PART 1 I got home late. Rain was pounding the windows. It sounded like a heavy man in a hurry to get in. Mrs. Malone had neatly stacked two weeks of mail on the sideboard by the whiskey: a selection of bills and assorted trash. The bottle's lambent smile wormed its way up my brain, making warm promises to wet bones. The mail never stood a chance. Halfway through the second whiskey, the telephone started to wail. It pierced the rain like an augur foretelling new wounds. I glanced at the black bakelite monster and waited, hoping it would grow tired. It didn't. The glass went with me to the gossip bench in the hallway. The handset hadn't slimmed in my absence. I picked it up but said nothing. "Mrs. Gabe?" It wasn't really a question. I recognized the thin male voice on the other side. My blood curdled for half a second. Not because of him. He was just an echo. "No," I said. The answer had nothing to do with my name, either. "We sent you a le...
I raise my dark glass to you, dear friend, my almost rival. Brothers in obsession, our lot seems to be. The Fates decree what the Furies will serve us, and we have been poured the darkest Malbec. Mustn’t complain, of course. We have craved it only too much, you and I. No point in denying it; I know a fellow sufferer when I see one. Now, we must drink it together, this poison we would die for, while trying hard not to cut our lips on the sharp edges of crystal irony. So here’s to us, two orphans in the night: May the lesser man win. – Grime and Shadows, Mrs. Gabe: A Supernatural Noir (WIP): A poem written by Professor Doria, addressed to Commander Michaelsen.