Ghost Hour
7. April 1921, 03:00 am, London
𝕿he clock strikes three, signalling ghost hour. The last man has left the bar and every living soul in London has gone to rest. Based on old fairy tales, this was the time when ghosts wandered the earth, trying to take revenge on those who have wronged them in their past life. If the fairy tale was real, they would have slaughtered Rafael already.
Nothing would be left of him and he’d rot in the darkest hole in hell. Those stories scared him once, when he was little and yet to discover the monster the world would turn him to. Now he wished that they were true and one day his sins would catch up with him. But maybe not tonight.
Rafael had just returned to the main house, back from yet another bloody trip, when he saw his boss standing at the end of the staircase, smiling. He was a tall man and easily towered over most people, which made him even scarier. “Got the job done I see.” Rafael hummed nonchalantly and threw his bloody gloves into a trash bin. It was like this every time. Rafael had one job: punish people that wronged the mafia.
Whether it were open debts or betrayal didn’t matter. Rafael would punish them all the same. He did the dirtiest work of them all and everyone was happy. The Bloodhound they called him. A heartless man that didn’t care how much blood he had on his hands as long as he got paid his fair share. “Care for a drink my boy? The others are here too.”
Lorenzo Perez was the head of the mafia. A man in his mid forties that could kill you with his bare hands. He took Rafael off the streets and gave him a purpose and the man should be thankful for that. Lorenzo’s gang was one of the biggest in London. Taking big quarters of the city and ruling them for many years. The whole of London has been infested with gangs and violence since the new era began. People were striving to be rich and successful, no matter the path they had to take to get there.
“Please tell me you haven’t finished all the whiskey yet...“, he rasped, following his boss up into the office.
Inside he saw the rest of the mob family. Usually lower members weren’t allowed into such meetings, but Rafael had been under Lorenzo’s wing his whole life.
“Ah, there he is. Take a seat, Rafael.”
This is how he spent the rest of the night. In numb sensation, the talks of the people around him only mere whispers as he downed one glass after another. And it was never enough to stop the burning images in his head to disappear. This chaos that never left his mind would one day be his damnation. And how he craved this day to come.
They talked about new expansion plans well until the morning. Rafael acknowledged them with one ear and only fully turned his attention towards the conversation when he was spoken to. “There is a man you have to get rid of tonight, son. He’s a threat to our expansion plan in the underground of Chinatown. We need him off the map. I will give you all the details later.“, Lorenzo said, standing up from the couch and straightening his fine jacket. Rafael followed his motion and nodded. “It will be done, jefe. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, I’m not worrying.” Lorenzo chuckled. “I know you will get it done flawlessly.”
Flawlessly. Rafael walked back to his apartment, the word still drilling into his alcohol clouded brain. He was killing for a living and did it flawlessly. Was there nothing else to this life? Rafael was walking dangerously close to the streets, not caring the slightest about the driving cars. Maybe if they ran him over he wouldn’t have to do this anymore.
Because you couldn’t just leave the mafia. Everyone that entered could only exit by death. There was no other way. Rafael sighed, feeling the first rays of sun on his skin and the smell of freshly baked bread. People were already standing and waiting to get the baked goods with their morning coffee. Rafael stopped for a second and looked through the glass of the bakery. There was a waiter, maybe a bit younger than him with short blonde hair. Rafael saw him sometimes, but he never dared to do anything but look. Just a small glimpse. That’s all he allowed himself to do. Because he would never have the right to do more than that. The thought made him take a closer step onto the street.
When the night fell once more, Rafael was on his feet again. He had slept through the day, too tired to use his time for anything else. Although without the help of another glass of whiskey and a sleeping pill he wouldn’t have managed to knock himself out for this long. Now that he was awake, the first thing he did was to look through the files Lorenzo had given him. The files were always filled with detailed descriptions of his victims. Hair, eyes, shoe-size, wife and kids. Everything. Lorenzo Perez had his eyes and ears everywhere. No corner or street was left unwatched.
The bloodhound sighed when he read through everything. The first one was an older man. Apparently a smuggler who got a little too suspicious and has been seen talking to police officers. It was not a big enough offence to kill him, but just give him a proper scare. Rafael started to bandage his hands while reading the second file. It was a young man. No more than 25 and judging by the boyish smile in the photo he hadn’t yet seen the cruelties of life. Rafael rubbed his temples, already feeling a headache coming. The alcohol caught up to him now and he hated it. He hated that he needed to numb himself almost every day to get through it. Because nothing else seemed to bring him over the edge and he craved to just fall into the endless abyss after it.
He had tried to die on more than one occasion, but life seemed to laugh at his empty attempts. When Rafael walked past the mirror he didn’t even spare himself a glance because he knew what he would find in the reflection. A dead man.
