The body was nowhere to be found. The blood, on the other hand, 
was everywhere. Across the street, from one end to another, it 
stained the grey cobblestones a deep carmine red, as if someone 
had opened a can of red paint and sprayed it across the ground. 
Passers-by and general busybodies stood about, watching the 
scene of the crime with much interest. 


And crime it was, undoubtedly. After all, no freak accident of nature 
could have ensured that the lines of blood lay scattered across the 
floor in such straight patterns. It was almost as if the victim had been 
sliced multiple times with an unnaturally-sharp blade, so much so 
that although blood lay all about, none of it deviated from the sharp 
lines of crimson they created, save for the rain slowly washing them 
away, smudging the pattern. Chatmers whistled. "Poor bugger's 
dead for sure. You can't even find this much blood in a pig." 


| knelt down beside the bloodstains, while Gilroy went about 
collecting samples. The newly-formed forensics division would want 
to check for any evidence of gunpowder - but | doubted it. The 
sprays of blood were too clean. Even a bladed weapon would have 
had a hard time creating such a cut, and subsequent blood-fall. 
Maybe one of those Eastern weapons that's been streaming in? It 
was said that they were sharp enough to cu- 


"Say. What's that?" Gilroy cried as he pointed to the ground mere 
steps away from me. | whirled about, looking closely at the area - 


and then | noticed it. In that patch of ground, there was no rainfall. 
Looking up, | noticed that it was in the open, so it wasn't the 
rooftops. The rainfall simply... curled about that area. Almost into a 
discernible shape. Yet | couldn't exactly make out what it was, and 
attempting to do so, | began to move closer. 


About two steps away, the patch of untouched air shifted, in a 
sudden motion. Taken aback, | drew myself to the left, away from its 
movement. That probably saved my life. | barely heard Chatmer’s 
cry for me to get away as the loud roar of his revolver echoed 
through the falling night, nor did | hear Gilroy’s shout of horror. All | 
could hear was the inhuman sound of footsteps, squelching against 
the rain-slick ground, as they slammed down in staccato towards 
me. | noticed, with mounting fear, that the untouched patch of air 
was now dangerously close, and behind it, was left a series of print 
marks, as if a boot had stepped in the thin layer of water above the 
ground, leaving behind a momentary mark. Yet even those prints 
were so strangely spaced, jumping from one side of the pavement to 
the other, that no human form could have managed that. It was 
almost as if the footprints were in tandem with the rainfall. Pitter- 
pattering onto the sidewalk. 


| felt a cold breeze pass by my side, and threw myself backwards. 
Sharp, burning pain erupted in my right arm as the sleeve of my coat 
was torn, blood flowing fast from a razor-sharp cut across my 
forearm. More shots rang out as Gilroy drew his own sidearm, 
attempting to hit the menacing figure that was no more than an 
empty space. Yet they had no effect, the bullets not even impacting 
against the form, almost as if they were vanishing into thin air. | 
cried, my terror now utterly taking hold of me, as | rolled to my feet, 
sprinting across the street. An idea struck me, and | leapt onto the 
nearest carriage, avoiding the startled horses. | could hear the pitter- 
patter of the rain-steps rapidly drawing near, closer and closer. 


With a quick hook, | knocked out the supports for the coach’s gas 
lamp, and wrenched it free with much effort. The pitter-patter was 
closer now, Chatmers and Gilroy were both shouting at me to run. 
Finally, | managed to open the lid to the lamp, and with a spin, 
tossed it straight at the patch of unmoving, yet fast-approaching, air. 


The flames flared for a brief moment, spreading across the ground, 


and the empty space disappeared. All that was left was the burning 
fragments of the lamp, and the ominous pitter-patter of the nightly 
rainfall. 


That night, upon returning to the station, | sat upon my chair and 
called upon the entire force. They were to scour the city and search 
for this elusive form, be it man or otherwise. If they did find it, they 
were not to engage, but bring back news of its whereabouts. | did 
not want to risk losing any men to the strangeness that was invading 
my city — on All Hallow's Eve. 


My next clue came in the form of an old man, brought in from the 
street, dressed in rags. Another one of the homeless. Cradling a 
much-appreciated cup of tea from Gilroy, | faced this man in my 

Office, listening to his words. 


“| tol’ em’, see? | tol’ em’ about them devils, but nobody ever took 
my wor’s for trut’. Don’cha see? They preh’ on us. They will not stop. 
No’ for as long as we are about. Beneath of homes, they gath’r, 
waiting. Waiting. And taking us, on’ by one, until ther’ be none left.” 


Gilroy shook his head. “Madness. He’s been driven mad by life on 
the streets.” 


Chatmers, standing by the side of the room with his arms folded, 
indicated otherwise. “In times of darkness, let the blind man be the 
guide. In times of madness, let the madman lead the way. What else 
do we got?” 


| looked at the two of them with a meaningful glance, wanting 
silence, before turning back to the raving old man. “Sir. Do you have 
any idea where these ‘devils’ of yours reside?” 


