Bard Constantine
The Blurred Man: Gestalt
The man was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.
He stepped out of the Beer Goggles bar, staggering only slightly. His steps were careful, his stride focused as he strode along the wet sidewalk. Other pedestrians passed by, their steps quick as they tried to duck into waiting cars or adjacent night clubs and restaurants. The rain was light but steady, sparkling in the headlights of passing cars.
The man turned the collar of his coat up and adjusted his wool felt cap. He had walked the same route many times, could do it in his sleep, much less only half inebriated. His manner was confident, carefree. Oblivious to the nocturnal dangers, the malice that trailed him like a coalescing shadow.
Just like the others.
Steve Dupree’s view was awash in red, filmed over with static, accelerated like a film on fast-forward. He glimpsed his reflection in the window of a dead clothing store: slight height and build, dark clothes, hoodie pulled over his head. He saw no face in the depths of the hood, only shadow. It was as if there was no face at all, just a yawning mouth of darkness.
He quickly refocused, intent on the prey in front of him. It was only a few seconds before the man entered a narrow alleyway. The entry to his condo was just around the corner. He was at his most relaxed, in his most familiar territory. He would turn the corner, punch his entry code, and ascend to his city view and Egyptian cotton bedsheets to sleep the buzz away.
Steve struck, streaking forward in a blur of movement. In one hand was an ornamented, long-handled dagger. He stabbed the man in the back with a swift, savage thrust.
The world rippled. The rain was crimson spray, spattering down in nearly frozen time. The man took forever to stumble forward. Shock and incomprehension distorted his face as he tried to turn around. Steve’s next stab was directly into the man’s neck. The blade sank in without resistance, up to the hilt in the man’s pale, pudgy flesh. His eyes bulged, impossibly wide; his lips bubbled as soundless words tried to escape his throat. His body quivered, fighting to stay upright. Fighting to live.
That all ended when Steve yanked the dagger out. A fountain of dark blood sprayed from the wound and the man toppled as though his bones had melted. Shock was still etched on his face, his hand stretched toward Steve as though in a final accusatory gesture.
The falling rain was the last melody the man ever heard. A murky stain spread around his head as his sightless eyes stared into the thunderous heavens. Steve stood over him, feeling neither pleasure nor triumph. There was no satisfaction in killing the man, no perverse delight or thrill from the taking of a life.
There was only fear. Fear of what came next.
Something moved in the darkness. The gloom took sentience, coagulated into an inky, inhuman figure. It was a thing of elongated limbs, cloaked in shadows with only a pale, bloodless face visible. It topped Steve by several feet, gazing down from a narrow head with only the semblance of facial features, bone structure barely pressed against soft, ghostly membrane.
Some sound emitted from the phantom; a piercing shriek so high pitched it was barely audible. Steve winced as his vision doubled and a stab of icy agony lanced across his head. The phantom’s figure billowed like smoke, moving like living ink as it entered the dead man’s mouth through his open mouth and nostrils.
The man’s eyes snapped open. The irises were black as polished eight-balls. The chest heaved, the muscles convulsed uncontrollably. His body jerked upright but remained limp, a puppet dangling on invisible strings. His head snapped forward, looking directly at Steve with dead eyes.
A smile tortured his cheeks.
The grin quickly faded as the flesh suddenly swelled. The man became a distorted balloon as his skin turned the color of overripe plums and was riddled with distending veins.
A second later, he exploded.
Steve blinked open his eyes.
The soft glow of city lights blushed from behind the blinds in his window. He lay under sweat-soaked sheets in a nearly unfurnished apartment bedroom. The television was on, displaying an old creature feature film in black and white.
He quickly sat up and flung himself at the laptop positioned on the nearby dresser. His fingers tapped with frantic desperation. A video feed pulled up. The digital recording was of himself. Going to bed. Falling asleep. Tossing and turning as if delirious with fever dreams.
But he never left the bed. Never got up. Never left his apartment.
Never murdered anyone.
He exhaled a shuddering breath. It wasn’t him. The dreams that were so real he could feel them, the visions he had nearly convinced himself he was responsible for…weren’t his.
It was someone else. Some sick bastard possibly in league with…something else. Some monster. It was impossible, of course. Steve had met many murderers. Some of them were monsters. But not like what he saw in his dreams. Not some inhuman shadow that tried to inhabit dead bodies.
He shook his head. First things first. Get it together.
He quickly dressed and grabbed his keys. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened the top drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a Smith and Wesson 642 revolver.
Not that it’ll do any good.
He stuffed it in his pocket anyway. He couldn’t do anything about the phantom, if it was even real. But the killer was human. Steve was sure of it. Bullets would have to do.
Detective Quinn Jacobs tried very hard to mask her revulsion. Keith was openly retching a few yards away, and she didn’t want her junior partner to see her succumb to the same. It was only a crime scene, after all. Nothing she hadn’t seen before.
Well, not quite.
She certainly had never seen the remains of a human body that literally dripped from the walls of the alleyway as if someone had made the man eat a cocktail of live grenades. As a former Army lieutenant, she had seen her share of repulsive dismemberments and horrific corpses, but nothing like what was plastered all around her.
She cleared her throat, swallowing hard. “Okay, who is this guy?”
One of the CSI jackets held up a wallet in an evidence bag. “Dean Rivers. He works at the hospital.”
“Any sign of the weapon used?”
The man’s face twisted. “Well, that’s where it gets weird. We can’t find anything that registers as a weapon.”
“Get real. Only some kind of explosive could do this to a human body.”
“Get real yourself. I don’t deal with supposition. Just evidence. Right now there’s no confirmation of any sort of weapon. Give us a minute, will you? Just identifying body parts from raspberry jelly is a monumental task here.”
Quinn was almost relieved when an officer shouted at an approaching car. “Hey, you can’t stop here. No sightseeing. Keep it moving.”
Quinn waved at the cop. “It’s okay, Murphy. I know this guy.”
He grimaced at her. “Look, just keep him outside the curtail. Okay, detective?”
She smiled. “You got it.”
Her humor faded quickly. The man who emerged from the battered Honda Civic looked as though he slept in his clothes and hadn’t bathed in a week. She wouldn’t bet against either option.
“Dammit, Dupree. Who the hell is tipping you off? Is it Murphy? I’ll have him doing parking lot duty if he’s screwing me over.”
Steve Dupree stared at her from bloodshot eyes. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You got another exploded body?” He scratched the thick stubble on his chin.
“I already told you, the city has no comment. For the record, there’s been no acknowledgment of any ‘exploded bodies.’”
His gaze was wide and unblinking, like an owl with a bad cocaine habit. “And off the record?”