It is universally known that misery loves company. People in a bad mood seek only to spoil the days of others, and someone sure to lose will drag as many people down with him as possible. What is not known though, is that this timeless truth doesn't just apply to misery. In fact all the dark, oppressive emotions and afflictions that we, as humans, are victim to, seek a community of their own in which to develop, grow, and spread. This is why psychotics travel in packs.

Amos Chank barely counts as a human anymore. Raised as the only son of the town pastor, a religious zealot, who sought to make his son into the man he should be, through verbal abuse and constant beatings, Amos hated his father, and the hypocritical beliefs connected to him. He burned his local church down at age fifteen. He ran away from home, returning when he was fifteen and a half to burn down his father.

Another little unwritten law of the cosmos is that no one is alone in the universe and everyone has their match. For the most part, we take comfort in this, but upon meeting anyone like Amos Chank we go home and pray that this person and their match never, ever meet. And most times these people are so twisted, so unique, that their like-minded individual is never met, because the span of entire world is a lot when looking for one freak. Of course, the recent advances in the internet have bridged this gap. God bless the information superhighway.

In a world that dreads the possibility of one mentally unhinged individual finding anyone with as tragic a history as himself, he has scanned the underbelly of cyberspace, and has found ten. Togethor they have kept in tight contact, sharing their hatred for the system they believe opresses them, drawing on each other to solidify their hate, and most of all, planning. Tonight they draw their web tight...

Atlanta, Georgia

The Spectre looks on impassively, his eyes hidden under the shadow of his hood, while the sounds of the boy vomiting echo in his mind. While the title and job description of the Spirit of Vengeance carry a grim reputation and even grimmer demeanor, he feels a genuine compassion for this boy. The child is innocent, thrown into a world of death and despair through no choice of his own. He waits until his companion seems finished enough with his own business, then approaches.

Corey wipes the lingering vomit off of his lip, and slowly leans himself against the alley wall. He winces, then sighs, as his body tells him the torment is passing. He looks upward, closing his eyes, and rubbing the bridge of his nose, giving no indication that he knows the ghost- like figure before him remains. "Those stupid friends of yours," he finally mutters, "Dragging me around from point A, into their little twilight zone, then sticking me back in freaking Atlanta...I got vertigo like no man has ever seen. I think I'm dying. I'm seeing colors Crayola factory-workers only see in nightmares."

The Spectre crouches down, stretching out a pale ghastly white hand, and placing it on Corey's shoulder. His frown, while not disappearing, hints at softening. "They are not my friends. You should know, that I bear you no ill will. I can see your soul, and I know that you hold no sin within you. You are a unique individual Corey Jobe, and you could never understand the sadness I feel at your being brought into my world. You don't deserve what you are now fated for."

Corey's eyes remain closed, the humor from his face leaves, and he exhales slowly and tensely. He lowers his head, and opens his eyes, shooting a glare at the form peering out at him. "Get your hand off me. Your crazy white hands creep me out. I don't care what "ill will" you "bear" me, 'cuz I bear you plenty. I'm not gonna' try hitting you, 'cuz I know it ain't gonna' work. But this bond-stuff- I'm not gonna' deal with it. I'm going somewhere, I'll find somebody, to cut you from me, and when I do, I'm gonna' kill you. Whatever you are."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. And I know this is hard to understand, but your attitude is only going to make this harder on you. The bond we share is the strongest. Unbreakable. No force on this Earth could breach it."

"We don't share a freaking bond! We don't share anything! Don't you get it? I hate you. You murdered my brother! My brother. He was just doing it for me! He only wanted to protect me, a-and you murdered him...", Corey can no longer keep up the subject. He clutches his stomach in pain, and turns away from the spirit, sobbing. His body heaves as the tears release themselves, and soon the motions bring with them another round of putrid vomit.

The Spectre stands, turning away, feeling a deep sadness for the boy's situation, though no remorse for his role in it. He pities Corey as he looks at him, only just realizing that his wounds are so fresh. It was only today that he lost a loved one whom he had relied on his entire life. Only today that the two had met. The amount of time between Corey and the Spectre being kicked into the realm of two ethereal beings, faced with the person in charge of connecting the Spirit of Vengeance to human hosts, and tied together for eternity, and now, seemed impossible to conceive. The Spectre turned his head from Corey Jobe as he finally realized the time around him. It had grown dark, and the sun was setting rather swiftly. And somewhere in the night, something called to him. Danger. Sin. Innocent blood was soon to be shed. He was needed.

Pastor Kris'murti rubbed his eyes, and stared at the book in front of him. He furrowed his brow, hoping that maybe if he stressed all the muscles in his face, it might make all the jumbled letters on the page find their way back to a straight line. The text of the church's monthly budget report did not comply though, and he looked up from his review to peer out the window. The day had left without saying good-bye, and the surprising level of darkness outside his church office surprised the young man. Checking his watch, the translucent numbers glowed "11:31."

"Oof," he winced inwardly, "I've been at this way too long. I'm killing myself, here." His fingers reach, for possibly the hundredth time in an hour, for the coffee mug in front of the report. Bringing it to his lips, and finding nothing, he pushes his chair back, and makes his way to the coffee machine, determined to put something in his mouth, if only to make the mumbling stop.

