Tales from the Past - The Phantom in the Tower

July 2064. On the run from the Fishface Syndicate, Shaz seeks refuge in the so-called Witch Tower of New Langdon, now infamous due to the urban legend of The Man With the Hat. Yet, with no other places to go, Shaz sees no alternatives to seeking shelter inside the dilapidated building...

(Proofread and edited by Kaleb O'Halloran)

The fortress was imposing. Layers over layers of jagged stone bricks, sculpted with precision and enough variance to give the impression of looking at a centuries-old medieval castle, in all its ruined glory. Except it wasn’t even thirty years old. Just the work of an eccentric Austrian nobleman, who had decided to commission several towers around the world, gifting it to the cities he had lived in during his youth.

Sheesh, that fella must’a had an inordinate amount of money and no idea how to spend it.

He sighed.

Exactly what the root cause of all his problems was: money. Or, more precisely, the lack thereof. He stared again at the monumental opening, the battlements at the top, the majestic arcs, the narrow windows. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given a damn about them – he wasn’t one for appreciating architectural masterpieces. Yet, he felt a chill down his spine. That place was enveloped by a bizarre aura. Be it for the sudden death of its owner barely six months ago, or the many concerning rumors surrounding the building, he felt almost as if the structure itself didn’t want him there. He stepped forward nonetheless. It was late, way past midnight. And he was tired. Dead tired.

Running away from his flat, barely avoiding gunfire from people he had called brothers not even a year prior... all of that had taken a toll on his health. He just wanted to rest, ideally without the risk of being Swiss-cheesed by a Sachson machine gun. And that place, that lonely, abandoned place, seemed like a quiet venue to have some shuteye. Feliz would have never thought to look for him there. Blade? Blade maybe, but he wouldn’t have snitched. There was still something between them. There had been something between them. He shook his head. Wishful thinking? The memories of his big, warm arms wrapped around him, the memories of his kisses, of those shining, green eyes that made his heart race... yet, just simple memories. Moments to be forgotten. He was an outcast now, and by his own choice.

He gazed at the stone complex once more. There were lots of urban legends about the place. Legends of ghosts haunting it. Of the spirits of the dead whispering in the ears of children to have them run away from home, never to be found again. And in the ears of adults, making them believe jumping from the tall tower was their only choice forward. He didn’t believe them. He didn’t believe in ghosts, let alone haunted places. However, recently there had been other kinds of rumors – rumors of a person lurking inside that old-looking building.

An entity simply referred to as “the man with the hat” or “blurry face”.

It was indeed a weird story that spread like wildfire in the underworld of New Langdon. You bring a suitcase full of bills, write your request on an A5 piece of paper (no bigger, no smaller) and leave it in front of the Witch Tower. If you are lucky, your suitcase disappears and the man with the hat fixes your issue for you. That damning witness will refrain from talking. That traitorous goon will disappear in the middle of the night. Those stolen goods you threw into the river will be returned to your house. That car that compromises your alibi will disappear from existence. And the only thing you’ll see is a brief glimpse, a spot of color in the corner of your eye. Nothing more. Some believed it. Some even brought loads of cash to the tower, waiting for it to be snatched. Some tried to film it. Yet, nothing ever happened when the cameras were up. Sometimes, though, the suitcases would just disappear without apparent reason. And no goons would go the easy, straightforward way of just entering the building to look for him themselves. Or rather, not openly. There were tales of city workers going through the tower to search for any signs of this phantom’s existence, but none seemed to have reported anything strange or out of the ordinary.

Someone must be playin’ on this dumbass hearsay.

He thought it was stupid. The man with the hat had to be a creature born out of the hallucinating mind of a junkie doing drugs near the tower. All reports about this fairy-tale serial badass problem-solver were recounts from friends of friends, distant relatives, father’s brother’s nephew’s cousin’s former roommates, and so on and so forth. And, if that man really existed, too bad for his faceless hide – some hypothetical, colorful-hatted mofo was hardly a good reason to lose sleep.

