Boogeymen Stuff

November 6th, 1962

1:27 AM – Furnace Alley, Stonebridge South

Sirens howled. Too late as always.

Two black-and-white cruisers crawled in from opposite ends of Furnace Alley, headlights brushing over bent fenders, broken glass, and blood-slick pavement. Tires rolled slow. Doors opened. Six officers stepped out, flashlights cutting through the fog like scalpels.

They moved careful. Cautious. Like men stepping into a magic trick gone wrong.

What they saw didn’t add up.

Eight men—alive, cuffed, down.

Some slumped against walls, others flat on the ground. Arms bound tight. One moaned through a nosebleed. Another snored like a man in a morphine dream. None dead. Not one.

Jazz still floated from a busted car speaker—warm, scratched, surreal.

“Night and day… you are the one…”

A voice cracked through it. Hoarse. Panicked.

“Hey!” someone barked. “HEY! I didn’t shoot nobody! I didn’t even touch the trigger!”

He was big. Broad. Sweat soaked through his tan coat. Eyes wide and twitching. He sat up fast, yanking at the steel around his wrists.

Dean Calder stepped forward. Forty-five. Weathered face. Tie hanging loose like the rest of his patience.

“Easy,” he said, calm but sharp. “What the hell happened here?”

The man just laughed. Not from joy—from nerves.

“Wasn’t us,” he said. “Wasn’t no turf thing. Wasn’t no setup. We were just yellin’, man. Loud talk. That’s all. Then it dropped.”

“What dropped?”

“I dunno.” He swallowed. “A bomb. A light. The f***in’ sky. It just hit. BOOM. I went blind. Couldn’t hear. Then something landed. Right on Mikey’s car. That was Mikey’s damn car…”

Calder narrowed his eyes. “And?”

“And he just… tore through us. Like he knew every step. Quiet. No words. Just moved.”

He pulled at the cuffs again. Still locked.

“I threw a punch,” he said. “Swear to God. I never miss. But he dodged it like he saw it yesterday. Then he hit me so hard I saw my mother’s face.”

“You saw his?”

The man froze. Shook his head.

“No. Just this mask. White. Smooth. No eyes, no mouth. Looked like bone. But it caught the light, like water. Like… like a ghost.”

One of the younger officers leaned in. “You mean that freak people whisper about? The ghost guy?”

The man nodded, quiet now.

“Yeah. Him. The one that shows up when things go south. He watched us first. Then he dropped.”

Calder said nothing.

He looked again—at the boot marks in the glass. At the bodies spaced like they’d been placed, not knocked down. He looked up.

Only rooftops now. Just fog and light poles.

And the sky.

—

1:39 AM – Same location

The sirens had gone. Just the wind now, brushing through debris. The jazz still played, scratchy and soft.

“You are the one…”

Two officers leaned on the cruiser doors. Radios crackled low behind them.

Calder lit a cigarette with steady hands. The glow trembled slightly. Officer Mayers—young, lean, jittery—leaned forward on the hood, rubbing tired eyes.

Calder exhaled. Smoke curled into the cold.

“Report it in.”

Mayers grunted. “Report what? ‘Hey Sarge, eight meatheads hogtied themselves while jazz played from a wrecked Packard. We’ll be home for breakfast’? Yeah, they’ll love that.”

Calder didn’t smile. He just nodded at the mic.

Mayers sighed and keyed it.

“Base, this is Unit Twelve. Responded to shots fired, Furnace Alley. Situation… resolved. Eight suspects in custody. No fatalities. No officer injuries.” He paused. “Cause of apprehension unknown. Suspects were already subdued on arrival.”

A beat. Then static.

“Copy that, Unit Twelve. Holding van en route. ETA seven minutes. Secure scene and stand by.”

Click.

Mayers tossed the mic back into the seat.

“‘Unknown cause,’” he muttered. “That’s code for ‘we got no f***in’ clue.’”

Calder took another drag. Watched the rooftops again.

“They won’t print it,” he said. “Won’t even log it proper. Just one more alley fight that ended in magic.”

“Boogeyman stuff, huh?”

Calder shrugged. “Every city’s got one.”

“Yeah, well ours leaves you gift-wrapped.”

A groan from the alley. One of the gangsters stirred, still cuffed, still bleeding.

“Think he’s real?” Mayers asked. “This guy. This… Nomad.”