The Spectre

Finn splashed his face with cold water. After the vision that had run through his head, he wanted to make sure that he was fully awake. The prospect of his sleep returning him to that nightmare, or worse, that he was never asleep at all and that this was some waking dream that now threatened him, necessitated alertness. This was not the first time that phantasms from some portion of his past, or potentially future, had plagued his unconscious mind, but never had they felt so real. He stepped toward the window, the damp towel still held mindlessly in his left hand. Opening it, he leaned his head out, allowing the briskness of a London October to whisk the moisture from his skin and the coolness to activate his senses. Even against the stark reality of the night outside, the darkness behind his eyelids evoked that face. It was sunken-in, seeming as if whatever measure of happiness that was once present had receded from its countenance, leaving only a half-smirk of grim satisfaction at the work that occupied its owner's life. The black circles that darkened the eyes manifested the demons that lurked just underneath the skin. Absently Finn reached his own hand to his cheek, letting the towel slip to the street below. His fingers curled slightly on touching his face. The edges of his eyes did not have the same lift, nor did his smile stretch as wide.

A dog barked in the distance and Finn was reawakened to the moment. He looked at the sill and then the ground, spotting the lost towel. Shuffling on his boots and shrugging on his coat over his nightgown he hurried down the stairs. As he was walking back to his door he heard a group of men in conversation, apparently about to round the corner. Finn ducked behind the hedgerow. It would not do for a man like him to be seen lurking about the streets of London after dark, and in his nightgown no less. What if these were men with whom he had to do business? He pressed into the comfortable shadows, seeking only to avoid detection, but not necessarily to avoid overhearing.

"Well, I say that we just take care of the problem now," said a gruff voice. Its owner was the first to round the corner, a big man who apparently had no regard for the weather. His attire suggested more of a stay in a clime that was not prone to snowfall before November. Shirtsleeves and thin trousers held up by suspenders seemed to be enough for him. The boots looked as though they could endure trudging through Scandinavia, though, and as if they had. "All I'm saying is, you don't wait until the snake bites you before you get rid of it."

"Well, all I'm saying is we got to be smart." This was a smaller fellow, rather lanky with a much healthier respect for British weather than his colleague and the delicate hands of an accountant or clerk. He only came up to the other man's chin, but he had no problem getting the larger one's respect. Finn suspected that the pistol he had lodged into his waistband didn't hurt either. "This is how the boss wants it done, and this is how we are going to do it. If you want to be the one to cross him, do him when I'm not your nanny."

"I'm not saying we should cross the boss, just..."

"Good. Then let's not, and have on with it."

The men walked up to the door of Finn's flat. The smaller one produced a letter, placed it against the door and then stabbed it with a dagger. Following his cue, the other man picked up a rock from the street and threw it through Finn's upstairs window. Finn started to rise to his feet in anger, but, remembering his location and attire, stayed put. "Bloody vandals, I'll have to replace that pane," he mumbled. "If you're going to knock out my glass, can't you at least wait until spring."

The men strolled away, mission accomplished. Finn stood after they had rounded the next corner and walked to his door. He looked up at his shattered window pane and sighed heavily through his nostrils. "Whatever you left had better bloody well be worth it."

The dagger was simple, about nine inches with a wooden hilt. There was a black bird burned into the wood on the bottom however. A curiosity certainly, but men frequently engraved or otherwise marked their weapons. The letter was even simpler, containing but two words written in all capitals: BACK OFF.