Witching Hour

The night is cold and God's tears pitter-patter against the street. The flicker of a cigarette smoldering dimly lights up an alley but the figure inside remains concealed by the oppressive shadows of Dunwich.

Dunwich. The dreary city was the stage for all sorts of strange acts — most of them tragedies. Tonight was no different.

As the star of our show finishes off what little comfort she can afford, she steps into the light of a street lamp. Dark blue locks frame a pale face with sharp, down-turned eyes and pouty lips. She's a tall drink of water for sure, even if the heels of her boots give her a few inches. Farther up her long legs she wears a tan trench coat over a blue turtleneck, both straining against her ample chest to keep her decent. A silver cross hangs from the only ear that isn't drowned in the sea of her hair. The wide brim of her hat keeps it all out of the rain.

She's colder than the night and makes the empty street seem more like a runway. The street lamp, a spotlight. And whatever lurked in the darkness was waiting for a chance to sink their teeth into such alluring bait.

But anyone who mistook this dame for just another pretty face would find out she has a mean sting.

She checks her watch before walking into the middle of the street. To most, it would look like nothing but an empty, cracked road. Someone like her could see it for what it truly was. The blood is still wet beneath her boots and the mangled body lies there twitching. The poor thing might've lived if anyone cared to help.

A piece of chalk flies out of her pocket and starts drawing symbols around the body as she places candles in a pattern and lights them. Another check of her watch tells her to step back as it strikes midnight.

The lamps flicker as a blood-curdling shriek echoes through the streets. Anyone who was still out hurries inside and locks their doors or otherwise curls up into whatever makeshift bed they have. Where the body was now floats an enraged apparition, banging against the barrier erected by the ritual as it seeks to lash out against those who still hold life.

Our dame watches unflinchingly, one hand ready to pull out her trusty revolver just in case. Distraught spirits like this were always a sad sight. It was never pretty how they went, and all that suffering just led to people who didn't deserve it becoming collateral.

"Such a pretty thing shouldn't have been left here all alone."

Underneath all the blood, bruising, and cuts the victim had been a looker once, and the traces of beauty were still there now. Losing that must have made what happened all the worse.

The apparition's anger gives way to sadness as it loudly sobs uncontrollably and hugs its shoulders. Our star places a gloved hand against the barrier.

"Shh, you're going to be alright. But I need to know who'd leave you here."

Written off as a random hit-and-run, a terrible accident, but she knew better. The look on the driver's face told her that he knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe it was love scorned. Maybe it was some dark nature bubbling to the surface. Maybe it really was an accident, somehow. Whatever it was, someone was dead. A daughter. A sister. A friend.

She knew how terrible it was to lose someone. That somewhere, somebody was broken up right now and wondering what they did wrong.

She couldn't answer that, but she could find the killer.