London, England, 1886.


The fog hung thick in the chill October air, turning the average shapes of the streets of London a sinister touch. It was late, nearing ten thirty, when Everett Wolfen closed up shop for the night, dousing the kerosene lamps and walking slowly down the hall to his apartment.
Everett gave a wide yawn, covering it with the back of a hand while the other gripped the brass doorknob. He gave a low grunt as he turned the knob and leaned against the door, the hinges screeching with protest. Everett lived alone, much to his liking, with nobody in the building next door to bother him.
With a click of his fingers, the candles throughout the main room of his apartment lit up, casting a warm glow throughout the living room and kitchen. He gave a small huff, finding the nearest bit of couch and collapsing on it. He glanced at the small table beside it, spotting the unfinished letter he needed to finish.
It was addressed to a friend who just so happened to be a priest who resided in Dublin. He was a kindly fellow, but a bit of a daft person, always believing there was good in anyone, living or not.
With a small snort, Everett picked up the quill from its resting place beside the letter. He dipped it gingerly into the bottle of pitch-black ink before beginning to write out a sentence in his usual messy, yet somehow legible scrawl.
It was midway through the word “egregious” that Everett felt as if he were not alone in his apartment. He felt the cold trickle of fear run down his spine and the uncomfortable feeling of being watched crept over him. He frowned, giving his head a slight shake and blinking once or twice before dipping his pen in the ink once more. His mind was trying to convince him that he was all alone in the room, nobody else was here.
But then he heard the sickeningly familiar sound of chains clinking against one another, dragged across the room by their bearer. That’s when the ghostly man would whisper in his ear, sometimes talking out loud. But tonight the apparition remained silent for a while, reading Everett’s letter over his shoulder.
After a few minutes, Everett assumed the man had moved on to haunt someone else, so he cast a quick glance over is shoulder, only to see the being a foot or so behind him. He was a strange man, the ghost. Looking much like Everett, but far more gaunt and menacing. He wore clothing much like Everett’s, but it was disheveled and bloodstained, the straight-razor’s holster in the same position, but Everett could see that the razor itself was in far worse condition than his own. The man’s hair was also strikingly similar, only it was a dark gray rather than chocolate brown. A set of ankle cuffs looped uselessly at the man’s feet, restraining him from sprinting, though Everett knew the man had no need for that.
Everett had began seeing the man unwillingly on and off for the past few years, catching glimpses of him walking in and out of rooms, sitting on his couch, reading the papers, but on occasion the ghost like man would strike up a conversation, or simply mutter incoherently for a minute or two until he faded away.


Everett gave the man one final glance before going back to writing, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper and continuing his letter. He heard a low, dark chuckle before the ghost whispered into his ear.
“We’re not so diff’rent, you an’ I…” he said, voice wicked and filled with venom. The ghost had introduced himself as Scourge Talon on their first encounter. He’d asked for Everett’s name, but Everett hadn’t spoken to him. In fact, Everett never spoke to the monstrous being.
Everett narrowed his eyes, focusing on the letter, trying to ignore Scourge, who was circling the young man like a jungle cat, waiting for the perfect time to strike.
“No, not too diff’rent at all. Cut from the same cloth an’ all tha’, no?” The phantom drawled, stopping at his original spot beside Everett, who merely cringed at the thought.
After a moment of waiting for a response, scourge continued. “We only end up hurting everyone around us, don’t we?” he asked, voice laced with a cunning knowledge. Everett paused at that.
Though his entire body went rigid, he continued his writing, his letters becoming more restricted and narrow. Scourge smirked evilly at this.
“Stings, doesn’t it? To remember that horrid night, knowing that there was something you could have done, but didn’t know what it was…” Scourge continued, Everett’s jaw clenched and he stopped writing for a moment. Scourge began his circling once more.
“Yes, so, so alike.” He said, his chains rattling loudly at that.
Everett looked up at the being, watching him circle with a wary glare. Scourge stopped to glare back, silently daring Everett to say something.
When the man said nothing, Scourge gave a low snarl, the candles’ light dimming, threatening to go out entirely.
“Listen, boy,” Everett heard the familiar sound of a straightedge razor unsheathing, he felt the cold metal press against his throat. “When I get out, I’m going to kill so many people that the law’s head will spin. Starting wif you.” Scourge growled.
“Because,” Scourge leaned in to whisper in Everett’s ear, “I know you’d do the same if you were me…” Scourge’s voice trailed off into a murderous chuckle, slowly fading as the candles’ light came back up. Everett sighed with relief, once again, alone.