The Pale Torment

Detective Harry Crow, an underdog of the NYPD, has to solve a string of grizzly murders. The deeper he enters the case, the more traumatizing it becomes, as the serial killer relentlessly haunts him.

The Pale Torment

    Downing the whiskey shot, he didn’t care how smooth it went down, not today. He let it burn all the way down his throat and felt the fire as it erupted in his stomach. Slamming the shot glass on the counter, he ordered another one. Fred, the bartender, filled the glass up one more time. The bar had a TV running, which was surprising given the state of the establishment. The man on the TV was unfortunately well known to detective Harry Crow. It was Judge Cornwall on the TV talking about an embezzlement case that no one really cared about. “I hate that man,” Harry mumbled.

The glass in Fred’s hands squeaked as he cleaned them while inquisitively replying, “And why is that?”

“Judges, ex-cons and corrupt cops all fit under the same, filthy, category. I hate ‘em all ‘cause they’re the ones who never fail to make my life miserable.” The detective squinted as his throat ignited from the whiskey.

Fred raised a curious eyebrow. “Yeah? How?”

“Every bully that harassed me in school either turned into a judge, corrupt cop or an ex-convict.” Harry finished another shot and then gave a raspy sigh. “Well, thanks for the drinks Fred, have a good night. ”

Harry paid for his drinks and got up from his stool. Grabbing his favorite overcoat and fedora off of the coat rack, he trudged out of the rundown bar that he visited more often than he should. He arrived at his lowlife ten-story apartment, buzzed in at the door and walked in. Harry stepped into the dirty elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor. He turned to face the mirrored elevator wall and groaned. He observed his reflection, staring into the same mirror, every single day, just to remind him how much of a loser he really was. Being an orphan first, a foster child second, he jumped from family to family, being just another kid waiting to be kicked out as soon as the parents were able to have a child of their own. All he ever was to a foster family was a blur in their life, an itch they couldn’t scratch, a stain in their memory that was waiting to be purified. Now he was 43 years old with a scruffy beard, long greasy brown hair and emerald eyes. Harry always wore a crumpled burgundy velvet suit with a scrunched up dark brown tie. All he wanted was to get some sleep so that the next day wouldn't be a living hell. He jumped into bed and assumed the sleeping position. No matter how hard Harry tried, he could never get a peaceful night’s sleep, never in his suppressed and faceless life.

In the morning, Harry walked into the police department and got ready for his daily abuse. Everyday he would receive a verbal kicking, though he was glad it wasn't physical, as it was in high school. Teachers told him that bullies go away after school, but Harry’s bullies followed him all the way through life. Now every single person he hated in high school, were in his line of work more than 20 years later. Scott Griffith, the handsome high school football pro and incessant colleague, decided to strike the first blow.

Shouting across from his work desk, Scott decided he would mock Harry’s drinking problem. “Alchoharry! I'm surprised you haven't drowned in whiskey yet, you pathetic drunk!”

Harry was infuriated. “Step off, or I swear I’ll put you in a hole someday!”

Scott scoffed at Harry’s hollow warning. “I’d like to see you try.”

“At least I don’t take payoffs from criminals…”

Harry’s comment on Scott’s side business did not go over well. Scott stood up and pointed an irate finger at Harry. “Your lipping off will earn you a spot among the graves one day!”

Harry ignored the empty threat and sat down by his desk to try and tidy it up a bit, but it was near impossible due to the sheer number of scrap papers. Well look at that, the good judge wants in on the fun, thought Harry. David Cornwall, best friend of Scott and scholarship winner, came strutting over to Harry’s desk like a peacock.

“So Harry, how are those parking tickets coming? Too bad you don’t have anything better to do, isn't that right you pitiful little insect?”

Harry kept his cool but he snarled back at the judge, “Just shut up and leave me alone for once.”

David chuckled and said “All right Harry. Let me know if you get any resemblance of a case, so I can come give you a visit while I burn it all down.”