The pale moon was shining from the clouds above, dimly illuminating the stone structure. He could see a small side door. Open. Against all the odds.

He shrugged.

Better not to wait on it.

He reached for a small bag in his hand, containing all his remaining belongings. Shades. A picture of Blade and him. Two old golden guns, now useless without bullets. Seven fake ID documents with seven different names – Shaz, Gaetano, Chazz, Evaristo, Fidel, and two more he couldn’t remember. A burner phone. A flashlight. The rest of a half-eaten sandwich. More than that, he couldn’t save. He wouldn’t have even wanted to. Thus, he stepped through the stone arch, entering the darkness of the tower.

Silence welcomed him, the clacking echo of his steps on the naked stone being his only companion. The man (or sharkman?) called Shaz, Gaetano or any of his fake identities proceeded slowly, up the stairs, in the coldness of the night, paying close attention to where he was putting his feet. No light to brighten his path. No music to alleviate his pain. The hooting of an owl in the distance broke through the barren walls, reverberating in the corridors. He ignored it, continued forward. There had to be a room to rest, somewhere inside that tower. He wasn’t expecting to find a bed, or even an empty frame, but looking for it didn’t hurt. Once he became confident nobody could see him from the outside, he turned his flashlight on, shining it on the walls. Rows of paintings everywhere, many of which portrayed a bat, or a person with a large bat-shaped helmet. Some of the scenes depicted were somewhat disconcerting, such as one of a giant bat devouring an eagle after killing it, crafted with a magnificently grotesque style. The man behind the towers had to love bats, that was for sure. Yet, the city of New Langdon, to which said tower was gifted, probably didn’t, and definitely had no idea what to do with the once spectacular building, now defaced and covered with graffiti not even one year after its creator’s death.

Suddenly, the beam flickered. Once. Twice. Low battery. He cursed. That wasn’t a good omen. No spares meant no light. He hoped to find a place to sleep soon, before the remaining strength of his dying companion expired. Then, he saw it. A door.

He looked at it, reached for it slowly, touching the handle with great care. He couldn’t afford to make too much noise. His heartbeat pounded, deafening his ears. Then, as he finally gathered his courage, he pulled the handle. The hinges creaked in a prolonged lament, as the door made way for him. And, before his eyes, a small, cramped room with no windows made its appearance.

It wasn’t well furnished, but he could make out the shape of a table, a chair with a broken leg, and what looked like a mattress. A bowl with various fruits, a bottle of water, a deck of cards. Random objects left around, without any connection he could discern. Maybe it was some homeless sod’s shelter. He looked around again. Nobody in sight. The cards on the table were arranged in a half-finished game of solitaire, with one card placed on the wrong staple. The fruits looked fresh, but the same couldn’t be said for the water in the bottle. He calmed down.

Whatever, I ain’t picky. Aaaand there ain’t nobody home.

He pressed down on the mattress. It seemed fine, and even relatively new. Yet, no bed sheet was laid onto it. No frame was keeping it from being stranded on the stone floor. It didn’t look very comfortable, but – he reasoned – beggars on the run from the fishface mafia can’t be choosers.

It was then that he noticed it.

It was just a spot of color at first, in the corner of his eye. Something his brain just barely registered. In the dark, dimly lit by the beam of his flashlight, if only for an instant. Shaz glared at the door. It had to be self-suggestion, his mind playing tricks on him. Yet...

He gazed around, trying to pinpoint the origin of that unease. He slowly stepped towards the open door, moving the beam left and right, up and down.

Then, he screamed.

“Bloody moonFIIIIIIIIIISH!!!”

And ducked. And yelled. And screamed again. His flashlight was pointing towards it, towards a dark silhouette, a shadowy figure standing not even two meters away.

Dressed in something that looked like a suit, a shocking pink suit.

