had him under a
spell.

The man made several circles around
Atticus before stopping directly in front of him and whispered,
“NamEs AreN’T ImpOrTaNT.”

His voice was hollow and breathy;
nothing like Atticus had ever heard. It almost sounded like someone
scraping a knife against stone.

“
I doN’T mUCh care FoR
naMEs.” The Gray Man spoke through his blinding white teeth, his
lips barely moving. His movements were jagged and lacked flow,
almost like he was a puppet.

Atticus tried to take a step back, but
his legs felt like jelly. His legs gave way and he toppled to the
ground; the Gray Man staring down at him. Atticus tried to crawl
away, but he felt dizzy. His body didn’t want to listen and no
matter how much he struggled he couldn’t get away.

The Gray Man began peddling around
Atticus once again. “WhY dO yoU Run fROm Me, AtTicUs
WHaeLOrD?”

Just then, Atticus’
Queen of Spades
appeared
on his right hand, glowing a violent blue and gold like he’d never
seen before. The Gray Man’s smile widened even further, which
seemed unbelievable. He let out a terrible high pitched cackle that
shredded the silence like hundreds of needles raking across a chalk
board, deafening Atticus.

Instantly, Atticus clenched his ears.
It seemed that no matter how tightly he held them, the laughter
only got louder. He looked up at the Gray Man and saw a glow of
dark purple and black emitting from the man’s hand. He’d stopped
laughing, but the sound remained. He reached out towards Atticus,
gripping his hand around his neck.

Atticus slammed his eyes shut. He
wanted nothing more than to wake up and escape the Gray Man, but he
seemed powerless.

But, after a second, everything went
quiet. He didn’t dare open his eyes, fearing that he would see the
Gray Man right on his nose, but he had too. He had to remember that
in the end it was all just a dream.

As Atticus slowly opened his eyes, he
was relieved to see that he was no longer in the abyss, but instead
floating in the air above one of the history lecture halls. He
stared across the room and saw Professor Varnum standing face to
face with the Ghost.

“
P-Please, you have to trust
me,” Varnum begged. “Nothing will go wrong, I’m sure of
it!”

The Ghost reached out and throttled
Varnum’s neck. The professor’s dark glasses fell as he struggled to
get free, and, for the first time, Atticus saw the professor’s
eyes. They were puffy, red, and full of terror.

“
You defy The Master’s
orders,” the Ghost said. His voice sent a shiver through Atticus’
body. It was harsh and strong, but very cold. Oddly enough, it
sounded vaguely familiar.

“
No!” Varnum screamed. “I’m
not doing anything! You see-”

“
More and more lies!” The
Ghost pinned Varnum to the wall with his left hand and tightened
his grip around the professor’s neck. “A single flea can drive a
dog to madness! Are you going to be that flea, Varnum?” The
professor struggled against the Ghost’s grip, but it was no use. He
tried sputtering arguments, but only a garbled mess came
out.

Then, for a brief moment, the Ghost
stood in silence. It looked around, eventually looking straight at
Atticus. Again, he was petrified. He didn’t know what was going on
but he had an idea of what would happen. Could the Ghost see him?
Was this actually a dream or some sort of out of body experience?
He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He just wanted to wake
up.

The Ghost turned back to Varnum and
lifted him up off the ground. He cocked his free arm pack, pointing
his fingers so that his hand resembled a spear. “You’re a worthless
wretch, Varnum. A mistake, but I will not question The Master’s
judgment. But, if you defy His orders again, you will face
something far worse than me.”

A bright green and orange
aura began to glow around the Ghost’s hand. Atticus saw something
that appeared to be similar to his own
Queen of Spades
: The
Jack of Clubs
.

Varnum began to panic even
more.

The Ghost thrust his arm forward,
stabbing the professor in the chest with just his bare hand. Varnum
let out a horrific scream of pain and Atticus’ eyes instantly shot
open.

As he sat up, Atticus swore
that he could still hear the professor’s scream off in the
distance. He looked all around and was relieved when he saw that he
was still in his dorm room, but drenched in a cold sweat and
the
Queen of Spades
blazing on his hand. He rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to
get the images and sounds out of his head, but it was no
use.

He got out of bed and checked the
time: Four o’clock. He then looked out his window. Atticus feared
that in doing so he’d see the Ghost out in the courtyard, looking
at him. It was just him being paranoid, but that didn’t make it any
less terrifying; especially after the nightmare.

Atticus walked into the bathroom and
washed his face. He felt disgusting. Worthless. His gut was
churning, his brain was screaming, and his eyes were bloodshot. He
felt as if he’d really seen Professor Varnum get stabbed by the
Ghost. The Gray Man’s smile and laugh were still fresh in his
brain. He splashed his face with cold water try and snap sense into
himself, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t shake those horrible
images.

As he turned off the faucet
and cleaned up the bathroom, Atticus saw that the
Queen of Spades
on his
hand was slowly starting to fade. Why was it active? In his dream,
the Ghost had a mark very similar, but was that true in reality? In
reality was the Ghost actually somebody? Perhaps that person he’d
seen was a custodian or groundskeeper for the school. Atticus was
just jumping to conclusions.

After a while, Atticus calmed himself
down and returned to bed. And just like that, the night was over.
It didn’t even feel like he fell asleep. One moment it was night,
blink, then it was morning. But that was fine. The light was
reassuring, and never before had the seven o’clock bell sounded so
melodious.

He jumped out of bed and started
getting dressed for the day. He made his way back to the bathroom
to go through his standard morning ritual and it was just as he
left it. Atticus half expected the mirror to have a note written in
blood that read YOU’RE NEXT!

He felt foolish for letting himself
get so worked up over a nightmare. Scary dreams were something that
everybody had and once you realize that it was all just a dream,
the fear is supposed to go away, but Atticus couldn’t shake it.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see the Gray Man smiling at
him with his blank white eyes and hear his laugh. Just the mere
thought terrified him and made him contemplate skipping class
again. But, he couldn’t be alone. He was much too afraid to be left
alone for the whole day.