The Final Embrace

Chapter 1: The Encounter

Hello there, my name is Charles Bourdreaux, but my friends mostly call me Charlie. I have a question for you: have you ever seen something so out of the ordinary that it doesn’t seem quite real? Because I have.

Now, before you go calling me crazy—which I might be—let me tell you about a man I encountered, though he was no man at all. He was a monster, a horror straight from the deepest shadows, crafted by the devil himself. This man will simply be referred to as The Man, as his actual name was never given to me, nor did I wish to know it.

The Man stood at an imposing eight feet tall, a behemoth who weighed roughly a thousand pounds, yet somehow appeared to be nothing but skin and bones. His body was draped in inky black hair that cascaded over his face and torso like greasy, unkempt tentacles, giving him the ghastly semblance of a walking cadaver. His skin was an unnatural shade of paper white, stretched tight over his skeletal frame, making him look even more monstrous.

But it was his eyes that haunted me. They were all black, save for a glowing yellow pinprick at the center of each pupil, reminiscent of a cat staring in the dark—unearthly and predatory. He wore an outfit that looked as if it had been pulled from a dusty old book about Alexander Hamilton, complete with a coat that seemed to ripple in the air, though he was barefoot. And there it was—a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, a hideous mixture of pure ecstasy and unbearable pain. To complete the picture, he had a flintlock pistol at his waist, its handle carved with a single word: **“Draw.”** It felt like a challenge, a taunt, as if he reveled in the dread he inspired.

The current date is October 1st, 1920. It was a warm October day, the kind where the sun began to set in a blaze of oranges and purples. The clock struck 17:00 as I sank into my armchair, flipping through the pages of a worn novel, trying to lose myself in a world far removed from the one I inhabited. My quiet reverie was broken by the pitter-patter of little feet racing toward me.

“Daddy!” my daughter Elizabeth exclaimed, her brown hair bouncing as she nearly threw herself into my lap. “I’m sorry! I forgot your birthday!”

At five years old, she wore a vibrant blue dress that twirled around her as she spoke, her eyes wide with genuine remorse. I chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Don’t fret the small stuff, Lizzy,” I reassured her. “I completely forgot, too. We can celebrate next year, alright?”

Her pout transformed into a bright smile as she nodded, her innocent joy infectious. I couldn’t help but feel warmth in my heart as she clambered down from my lap. “Can I help you with your cake?”

“Absolutely! But you’d better get to bed quickly; you don’t want to be tired when we celebrate!” I said, playfully ruffling her hair.

With a promise to help bake a cake tomorrow, she scampered off to her room, leaving me alone in the dim light of the apartment. As the sun sank lower, I reached for the phone, dialing the number of my girlfriend, Samantha. We had plans to celebrate my birthday tonight, and the thought of sharing champagne with her brought a lightness to my spirit.

“Hey, Charlie!” Samantha’s cheerful voice flowed through the receiver. “I’m so glad you called! I’ll be over soon; I can’t wait to see you!”

I smiled, feeling my earlier worries melt away. I had some new champagne I hadn’t opened yet, a present I’d saved for a special occasion. Tonight was the night.

**October 2nd, 1920, 7:00 Hours**

After our little “get together,” I woke up feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks. Samantha had left early, but the remnants of our celebration lingered in the air. The smell of breakfast filled the apartment as I scrambled eggs and toasted bread, feeling a contentment that had been elusive for too long. Everything seemed normal, even blissful.

**October 5th, 1920, 20:00 Hours**

By the end of the week, the world outside had begun to shift into the vibrant hues of autumn. The air felt crisp, and I could smell the impending chill of Halloween. Elizabeth had been buzzing with excitement, begging me to help her with her costume.

“But please, Dad!” she implored, her eyes wide and earnest. “I want to spend more time with you. Please go with me!”

I hesitated, the weight of work and obligations pressing down on my shoulders, but I didn’t want to upset her. “Alright, alright. I’ll go with you,” I said, and her face lit up like a lantern in the dark.

Just as the warmth of that moment settled in, my phone rang. It was my “good friend” Michael. We’d known each other since childhood, though I often felt we were more acquaintances than friends.

“Hey Charlie, I know it’s late, but can you come on down to the office?” he asked, his tone urgent.

I sighed, the prospect of more work conflicting with my plans. “You know what? Sure, I’ll be right down there.”

“Dad!” Elizabeth’s voice was laced with disappointment.

“Just a quick errand, I promise!” I assured her, attempting to mask my guilt. With a heavy heart, I grabbed my coat and headed out, leaving her behind.

The radio broadcasting station felt cold and lifeless that evening, especially compared to the warmth of home. Michael worked the records and phone lines, while I dealt with the caller requests, trying to keep my mind busy. It was a slow night; we only received about 320 calls, a far cry from the usual 1,580.

**As the clock struck 22:00 Hours**

A strange call came in that I couldn’t shake off.

A man with a gravelly voice—a low, scratchy rumble that sent shivers down my spine—asked me, “When does a man die?”

“Excuse me?” I stammered, caught off guard.

“Does a man die when a deadly poison is injected through his veins, making his blood gelatinize and causing him to choke from the inside? How about when a pistol bullet shatters his rib, puncturing his lung, making him drown in his blood?” he spoke with a chilling calmness that made my skin crawl.

“I—I beg your pardon,” I stuttered, trying to regain composure. “I’m hanging up.”

“I believe a man dies when he’s forgotten. So tell me, will you be remembered?” he asked, the malice in his voice unmistakable.

“Goodnight, sir!” I hung up, my heart racing.

Both Michael and I exchanged bewildered glances, our earlier banter replaced by an unsettling silence. We couldn’t fathom how someone could remain so calm while discussing death. I tried to dismiss it, but deep down, I knew that was my first encounter with The Man.