"Be a pastor," your mother said. "You'll spread the word of God, and touch people's lives, and blah-blah-blah....No one said anything about spending my nights figuring budget reports. I'm almost sure number-crunching was completely left out of the seminary brochure. I bet Jesus never had to fill out budget reports..."

Steam rises up out of the pot, as the "Even Black Jesus would hate rap" mug fills with coffee, pitch black. A quick sip is taken, just enough to keep the lips from burning, and he walks back to his seat, mumbling softly, something about converting to Buddhism.

Despite day to day grumblings though, Pastor Mike Gunshu Kris'murti is happy to be where he is. Raised by his parents in the poorest regions of India, Mike spent most of his childhood at the mission, mostly to escape from the bigger boys of the town. His mother was the only family he had ever known, and ever since her conversion to Christianity when the mission was established, she had wanted a good, Christian life for her son. She died when Mike was fourteen years old.

When he was eighteen, Mike knew he wanted to become a pastor. His mother had always dreamed about better things for the two of them, and clung to the stories of the United States, which she pried from the mouths of the missionaries taking care of them. Inspired by the missionaries around him, and the dreams his mother instilled in him, Mike became dedicated to attending seminary in America. When all the families attending the mission chipped in to send the boy they had helped raise to his new home, Mike considered it nothing short of a miracle.

Mike flipped on the tiny television in his office. His back stretched out, and he relaxed, just a little as he slowly drank his coffee. The late news was on, and a pretty African anchor- women read the days happenings in a flat tone. Four girls from the neighborhood were still missing. They had been daughters of some of the women of the church. Everyone still remembered the happy little girls trying to sell their cookies to some of the older members of the congregation. He clicks off the TV in disgust. What kind of sick creature would take away such innocent children like that?

He massaged his temples, and prepared to go back to work. He wasn't one of those people who like to dwell on such things. The world was a bright place, with only a few bad apples in it. He prayed to God for the safety of others, and put his faith in God's guidance. That was what he preached to his congregation, and that what he believed. You can't be afraid of all the evils in the world.

The watch transformed it's numbers to "11:37," and the pastor returned to his work. The pen had just barely been lifted, when loud, frantic knocking came from the church door. He got up from his seat, listening to hear it again. It came back, faster and harder than before. He stood up, pushing away his chair, running for the door. His face is a picture of confusion. Who could be out this late and why were they banging on the door? As he got closer to large wooden doors of the church, the knocking grew even more in insane intensity. He could here a faint voice yelling from outside.

He got to the door, and pressed his ear to the wood, trying to catch the words outside. He could make out a slight cry, "Pastor! Pastor, please, open the door! I know you're in their, I need to talk to you! Please!"

A moment's hesitation crossed his mind, but only a moment's. The voice was So desperate, so sad. It had to be genuine. As he opened up the doors, and felt the cold metal of a gun barrel press against his throat, it became painfully obvious that he was wrong.

The Spectre.
Where had he gone?
Corey's eyes shot open. He had dozed off, the stress of the past day taking it's toll on his system. He tried to stand, slowly lifting one knee, then the other. The nausea had passed, and his strength had returned. But there was something...else. A faint twisting in the pit of is stomach, that hadn't come with the rest of his ailments. This was a different kind of pain. Something he had never felt before.

He brushed it too the back of his mind. Looking around, the darkness of the small alley was imposing. Seeing out past the alley into the street was nearly impossible. But most of all, his companion was gone. Or had he ever been there? The events of the past few hours did seem to incredible to be true. But no. For one, if everything had been a dream, how had he gotten from the apartment he was staying at to this alley. And there was something else that told him it was all real. A whisper in the brain, or that sharp pain in his stomach. Yes, his brother was dead, he was alone, and somewhere out in the night, there really was a Spectre.

So confused. His back hit the wall again, and he slid down, cradling his head in his hands. His only family was gone, slain before his very eyes, and then beings from some other dimension had doomed him to life imprisonment, served with his brother's killer. He had never even had much of a life, living from place to place, surviving where he could with his brother. He didn't want much, just to live, and keep his brother and himself from getting hurt. But no. It wasn't enough that he had to lose his father. Or his brother. Someone not even of this world just stepped in, and ripped anything resembling a life from Corey. He was the Spectre's now. Some sidekick. He was a "moral anchor" to provide "perspective" for the Spirit of Vengeance. And. He. HATED IT!

"I just want to live!," he screamed at the night sky, before recoiling at the echoes it brought back. He remembered what neighborhood he was in, and slunk back to the shadows, desperate to avoid trouble.

He sat back down on the cold dirt, and gritted his teeth to fight back tears. "No. I'm not gonna' cry. Dad wouldn't break down, neither would Shawn. I just gotta' figure everything out. I don't even know where I am! Where's "Spectre" when he could actually do some good? God, that sick murdering freak! Shawn, I promise, some day, I'll find a way to kill him. But how? I don't even know what he is. And I can't even hit him anyway. It's that "bond" junk. How? How could this happen to me? I've got to live with the monster for every day of my life now. Every day, looking at the pale, frowny face, wanting a pound it till he cries, never being able to lend a finger on the self-righteous-."

And an idea hits the boy's mind. He doesn't have to do that. He doesn't have to do anything. Some nameless "angel" in some creepy void may have sentenced him to life in prison, but Corey looked around, and smiled as he saw no bars. "Screw it, then," silent thoughts are uttered, clear as day in his mind. "I'm leaving. The ghost's gone. There's nothing for me in Atlanta anymore. Screw this bond. I'm gonna' head outta' state, and start a new life. Forget everything. I'm not gonna' deal with homicidal maniacs, or angels, or God, or any of that. They took my brother, that's all they get."

