Observe. Foresee. Punish.
A group of neo-generation vigilantes is taking the world by storm. No one knows who they are, what they are like or where they operate from.
Some say they aren't human, others call them psychopaths on a mission.
The only...
The cleaner collected his equipment from the back of his van and checked his watch.
He was running late. It was well past eight in the morning, and he still hadn't started the first house yet, but that was because his wife was burning a high fever and he had to make sure that she was okay before leaving for work.
A blast of chilly wind smacked him across the face as he went back for his ladder. Tucking his chin into the thick woollen scarf around his neck, the cleaner shivered fiercely. Ever since he turned fifty-five, he had found that he felt the cold excruciatingly more than before - it cut deep inside to his bones.
And even for a December morning, it was particularly miserable.
Above him, the sky was gunmetal grey, and the many bushes and trees that once dwelled within the gardens of the estate bare and dead. Puddles from the overnight rain splashed at his boots as he trudged down the garden path.
In the distance, over the roofs of the buildings, he could hear the distant wail of a siren. The sound made him think of the story he had seen on the morning news.
Murders in Barnum.
He couldn't quite remember what it was, but he was sure that the news had even given the murderer a name. Like the kind of thing you would see on a crime show, or movie.
Originally he had thought it ridiculous.
Barnum was small and removed. And, even by city standards, the neighbouring Hemingway was hardly the largest place. Nothing that outlandish ever happened in that part of the country.
But then the newscaster had reminded him of certain events two years earlier. A gang had kidnapped and tortured several people, killing all but one of them. For the longest time, the local papers had reported on very little else.
By the time he set out to work, the cleaner no longer considered the possibility of a killer in his town all that far-fetched.
He wondered if the sirens were the police heading to the scene of another murder.
After all, it was a strong possibility. There had been two deaths already.
And so close to Christmas... he thought, bitterly, as he looked up at the lights strung across the front of the house next to his client's.
What's the bloody world coming to?
Grunting, he pushed the ladder down from over his shoulder and tilted it against the wall. Rubbing his hands together, he began to walk around the back of the semi-detached property. The owner of the house whose windows he cleaned always taped his fee to one of the back windows, in a small red envelope.
But this time it wasn't there.
Swearing lightly under his breath, he walked back to the front garden and began to turn his attention up and down the road. The owner's car was still there, parked beside the kerb several yards down the street.
Perhaps he had just forgotten.
Rapping his fist against the front door, he waited for several seconds, but there was no answer. He tried again, but still nothing. No sounds of movement from the other side of the barrier. Either he hadn't heard him, or he was ignoring him.
Leaking through the window parallel to him was light from the living room, still on and cutting through the dim morning light.
Hissing another curse, he trudged along the front wall and leaned over the flower bed. His face crushed itself against the cold glass even as he peered inside the house.
The first thing he saw was the sign.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Painted onto the wall to his right, it shimmered a deep shade of jet black.
"What the heck?" he exclaimed, feeling exceedingly confused and irritated.
Eyes scanning the room, he tried to find some kind of clue as to what was going on inside.
What he found stopped him dead-cold.
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of a pool of blood, his hands clasped together as if in prayer, 27 year old Jace Williamson stared up at the ceiling. His mouth was open, his eyes dead and milky. His blood-soaked clothes gave the fabric a repugnant, liquid sheen.
His breath catching in his throat, the cleaner stumbled backwards and fought to pull his phone out of his pocket. His mind swam with images of the grotesque yet mesmerizing sight his eyes had just seen.
He breathed in and out painfully, the relentless cold assaulting his body ever so intensely.