Rafael reeked of blood when he left the dark alley. Beating someone half dead was not a nice sight to behold. When the person was lying on the floor, barely breathing and looking up at him with petrified eyes it twisted his guts in disgust. He had stopped begging for his life when Rafael blew his third hit. Now there were just pained moans leaving his mouth.
When his first task was done for the night, the bloodhound got rid of his bloodied bandages and made his way to the second target.
The young man was nothing but a simple bookkeeper. Based on the file though, he seemed to have stolen a whole lot of money from Lorenzo through a contract. Intentionally or unintentionally, a thief was something that his boss didn’t tolerate. Additionally, the bookkeeper was in possession of important bank data that could ruin a lot of things. Rafael entered the little office, gun in the pocket of his jacket and his gloves on. The man was still working into the night, hunched over a little desk with a small light shining onto a bunch of documents. Rafael strolled inside with light steps. Lorenzo had always told him to play an act. Be an actor, catch the people off guard. He had done it for some time, but now there was only one thing in his head repeating like a mantra. No mercy. No tolerance. Rafael was no actor. He was a killer. And he would behave like one. If the victim tried to run, he would catch them. And if they tried to scream he would silence them.
The young man looked up with messy black curly hair and tired eyes. He seemed to be working overtime. “Um... excuse me, sir, but we are already closed.” The bookkeeper seemed to take a breath and bring up a smile for Rafael. “But I’m here... so I can of course help you.” He stood up from the chair, walking closer to his hitman. The young man had a soft and cheering smile on his lips. Then he noticed the pale face and dark circles under Rafael’s eyes, his expression changed to worry. “I don’t know if it’s too personal to ask... but are you okay, sir?” The bookkeeper pulled a chair closer to them. “Sit down if you like, I will catch some water for you!” With that said, the young man quickly dashed to the little office kitchen to bring his new customer some fresh water. The young man was openly clueless. A bright and honest soul thinking that every other human had only light in them and the only darkness were the shadows created by the light. But he was so wrong, not noticing the darkness in his office. Not noticing that Death was already at his door.
Rafael followed the man with his eyes, his heart tightening painfully. The last time he felt guilt like this was a long time ago. And now he did again. His boss would have murdered him if he found out that he spared someone because he had shown kindness to Rafael. But one way he didn’t want to end was through Lorenzo. He saw the man as family. So Rafael swallowed down the guilt and followed the man into the kitchen. Quietly. It was best to spare the kid the shock and just kill him from behind. So that’s what he did. He raised his gun against the dark curly hair and pulled the trigger. It was quick and painless, but the blood that splattered against the kitchen counter and the body that hit the ground made him want to follow. The Bloodhound looked down at the body, his face blank of any emotion, before his eyes glanced to the gun in his hand. He just took a life. So why not take his own too? This was his purpose. Taking. Only taking and never giving back. Death followed wherever he went so why not make it stop? Before he could think any further, a shudder ran down his spine with goosebumps covering his body. He felt the sudden coldness often after events like this, but today it seemed even stronger. “I’m sorry, pequeñito.“, he whispered and put the gun away. “You shouldn’t have stolen from the Black Lotus...”
The day of redemption. The day of retribution. The day of victory. The day of sorrow. Death has been called many names. Some beautiful, some fragile, some tragic and dark. He knew them all, heard them whispering in the dark. There is nothing more feared in the world than Death and humanity made good use of that. Yaldir crossed the streets and alleys of London, collecting what was lost or wanted to be. This was his purpose. This was his existence. Slowly, he collected the souls and swallowed them in his ever-hungry stomach. But no soul could ever satisfy it. His throat remained dry and his stomach burned in hunger - for eternity. Yaldir was a soulless god, the only one ever made by his father Xoton, to serve the time of life. Collect and eat, collect and swallow, every day, with no exceptions. Because time never stops and so doesn’t Death. The streets of London glimmered with souls waiting to merge in Yaldir’s stomach. He dashed from house to house and street to street. “Please... take me...“, came a shaky voice from an alley. Yaldir stopped and walked towards the little lost soul with gentle steps. A man, probably around 50 years old. His body was covered in bruises and his face was bloody and demolished. Yet his soul flickered strongly in his chest. It wasn’t ready. “You’re not done here, little soul.“, came the soft voice of death, like a breath of wind. “But...” Blood flowed down the man’s forehead and he fell unconscious again. Yaldir had seen many mortals like this. Victims of the underground. Someone had given him a hard time. Yaldir turned to leave, but something shimmered and turned him back to the man or other suspicion. He slowly leaned down to the injuries and gently stroked over the chest. The soul within pulsed briefly for a second like it was remembering something. A deity seemed to have recently touched this soul. Yaldir raised an eyebrow. A God? Gods would never do such menial work. What had happened here? And who had been here?
