At the turn of the 20th century deep in the soul of Ohio, I worked for hire in the land between the super & the natural; this is my report.

Gunshots fired above my head. I tried my best to dodge under cargo boxes, but a stray caught my chest, burning a hole through me as I grunted from the pain. I tried to flee but a second caught my upper arm, it tore through flesh and muscle as it made its way out the other side. I am not a strong man, a good shooter but not strong. I crawled as best as I could, fighting back tears, to a brick-roaded alley. I could feel the warmth of my blood leaking out the holes which had just been laid into me. I felt a panic brewing deep inside my heart as I crawled towards the alley. The shootout was between the cops and what I believe is a local gang called the Leapers. My conversation with one of the gang members was interrupted by a police ambush and I was caught in the middle. As I crawled deeper into the alley, I could feel my consciousness fade until -- I ultimately -- faded into oblivion.

The gasp of breath I took upon working was enough to terrify my assistant who was hovering over my body. My panic from deep in my heart expelling out of me in a flurry of incomprehensible words. On my second intake of air, I could feel the pain as my chest expanded. My right arm, my shooting arm, felt as though a gentle pull could rip it off of my body. I felt lucky to be alive, though infections gave me no guarantee it would stay that way.

My assistant, currently looming over me, took a relieved sigh after the jump I gave her. You see most people hire a common secretary, but I hired a prospective Doctor. She had the skills to maybe one day be one of the best Doctors of the generation, just as soon as the laws changed. 

I gave her a soft pained smile. I had left her yesterday to go investigate a potential gang in the Oregon district. I was learning in my journeyman ignorance that it was best to always try and tell her where I was going, for cases like this.

A few weeks later, I was working on some paperwork in my office study for what I eventually found out was The Leechers, not Leapers. What kind of a gang name is Leechers, do they suck blood or borrow money? In the next room, I could hear my assistant get up from her chair and walk towards the front door, even through the hustle and bustle of the city outside the house I rented for our operation. The City of Nyton was no match for the perfect pitch her heels made, a pitch-perfect for piecing straight into my ears apart from when I was deep in focus. 

As I mindlessly listened to the taps of her heels while working on testimony documents, they went farther than the plants by the window, downstairs washroom, or even the coat closet. When they finally stopped, they hadn’t gone far enough for the stairwell to the upstairs. Was she going to the front door? There hadn’t been a knock, and our mailbox was outside. 

I could hear Miss Indeo let out a slight, “hmm,” so she was just as confused as I. The taps started up again and led to my door, and with a soft knock she opened the door. “Mr. Mississippi,” she said, “there’s a letter here for you. It was slid under the front door.”

I gave her a quiet, “thank you,” and she closed the door with a soft click. 

Now why would someone slide it under the front door and not put it into the mailbox? This wasn’t an accident; no one misses a mailbox two feet from the front door; this was a choice. A choice to make their case stick out beyond others. Yet they hadn’t knocked on the door, hadn’t handed the letter over themselves, they hadn’t just delivered the message verbally. This was a call to action encased in a green velvet envelope with a golden wax seal. Delivered silently yet screaming with its arrival. Peeling the envelope back revealed black parchment paper. Red ink dotted the paper.

The letter read: 

Dear Mr. Mississippi,

 “Kaushal Estate, 12am.”

Yours Sincerely,

An American In Paris

As my eyes dotted over the last pieces of red ink, I focused on the sender. An American In Paris, this deliverer of the silent letter that screamed so loudly upon its arrival. I was about to be hook, line, and sinker for it.

After making and eating dinner, courtesy of the creole recipes from my mom, and finishing the Leaper reports, I threw on my shoes and brown vest. As I quickly attempted to throw my brown trench on, I was unfortunately not fast enough and creaking the door from her room, Miss Indeo was able to say, “Don’t you even think about riding that horse. Take the trolley, Mississippi.”

I gave her a quick smile adjusting my blue dress shirt into my corduroy pants. “I promise I will be safe Miss,” I said.

“You’d better, and thank you for making dinner, Sir.”

I placed my gambler’s hat on my head and gave her a nod. “I’ll be down in Sprucewood near the Golden Den property, some place called the Kausal Estate.” I then closed the door to the house promptly. I’d swear that woman had eyes into another world the way she managed to hear me and fling herself out of her room. At the time, giving her a bedroom on the first floor and placing my bedroom on the upper floor felt like it made sense. Perhaps if I gave her the upstairs room, she wouldn’t be able to catch me so easily every time. 

I arrived into downtown Sprucewood by trolley, my desire to be atop my noble stead Glider could not be further intensified by the woman honking into a handkerchief across from me. Walking the rest of the way, I arrived at the Kausal Estate just about 12 am according to my pocket watch.