“It ain’ no use. No use at all. We’ be all dead.” 
“Sir.” 


“Under our feet, the’ be crawlin’. Everywhere. In the pitter-patter 


aed) 


beneaf’ the city, they’ be crawlin’. 


“The sewers?” 
“No use... No use...” 


The lunatic stared into his hands, mute momentarily. Mad as he 
was, | couldn’t help but feel a slight shiver leap down my spine. The 
events of the afternoon could hardly be explained by conventional 
means. A leap of faith may be in order. 


The chance came soon enough. After the old man had left, the three 
of us had sat about the station, killing time as we waited for reports 
to come in. Then, a sweating, elderly officer barged in through the 
front, shouting. “Quick! Quick! One of our own, sirs! He’s dead!” 


Leaping off our chairs, we gathered our coats. | strapped in my 
pistol, grabbing a gas lantern off the shelf. Gilroy and Chatmers both 
sported heavier armaments: Gilroy slinging across his waist a 
shotgun, while Chatmers cradled his hunting rifle. We set off, into 
the dark night. Midnight had long since gone, but the damnable rain 
continued, well into the early hours of Halloween. 


This time, the bloodstains were still fresh. Confusing as they were, 
they faced a specific direction, headed down the empty street, in the 
middle. On the ground, covered in life-blood, lay an officer’s helmet, 
and a broken nightstick. The nightstick had been cut across the 
middle, at an angle, a clean, surgical cut. We moved down the 
street, all of us silent. 


The bloodstains led to a manhole cover, some distance down. They 
seeped into the iron, draining away into the darkness below. Back- 
up had still not arrived. With trembling hands, | reached down, and 
lifted the cover, heaving it aside with some considerable effort. 
Steam roiled out from the open sewers, and inside, | could hear the 
rushing sound of drain-waters, as the rain poured into the city below. 


“Are you sure about this? Should we wait for backup?” Gilroy asked, 
nervousness causing a slight tremble in his normally stoic voice. 


Chatmers shook his head. “There’s still a chance that our officer 
may be alive. This may be the only lead we've got. We have to 
follow, before the trail gets cold.” 


| nodded my assent. Turning to Gilroy, | tried to flash a smile that | 
hoped seemed brave. “What, scared of rats, Gilroy?” 


Chatmers chimed in. “I’m sure your smell will drive ‘em away, no 
problem there.” 


Gilroy grunted, cocking his shotgun. “Very funny. Let’s stop talking 
and keep moving.” With that, he began to climb the ladder 
downwards, into the murky darkness below. 


It was as if we had climbed a ladder into hell. The roar of the water 
was so loud that we could barely hear each other's steps down the 
ladder, the steam and humidity of the trapped heat causing us to 
erupt in sweat. By the time we reached the bottom rungs, we were 
already drenched. 


We had barely moved a short distance, following errant bloodstains, 
before | saw the victim. | will never forget it. | will never forget the 
sight of the poor rookie, dripping a trail of blood as the body was 
dragged across the floor, seemingly by nothing. The crumpled form 
shifted erratically, a few steps every few moments, scraping across 
the floor as the still-shining belt buckle across the corpse’s waist 
scratched the granite. 


The body stopped for a moment. As if it sensed us. Then, it began to 
move again, at a much faster pace, skipping across the ground like 
a doll with all its strings but one cut. We shouted, ordering the 
corpse to halt its macabre dance, and gave chase. Shots from my 
pistol rang out across the sewers, echoing down the tunnels. We ran 
for a long, long time, and soon | knew not where we were. Then, 
finally, a turn left, up two flights of stairs, still chasing the body 
bumping across the uneven steps, down the tunnel and turning right 
and across left and — We walked into a hall. 


A hall of horrors. 


We all stopped then, unable to move, to comprehend in our small 
minds what exactly we had stumbled upon. It was as if a morbid 
hospital, with rows and rows of standing glass coffins lining the 
ground. Each was misted over with the humidity, but | could still 
barely sense movement within. Moans echoed through the hall, a 


few screams were heard, and | realized with mind-shattering terror, 
that this hall seemed to be endless. It stretched far beyond what 
could have been possible in this god-forsaken mausoleum, into the 
distance. The ceiling could not be seen; the walls stretched into the 
darkness above us three tiny figures. 


| took a few hesitant steps towards the nearest glass coffin, naming 
itin my head so simply because the shapes resembled those found 
in funerals. Yet they were made of glass, misted over in the steam, a 
dull blue glow that was the only source of light in the hall emanating 
from these coffins. | wiped the misted glass, peering inside. 


