Journal of Robert Olmsted
January 15th, 1925. New York
Until tonight, I had no idea why I kept in contact with Father Molokai, Zeke, Mencken, and Luigi over the last seven months. We’re an unlikely band of brothers, forged by a shared enemy—the Calafiore. Some of us stood against the syndicate by choice, others were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Father Molokai had been making the rounds, keeping us connected. We must seem a sort of lost flock to the Father. Compared to him, we’re all lost to one vice or another, and a few of us well acquainted with several.
Mencken received a call from Jackson Elias. The call was short, but the desperation was clear. “They” were after him, closing in like wolves on a wounded deer. “They” would find him soon. Fear dripped from his voice, pooling on the receiver. Elias holed up in the Chelsea Hotel, room 410.
We piled into the Rolls Royce, Timmy’s foot heavy on the gas, while Zeke and Mencken weaved through traffic in the Packard. Parallel lines converging on the same point.
Inside the Chelsea, I took the stairs. My bum leg is always stiff for the first flight. Lifts are like coffins, I’ll only going in one after I’m dead. On the fourth floor, we met up again, me more winded than the others. As we stepped down the hall, our hearts pounding in sync. The hallway stretched before us, a dimly lit corridor leading to room 410. The air tasted of copper—sweet, metallic.
Blood.
The door was cracked open, revealing Jackson Elias sprawled on the floor. But it wasn’t just a body; it was a nightmare.
I’ve never seen so much blood.
I’ve seen plenty of bodies mangled and dashed during the war. I killed two men, that I know of, when our squad came under fire. I’ve watched men trapped in a train car, their eyes wild with fear and lungs releasing a sound that should not be of this earth, as the dark waters of the L’ignon swallowed them. I even beat one of the Calafiore’s bagmen to death with my bare hands. But I’ve never seen anything like this.
Blood pooled around him, a crimson halo. Jackson Elias’ ribs were cracked open, bones jutting out like the teeth of an upturned rake. What was left of the body was torn and sundered. Had something been pulled out of him? Pieces of Elias had— come off— in the struggle. My mind almost rejected the image, as if it culd not possibly be real. I don’t even think blades or tools had been used, just raw violence. What kind of strength could rend a man like that?
And then, a glimpse beyond the window. It was so brief and fleeting, it might have been a trick of the mind. A figure. Not human, at least not entirely. It could not be human. The figure beyond the window slid resistlessly into the night. Then there was only empty air left where it had been. That is, if anything had ever even been there. The room held its breath, and so did we. Jackson Elias was gone, but the horror remained—an indelible stain on our souls. Whatever hunted down Elias was gone now, but it was still out there somewhere.
I clenched my fists as something deep inside me awakened. There was fear and terror, and confusion. Those were, of course, the first things I felt when my knees weakened. But there was another, deeper feeling, growing stronger by the second. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time. A feeling I thought had been killed in me a long time ago. I hadn’t even fully seen the thing, but even so, I felt a peculiar sense of purpose. The destruction of this— thing— now seemed almost a duty.
If the others were going to take up the trail, and follow to settle what happened to Jackson Elias. I felt duty bound to help, and lay this— thing— to rest. I felt sure such things should not exist. We’d find answers. We broken, damned, and desperate. I’d welcome the priest along for the hunt too, because for all I knew the thing I just saw was a demon. I don’t believe in god, not after the things I’ve seen. Can’t bring myself to believe in god, not after the things I’ve done. But the thing that slipped into the night, out the window on the fourth floor, as easily as a man might step off a curb, was real enough.
So then, why am I now grinning with new resolve? It sounds blasphemous, but I feel alive again beside the carnage that had been Jackson Elias.
I like this feeling.
I’ll fight, and stare into the abyss until it blinks first.