I scanned from outside the fence from top to bottom looking for anything of note. The sky was dark, a new moon, and somewhat cloudy skies. The trees told the story of Sprucewood. While Nyton was an industry city, a heart of innovation, Sprucewood was a push against this. Glamour incarnate, the town on a hill. The manor below the trees reflected this as well. The aesthetic was a log house but expanded to mythical proportions. A perversion of the Gilded Age through the rose-tinted glasses of the wealthy. Rockefeller would eat his heart out. 

Scanning down to the cast iron fence my eyes were met with a grizzly sight. Lying on the ground was a young woman, eyes wide and already glazed over. A scarf was worn around her neck, a sign of the oncoming fall season. She was slumped between the fence and the bushes. Blatantly obvious to an investigator, but invisible to a bystander.

I looked around for any passersby, but none were in sight. After a quick look around and an, "Ah shit," I uncoupled my revolver. It's worth a try, I thought to myself and fired a shot into the air. If I was lucky I'd get an officer, if not at least I tried.

I bent down reholstering my weapon, pain from the exertion of shooting running up my forearm, a remnant of my wounds from the gang shootout. Now crouched, I bent my nose towards the body, no smell of death yet. Her clothes looked untouched and nothing under the fingernails. Bending the scarf just slightly there were no marks on the front of the neck. The ground held no blood, her face no tears, not even watery, just glassy. Reaching into her purse, I found a passport, Catherine Walsh, Irish. She was an immigrant. Tucked on the same page were papers, military documents. Canadian, 97th Battalion, for a Henry Clay. Possibly her lover? Perhaps he did this. The war seemed to curse everyone it touched, leaving a mark on not just their mind and body, but their soul as well.

I took out my vellum tracing notebook, overlaying it onto the passport, and transferring all the information in a matter of moments. Name, DOB, and country of origin. Whoever did this had left these identifiers for me so I was going to take them with me. It wasn’t legal, but that was the world I seemed to be diving ever further into.

I had a lot of questions, but one stood out, the invitation. This, whatever this was, was premeditated. I stood up and looked around. You don’t invite someone to perform and miss the show. My eyes scanned down the street looking for a man, a shadow, a reflection. Nothing. Until I caught the glint from silver, a ring on his left hand. He was up in the trees 20 feet away.

I broke into a sprint toward the man watching him leap down and run like an ignited gunpowder trail. In the darkness of the night, he had no shadow. 

My sides began to ache and eventually burned as I chased the man to the outer parts of Sprucewood. If I had my horse or lasso, this would’ve been easier. I’d be at least able to ignore the pain. 

As the gap between me and him expanded, my anger rose eventually turning into a blinding rage. My emotions were amplified by the fire in my chest. I instinctively reached for ole reliable, my Colt 1861. Unholstering the revolver, I whipped it towards the man, no center of mass for this killer. The gun rose and with a shooting pain through my forearm followed by a bang, the bullet sailed through the air.

In a moment, he fell forward, head first. I watched from a far distance as the bullet in his skull pulled him downward. I heard the bullet casing ting as it hit the ground beneath me.

My run turned into a wheezing walk and after tossing another business card onto the body without even a glance, I wrote the night off as unprofitable and went home.

The next morning with my head deep in copywriting work for a local business I was so deep in focus I didn’t even notice Miss. Indeo until she tapped on my desk. 

“An officer is here to see you,” she said letting him into the room and closing the door.

The man stood, a half smile on his face as he gestured to a chair, of which I nodded for him to go for it. For most of the meeting, he asked generic questions regarding the victim, of which I had little more information than the officer did. 

Then he said, “Mr. Mississippi, I have to ask. Near the scene of the woman, we found a bullet casing, a small puddle of blood, and your business card. Why did you place the second one?”

“What do you mean?” I said. “It was so you know I shot him.”

“Yes I know, but I’m not sure of the point. Not much use in crediting yourself with no body.”

The muscles around my spine tightened, and my shoulders twitched. I really hoped I was misunderstanding him. “Right. Because of the lack of body?” I said.

“Yes exactly.” He gave an inquisitive but soft look.

“Just trying to be helpful,” I said with a false smile.

I stared at the door to my office long after the man had left. What kind of a man gets up and walks away from a headshot, I thought to myself. The kind of man who kills a woman without leaving a mark, I answered. This haunted me for the rest of the week; I questioned if I even shot him in the head, the flash of pain in my forearm interrupting the shot. I felt like everywhere I went I was being watched.

The following week fall began its descent upon us. A storm raged outside, another letter was slid under the front door:

Dear Mr. Mississippi,

 “Kaushal Estate, 12am.”

Yours Sincerely,

Mr. Clay

The same style of envelope but the invitation was bolder. He named himself, the man from the Canadian military. I stared at the ink; it seemed different. Taking out the other letter, I compared the two. They were both red but different shades. I held them up to candlelight. Scarlet shades. The fluid was the same, but different colors; these were written in blood. The kind of man I was dealing with descended upon me.

I raced out the door, still limited by Indeo’s refusal to allow me to use my horse. My body was still recovering from the gunshots. I arrived in the pouring rain by 8 pm, waiting on a bench down the street for any sign of the man. Ready to be there when he struck. Whoever this was couldn’t come quietly, while the bullet may not have his head, I knew from experience the pain a bullet inflicts.

