The Cicada Compound

We're not the FBI!

Loud footsteps thunder down the alleyway. The sound of boots stomping on rain puddles at a high speed. Trash cans being knocked over in a desperate attempt to distract or bamboozle.

"He's heading west, around the corner. He's gonna make it into the subway!" The radio on the running mans belt erupts. He turns the corner, and is suddenly knocked to the ground, after coming into contact with a metal bar, unconscious. The man fleeing drops the makeshift blunt weapon and resumes his escape, and heads down the stairs, into the subway station. Luckily for him, there's no one in sight. He jumps over the turnstiles, and runs into the empty train car.

"I can't believe I made it." He breathes a sigh of relief.

"I can't believe it either!" a voice to his left says. He turns to his left and sees a tall man with blackish-brown hair in a white collared shirt, black tie and brown jacket sitting at the other end of the train, smirking at him.

The man being chased, most likely a fugitive, turns around, scanning the train for anything to defend himself against this mysterious enigma. He turns to face the man, getting ready for a fight, and as he does he feels the barrel of a 9 millimeter pistol pressed against his forehead. It's as if the man ran over to him and drew his service firearm with an intent to disarm and or kill at the speed of light. Our fugitive is outmatched.

"At this distance, a single bullet will pierce your skull, go through three out of four lobes of your cranium, and splash brain matter all over the walls of this subway car." He motions with his free arm. "Now unless you'd like to see a demonstration, I suggest you comply." The man says, with a slight joy in his voice.

"Who the hell are you? Why are you chasing me? I did nothing wrong!" The suspect says, with a shaky voice and erratic movements.

"Mr Lendrotsky, you are wanted on the charges of demon summoning with intent to harm others. How do you plead?" He asks, with a dead look in his eyes, almost as if being here is an annoyance.

"I'm not saying anything to you, cop. What are you, FBI?"

"Listen, I assume you know your miranda rights and you'll invoke your right to silence and a lawyer. Let me save you some time and inform you that we're not a government agency." He says, adopting a more relaxed and carefree tone in his voice. "Here, let me show you." As soon as the words come out of his mouth, he aims his pistol at our suspects outer thigh and squeezes the trigger once. Bang! A loud cry of pain escapes our suspects mouth. He collapses to the ground in pain.

"Argh, what the hell, man?"

"There, you should be able to determine that we're not the FBI, right? Oh, don't be such a baby, man, it's only a flesh wound." He says sarcastically. "Now I'm only going to ask you this question one time." He points the gun back right between his eyes. "Are you going to comply? I really don't wanna waste any more bullets." He waves the deadly weapon in the air, taunting him with it.

"I'm going to ask you a series of questions, and you are going to reply in short, sweet answers, otherwise I'll kneecap you in both legs." At this point, our suspect is practically wetting himself in fear.
"Okay, I'll tell you everything you want to know, just don't hurt me any more than you already have!"
"Good man. On October 31st you and a few acquaintances purchased a ouija board online. Do you know what people use ouija boards for?"

"Yeah, they're for communicating with the dead. We didn't mean for anything to happen though, we were just messing around!" He answers our protagonist in a panicked haste.

"Not just for communicating with them. Summoning them. Our paranormal activity sensors picked up some data from your home. It came out of your mirror, didn't it? When we searched it, it was empty." He says, with fake surprise. "Apart from a few dead bodies of course. Your friends, I assume? Boy, you guys messed up baaaad. Everyone knows you're supposed to put down a salt circle!" He chuckles.