The judge finally left, but not before giving an evil smile. David never let Harry have any important or high profile cases, he always gave those to Scott. Harry just got the cases that were insignificant and boring, like petty thieveries and small time break-ins. Scott and David were always the ones on TV giving  press conferences about murderers and killers. All Harry wanted was to be someone important in life, someone known and respected, not a lowly slob who no one cared about. This is why Harry hated David. Him, Scott, and his half-wit friends were always the popular ones in school who always took pleasure in destroying Harry. Scott with his football skills and David with his impeccable looks and long blonde hair. Both stemming from extremely rich families, they got whatever they wanted in life. David never laid a finger on Harry, instead he just used deceit and mockeries as means of trampling him underfoot. The rest of David’s friends were the ones who always shoved him around and slammed him into lockers at school. All of David’s success came at the price of Harry’s pain and suffering. Harry glared at the judge as he walked out while thinking You’ll see one day David, you will see. One day I will rise, and you won’t stop me.

Harry barely noticed it, but his cell phone was buzzing on his desk. He picked it up, and the caller ID was “Anonymous”. Thinking it strange, Harry picked it up. Harry spoke first and introduced himself.

“This is Detective Crow.”

The man on the other side talked in a low and hushed voice, almost like he was trying to disguise himself. “You will find the body on Jefferson Avenue. You might be in time for his last breath...if you hurry.”

The caller hung up. Harry sat in his chair frowning at what just happened, not sure if this was a prank call or something real. Walking hurriedly out of the station, he grabbed his overcoat and fedora to investigate Jefferson Avenue. He got into his half-destroyed Volkswagen and turned the ignition. The engine coughed and sputtered into half-life. Harry hated the mere existence of his car. With a hole in it’s muffler, it sounded like a mobile manufacturing plant, audible from at least a block away.

Harry got out of his car at Jefferson Avenue, and started walking down the street, looking for anything out of place. After pacing down the avenue a couple of times, he did not notice anything out of place. Shaking his head, he looked up to the sky and let out an angry sigh. Something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. There, up in one of the apartment buildings, there was a pole that came through the wall. Deciding that it was worth investigating, he made his way over to the building.

Once he arrived at the room that he was looking for, he unholstered his revolver. Harry had always carried a Colt Python as his sidearm, because he favored the stopping power of the .357 Magnum. His Python was a six-inch model, meaning it’s barrel was six inches long, and the whole revolver had a gunmetal finish. Knocking on the door three consecutive times, He hollered in a booming voice “This is NYPD! Open up!”

There was no response, so Harry took a step back and kicked the door, right beside the doorknob, as hard as he could. The door flew open, breaking the deadbolt right out of the the door frame, sending wood splinters soaring through the air. Rushing in, Harry swept through the apartment, clearing corners and possible hiding places. A man was suspended in mid air, bent over, completely still. Harry went in closer to examine the peculiar body. The man had a stake that went through his abdomen, impaling him to the wall and pinning him there like an insect on a laboratory tray. Looking closer, Harry realized it was a metal pipe-like pole which the corpse hung on. It was about two metres in length and about seven centimetres in diameter, the end of the pole which protruded from the outside of the building, came to a point. The force of the stake was enough to drive it through the wall, hence that is what Harry saw from the street below. Harry put one hand on the head and tilted it up so he could take a better look at the victim’s identity. He looked into the lifeless face as he slowly recognized the dead man.

It was Jared Hike, a felon who Harry arrested on a multiple assault charge. Jared served six months in prison, and was released about two months ago, but Harry had kept tabs on him, just in case he relapsed into crime again. Still pondering on the events, Harry heard the floorboards creak. Something moved behind him, and Harry spun around, just to see a man rush out of the apartment. Harry bolted forward like a flash of lightning, to try and catch up to the escaping suspect. He could only get a glimpse of the man as he ran down the fire escape. Harry couldn't make out a face, but he got a clear picture of what the man was wearing from a distance, as he ran down the block and disappeared from view. Harry pulled out his cellphone and called dispatch.

Like ants that mob a carcass, so did the forensics team huddle around the corpse, spreading crime scene tape, taking samples and dusting for fingerprints in the cluttered apartment. Harry’s captain came down to personally attend to this new crime scene, and to speak to Harry about the happenings. The two of them stood in the middle of the buzzing apartment. “So what happened, Crow?”

Harry, who never got to speak to the captain, almost stuttered when he finally spoke. “He was impaled to the wall, sir.  Judging by the sheer force that drove the pole through the wall, forensics say the killer used a post rammer.”

The captain’s prosaic face did all it could not to unleash it’s unpleasant vocabulary at Harry. “Good observation, Sherlock, I wonder how you figured that out?” He shook his head at the lowly detective. “Did you at least get a look at the suspect?”

“No sir, but I did get a look at his clothes. He wore an overcoat and a hat similar to mine. Good choice in fashion if I may say so myself, sir.”

