“It’s not my problem,” Arken’s voice was gruff with irritation and whiskey. Arken was never too light with his alcohol. He always had a weakness for whiskey and women. He was a tall man with a short fuse. Not much was known about Arken or even where he came from. Some say he blew in from the west, others say he was made in the east, and then others say he came from the pits of hell below. All everyone knew was that Arken was eclipsed with mystery.
“God, Ark! We need you on this one!”
“Dammit, Alex! Don’t call me Ark!”
“Arken! You’ll get your stupid money!” Alexander scrambled up some papers from the nearby coffee table. Alexander was a small but fit man who used to work for the Vice Squad of the Boston Metropolitan Police Department.
“This isn’t your average case, Arken. People are turning up dead and we haven’t gotten a single damn lead!”
“I said it’s not my problem, Alex!”
“You don’t understand…”
“I’m done with this ‘detective’ bull s**t, Alex, I’m finished!” Arken threw a shot glass across the room, smashing it to pieces, little shards of glass littered the floor. The reverberation of the glass busting rang in the small one bedroom apartment. Silence filled the room. Faint patters of rain tapped at the window. Arken walked across the room to the rough polished wood door and opened it.
“I’m leaving, Alex.”
“Arken! Wai-” Arken slammed the door and cut Alex out. Arken walked the dark rainy streets of Boston. He was heading to the local bar when he heard a faint scratching from a nearby alleyway.
“Who’s there!” Arken called out. He headed towards the scratching. He didn’t know why the scratching had caught his attention or why he was even going towards it.
“Hello? Is anybody here, is anyone hurt?” Arken said.
“Hello,” a faint voice said from behind him. Arken spun around. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Who the fu-”
“Watch your language, pal, it’s not very nice.”
“Where are you? Come out!” Arken didn’t want to be here. He had a deep gut feeling that something was very wrong. “Hello?” Silence filled the dark, musty, damp alley. “Where is that scratching?”
“Be a good boy, Arky…” a faint voice said.
“Mom?” Arken whispered.
“Listen to your mother, Ark.”
“Dad?” Arken fell to his knees. “Where are you!?”
“We love you, son!”
“I love you guys! I miss you! Please come back!”
“We love you, son!”
“We love you, son!” The voices were distorting. Arken felt hot. He was sweating profusely.
“Please, don’t leave me!” Arken pleaded. “Please…”
“They’re dead, Arken,” a familiar voice came from behind him.
“They are dead and it’s all your fault!”
“Alex! I’ll kill you!”
“You can’t kill the devil, Arken.”
“Welcome to hell, Arky!” a deep distorted laugh left Alex’s mouth.
“No… No! NOOOO!” Arken let out a terrified scream.
October 27th, 1956.
“A man has been found dead in an alleyway today, the authorities have determined that it was an accident. They have not found any identification on the man. The John Doe was found dead this morning in the dark alleyway near Broad Street.” The sound of sirens and the sight of flashing lights fill the alleyway.
“You guys hear that?” an officer said.
“It sounds like… scratching.”