Yaldir was rarely curious and if he was, there was nothing able to stop him from finding the truth. He turned to leave the mortal, his motion so full of force that his long black coat swung around, scraping the ground. He didn’t have time to spend on this strange anomaly, but perhaps he would unintentionally find out something about this culprit while doing his work. He knew no god interested in torturing a mortal. In Death’s eyes, souls were spun from glass, transparent as the breath of life. Like Xoton, the god of life and existence, he could see their tales, from birth to end. This soul, it seemed, had known a God’s embrace, its essence, touched by the divine, left a trace. With bare touch, Yaldir felt the power surge, the energy that gods alone could urge and that Death craved for. He continued his work, devouring soul after soul and uniting them. But this night seemed to be quiet in London. All the souls he collected seemed to have breathed out life peacefully. An old man who had no regrets except not asking this one special woman for her hand in marriage. A newborn who should only see the world for a second. And a young girl who tried to fish her toy out of the Thames. But suddenly Yaldir stopped. Another soul screamed to be devoured. Murder, it seemed. And yet the soul was still pulsing with life, flickering desperately like a candle in the wind. The end was so close it burned on his tongue. Yaldir slowly tucked one of his white strands behind his ear and exhaled loudly. “Overtime... as always. London never disappoints me with surprises.”
The bell of the office door rang shrill through the rooms. After it was closed, soft footsteps sounded down the hallway, stopping in front of the doorway of the current crime scene. Death did not collect souls according to a specific pattern, but mostly according to the level of interest. And a murder turned out to be extremely interesting. Even though the underground in London never slept and murder cases were not considered rare, it was still something special for Yaldir. A mortal who takes the life of another mortal. A little person trying to play a god. What must it feel like for them when the other person’s life slips through their fingers? Were the little souls radiating with power in their hands or was guilt eating them alive? Death couldn’t know. Even if mortals had such an image of him - he was not a murderer, but a collector. The atmosphere of the office was like a cemetery. It was painfully quiet and not even the sounds of the busy streets of London could break through. It was like this place was cut off from the world. Someone was holding their breath and it wasn’t Yaldir. A small smile formed on the god’s lips. The murderer was still here. Like a predator, Yaldir took in his surroundings and the souls. The scent tickled his nose and tingled on his tongue. The soul of a god. It was in this room. A deity killed this mortal. London was now really spitting out surprises at him.
Rafael closed his eyes for a second when he heard the footsteps. The goosebumps on his skin didn’t leave and the atmosphere seemed to have become somewhat different. Someone was here. But a feeling told him that they were not here for him, nor were they someone he wanted to mess with. If there was another witness he’d have to take them out too, but the sudden coldness made his body freeze. Rafael had his back turned to the doorframe and now slowly looked over his shoulder, his eyes deadly. But he merely saw a silhouette. The office was too dark to completely recognise someone. Rafael turned completely, his hand slowly reaching towards his belt, where his gun was strapped. Any other human would have run away already because of the deadly atmosphere, but Rafael seemed to be drawn to it. He craved the coldness on his skin and seeked danger wherever it was. “Who’s there...”, he whispered, his rough voice sounding like an echo in his ears.
Yaldir entered the room with almost soundless steps. His eyes wandered over the room, the corpse, the still fresh blood spreading on the floor and the murderer. His eyes were cold and still, he seemed surprised, but not afraid. The murderer was a mortal and yet the soul in him was radiating with the power of a god. Yaldir could feel the soul pulsing in the chest of the murderer, with such a force that Death felt drawn to it. How was this man able to keep this soul in his body? The energy of a god wasn’t bearable for the human shell and yet it did not break. And even though the soul fed on his body, desperate for power, the mortal did not become exhausted. That was really fascinating. He should probably pay his father Xoton a visit for answers. Only he could know about such an anomaly. A warm shiver ran down Death’s spine. How would it taste? The divine soul of a human being? Of a murderer even. Heavenly yet spicy? He focused back on the present and felt the cold trigger of a gun against his forehead. Yaldir’s gaze was not surprised, it was indifferent and his eyes fixed on the other’s. The strength in the mortal’s eyes matched his soul. Yaldir couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not here for you, little one. Even if I would like to be...“, the god’s voice was calm but sharp. The murderer wasn’t from here, his skin was dipped in a soft brown tone. His dark brown eyes matched his hair perfectly and his hairstyle suggested the London Underground - buzzed on the side and kept short only slightly stroking the nose. But the most extraordinary thing about this man was that he seemed more dead than the corpse on the ground.