And with that, the weak face of a young boy, soaked in tears, changes instantly to that of fierce determination. Lifting his small body one more time, he sets is gaze, and walks out of the dark alley. He hangs close to the buildings, not wanting to get caught in the streetlights. His stride is sturdy and confident, despite the late hour, and the dangerous territory. People tend to walk that way when their mind is set on something. His footsteps carry him off, to a sure future, he's sure of it. He's not going to get caught of guard anymore, by problems that aren't his to deal with.

Confidence carries him about half a block, before the pain in his stomach rips through his entire body. It starts like a quiet Nassau, barely speaking up just barely, growing in less than a second do a deafening roar, churning his insides like mad. The sickness shoot through every inch of his body, transformed from internal vertigo to a blinding pain, like a wave of hot needles. He fights not cry out, clenching his stomach, and falling to his knees. He lays there, twitching and stewing until eventually, mercifully, the pain subsides.

The night around him barely makes a sound. Only the slow, hesitant scraping of dirty, jean-covered knees on pavement, as the small boy shakingly pulls himself to his feet. He turns around....

And is greeted by the loss of the city scene around him. Corey's outstretched hand finds the hard pavement of a nearby building, but his eyes register no such thing. Everything is a murky gray. A mix of black and green filter in from nowhere, mixing, giving the sense of swimming in oil paints.

Scenes grow out of the background. A tall figure in green, stony and emotionless, enters a sanctuary. A crazed, desperate, broken man, with a gun lodged against the temples of his most hated enemy, a man who has never done anything to him. There are more. Scarred, abused villains, hiding in corners of a huge church. As their faces become visible, flashes of their life burn and burrow their way into the mind of Corey Jobe. Teasings for some, beatings for others, twelve lifetimes worth of tragedy.

And like a heartbeat, it all ends. A teary eyed, young black boy, dirt and sweat covering his month old clothes, clutches a brick wall, panting, as he finds himself back on the street he never left. A few cautious steps are taken back to the sidewalk, and Corey Jobe's eyes turn towards the location of a church he now knows exactly how to get to.

"Oh. So that's how it's going to be."

Growing up the way he had, Pastor Mike had learned a lot about strength, and hiding your fear. Seemed like he had to fight the bigger boys every day for a

scrap of meat, or clothing. He couldn't let the older kids see he was scared, because if they thought he was weak, they'd rip him to shreds, and that would be one less piece of food that didn't make it back to his starving mama. He was scrawny, stupid, malnourished, but he fought tooth and nail for every scrap of edible substance he ate. He had to. It was survival.

It's almost funny (in a sick, ironic way that I hope you aren't laughing at) that now Mike, a strong, adult, American citizen, with wealth and health, when pressed with a situation of survival, must beg pitifully for mercy. The crazy guy had forced his way through the church doors, yelled at the others and they spread out through his church. HIS church. He had hit Mike, knocked him upside the head with his gun, then kicked him in the temple, probably just to prove that this was serious. Very serious. A point which didn't to be stressed to the weakened pastor lying on the floor.

"Please, why are you doing this?" The guy ignored him, dragging him up the long stairs to the balcony above the sanctuary. No effort was made to mask the disdain he felt at even touching the begging man. His body was dragged roughly up the stairs.

As they reached the determined point, Amos Chank reached kicked the pastor into a sitting position on one of the chairs. "Don't move," he growled, "or I'm going to find someplace to put a bullet that may not be fatal, but is veeeeeery

painful." Everything was moving in a haze around the captive, only vague recollections of being bound at the ankles, wrists, and waist, were evident.

"Please. Please! Is this about money? I don't have much, but you can have all of it! Everything! It doesn't matter to me!"

Finally the abductor was ready for a little one-on-one interaction with this stranger that he hated very, very much. He pulled up a little chair, right across from Mr. Kris'murti, to the point where their knees touched. He cocked a bushy red eyebrow, and leaned forward, putting his hands on the man's knees, and getting right up in his face. "Money? Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no.........no. No. Sadly, for you, your money means nothing to me either. Heh. Your kind can say all they want about me, but hey, at least your God wouldn't be able to call me greedy!"

The look in his eyes. One blue, one brown, the brown didn't follow the blue. Kris'murti couldn't help wrinkling his nose at the smell on the man's breath. It was terrible. The stench overpowered him so much, that it was a few extra seconds before he figured out that which drained much of the hope from his body. This man was crazy. A sick, deluded human, and nothing rational was going to save the pastor's life. He said a quick prayer, before turning to himself for a way out of this situation. It was obvious the man was a more joyful killer than efficient. Maybe if he could get the man talking....It would buy him some time at least. Mike didn't know what he was buying time for, no one was coming, but still, it was something. "M-My kind? Uh, you're of a different faith, then?"

Amos threw back his head and laughed. He wiped a little tear from his eye

as he continued to giggle. "Ehe.......church of a different faith. Yeah, padre, I'm with the church of the haters. I'd advise you to start praying, but you must have done it, what, ninety times already, right?"

"Please, if it's not money you want, then what? I don't recognize you, but do we know each other? Are you angry with me for something?"