The captain ignored Harry’s near useless comment. “So you didn't see his face?”

“Unfortunately not, sir.”

The captain, irritated with Harry’s presence more than anything, let out a long and aggravated sigh. “Why does my morning have to start like this? How ‘bout his age? Could you guess his age at least?”

Harry gave careful thought, and tried to answer the captain as not to annoy him more than he already did. “I would say early or mid forties, sir.”

The captain looked unamused with Harry. “Yeah? And why is that?”

Harry was puzzled by the captain’s impatient attitude. “Well, his body shape and language would suggest it, but it’s more a gut feeling than anything, sir.”

The captain scratched his head, as if he was afraid to speak. “Well, I really hate to say this Crow, but since you are the one who arrived at the scene first, and that the victim is one you have previously arrested, not to mention you caught a glimpse of the suspect,” He sighed again. “it looks like you are the leading detective for this investigation. Have fun.”

Harry could not believe his ears. The captain gave the case to him. Harry Crow. The one that everyone, including the captain, viewed as a waste of space and of department funds. That Harry Crow just received his first murder case, and not even that hateful Judge Cornwall could say anything against that.

All Harry could do was to stammer an answer. “Uh… th-thank you sir.”

The captain managed half a smile, then hit Harry on the back so hard that he stumbled forward. Harry was exploding with joy inside, but he kept his calm, just so he wouldn’t make a bigger fool of himself than he already was. A grin that spread ear to ear enveloped Harry’s face. He could feel the happiness radiating off of himself, and the contempt off of everyone else.

Walking into the police department the next day, Harry could feel the eyeballs of everyone in the station piercing his back. He didn’t care, he had himself a murder case. Scott Griffith looked at Harry with such hate in his eyes, they were almost glowing. Harry heard raised voices and indignant, thunderous shouts coming from inside the captain’s office. The door of the office slammed shut and out walked David Cornwall, making a beeline straight to Harry’s desk. His face contorted with rage, he bent over Harry’s desk. The judge's face was so close to Harry’s that he could feel the spit as David unleashed his anger. “I won’t let you have this Crow! You are nothing, you hear me?! You are no more than a pitiful drunk and a lifetime of failure!”

Harry just smiled up at him and spoke in voice that imitated the desk clerk. “David, if you are looking for the forensic psychologist for your daily appointment, I’m afraid you just missed him.”

The judge was furious about Harry’s calm attitude towards the hostility. “You won’t have this case and you will never succeed at anything in your miserable life, I will make sure of it!”

Staying calm, Harry gave Cornwall an amused grin and spoke in a playful voice. “David, please, you are making a scene. Now if you would kindly excuse me, I have more important things to do than converse with the likes of you. Good day.”

The judge curled his lips at him in disgust and stormed off. David could never take no for an answer, being as rich and spoiled as he was, but when the captain told him that this case was Harry’s, he had lost his cool. Won’t let me have this, huh? I will not let you stop me, and you will not take this from me.

As the countless hours went by, Harry worked on his case, trying to connect dots, interviewing friends and family of the deceased. As it turned out, Jared Hike had been hired muscle for a scam business, backsliding into a life of crime. Over the course of one day, Giovanni and Sebastian Giraldo, both members of the Giraldo crime family, were found dead, both impaled to the wall, both arrested by Harry, on simple Drunk and Disorderly charges. Harry got phone calls from the same hushed voice, telling him where to find the bodies. There were only two witnesses, who both said they saw a middle aged male who wore a white rubber mask that had black eyelets. All the victims seemed to only have one deadly connection: Detective Harry Crow. He had arrested all of the victims, meaning the killer must have taken a liking to Harry. It seemed to Harry like the killer was playing a game of cat and mouse, although he wasn’t sure if he was the cat, or the mouse. He felt like he was being toyed with by this strange serial killer. The deeper Harry delved into the case, the more traumatic and frustrating it became. He was glad he had this case, but his sleep was becoming even more restless, with nightmares jolting him awake, coming to the realization that he was sleeping in a sweat soaked mattress.