A hand smashed against the glass, from the inside, with a sickening 
thump. It streamed blood, black barbs catching it from all sides; 
even it seemed, from within. A scream rang out with such feeling 
that | was stunned, but even that barely contained the revulsion | felt 
as | peered in. A body, desiccated, almost nothing more than skin 
and bones, with a few stray strands of hair, stood within, with barely 
any space to move. It was hooked all over by strange metal barbs, 
through the ears, the neck, spikes pushed out through the eyes, and 
it bled all over, a deep dark red. By all means, it should have been 
dead. By God, | wished it had been dead. But it was not. It was the 
corpse from before, brought to unholy life. It continued to move and 
squirm, moan and writhe in the confines of the glass coffin, unable 
to die, trapped in a terrible mockery of life. 


Madness took me then, and | screamed. | smashed the butt of my 
pistol against the glass, hoping to shatter it, free the poor soul within. 
It didn’t even scratch. | began to gibber, explaining to myself again 
and again that this had a perfectly rational explanation, that the man 
was actually dead, that the world had not just turned itself inside out. 
| continued banging against the glass, until my hand was finally 
halted by the firm grip of Gilroy. Chatmers was retching into a 
corner, unable to stand the sight, the idea of such a torture. Gilroy 
himself, ashen-faced, trembled as he held me, but it allowed me to 
calm down. | extricated myself from his grasp, not trusting myself to 
words, and leaned against another coffin, catching my breath. 


Then | heard it. Again. Pitter-patter, raindrops falling inside the dry 
hall. Footsteps, from before, staccato rhythms tapping themselves 
out in the echoing hall. Leaping back, | felt the presence of forms 


moving closer and closer. Gilroy roared as he cocked his shotgun, 
and began spraying indiscriminate blasts into the darkness. 


One must have caught a water pipe, because in a moment, the 
entire room was filled with spraying water. Then we saw the figures, 
moving slowly, jerking across the room towards us. They were 
countless, numbering in the thousands, and they moved with a 
deathly purpose, the shotgun pellets vanishing as they approached 
the figures. We turned to run. 


We ran down darkened corridors, and heard the pitter-patter of the 
forms giving chase. Down winding staircases and up water-slick 
ramps, we ran for our lives, screaming, shouting, making noise to 
remind ourselves that we were still alive. It was not long, before we 
came to a gate, rusted shut, trapping us. Turning about, Chatmers 
began firing with his hunting rifle, to no avail. The pitter-patter grew 
louder and louder. Gilroy worked the gate, whimpering beneath his 
breath, before he finally managed to shift the gears of the 
mechanism. With a great screech, the gate swung open, Gilroy 
pushing down upon the nearby lever with all his might. 


“Go! You know what to tell Marie.” 
“But-“ 
“Just shut it and go!” 


With a nod to my brave Superintendent’s actions, | ducked through 
the opening, Chatmers following suit. 


“Gilroy! You can still make it! Come on!” Chatmers held onto the 
gate, attempting to keep it open despite the grinding mechanism. 
Gilroy leapt towards the opening. Yet, mid-leap, he stopped, as if 
held back by an unseen force. Then, he crashed to the ground, 
mere steps away from the gate. It smashed shut, with a definite 
clang, Chatmers barely avoiding losing his hands as he leapt back. 


In the distance, held aloft by empty space, floated towards us 
another one of the glass coffins. It was empty. Within it, we saw the 
writhing forms of the barbs, hungering, seeking for life to attach itself 
to. It drew closer and closer. And Gilroy was dragged, slowly, 


painfully into it. Soon, only his upper body could be seen in the 
darkness, the rest having been entrapped in the open glass coffin. 
Chatmers took aim, and fired. A quick lancing shot flew through the 
air, and burst open Gilroy’s head like a ripe melon. Better a quick, 
merciful death than the un-life we had just seen. | pulled at 
Chatmers, and we both scampered down the dark corridor, looking 
to escape the tunnels. 


We came upon a flight of stairs leading up. Leaping them two steps 
at a time, we had almost reached the top, when | heard an ominous 
rumble, mixing in with the constant pitter-patter behind us. The 
masonry, unable to take the strain after centuries of disuse, gave 
way beneath my feet, and | plunged down into the darkness. 


Chatmers turned and cried down to me, “NO!” 


| picked myself up, constantly aware of the footsteps behind me, and 
shouted back up. “I’m fine! Keep going! Run!” 


Turning about, | faced the empty tunnel before me, echoing with the 
increasing pitter-patter. To my right, | spied a tunnel leading 
upwards, perhaps even to freedom. It was my only chance. With a 
great swing, | flung my gas lamp towards the area before me, 
causing a slight flower of flame to erupt in the darkness, before 
dying out. Plunged into total pitch black, | turned and ran down the 
corridor, legs burning with the effort. | ran for hours, down winding 
corridors, unable to even remember if | was running in the right 
direction, just running away from the horrors behind me, and the hall 
full of the eternally trapped.