The laughing finally faded, and the somber tone returned to his face. He pushed the chair back, and stood up. He walked over to a little desk and pulled up a bell the choir used on Sundays. God, Mike thought, I'm sitting where Jane sits. Right before.....right before she takes Ashley to soccer practice.....and then the horror of the situation seized him again.

"You think this is personal. Well, it is, Pastor Kris'Murti," he stopped for a second, looking up thoughtfully. "Hm. Kris'Murti. Weird name for a pastor. Shouldn't you be, Hindu or something? Anyway, yes this is quite personal. And Father, I'm not angry with you. I hate you. To an extent you aren't even capable of understanding. Now do you know me? No. But I know you. I know every one of you." Amos began to pace. He walked around a row of chair, jangling the little bell in his hand. He stood right behind his hostage, just standing there. "Bet this creeps you out. Me, the crazy guy, just standing behind you. Bet you're wondering what I'm doing. Creepy, huh?" And with that, he leans down, sticking his head right next to the pastors, staring at him with he crazy eye, reaching out his tongue, and flicking Mike's ear with it. "And that! Well that's just downright nasty, huh?"

The pastor swallowed, fighting not to cry out. "....Every....Every one of me? What do you mean?"

Amos reached out his hand, and smacked the man in the face with it. He

winced, imagining that the sting was fading, just to take his mind off how it wasn't. "What do I mean? I mean, I don't have to know you personally. You're all the same, Father! All of you, duping yourself into believing some croc. Praying every night to your own instincts, your own prejudices, your own sins. Fear drives you to your God, and once you're in the holy circle of friends, you stick with it, pulling the wool over the eyes of old ladies and rebellious little kids, justifying your hate of others different from you, your own agendas, and y'know what? Getting paid for it!"

"You- you have preachers then? Christians? What? Please, we're not all like-."

"You ARE all LIKE that! I don't hate preachers! I don't hate Christians! Different names for the same lies! That's what I hate. The lie. People feel like they need a "God," Father. Something to tell them there's life beyond death. Something to tell them that everything's all right. That they'll get that money they need to pay the rent. That black kid with the gun is going to mug someone else. That someone will vanquish their enemies, the bad people! People create this justification for their horrible, horrible actions, and no one will fight it, because it's the GOOD thing to do!"

Amos jumps over the chair. He's excited now, and his excitement soaks his reddened face, and his armpits. A vein sticks out over his left temple, and it seems to bulge, the closer his face gets to Mike's. "The only mistake I've ever heard the history channel make, not that I watch much mind you, is that they said the Crusades are over. They never ended. But now me, and my "church," are going to stop The travesty started centuries ago, and we're going to do it holyman, by holyman, Father."

Mike's closed his eyes, finally submerging the terror that had worked it's way up his throat. The man was crazy, and maybe logic wouldn't make his captor turn and repent right here and now, but anything- ANYTHING needed to be said to keep the dialogue going. "Look.....Why do you keep calling me Father? Do you mean, like, the catholic fathers, because I'm Lutheran."

Amos pulled himself away from his victim. He stood up straight again, and smiled, no longer looking at Mike. It was more like he was looking inside his own head, watching something familiar. "No......No, not like catholic fathers.....like my father."

He wasn't sure why, on this night, which was not altogether different from any other, all activity on the street seemed to have ended. It was a deathly quiet picture. One ghostlike figure, and a tall, ornate church building, all cold gray stone, and rich stained glass-windows, crammed between row upon row of mediocre apartment building, with only a fence and bushes to separate. He slowly drew himself up the steps to the doorway, entered.

The instant upon crossing the threshold, he felt it. A familiar aura of depravity washed over him. There were many people here, and he knew their stories. They had killed many between them, he knew. And they were all insane. Twelve people occupied the building. One innocent, a pastor, one especially twisted soul, the leader, and one...

One was right behind him...

He turned slowly, making no sound. Hiding beneath a pew, one of the sentries had come out of her hiding place upon hearing the door open. She was tall, dressed from head to toe in black. She looked to be about in her late-twenties, but wrinkles creased her face, giving her an old look. She was not especially pretty at all, but this might have just been due to a look in her brown, bloodshot eyes that emanated hatred.

Or had emanated hatred at least. For now those eyes were wide with fear. The kind of cutely terrified look a four year old gets, when forced to sleep in a room where shadowy monsters danced all night on the walls. This was a little girl's first meeting with a real ghost, and all her childhood horrors jumped to life in the pits of her soul. And they might have consumed her, had she not forgotten the gun in her hand, which gave her strength.

"Who are you?," she asked.

The Spectre said nothing. He stared on impassively, as her life flashed before him. A childhood, of teasing from her classmates for being tall and ugly. When her father left, she blamed it on the drugs she had turned too. Then, on the night of senior prom, she had been lured by a boy she had a crush on to his home. There he and his friends proceeded to drug her, rape her, then leave her alone on a farm somewhere outside of town. No one ever heard from her again, but five weeks later, five senior boys, on the day of graduation, were found brutally murdered in an apartment lobby. For the next six years, high-school boys were never safe on special occasions. And each time she mutilated and killed one, her anger grew, her lust for blood only deepened.

"I-I asked you a question."

