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Deagan McNamara found his car where he had left it in the parking lot of the 8th Dimension mall. The beeping noise it made as he clicked the remote to unlock it seemed to echo like a lonely voice over the tops of the other Fords and Hondas and BMWs scattered about. He climbed into the car and sat down heavily. His legs felt like jelly. When he reached out to put the key in the ignition, it slipped from his fingers to land on the floor, resting on the mat next to a forgotten receipt and a gum wrapper. Deagan looked down and realized that his hands were shaking uncontrollably. What the hell just happened in there? he thought.

What had happened was that his dead wife had decided to come back from the dead and join him in the Folklore aisle of McCallahan's Bookstore on the anniversary of her death. At least, to the best of his knowledge that was what had happened. Either that, or I'm going insane.

She had only been there for a few minutes, looking as beautiful as the day he had met her. And she had spoken, telling him that she had some sort of important message for him. And then this beautiful revenant had disappeared as if she were never there. Which she wasn't, he thought. She couldn't have been. But other events had transpired which only seemed to confirm that what he had seen had been a ghost.

He had followed a man out of the store, for no real reason that he could now recall. But when Deagan approached him, this black-haired stranger with ancient eyes had called Deagan McNamara by name, had given him a card with a phone number on it, and had told Deagan that he could explain what had just happened. And then there was the young girl who had followed Deagan from the bookstore out of obvious concern for his well-being, and had told Deagan that she knew him to be haunted somehow.

It was all too much, and the weight of it now seemed to drag Deagan into the leather seat of his Ford Mustang, his "midlife-crisis-mobile" as Emily had always liked to call it. His limbs felt like dead weight as they dropped to his side, and he let out a long, low moan. Deagan had studied folklore for all of his adult life. He had read countless apocryphal tales of ghosts and mysterious strangers who knew more than they rightly should. They were a part of every culture, and, he had always believed, were based primarily on man's desire to believe that death was not truly the end of life, that there had to be more out there that a person could look forward to at the moment of death than just a permanent shutting off of the lights and locking of the doors, more than a Closed sign to hang around one's neck for eternity.

And here now was proof otherwise, proof that perhaps what people had been saying and writing for millenia was real. That ghosts were real. That Emily could still be reached somehow.

The thought sparked Deagan back into some semblance of normal motor function. He reached down, picked up the keys, and started the car.

He was almost home when the voice whispered in his ear.

Don't trust him Deagan.

"Jesus Christ!" Deagan slammed on the brakes, the Mustang fishtailing all over the asphalt before coming to a screeching halt. The street he had been driving on was in a quiet, tree-lined residential neighborhood, low traffic; probably the only thing that kept Deagan from getting rear-ended at that moment. Deagan whipped around to find the source of the voice. He knew it was Emily. It was the same voice from the bookstore. Except this time, there was no vision of her beauty to accompany it. Emily was nowhere to be found in the interior of the car. "Emily, where are you?" He waited, listening, but the silence was deafening. Five minutes later, another car pulled into view in Deagan's rear view mirror. He shifted the Mustang into gear and continued to his house. The voice did not speak again.

That night, Deagan sat brooding in his home office (his "man-cave" Emily had liked to call it) staring into space, a cup of cold tea forgotten on the side table next to the ox-blood leather chair. In his left hand he held the card the stranger had given him. He knew he had to call, that he couldn't pass up this opportunity to learn more about Emily's death and her...undeath? But the warning Emily had given him weighed on Deagan. Don't trust him Deagan.

He felt like he had to talk to someone about what had happened in the mall today, yet he doubted, when the time came, that he should spill all of his secrets to this dark stranger, the man whose eyes hinted at a lifetime of secrets. Deagan had lost most of his friends in the year since his wife's death. He had grown increasingly moody and reclusive, pushing people away in his obsessive search for the reasons and motivations behind Emily's death, and the identity of her killer. The only time the phone rang in the McNamara home these days was due to either telemarketers or Deagan's agent pleading with him to finish what should have been his best book to date, a shining jewel in the crown of Deagan's career as a professional folklorist; Legends of the Loup-Garou.

Deagan decided that the best way to satisfy the compulsive need he was feeling to bare his soul to the stranger, like an itch he couldn't scratch, was to tell his story to someone, anyone, to get it off his chest. Deagan decided his best bet would be to start by emailing a person (he had come to assume it was a woman based on her internet handle) that he had met on an online forum a little over a week ago, the one who called herself music@midnight. Deagan had not stepped into a bar since the night he had found Emily's body. Alcoholism was a family curse, and he didn't trust himself in his current state of mind not to veer sharply in that direction. Corresponding on the internet had served much the same purpose for Deagan as the bartender at the neighborhood pub served for others. A relatively risk free way to share his troubles without the emotional entanglements of an actual relationship. He moved to his computer and began typing:

Today is the one year anniversary of my wife’s death. And her ghost came to see me. It wasn’t some rotting corpse though. It was as if she was alive again, right in front of me. I was only able to see her for a few minutes, and then she was gone again. But she spoke to me, told me there was something important she needed to tell me.