The next day, he was so tired he didn’t even realize that he had come to work. Harry was sitting at his desk, in his chair, without even remembering how he got there. The day was over before Harry even realized it. Completely puzzled, Harry looked around in the dark. There was a “blank” in his memory, he couldn’t remember anything from his day. Did he dose off? Or was this more than fatigue? Perhaps it was trauma from his work. He was sitting at his desk, all other lights were off in the station, only his desk light remained active. The light was pointed at a sticky-note on his desk, it was scribbled in pencil and read: Coming For You... Looking down at the note, he didn’t recognize the handwriting. Was it the serial killer who snuck it in? If it was, he was not safe anymore.

Harry’s attention was diverted as soon as he heard rustling coming from one of the desks. Squinting into the darkness, he could make out a shape moving towards him, lurking in the shadows. He felt panic rise up inside him, and his throat tightened as his heart picked up the pace. Harry moved a shaking hand towards his holster, and when he called out, his voice was a higher pitch than he intended it to be. “Who goes there? Show yourself!”

The rustling stopped and the moving shadow called out to him. “It’s me, you moron! The janitor!” The man arose out of the shadows with a mop. He saw Harry’s hand on his holster, and his jaw dropped. “You were going to shoot me?! Are you insane?!”

Completely embarrassed, Harry let out a relieved sigh and felt his panic die down while moving his hand back to his desk. “Uh...er...ya, sorry about that Neil, I'm, uh, on edge a bit… sorry about that…”

Neil walked off mopping the floor while mumbling verbal obscenities: “What an idiot, can’t believe he was gonna shoot me...”

Harry shook his head, got up and stretched, feeling all of his bones cracking in his body. He decided to head home, hoping Neil wouldn’t tell anyone about the murder that almost happened in the police department.

Over the course of the week, the “blanks” became more  and more frequent. He was having time loss, and memory gaps as a result, ending up on a street and having no recollection of how he arrived there. The nightmares and anxiety started becoming a regular occurrence, happening more often. Harry wasn’t sure if this is how Scott reacted to the countless murder cases he solved, looking into the blackest part of humanity’s soul, staring evil in the eye. It traumatized Harry and started becoming too much for him. Harry just kept on powering through the case, no matter how much it terrified him. He arrived at home, got into bed, and got ready for another round of nightmares.

He was woken in the middle of the night by a cold, icy breeze. He looked around, shivering and stammering. His window was completely open. I didn’t open the window last night…but if I didn’t, then who… out of the corner of his bedroom emerged a figure with a blank face, but a stake raised high above his head. He had no eyes, nor had he nose, mouth or ears, he was completely featureless. The man brought the blood soaked stake straight down, full force, into Harry’s chest. Letting out a shrill scream, Harry jolted awake, sat up in bed and felt his chest. There was no stake, no bloody hole, the window was shut, and he had been dreaming.

Someone whispered in his room, “I told you I'm coming, and here I am Harry!”

Harry looked around his moonlit room and shouted into the darkness. “Who said that?!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt a warm breath on his neck. “Right behind you, Harry!”

Harry spun counter clockwise in his bed, looking into a masked face that was staring at him. Harry screamed again, and awoke dripping with sweat, and a heart beating as fast as a helicopter’s rotor blades. Not knowing if he was in a dream or reality, he rose from his bed and threw a punch into his wall. The pain sobered him from fatigue, but he was afraid of laying down and “sleeping” again. Insomnia it is then.

The next day, Harry appeared in the station again, not being able to remember a single thing about his morning. Scott stood up from his seat and strolled over to Harry’s work desk with a sinister grin plastered on his face like an ill-fitting mask. Harry shivered at that thought

“I heard you freaked out at the mop-man yesterday! You afraid he’s gonna impale you with a broom?” Scott scoffed and turned to face the department. “Hey everyone! Crow almost shot Neil the janitor!”

Everyone in the New York Police Department burst out laughing. A couple people threw paper balls at him, calling him a loser, a drunk, or a waste of space.

Scott resumed his rant. “So how did you like that note I left on your desk while you went to the restroom? Got you pulling a gun on the janitor and running home to the bottle didn’t it?”

Disgusted, Harry looked around. Not seeing David anywhere, he turned to Scott. “Where’s your judge buddy, huh? How come he’s not here to join your hate parade? Did he perchance suffocate in all his chemical-treated hair products?”

Scott sneered at Harry before returning to his desk. “He knows better than to give you that pleasure, rat.”