The Spectre just stood silently, shadows splashing over his white figure. He only lowered his head, and charged the young woman. Her surprise stalled her from taking defense, and a cold white hand grabbed her wrist, as she was picked up by the waist and slammed into the wall. His shoulder pressed heavily into her gut, and a loud, a painful "woof!" was the only sound that escaped her throat. As she fell to the floor, he twisted her wrist, causing the gun to drop. He knelt down, and reached out a hand to pick up to gun, and throw it further into the dark shadows of the church lobby.

The redhead had finally found her feet. She growled loudly, almost an animal, as she lunged for the turned back of her attacker. He dropped to the side, grabbing her foot as her momentum carried her forward. The Spectre climbed on top of the woman, as he reached his arm back. A sound, surprisingly like that of bone on bone, despite the Spectre's lack of such, echoed through the room, as his fist connected with her face. His other had went out to grab her mouth, clamping down, and silencing any further outbursts. She kicked, and threw her arms, eventually managing to flip over, as the two grappled on the floor. Feet and fists, all in a tornado of black and white, with a splash of green rolled on the ground, knocking over a small metal coat hanger in the corner.

Metal coat hanger's jangled softly on the carpeted floor, but loudly as

they crashed against each other, as a virtual storm of them fell over the two combatants. Finally, the woman, panting and grunting with the terrifying rage completely returned to her eyes, falters. The Spectre, punches her again, and again, finally grabbing her shoulder with an unmatchable strength, he throws her to the ground. The two stay completely immersed in shadow, the tall woman, splayed on the ground, red hair strewn about her face. The Spectre rises just slightly, just shift his position. And then, all that can be seen is his long white hands on her throat, squeezing, until finally her struggling stops, and everything is quiet again...

Running. It was funny really. That's how it had all begun the first time. Yesterday, Corey had thrown down his food tray at the shelter, and taken off, pumping his spindly, malnourished muscles as hard as they would go, running. Running to save his brother. Running because he needed to save someone. And that's how he had met the Spectre.

Worn basketball shoes slapped the ground as he panted, and sweated his way down Akers St. None of it made much sense yet. The why's and how's left floating in the air, taunting him. But he knew what was happening at First Lutheran of Atlanta, Georgia, he knew where it was, and he knew who was behind it all. Knew them closer and more intimately the closer he got to his destination. At first it was just faces, hiding in the dark. By Washington St. he knew their names and addresses, and by Flanders Ave. he could feel their rage, their fear, their confusion and hate, like a sickening heat, emanating from the Church.

Things were starting to fall into place. He was bonded to the Spectre. That meant the two could be away from each other, but if Corey consciously tried to abandon the Spectre, it hit him, a wave of pain, like a mental/spiritual dog collar, the kind that shocks away disobedience.

The Spectre's job was to punish the perpetrators of evil, and since he was a being of supernatural origin, he had the ability to peer into the minds and souls of those whom his mission brought him too. And now, Corey shared in that ability. He felt the emotions of those about to die.

That is, if he didn't get their first. The Spectre was in that building, and he was going to stop him, no matter what it took.

Four other guards were discovered and defeated on his check of the first floor. A watchmen had been posted at each of two other doors, with one person for back-up. He moved in without them, without being noticed, springing upon the guards with terrifying speed and efficiency. The first round of gunmen needed to be taken out first. Though he would have liked to secure the hostage first, the possibility of back-up intruding upon his rescue, and the innocent being caught in the crossfire made that a second priority. He would launch himself upon them, taking two at once, removing them of their weapons, and keeping the fight in a tight, controlled radius. Running for help was made impossible, and sound was expertly kept to a minimum, to avoid drawing attention.

The Spectre moved slowly and silently, sticking to the shadow, deftly avoiding any traces of light streaming in from outdoors. Which was very hard, because there wasn't much. A long flight of stairs, followed by a long hallway that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Nothing moved, and there was no sound. It was almost completely dark, shadows clung to the walls like wet paint, and only the small beams of yellow light sliding in from the windows made anything visible. The blue carpet and white walls became visible, but much more eerie and foreboding than they hopefully were during Sunday services.

Suddenly a squeaking of an opening door was heard, echoing down the hall. He slid up, until he was opposite the slowly opening door, crouching in the complete darkness with his cloak drawn about him, invisible to the inattentive eye. The door opened further, the point of a long rifle sticking out, and moved from side to side, ridiculously almost, as if it were a periscope, able to see if there was danger coming from either side. Then it moved outward, a short, but sturdy man attached to it. He wore black like the others, with a ski mask, and goggles. A moving sentry, he had been assigned to walking around the church, checking to make sure nothing was going on without the notice of the other guards.

The Spectre cocked his head, so his eyes stared directly at the sentry, and peered into his soul. He had been raised in a small, suburban, nice home in Minnesota. Didn't help him though. He and his friends at a young age, developed a fascination for violent television shows, and games, as well as torturing bugs, then small animals. He had run away from home at 17 with his buddies and moved up to Canada where they all lived in a cabin and hunted together. They learned to refine their love of killing, until he accidentally shot them both, but found that he didn't care. He had been convicted of murder twice, and suspected of at least five more between Minnesota and Georgia.

He looked around the hallway around him, trying his best to be stealthy. He almost moved on, until something caught his eye, right in front of him. A small flash of pale white, he thought. His mind immediately told him it was a trick of the light, but something else, told him, just to satisfy his curiosity, to reach out and examine. Then a cold hand reached out, and grabbed his wrist. He almost yelped, but a foot flew up and kicked him in the jaw. His body went limp, and the Spectre stood up straight, grabbing his rifle, and yanking it from his hands. His assailant swung the gun like a bat, and he stumbled through the doorway after the butt of the rifle connected with his face.