The light flickered as the figure closed in. Shaz shook his head, waved his arms, yelped like a dog. Then, his survival instinct kicked in, a wild idea taking shape in his mind. In that moment of terror and adrenaline, something he would have never considered doing in a normal situation became the focus of his thought.

One second, his flashlight was beaming at a strange man wearing bright colors, advancing menacingly. The next, it was flying, spinning through the air, directed at said man’s head. And then it found its target, with a loud thud.

“Damn it! You absolute, bloody, dumb idiot!”

A voice. A human voice. Yelling in pain. Something falling on the floor. A hat. A hat that, although only illuminated for a brief moment as it brushed past the flashlight’s rays, was unmistakably of that same shocking pink color. Shaz looked up at that cursing figure who was keeping a hand on his forehead, stepping towards him with what could only be described as blind rage. He couldn’t make out the details of the man’s face. It was too dark to see, and his flashlight was now lying, battered and switched off, on the stone floor. The only thing he could see was the suit, and the now hatless man wearing it. Terror turned into curiosity, which helped him calm down, if only a little bit.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry pal! I got startled n’ didn’t know who ya were, and...”

“And you threw a bloody flashlight at me?! Seriously?”

The man reached for his fallen hat, putting it back in its rightful place. Then, he stared at the sorry mess in front of him. It was a sharkman. A sort of freak, like the big tiger guy who used to occupy a cell near his, back in Euterpe. Only, this one was no prisoner. He was a bona fide free-roaming mutant. And a stupid one, at that. He kept his gaze trained on the shark, who was trying to stand up, still hypnotized in what he could only assume was a state of awe at the sight of his majestic presence. The man touched his eyebrow, or rather the ever-shifting flesh structure he had for an eyebrow, constantly oscillating between many different renditions of the same bump. He hated that, but he had learned to accept it – somehow. That was him, his shape, his face... or faces. Not something he could get rid of, even if he wanted.

“Didn’t you get the memo, imbecile? Nobody enters this tower. You want me to help you out? Leave the money on the stairs and get the bloody hell out!”

Shaz blinked. Twice.

Money. Help you. Tower. Brightly-colored hat. His brain slowly made the connection, causing him to gasp.

“Bloody moonfish! You're blurry face?! The man with the hat?! You EXIST?!”

The man froze for a long instant, even forgetting to breathe at one point as his heart skipped a beat in shock. Then, he spoke, his voice turning into an icy blade, piercing Shaz’s ears with its sharpness.

“Blurry face?”

With a sudden movement, he kicked the sharkman in his stomach. Shaz cried out in pain, his body curling inward, his eyes wide open. Then the man grabbed him by the dorsal fin, lifting him up to glare directly into his terrorized pupils.

“Listen up, you planktonbrain. First, you enter my room in the middle of the night. Then, you hit me with a bloody flashlight. Then, you have the guts to call me names, right in front of me? Do you have a death wish?!”

“I...”

“My name is not ‘blurry face.’ It’s Johnson. Johnson, got it? Now get lost.”

The man finally released his grip, letting Shaz fall back down to the floor. He landed hard on the stone, but soon managed to sit himself up, massaging his belly. That Johnson guy hit him hard. He could feel his muscles aching, pain radiating from the point of impact. Yet, he felt strangely more comfortable than before. Blurry face was no ghost. He could touch him. He could be wounded. He cursed like he would have. He was a human being, in the flesh, blood and flashy colors. A weirdo, a societal outcast. Not too dissimilar from him. He sighed.

“Aaalright, alright. Ain’t you got another room here?”

Johnson turned around, stared at him with homicidal intent. The sharkman couldn’t see him, couldn’t see his face in that unlit room, couldn’t make out the lack of details – and probably wasn’t even asking himself questions about it. Ignorance was bliss, truly. Yet, that request was the definition of pushing his luck.

“Didn’t I tell you to get lost?”