Harry once again barely noticed that his phone was ringing. He picked it up, without looking at the caller ID, and heard that same hushed and whispering voice. “You will find that the judge was...well...a bit ‘hung over’ to come in for work today.” The man hung up, but not before grimly but flippantly adding, “ ...might wanna tell his pal over there…”

Harry’s eyes opened wide as he realized what this call meant. Grabbing his overcoat and hat, he called over to Scott “Hey knucklehead! Judge Cornwall’s place, right now! I’ll meet you there!” Harry made his way outside, leaving Scott in a state of utter confusion.

Harry arrived at the judge’s house, although it was more of a palace then a house. It had an enormous garden, with a fountain in the middle, and the front walkway was lined with columns and pillars. Walking to the front entrance way, he realized the door was already opened. Harry pulled out his python and slowly made his way into the opening room. Surveying his surroundings, there were smashed pictures and torn paintings on the wall, but when he diverted his eyes downwards, he noticed there were blood smears leading into the living room. It seemed the killer dragged his victim across the floor, creating these streaks to usher any visitors inside. Gulping loudly, Harry was afraid at what gruesome scene will greet him in the room. Raising his weapon, Harry took a deep breath and walked ever so slowly into the living room.

    As Harry entered the room, the ghastly stench of the judge came to his nose, and he fought to keep his breakfast inside himself. Sure enough, there was Judge Cornwall, hanging from the wall, with a two metre pole protruding from his chest. David’s once prideful head now hung low, his once envied hair now stained with his own blood, and his once conceited face now distorted with the pains of death. Harry did not know exactly how long he stood there letting the image sink in, but an unearthly feeling came over him, like he was being watched by someone. The floorboards behind him creaked, and that spectral feeling crawled down his back like a centipede, while his heart pounded through his skull, vibrating his chest faster and faster. He started taking two steps forward, but the ratcheting sound of a revolver being primed stopped him dead in his tracks.

    “That’s the sound of my .357 pointed at the back of your head. If you reach for your sidearm you can consider yourself a former member of the living.” A hushed voice spoke from behind him.

    Harry’s muscles tensed and coiled like a spring, ready to snap like a cobra. He raised his hands up, and gradually turned around. A man in a haunting pale mask had Harry looking down the barrel of a rather large and menacing revolver. The sound of a rumbling muscle car could be heard from outside, and Harry realized that Scott had just arrived. The man in the mask flipped his Colt Python in the air, caught it by the barrel, and struck Harry across the jaw. Harry fell to the floor, and felt the bitter coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Disorientated from the pain, he was on his hands and knees for about ten seconds before he heard rapid footsteps. He wasn't sure who the steps belonged to, so he staggered back up, spitting crimson from his mouth. The footsteps belonged to Scott as he rushed into the room. He was halted by the state of his friend's living room. Scott stared at Harry as he picked up his own python, while sputtering more scarlet from his lips. Harry realized it was Scott, so he holstered his weapon.  

    “Did you get a look at him?” Harry asked through blood soaked teeth.

    Scott wasn’t sure what Harry was talking about. “A look at who? And what the heck happened to your face?”

    “Never mind, he probably went through the back. The killer clocked me across the face with his gun and then he must’ve split, long gone by now.”

    They stood in the room for a few moments, then it occurred to Scott that his best friend was hanging from the wall behind him. He fell to his knees and started crying while Harry called in the crime scene unit.

The following day Harry had his first press conference ever. He had never been more excited for anything than his first press conference. He finally made the news, he was finally on TV, breaking news to be exact. The press had decided to name the murderer “The Pale Torment”, naming him after the white mask that he dons. Harry now had the respect of the news reporters, the audience, and he could even feel that his co-workers finally had at least some level of respect towards him. In the end it was all worth it, the nightmares, the trauma, and the darkness. It was the first time in his life that Harry had a peaceful and restful night.

“But it isn't over, not yet.” Harry awoke to a whispering voice from beside his bed. Thinking nothing of it, he awoke, brushed his teeth, and resumed his work on the case at the police department. The work on the case went well for the first couple of days, but sooner rather than later, progress slowed due to more time loss, nightmares, and this time, he was even hearing the voice of the killer, a cold, shiver inducing whisper in Harry’s ear. The “blanks” were even more frequent this time around, every single day, more times than he could count. He would be writing on a piece of paper, then Blank. He was in the rest room, washing his hands, Blank. Back at his desk.