He fought with his mind to regain his balance as he stumble back into the room fromwhich he had emerged. Stars flew about before his eyes, and his fingers tried to rub them away. When finally the stars cleared, the mouth dropped. Now the enemy stood revealed in a beam of light from the window. The figure stood up straight, his long green cloak pushed behind him as he lunged forward. The man in black tried to bring up his hands to block, but the Spectre was too fast. He punched the man, forcing him backwards and onto his back on a small table obviously made for toddlers.

The Spectre took a moment to survey his surroundings. The darkness was still strong, cloaking most of the room in black, but enough was visible to assume it was a nursery. Posters of smiling children hung on the walls, dolls and toys stood in shelves to the side, and a little manger sat across the room. And on the long, short table in the middle, the sentry was struggling with surprise, but pushing himself off the table.

The Spectre grabbed the rifle again, and launched himself onto his foe. The two fell back on to the table, one pinned under the other. The one on the bottom tried to punch for the figures head, but was constantly blocked, finally switching his attack, focusing on hitting his body, as hard as possible in the weak points on the side, under the ribs. The Spectre gritted his teeth as he allowed the blows to connect. He raised up the gun again, bringing the butt once more against the man's head, hitting repeatedly, each time just as strong, until his enemy's blows started to weaken and falter. The man kicked out as he tried to stay conscious, knocking over chairs as he struggled.

He cursed inside his mind. Those falling chairs would bring reinforcements. He had to end this quickly. Once more he brought the gun against the man's brow, finally knocking him out. He pulled himself upright, going to the door. The sound of two sets of feet, running on the carpet came from down the hall. The Spectre reached out to the two with his mind, reading their stories in an instant. One murderer/cult member, the other a multiple rapist. Perfect.

The Spectre hid on one side of the door and pulled it back in anticipation. As one of the guards stuck his arm out into the room holding his gun, about to enter, he slammed to door down on his arm, the gun falling from the guard's fingertips. The Spectre grabbed his arm, and pulled him into the room, throwing him over his shoulder onto the ground. The second reacted quickly, rushing her opponent. The Spectre grabbed her by the waist and the shoulder, using her speed to make the throw easier, and launched her into the far wall. He picked up the first guard, and threw him into her. The landed together, struggling to get free of each other as the Spectre slowly advanced on them. He sought to pounce on them before they freed themselves, but was disappointed as the guards quickly righted themselves. The rushed forward in unison. One landing a punch to the hero's stomach, the other bringing both her fists down on his head.

He fell to the ground, but twisted and landed on his back. The woman attempted to stomp on his stomach, but he grabbed her leg, twisting to make her fall. He jumped up, locking his body on top of hers as he wrapped his thin, but strong arm around her head. He let out a kick to the guard behind him, and the man doubled over in pain. He reached out, securing the man as well in a headlock. The struggling continued, toys and pictures were knocked everywhere, but eventually they tired, and the Spectre was able to snap both their necks.

He leapt up from the bodies, and moved again to the door. Good. Everything was quiet. The door was opened without the slightest sound, and the journey began again, out into the hallway. He ran now, still somehow deathly silent. The second floor was secure, and so he swiftly climbed a small stairway, leading up to a tiny hallway, and a single solitary door. The last two guards stood up, surprised coming forward to meet the assailant. Both drew their guns. The Spectre turned to his left, kicking on of the watchmen in the elbow. He punched the man again in the face, knocking him to the wall.

The second guard wasted no time with physical combat. As the Spectre heard the rifle cock behind him, he swung around, grabbing the man's hand and aiming at the first criminal. Three shots rang out before the guard realized his mistake, and by then, his partner was already dead. The Spectre grabbed his fingers twisting them to release the weapon. The last guard was the smartest though. Nothing must separate him from the only thing he had to fight this incredible menace. He held on to the rifle, struggling with the Spectre for control of it.

And thus, the Spirit opted for Plan B. He swung his hand down in a karate chop upon the soft side of the guard's elbow. His arm bent, and the Spectre, faster than thought, grabbed the rifle and swung it into position, aimed directly at the man's chest. He only looked up fast enough to see his enemy's eyes widen in surprise, then fear, before he cast his eyes downward, and pressed on the man's trigger finger.

Four shots were fired. The last man was on the other side of that door, with the priest.

Corey was still running, only a mere block from the fighting. He heard three shots, then later, one more, and the same wave of....something, pricked him in the belly. It had happened eight times before, at his count. He reached out again, focusing his thoughts on the Spectre. And once again, without explanation, he knew. Ten men had now died. Two were left in that church, the bad guy and the priest.

He ran faster. He had to make it there in time.

Something was wrong. It hit Amos hard, like a hammer-blow, right to the gut, that something was amiss, and that all his months and months of planning were not going to turn out as he had hoped. He suppressed it, calling it nothing but jitters (He always did get giddy before a kill, he thinks.) but felt pushed to go and check anyway. He turned to his captive, the Pastor Mike Kris'Muti, all battered and bloody, barely conscious, cuts lining his body. He looked at it, but all he really saw was his father, beating him, yelling at him in the church sanctuary after Sunday service. He smiled anyway.