Since her death, my world seems to have been slipping further into madness, and today I think it finally toppled over the brink. I believe you; I believe in your zombies. Do you believe in my ghost? -D.M.

The last was a reference to something she had written him earlier; that she had seen zombies in the part of town the government had designated the "Quarantine Zone." In the course of their correspondence she had told Deagan several things that he had been incredulous of; now he was inclined to believe them all.

The email sent, Deagan felt better prepared to make the call. Like eating a snack before going grocery shopping, he mused. Deagan once again pulled out the card, picked up his cell phone, and dialed the number...

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--


Deagan: Deagan once again pulled out the card, picked up his cell phone, and dialed the number…

Ambrose Acheron: *The phone stops ringing, the line going silent for a second before a voice with a familiar accent comes through the receiver" Hello.

Deagan: "I...is this the person who gave me this card? We met at the mall today. My name is Deagan."

Ambrose Acheron: "Yes, Mr. McNamara, a pleasure. I'm a fellow student of the occult and mythology. My name is Ambrose. I have read one of your books."

Deagan: "Ah, well I'm flattered. Not too many people left these days who can say that!" Deagan chuckles nervously. "Mr...Ambrose, I hope you don't mind me getting right to the point, but you said there was something you wanted to talk to me about. And that you wanted it to be in private. Before I agree to that, can you give me some idea of what you had in mind?"

Ambrose Acheron: "Ghosts, the walking dead, Sirens Mr. Deagan. Possibly other things if you are ready to pass through the doors of perception. Perhaps... your wife. Emily I believe her name was. I have wept on the banks of the river with La Llorona, Mr. McNamara. I am a true believer."

Deagan: The pause grows pregnant as Deagan McNamara's mind drinks in the list of unbelievable things Ambrose has just rattled off. But he can't pass up the obvious carrot Ambrose dangles in front of him, and he snatches at it like a hungry animal. "Emily? You can tell me about her? Did you see her today, in the bookstore?"

Ambrose Acheron: *Relying on the memories of Deagan's wife stolen from his thoughts their first encounter, Ambrose rattles off the woman's features to Deagan, painting a picture of his wife with his words.* "This is Harper Rock Mr McNamara, there are many things haunting these streets."

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--
Deagan: Deagan takes a deep breath. He remembers the promise he had made to himself. He would stay calm. He would not spill his guts to this man he does not know, and knows too much about him. "Ok Ambrose, you have my attention. There are certainly things I can tell you about ghosts and the walking dead in this city, and it sounds like you have plenty to tell me. As for sirens, if you are referring to the creature from Greek mythology, yes I've studied it. Not sure if you are implying these things exist in Harper Rock as well, but I must admit nothing much would surprise me anymore." Deagan had no idea how wrong he was in this regards. "Where and when would you like to meet?"

Ambrose Acheron: Mr. McNamara, before you decide to see the world around you, you should of course think of the repercussions. There is already an area of the city under martial control, quarantined. The police, they fear the things that go bump in the night. How many times have the sounds of gunfire woken you in the night? If you follow this pursuit you will find out things that your government already suspect. You may dig yourself so far into the truth that you can't return. Veil Tower.Apartment 2002 say the evening after tomorrow.

Deagan: "Thank you for the warning Ambrose, but my wife was murdered, and this is closest I have gotten to finding out what happened to her. Apparently you and I have both seen her. I cannot pass up this opportunity to decipher what is going on" Deagan strongly suspects this man Ambrose is not an altruist. That he will ask something in return for helping Deagan. But Deagan can live with that. He will deal with the devil himself to find his wife's killer. "I will be meet you at the Veil Tower apartments in 2 days."

Ambrose Acheron: "Very well Mr. McNamara, I know that weighs heavily on you. I lost my first wife years ago. I would have to advise you once you begin to see too much you vacate Harper Rock. The quarantined zone can do nothing but grow. I will see you then. Be careful of the night."


*click*

Waking from his torpor in the apartment for a change is a very different feeling for Ambrose. He is not accustomed to the softness of a bed, the silken sheets against his skin, or the smell of dinner cooking from the kitchen. Moema, his thrall, Jose's replacement after he was given as a gift to his wife and to his gods, was his visiting niece for the evening. That and a distraction from his own inhumanity. He closed his eyes once more, looking out through those of his thrall. How different were the women of this modern age.... The way they cooked, turning knobs and pressing buttons to make boxes give off heat. No fire, no smokehouse.