He reviewed the case again, pouring heart and soul into the work. The killer was picking his victims very carefully, not randomly. They have all been ex-convicts, or recently, a judge. These were all people he hated more than anything in the world. But how does he know who I hate? I haven't told anyone except...Fred...the bartender… Could Fred be a psychopath? Could he be the one going around murdering people just for Harry while wearing a cold, pale, mask? He sort of liked Fred, he was kind to Harry whenever he came by the bar. Harry didn’t want to take any chances, he was getting more desperate as the painful minutes ticked by.

Arriving at the Fred’s bar, he walked in, only to see Fred’s brother, Greg, tending the bar. An anxious feeling started stirring in his gut as he walked up to Greg.

Greg’s eyes narrowed as he noticed him walking in. Harry stopped where he stood when he saw Greg’s hand slowly move under the counter. Greg pulled out Harry’s favorite whiskey, and smiled at him. Harry carefully strolled over to the counter. I am getting paranoid, this needs to end... “Hey Detective, you want the usual?”

As much as Harry longed for the relief, he had work to do so he politely declined the offer. “I’m on the job, so no thanks. Do you know where Fred is?”

Greg put the bottle away and answered Harry. “Yeah, Fred decided to take a long vacation, pretty sure he’s just chilling at home. He mentioned he’s undertaking some kind of big project, so he asked me to fill in while he’s away. Why?”

The anxious feeling in Harry tightened to the point where it felt as if his stomach wall had ripped, bleeding acid into his body, infecting it with toxins. Staring and gazing into Greg’s face, all Harry could do was just swallow and blink. It’s Fred...he’s the one killing people, he’s the psychopath. Greg looked at Harry’s peculiar expression and grinned while making a slightly morbid joke. “He didn’t kill anyone did he?”

Harry just peered into nothing, not being able to comprehend the situation. “What’s wrong detective? Looks like you just seen your old grandpa’s ghost.”

Harry snapped out of the trance and brought himself together. “Uh… sorry… I’m uh...tired today. Do you mind writing down Fred’s address? I need to talk to him.”

Blank

Harry calmly walked down the street towards Fred’s house and looked at the address once again, just to make sure he was going the right dir-

Blank

Oddly enough, Harry was an entire block away from the last street he remembered being on. I need to see the psychologist, this is getting out of control... Harry nearly tripped on something and realized his shoelaces were untied, so he bent down and-

Blank

Harry was back at the station, just outside the door. It was dark out, and he took a glance at his watch. Two hours went past since he remembered tying his shoelaces. I gotta get help, I'm losing it... He frowned and walked down the steps and turned left onto the sidewalk. Pacing down the street, he noticed Scott in the alleyway between the police station and the variety store, leaning up against the wall while having a smoke-

Blank

Harry was still standing in the same spot, so was Scott, but there was one grave difference between this picture the one before the “blank” happened. The difference being that in the previous picture, there wasn’t a man in a mask coming up beside Scott with a post rammer loaded with a two metre pole. Moving towards them while his coat was flowing in the wind, the masked man slowly walked toward Scott. Harry was frozen where he stood, a cold stillness coming over him. He opened his mouth to shout at Scott to get out of the way, but nothing exited his mouth; his vocal cords were completely still. A bead of sweat streaked down Harry’s forehead, as he watched death himself approach Scott. Harry wasn’t sure what Scott had rolled up in his cigarette, not doubting it was strong, but Scott seemed completely oblivious to his surroundings. As if time slowed down, Harry felt like he was trapped in that moment for eternity, the moment when the post pierced Scott’s flesh, impaling him to the wall. He watched the scene unfold while crackling in his vision as if it was static and all it did was repeat itself.

Blank

After the deed was done, the murderer turned his head to look at Harry before sprinting off into the night. Harry ran over to Scott, trying to help the dying man, but it was of no use. Scott Griffith, his abysmal colleague, couldn’t help but to curse Harry with his dying last breath. Harry once again called the dispatch notifying them that there was an officer down.

Harry lay awake in his bed that night, pondering on the happenings of the day. He had a press conference to look forward to tomorrow, to speak about the murderer, and the death of Scott and David. He decided to give Fred, the number one suspect, that visit he intended to before Scott died, after he finished his conference. He was even more excited for this press conference, since it was at the city hall, therefore even the mayor of New York City would be present. Hoping for at least one more night of peace, he shut his eyes and welcomed the dreariness.

