The Creeping Darkness

PROLOGUE.

1886

The fog settled over London like a funereal shroud. Its thick miasma permeated every dark corner, the bright moon barely visible through its veil. The infamous pea soup haze had been alarmingly prevalent this summer, the choke of smoke winding from factory chimneys mixing with the mist and enveloping every inch of the city.

No respectable creature would dare be seen wandering the streets at night. However, this matter changed when the environment prevented anyone from being seen - at least, not terribly clearly.

Indeed, a tall gentleman in a stovepipe hat strolled across the cobblestones, his shiny pointed shoes tapping loudly. He strode with the confidence of a man who rarely felt fear, and could cheerfully assert mastery of every domain in his passing.

The scurry of rats and the distance barking of dogs were of meager consequence. A pair of inebriated dock workers who stumbled past him were of even less.

The tall gentleman whistled a jaunty tune, some nostalgic yarn from a childhood nursery rhyme. It rang out in an echo, discordant with its bleak surroundings.

He made his way past the sealed shutters of shop windows, and eventually, as he absconded from an often busy neighborhood to one that was less reputable, the hungry eyes of urchins grazed over him, the weary invitations of women of the night following his steps.

These were similarly disregarded. At least, he reached his destination! He slipped into a small alleyway, nearly invisible among the clutter and debris. A figure was slumped on the ground next to a pile of battered crates. For a moment, the alley held only the two of them. The next, a portly man in a bowler hat materialized next to him, as if through shadow.

"Took you long enough," remarked the man in the bowler hat. He had a terribly mundane appearance for one who had just formed out of thin air. He projected more the impression of a grocer than a specter.

The gentleman in the stovepipe hat gave him only a gallant bow in response. He had been tall before, and now he was impossibly so, his spidery limbs stretching him far above the other man's head. His grin spread across his entire face.

"Patience, my dear Mr. Thomas, is close to godliness."

"Thought that was cleanliness."

The impossibly tall gentleman gave him an airy gesture of disregard that nearly encompassed the entire alley. Before he could say anything more, the two were cut off by a choking cough from the crumpled figure on the ground.

The tall gentleman peered over at him, rising far above his slumped head. "Has he said anything of use?"

"Nothing at all." Mr. Thomas scowled at the man in the corner. His entire body was soaked in blood, glistening in the darkness. It was impossible to tell even the color of his clothing. "Sodding tough, that one."

"How unfortunate," purred the tall gentleman, stretching his twisted neck towards the man on the ground. He was rewarded for his efforts by a glob of blood, hitting his cheek in an angry spit. A trilling laugh rang out as his skeletal fingers wiped it away, staining his pristine white gloves. "Such spirit! How do you have this will, after so long?"

The man on the ground did not respond.

Mr. Thomas languidly glanced around the street behind them, which was, at the time, empty, and clouded over. "Planning on doin' more of the same 'til I get an answer, but you know how it goes with his lot. Remarkably good at growing things back."

The tall gentleman gave him a sympathetic nod. The man covered in blood let out a low laugh.

"Oh?" The tall gentleman peered back at him. "Do you finally have something to say?"

It took the man on the ground some time to speak. When he finally did, his voice was ragged and hoarse. Irritated, the spindly creature looming over the man had to prompt him to repeat whatever it was he had said.

Finally, his words were audible.

"Dead. You're both going to be dead soon..."

The tall gentleman was no longer smiling. "You are in no position to make threats." His head swiveled back to Mr. Thomas. "I will take over from here. Fortunately, I don't share your lack of creativity."

Before Mr. Thomas could protest the insult, there was a sound like a flapping of wings, and he was alone in the alleyway. He shook his head disdainfully, and walked off into the night, before fading into a shaft of moonlight.