It was incredible and a bit terrifying to the elder every time he took the time to think of the differences between then and now.How weak these vampires of the modern era had become. They had no concept of the powers at their disposal, they clung to tightly yet to their humanity. Ambrose couldn't remember himself being that... human. Ambrose was the Dracula, the manipulator, the charismatic even in his time. His Path all but made him that way. His teachings, the mystical, the secrecy, the religion and the powers... those his sire had instilled. To look was to appraise, to want was to Pacify, to wish to know of a person, to read their memories. Tricks useful in the hunt, in the politicking of the higher society vampires of his day, even in gathering simple knowledge.

The young, the oldest of them but a half decade turned, they were more reticent to admit they were no longer what they were. They clung to morals and values that would cripple them in the old days. Ambrose was far, far removed from those morals and values. Ambrose was a vampire.

Yet tonight he was a human.

The man would be here shortly. Moema was just finishing up the final touches on three plates of "Almond-Crusted Salmon with Leek and Lemon Cream" as the paper with the recipe on it had said. Another new concept. Writing down recipes to cover good food in a variety of slimy, sticky or crunchy coverings and calling it "better". There was still so much he didn't know. He had tried to learn from The Google, a spirit in his phone that seemed to know almost everything but was prone to tricking him, to no avail. Books though. Books Ambrose understood. He cherished them.

That was likely the reason for the wrap around bookshelves filled with volumes on the occult, the various religions of the world, political philosophy books, and history books, with a few medical volumes thrown in. Not a dust cover in sight to mar the appearance with a dash of unnecessary color. The wood of the shelves was dark, the carpet in the living room a creme color. The sofa was a rich chocolate leather sectional which faced an entertainment center which was completely closed at the moment.

Technology didn't interest the old vampire, he had tried to watch television when Jose was alive but he disliked it immensely. He saw no purpose in watching someone's life on a screen when he could pluck infinitely more about a person straight from their heads. The television was definitely machina non gratis in this apartment. Toward the kitchen where Moema exited from now was the dining room, where she was headed to begin setting the table with meals for them and their impending guest. If people started seeing ghosts it was a sign they already had a link to the gods. They were chosen for something. Something grand sometimes, others to meet their ending on an altar as a gift back to the gods.

Ambrose would find out what it was that gave this human a conduit to the nether no matter what it took. Even if it meant reading the signs in his guts.

"Remember what I told you. You are simply a student learning from me. Only speak if a question is posed to both of you or if Mr. McNamara asks you a question directly," Ambrose says to the thrall as he finally emerges from the bedroom wearing the suit Moema had laid out for him. It was the one Adelita had picked out for him. A charcoal grey suit jacket and pants with a cumber-bun and a black tie with white accents.

He hated the feel of the thing. He despised the way it covered him from neck to foot. He hated the tie around his neck like a loose, the layers, all of it. Ambrose has never liked clothing. He felt most comfortable in as little as possible.

He had thanked Adelita for helping him with a modern wardrobe.

Taking a seat at the table as everything was laid out Ambrose looked out the window. The sun was down, it was still early evening but he had a suspicion that Deagan wouldn't be arriving late. He believed the man was committed to finding out about his wife, getting through the secrecy of his kind and he intended to derail that effort.

The evening of his arranged meeting with the man named Ambrose, Deagan McNamara pulled up to the front of Veil Towers at what he assumed was the prescribed time. It was easy enough to find parking in front of the building, as the shops that he normally associated with this structure had mostly closed for the evening. He had never even thought about the fact that Veil Towers contained private residences as well, but poking around the outside of the building he found a private entrance into a small foyer with mailboxes and an elevator. He pushed the button and waited for the steel box to descend and take him to apartment 2002.

As Deagan reached the prescribed floor and stepped out of the elevator, he looked around and saw he was in a hallway decorated with ornate lighting sconces and a carpet which he found a little too reminiscent of the Overlook Hotel from that Kubrick film. It had been one of his favorites, before his own personal tragedy made most horror films unbearable for him to watch. Deagan stepped up to the door marked 2002, and raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. He remembered Ambrose’s words on the phone. You may dig yourself so far into the truth that you can't return. He knew instinctively that going through this door would be a one way trip. A complete overhaul of all of his basic belief systems. One couldn’t help but be intimidated by the prospect. Then he thought of Emily, who had been his queen in life, and who loved him so very much that she had returned to him from beyond the grave. We who are about to die salute you.

He rapped three times on the door…