“Yeah, ya did! But it’s either I sleep here, orrrr I sleep with the fishes! ‘Cause, I’ll be real with ya, the mafia’s gonna kill me dead if they get their fins on me.”

“What...?”

“Ya see…”

Shaz stopped his words before they left his throat. He would have loved to say that he stole a couple million pounds from the vault. And that not one single pound of it was left. His former associates still believed he had the money stored somewhere, anywhere – hidden, maybe. Of course they’d think that, but that wasn’t the case. Shaz was broke, that fortune had disappeared. But he couldn’t tell that to this man, to blurry face. He didn’t have a single friend he could talk with about it, and of course that man was no friend. He was a hired hand, a problem-solver. Someone who don Go could easily make use of to get his hands on Shaz and slice him up like sushi.

“...it’s a long story, pal. But I’m kind of an outcast, got it? Nowhere to run. Well, except one place, but I can’t go there this evenin’, see? That reptile ain’t gonna take it lightly.”

And whoever was actively trying to kill him would surely try to intercept him on his way there. Sure, Mr. Daevka might have helped him at first, but that sly old bastard wasn’t known to put his life on the line for a mere acquaintance. Still, if he managed to endure the night, not even Go’s henchfish would dare execute him in broad daylight. Spending his night at Le Coq Heureux was his only sane option. Except, it wasn’t applicable at the moment.

“Pleeeeeeeeease! I’m beggin’ ya here!”

Johnson stared down at him, from under his hat, his eyebrow still aching. He considered the fishface mafia to be unwelcome customers. He couldn’t dream of buying their loyalty, like those simpleton city clerks who inspected the tower every other month and reported it as “perfectly empty”. Those cronies always smelled the scent of paper bills, and were content enough to let Johnson stay there in secret. From a certain point of view, it was no different than paying his rent to the municipality – just in a very unorthodox way. Don Go’s fishmen couldn’t be bought like that, though. Dealing with them could potentially turn into a bloodbath. He looked again at the sad, pleading shark, bowing in front of him with his hands joined. He knew he could easily solve the situation by knocking him out cold, wrapping him in a black trash bag, and delivering him straight to the mafia’s doorstep, with a nice greeting card taped on. That would have won him don Go’s favor, plus some additional contacts in the underworld. Carrying out missions and small tasks without ever talking to his customers meant he didn’t know for whom he was working, most of the time. Some networking would do him good. His odd jobs had given him a way to get by, but if he wanted to stay in the business, he had to enlarge his hunting ground – and do it soon.

Yet, the more he looked at that pathetic excuse for an apex predator, the less good he felt about turning him in. He had not disposed of anybody yet, during his short life outside of the lab. Leading the shark to his death felt somehow... wrong.

He sighed. He was going to regret his decision.

“There’s another room down the corridor. No mattress or pillow, just bare stone. I keep my wardrobe there – and a couple bottles of water. You can take one, but touch any of my suits or hats and you are dead.”

Shaz blinked in the shadows, his mouth agape, a sentiment of utter disbelief spreading like wildfire.

“W... wait... ya mean I can stay?!”

“Only until the sun rises, okay? And I’ll kick your ass right out of the tower if I hear you snoring.”

Johnson adjusted his hat, that shocking pink fedora complementing his Tuesday fit. One night. Just one night, then he would be gone forever. Nothing bad. No lasting consequences. He stared at the shark, who had started crying like a baby, with a dumb look of joy on his face. His adrenaline fading, his muscles relaxing, a weak “thank you” as the only thing he could manage to say. Johnson grunted with a mix of embarrassment and displeasure, as the burly sea creature started shuffling out of the door, almost crawling towards the corridor in a state of bliss, confusion and relief.

Just one night, one short night with that bizarre freak as a guest. That’d be it. He shut the door of his room, locked it from inside, twice, then laid down on the dusty mattress, without even taking off his suit, slowly massaging his still-aching eyebrow.

Whatever the future held for him, he only hoped that finned disaster would never cross his path ever again.