"Don't go away now. That would be rude."

He picks up the bell again, playing with it as he walks towards the door. Then he hears the gun shots. One-Two-Three......Four. The pace quickens, and when his hand's reach the door-

"What in-!?," he cries out. The door explodes outwards towards him. Shattered pieces of wood are released in every direction, and two strong arms emerge, grasping for him, as if to pull him into the pits. He's knocked backwards, and the bell falls from his hands, clanging loudly against the floor. A large terrifying figure flies forth from the empty doorway, a stark white midsection and arms emerging from moving shadow, underneath a dark green cloak. Like an angel born out of nightmare. Amos Chank's nightmare.

The figure lurches forward, picking up Amos Chank by the neck of his shirt.

"Amos Chank?," it's face frozen in an angry frown.

And Amos can only nod dumbly, as his arms involuntarily falter fumble, searching for the handgun in his pocket.

"I am the Spectre," and the Spectre throws his fist, a powerful punch, fueled by righteous anger, and Amos Chank is hit harder than he's ever been hit before. He flies, up over the walls of the balcony, then falls. And the Spectre watches as the funny man shrinks, falling to the church sanctuary below, landing with a disgusting thud. A groan escapes Amos Chank's lips, and with that signal, the Spectre leaps, down the two floors, ready to finish what was started.

Corey pants, exhausted, finally having finally reached his destination. The old church is large, and dark, and scary, but he pushes on. He feels the Spectre-force up above him. Which explains why he now climbs a large oak tree. He clutches the huge branches dearly, though their strength can support much more weight than his. He looks around again, noticing the intricate stained glass window which is now only inches from the branch he now stands on.

And only because he is so close, can he now hear a man yelling, louder and louder, then silenced, by the loud sound of an impact. He focuses on the Spectre yet again, peering inside, and sees the man lying on the ground, moaning, and the his opponent, swooping down from above.

And with that, he grabs a branch, and swings out. Totally Tarzan he thinks. Or at least, he would, if his thoughts were not drowned out by the deafening shatter of stained glass, as he crashes through to the church floor.

The shadowed hero is startled by the explosion of the window. His head turns, though he shouldn't have to. He feels it. He knows it's Corey. But he looks anyway, and that is enough time for his target to regain his strength, kicking with both legs full force into his stomach.

As the Spectre stumbles, he is met with a thousand shards of glass, raining down upon him. Corey lands on his feet, faltering for only a second before righting himself. He looks first at the Spectre, then at the angry man on the floor, and then his surroundings fully hit him. A church sanctuary, large and rich and tall. The shadows still reside everywhere, but now moonlight flows in from the sky above, catching the remnants of the stained-glass picture, and reflecting illuminations of green, and red and blue up into the air. Everything is bathed in an eerie glow, like a combination between a completely dark room for the brief second it is lit up by lightning, and the aurorabeaurialis. Then, quite unceremoniously, the Spectre grabs Corey and throws him back, out of the path of a stream of bullets.

Amos jumps up, running at the Spectre, shooting his gun like a madman. The Spectre ducks, his cloak swirling, catching the bullets, but not seeming to rip. The two run towards each other, and meet, one punching the other in the head, while the other kicks the one in the ribs. They fight, back and forth, a flurry of punches and kicks. Until Amos pins the Spectre to the wall. He reaches back to punch, but the Spectre just brings his foot to the sociopath's sternum. He drops the Spectre, who presses his advantage, socking him with the left fist, then an uppercut to the right.

Corey sits in the shadows, watching, confused. He focuses again, still not sure on what, and slowly, the clouds begin to part. The world around him disappears, and is replaced by a kind of red, hazy fog. He hears two voices, one mature and manly, one young, masculine, but girlish. He hears the impact of fist upon face. Yelling, screaming, and crying. He's in a church sanctuary, where a man is beating on his very young son. The man is dressed in robes, a priest or a minister of some kind. The boy is Amos Chank, his son.

The scene shifts. They're up in the boy's room, the boy is being hit with a belt. The scene shifts again, and again and again. From garden parties, to just different rooms in the house he grew up in, but it's all the same. This over zealous father, abusing his son over and over, for all of his life. Horribly. And Corey feels it all. He experiences firsthand every smack of the hand, every second of abuse. He turns away his eyes in horror, until it gets different.

An older Chank, beating up a Jehovah's Witness who comes to his door, then killing him. Amos, taking a gun to a group of sleeping campers on a religious outing. Slaughtering young girls and leaving them in his closet. Then finally, Amos, and a terrified Mike Kris'Murti, the pastor bound in his own church, tortured, beaten, cut, and humiliated. And with that, the red haze fades, everything become dark again as the church returns.

Amos knocks the spirit in the back of the head with his gun. He kicks him in the gut repeatedly, stepping on his legs, punching him in the face. Amos's face grows red with exertion as he screams, "I hate you! You're all the same!"