For the first time in his life, Harry was actually happy to get out of his bed to prepare for his day. He got up and stretched, had breakfast, then waltzed over to the bathroom. The press conference would be in a couple of hours, so he needed time to prepare. This event would have twice as many people attending, with all of the news stations recording the speech. He looked into the mirror and smiled. What a wonderful day. Harry tried to squeeze out all of the toothpaste that was at the bottom of the tube, but he needed two hands for it so he bent over, put his toothbrush between his knees and managed to fill his toothbrush.

He picked up his glass and took a sip of water. As he took his toothbrush in hand, his vision darkened. When Harry looked into the mirror, his glass shattered to the ground, and his toothbrush clattered to the floor. Horrified at his reflection, Harry screamed while frantically clawing and ripping at his own face. Only it wasn't his face, and it wasn't even his skin he was tearing at. There was a dull white rubber mask that clung to his head, and he was terror stricken by how it got there. He tried to separate it in a savage frenzy from his face, but it was fastened secure. Realizing there were straps on the back, he desperately unlatched them, threw the mask into the sink, turned around and vomited into the bathtub. He couldn’t control his shakes, and could not bear to look at himself in the mirror, fearing what horrors he might see. His knees buckled and nearly fell to the floor. Harry was still bent over the bathtub, gripping it to the point where his knuckles turned the same shade of white as that horrifying piece of rubber he threw to the sink. He could feel the color draining from his face as the entire room rapidly spun around him, causing him to vomit once more. Everything came to a rapid halt, as Harry heard a voice speak from behind him.

“Hello Harry. It’s time we met.”

Harry sluggishly managed to turn around and faced the speaker. Squinting at himself in the mirror, he saw his reflection, although it was slightly different. The man in the mirror had a calm face, clean shaven and neatly styled hair, better looking than Harry in all aspects. Harry was completely perplexed, he came closer to the strange image in the mirror. Harry rubbed his eyes with his ice cold hands, did his reflection just smile at him? No, that was not possible, reflections don’t smile at people. But his reflection did more than just smile at him. “Perhaps introductions are in order, don’t you think?”

Harry could not believe what he was seeing, or for that fact, hearing. “Wh-what…? How are you talking to me? Wh-who are you?”

His reflection found Harry’s question amusing. “Well, I guess you could call me Harry 2.0. I’m you. Just better in every way.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

The figure in the mirror let out a sigh. “I’m the man you’ve always wanted to be. I am respected, I am sophisticated and I am prominent. Look where I have gotten you, the position you hold now.” The man pointed at the sink.

Harry looked into the sink, where the pale inert mask was sitting. It was made of a thick rubber, that had two unequal sized circles as eyelets, which were covered up by tight black netting. There were no distinguishing facial features, it was completely blank, not even a nose, just a small protrusion which served as its nasal cavity.  Its overall shape was more rectangular than it was round, and it stretched taut over the face. The mouth was just a rough, cut out section in the rubber. The back had three leather straps stitched on from the side, having metal buckles enlaced with the leather to tighten it. The top had a large flap stitched to it to cover the scalp of whoever wore it. “Wh-whose mask is that? Wh-why is it in my apartment?”

“I think you know whose it is.”

Harry’s temper started to rise. “No, I do not. Now tell me, who does the mask belong to?”

The man in the mirror waited a minute before he decided to divulge the information to Harry.“You had enough of being trampled upon, didn’t you? You vowed for reform, did you not? Well, I am it. I am that reform you so desperately needed. Your weak and twisted mind couldn't be broken further, so it repaired itself. I am the end result. After that, it was just a matter of being respected and known. Again, that's where I come in. All you’ve ever wanted was to be someone in life, I am that someone. I turned you from a nobody to a somebody, but it didn’t come cheap, all things need to be payed for.”

Harry did not want to listen to any of this. All he wanted to do was to break down, cover his ears and cry. “You could never snatch up a murder case, could you? Well I am the one who fixed that. A perfect string of murders popped up right in front of your nose, you got the case. After that, you just needed more publicity, and what better way of gaining it then to do away with the one who stood in your way, a man you hated more above anything else? Bam. Press conference. Scott was just more publicity, we hated him too, so why not? So here is your answer, Harry. That is our mask, we made it, fashioned it out of our split sanity, a faceless mask for a faceless man.”

“W-what are you saying? T-that this mask belongs to me? But th-that means…”

“Yes Harry, it belongs to us, we are the one responsible for the bodies that have been hanging on poles. We are the psychopath that you are looking for.”

Harry gaped at the mirror. “No! That doesn't make any sense!”