Piercing dark eyes glared at Rafael through white eyelashes, however one was covered with a black eyepatch. This man looked out of this world, whoever he was. The bloodhound didn’t waver when the man talked, the weapon still against his forehead, even though the hold around his gun loosened. He didn’t know where he had come from or why he was here, but a voice inside him told Rafael to run. The bloodhound quickly scanned the stranger for weapons, but there was nothing. I’m not here for you. His brows furrowed. “What are you here for then?”, he whispered. The goosebumps have grown stronger but Rafael tried to ignore it. The feeling that his body tried to tell him was fear. Run, run, run. It was like a survival instinct trying to kick in, but Rafael pushed it away again and again.
The stranger tilted his head slightly and suddenly took the weapon, slowly pushing it down from his forehead. He was wearing white gloves that matched his hair but were in a strong contrast to his long black coat. Yaldir nodded towards the corpse of the bookkeeper. “This young man. Gideon O’Neil died 27 minutes after midnight. A gunshot to the back of his head. Worked as a bookkeeper and almost every day overtime to get his lovely girlfriend a present, desperate and afraid she would leave him.” Yaldir’s eye fixated the pool of blood on the floor. “22 years old. A cheerful and loving soul. Selfless and empathic.” Death glared back at the mortal with an analysing eye, searching for guilt. But the man in front of him was like an empty shell. The only thing that gave him the certainty that he was alive was his divine soul pulsating within him. He felt the thirst on his tongue again. Yaldir turned to the corpse and kneeled down to examine his soul. “Executing the dirty business for the mafia.” Death knew all their names. He stumbled over them more than a hundred times. Like Hansel and Gretel, they left breadcrumbs behind, but here in the form of souls. “You must be the Bloodhound...“, he whispered sweetly.
Rafael watched him kneel in front of the corpse, his gun loosely hanging in his hand. “I am.” He should leave. But his legs didn’t seem to be able to move. The first hint that should have made him run was the fact that he knew who Rafael was. To most people the bloodhound was a myth. And when they encountered him he became their biggest nightmare. “What are you going to do with him?” This man knew things that only the mafia knew. Information about other people. And yet he didn’t look like them at all. The look on his face was calm, collected. Like a ghost walking around during ghost hour.
“I will eat him.“, Yaldir answered without turning around and felt how the air became even colder. “Now this sounds gruesome... but it’s the easiest way to explain this process.” He opened the loop on his eye patch and let it fall into his lap without turning around. From the darkness of the room there wasn’t much to see for the mortal, except his silhouette, which was hugged by his black coat. His hair was cut like that of the British nobility. It elegantly framed his face and was longer than the usual short working-class hair. However, it was unusually white. As white as if it had been stripped of all colour. Yaldir reached out and placed his hand on the corpse’s chest. His hand fell through as if it were that of a ghost. He grasped the warm and slightly pulsating soul, raised it to his lips and swallowed it. Warmth filled his body and the gentle, exciting tingling flowed through every spot of him. For a moment he felt alive. But then it was all over again.
“Mierda...” Rafael took a step back, his body hitting the wall and his gun falling to the ground. What kind of devil was this man? But it took him only a few moments to really grasp the situation. Rafael was taught many superstitions and this stranger right there was the embodiment of one. Death. He just knew it. From all the stories and legends he learned as a child from his Abuela. Death was almighty, wandering the earth and collecting the souls of the dead. The bloodhound felt fear like never before and was in complete shock. But then a small voice echoed in his head. Death can free you, it whispered. Death can be your saviour. In the old stories it said that the touch of Death would kill a person. Even when he wandered around in his human form. Rafael had all these thoughts in his head but his body was still frozen.
Yaldir was putting on his eyepatch again, turning to the mortal. He knew these eyes, he had seen them many times before. The realisation that Death was only steps away from them. It had something powerful, but this time it was different. There was something else glimmering in the eyes of the bloodhound. Hope and salvation. “Mexican, I remember... I shall call you, pequeñito, then.” Death stepped closer to the human, adjusting his gloves. “Tell me, pequeñito, since when is the London Mafia so cooperative with your kind? I’m beyond interested to know about these politics.”
Rafael watched the man closely, his breath slowly calming. “Because the head of the Mafia is one of them.” He said slowly, his voice barely a whisper. “Not one Englishman is in the top of the mafia family. Not anymore.” It was a fight between other gangs too. The Chinese were taking big parts of the city already and the Italians were fast on the move too. “Now you tell me something.“, he whispered, his chin slightly raised as he looked at Death through half open eyes. “When is my time over...”
Yaldir stood so close to him that he could feel the vibration of the bloodhound’s soul on his skin, burning softly. He concentrated on the orb. There was the beginning, like a big bang, but there was no end. This soul was intended for a god. This soul wasn’t created to die and its power would keep the body’s shell intact. Death felt surprised by the fact that this was the first mortal whose end he couldn’t know. “I simply can’t know.“, he whispered.