I waited and waited. Close to 9, a couple passed me. The girl was beautiful with red locks and the man had a sharp jaw and dark brown hair. I gave a soft smile which they returned in kindness as they kept their love embrace. At 10, a man walked by with his dog, my soft smile was met with a strange stare as I sat beneath my brown gambler's hat in the pouring rain. Then midnight glistened under the glass of my pocket watch. 

No sign of the man or body, I inched closer to the Kaushal estate, the windows looming high above me in the distance. I wondered if I had scared the killer off with my presence and as I reached the gate I saw -- nothing. Relieved I turned around to be reset back into panic by a slumped figure sitting on the bench where I had just been. 

Racing over, I was met with a cloaked figure; ripping off the hood, I saw a lifeless red-lock-haired girl. My heart sank. Henry Clay had paraded this girl right in front of me and I hadn’t even noticed. 

Fighting back rage, I searched her body finding another passport, Dallas Aday, Scottish. It was drenched in the rain as I pocketed it, another document tucked inside. I looked again for wounds. Nothing under the nails, no bruises, but there was something slight this time. The first girl may have had it, but her scarf hid it. On the side of Ms. Aday’s neck were two pinpricks, from needles perhaps? Maybe these girls had been poisoned.

I looked again for the man; in the middle of the rainy road there he stood. Dressed in his Sunday best, smiling beneath the water of the sky.

I pulled out my revolver, rage boiling my blood. No pain would be a match for the power I felt surging through my arm. I stepped closer, he stood in the same spot.

“Hello Mr. Mississippi,” Henry Clay said. “I’m quite fond of you and your work, I hope you’re fond of mine.”

“What did you do to these girls?” I asked, my heart pulsing beneath my chest.

“Why I drank them dry,” he said, “saving just enough blood for those sweet letters.”

Was he drinking them? What sort of sick fantasy was this man living? I felt the saliva in my mouth turn sour. I stepped closer, he stood in the same spot.

“I’m thinking of a French girl next,” he said. “I bet she’ll taste of wine. These travelers are a platter ripe for the taking on this side of the world.” He smiled at his own words.

“What kind of violation of nature are you?” I asked, unable to match the man's words. He spun them, a snake with venom spewing from his fangs. I stepped closer, he stood in the same spot.

“Violation of nature. You speak like a native Mississippi. Your mother or father's side? And which side was the darkie? What do you taste like, Mr. Mississippi? I bet it’s earthy like the tren-”

I shattered his jaw with my first shot. I had been closing the distance between me and him as he monologued. I took a step closer, making sure any pain in my arm wasn’t enough to shake the shot. The second went into his heart, the third in his neck, and the fourth in his soul. He spurted black blood, trying to talk but unable to. I took a step closer. His blood mixed with the rain around us. The fifth I sunk into his right eye. His brows covered in blood were curled and shaking, a bloody tear from the hole in the middle of his face. I took the final step placing my barrel to his skull.

Rain glistened on top of the barrel. What was left of his mouth was open, his wolf teeth were weirdly sharp. The sixth shot sank between his temples. He collapsed backward, twitching.

I waited for the police, searching his corpse in the meantime. I pulled out a vial of blood from his pockets and ripped a metal chain with a tag from around his neck. I watched them load up his body; after long enough of waiting it had stopped twitching. The investigator was with them; I pulled the passport out of my pocket handing it over but kept the other service papers. Under the cover of the investigator’s umbrella, I wrote the man’s name out on a business card, explaining what the man had been doing, I eventually shook hands with the officer and they left. I stood in the rain for a while, thinking about what that man could have seen in the war to warp his mind in such a way.

Arriving home I lit the fireplace. Miss Indeo was kind enough to pour me a whiskey sour and to not ask questions. I pulled out the other service paper. Post-dated to France, it lined up with the Battle of Vimy Ridge. I looked at the metal tags. They were from the U.S., dated from 1913. He was a serviceman, who volunteered for a war that wasn’t ours. He was sent to France, where I assure you something broke his mind, perverted him into this blood-filled fantasy.

A week later, two letters arrived via the mailbox. One from the police department, a bounty reward. The other is “A Letter In The Case of Death.” The letter was filled with nonsense but the final words once again stuck with me:

I enjoyed our dance, impress me more next time.

Yours Sincerely,

Henry Clay

I placed the dog tags on a bookshelf by the fireplace. I took the final letter and held it out towards the fireplace, eventually just opening the bottom of a filing cabinet and shoving it inside. I locked the drawer and took a breath. I refused to let the words of this dead killer get to me, and I refused to romanticize it with fire. Something deep within me churned though, could there have been more to that man, something stranger? I forced the thought out of my head, and with it the visions of those pinpricks on the girl’s neck. I’d lock the letters away like any other report, no more hook, line, and sinker.