“Yes it does! Just think about it. Why do your floorboards creak? Because you have a post rammer and a pole stashed underneath. Why can’t you sleep at night? Because you are out there committing murders! Why are you having time loss, memory gaps, and blanks? Because I take over and do the deed that you are too weak to do yourself!”

“No! Y-you called my phone! You even pointed a gun at me, then hit me with it! A-and I saw you murder Scott! That was you! That was all you!”

“Don’t you get it? Your phone never even rang, you willed that to happen. You hit yourself with your own revolver, why else would you need to pick it up off the floor, if it never falls out from it’s holster? Why did Scott curse you when you ran over to help? Because you’re the one who killed him! You hallucinated yourself doing it, had a blank, then put your mask on, and drove a stake through him!”

Harry flinched at those harsh words. “Don’t worry Harry, I’m killing your conscience little by little, soon there will be none of it left.”

Shock surged through every fibre of Harry’s body, he spun around and vomited again, by this time his breakfast had all but vanished.

Harry started shaking uncontrollably again. He snarled at his higher self. “When I get my hands on you… I will tear you apart...” Growling, Harry got up and lashed out at his reflection with a hate that was palpable, turning the mirror into an intricate web of cracked glass.

The sharp looking man appeared right beside Harry, looked at him, then snorted. “I am just a figment of your imagination, Harry, you can’t kill what doesn't die.” The man led Harry’s gaze towards the smashed mirror. “See that mirror? That is your sanity. Fractured, cracked and broken. You will only get ahead with me, you only exist if I am here. Without me, you are nothing.”

Harry had enough of this, he raised his voice. “I don’t need you! I don’t need your help!”

The man shouted back at Harry. “Well whose help do you need?! Last time I checked, we didn't have any friends! I’m all you’ve got, I’m all you need! I gave you everything that you ever craved and wanted!”

“This is not what I wanted!”

“This is EXACTLY what you wanted! You have no choice but to accept it. You have no choice but to live this out, become hate, become vengeance, become the torment!” The man adjusted his suit. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a press conference to get to.”

Blank

Standing up at the podium, Harry felt better now than he had ever felt in his life. New haircut, clean shaven, flashy new blue suit, he was on top of the world. With the mayor and the captain of the police department standing on each side of Harry, he calmly answered the questions that the press gave him. But there was something different about him standing up there, something that felt out of place. He came to the realization that he was not the one answering the questions, but his higher self was. Harry was a mere spectator in his own body, completely out of reach, out of control. But the way his higher self handled the press was marvelous. He commanded respect;  the reporters did not dare speak without him allowing it to happen. Harry wished he didn’t enjoy this, but he did, perhaps more than he should have. He noticed that the captain even looked at him with a newfound respect in his eyes, something that was never present before.

Blank

At home, watching himself on TV, Harry was astounded at how natural he looked on the news. Never in his life did he have any self worth, but now that he saw himself standing in front of the city hall, giving a speech on the safety of New York’s residents, he was proud of himself. He was sophisticated, he was respected, he was prominent, and most of all, he did not feel alone. Harry stood up from his armchair, and walked into the middle of his empty living room.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Being someone special, respected.”

Harry faced his other self. He couldn’t deny the truth. “Yeah. Yeah it feels good. So what’s the next step?”

“Now we give the people what they need: a twisted psychopath.”

“Who do we give them? I’m not turning myself in, I’ve come too far to tear it all down.”

“We just need to set someone up as a sophisticated serial killer. All of the victims I picked out for you were either a judge, an ex-convict or a dirty cop. So, who’s the one person who would be overzealous enough about the law, to kill ex-cons?  Who’s the one person who would be overzealous enough about the corruption inside his department, to kill a dirty cop? Who’s the one person who had a very audible altercation with a victim just days before death, then killed a judge? The man at the top of the food chain, the one who will earn you the fame that will not ever be forgotten. That's the man we frame.”

Harry stood by himself in the middle of the room, smiling as he answered his own questions, overjoyed as he saw the pieces of his warped puzzle come together. He knew the man he was talking about, the one that would earn him all the publicity he needed, the man he would frame as the Pale Torment.

   

Author's Note

Hey
Ignore the spelling/grammar problems unless they are very blatant. Let me know if you enjoyed reading it, don't be afraid to be honest with the review just keep it to a helpful criticism. Let me know what you think of the flow, dialogue, characters, the overall plot, etc. Enjoy