He grabs his gun, and runs, running for the nearest door, mad with the hope for escape. The Spectre rises, chasing him. Amos hears his footsteps, screaming again, he throws his arm out, shooting wildly, blindly with the gun. Bullets pierce pews, stone walls, and another colored window above them. The glass shatters, raining downwards. The Spectre throws his cloak above his head, and shards of glass bounce off it, surrounding him, but not causing any pain. He throws himself onto the body of Amos Chank, picking him up, and slamming him against thestone wall. Again, and again, three times, as his head bounces against the concrete until thefirearm is dropped. He is lowered, until the two face are together and he sees the only visibleparts of the hero's face, an angry frowning white mouth and nose. The Spectre growls "Amos. I see into your soul. You've killed countless innocents. The man above us maydie, because of the senseless damage you've inflicted upon him," the Spectre pulls the crazedman closer. "You've been very bad. What have you got to say for yourself?"

"NO! NO! You- You're just like him! Just like them all! Like my Dad!," he flails about, no longer even seeing the spirit of vengeance before him. He kicks and screams, and anything that even looked like sanity leaves his eyes. "I'm going to kill them all! I'll show the world! Starting-," and once more, a flash of recognition. His eyes focus again, on the shivering form of Corey Jobe. "Starting with that one." He grabs a second, smaller gun from his back-pocket, and raises it, aiming it at Corey. But the Spectre reaches out, grabbing the arm, and in a few deft movements, breaking it.

"I thought as much," is the only whisper the Spectre gives, as he draws out a long shard of glass, grabbed as the window broke, out of his cloak. He pushes Amos back, shoving hard, but quickly, avoiding unnecessary pain, as he pushes it far back into Amos's heart. Amos croaks, mumbling, but soon stops, looking only up at the sky. The Spectre drops him, and he sinks to the floor.

Corey stares silently, his mind a complete blank, at the Spectre standing over the dead body of the sick madman whom Corey had just shared a life with. The Spectre walks away, moving to just where he had landed when he jumped from the balcony. He flies upward, landing on the carpet of the balcony. He walks over to the unconscious form of Kris'Murti. Soft white hands travel over various cuts and bruises, most sustained on the body, instead of the head, a good sign. He checks the man's pulse.

And Corey, just sits down in one of the pews. Completely silent, trying his best to comprehend more of an assault on his brain than happens to some people in a lifetime. His emotions still reel from the violence and killing he had felt in the soul of the crazy man, lying on the ground a room away from him. Amos Chank, killer, killed by the Spectre, the killer of- of Corey's brother....It was all just too much.

Finally the silence is broken. "Jobe! The victim is still alive. You must go, now, and call the police to treat his wounds." Corey looks up to the source of the voice, to see the grim avenger descending from above. "Yeah..Yeah-I....Wait. No. You killed him! And...all these other people in here, that...that I felt. You killed them too! All of them!"

The Spectre says nothing, turning slowly, walking away towards the shattered glass window.

"Hey! Don't you walk away from me. I'm talking to you! What, you think you're something special? What, you're some superhero? Some righteous angel? And because of all that, murder doesn't apply to you? You should be locked up in jail. I don't care what fancy powers you got, you're just-"

"Enough!," the Spectre turns on his heels, and roars. The boy recoils in surprise and fear, at his shocking outburst. He walks back, visibly seething until he is inches from the boy. "Is this how you expect to live out the rest of our partnership together? We are stuck together, forever, Corey Jobe, and if you don't shut up, and accept it, it's only going to be harder on both of us. You want me to stop acting "holier-than-thou" and "righteous?" Let me tell you something. Nothing frustrates me more than the constant whining of those humans like you. Pretending, for your own peace of mind that some things are not necessary. You can't tolerate killing, so you are content to simply keep yourself away from it, building up your own imagined morality, believing that if everyone in the world went free without being punished, it would all be a happy, perfect world. That man, and all his followers were completely removed from reality! They were going to torture and murder that pastor, and they were going to do the same to more and more until they were stopped! Wake up, boy!"

Corey's eyes fly open. The outburst of the older figure, and his anger, pushed Corey back before, but no display of anger is enough to keep Corey's back. He jabs a finger into the Spectre's chest. "I'm wide awake! For one thing: what do you mean "content to keep myself away from it?" I've been on the streets longer than you have Mr. "Agent of God," and I didn't have a dimension to retreat to, or superpowers to save me when things got tough. And another thing: I saw into their minds! They were only killing because other people hurt them first! They could have been brought to jail! They could have been helped!"

"You looked into Chank's eyes," the Spectre returns. "I know how he was hurt, and I understand it, but sadly it completely destroyed his mind. He knows nothing but hate and killing now. The same with the other's. You want to bring them to jail? You want to help them? Fine, but how many would dramatically turn around and see the light? Maybe some would, but would that be before, or after, any one of these eleven escaped and murdered a some child, or family?"

"You don't know that!," Corey yells.

Finally, the fighting stops. The Spectre looks into Corey's eyes, and his anger fades, though Corey's remains just as strong. "Yes, I do." And with that, the discussion is over, and the Spectre turns, walking to the empty hole that held the stained-glass window. "I saved your life, Corey. And I saved the life of the pastor up above. I save innocents. That's what I do. Now call the police, Pastor Kris'Murti still required medical attention." And with that, he leaps up through the window, and is gone into the night.

Spirited Writings

Welcome to the third issue of "The Spectre," at FDC. This one was a little longer in coming, but summer's here now, school's out, and I aim to make this a very enjoyable, very on- time read for everybody.

With that, on my computer at home, a little box in the corner says this issue's a good 16/17 pgs. long, quite the accomplishment, over my last two which were closer to 6 or 7. So that may be a very daunting (hopefully not boring, depending on how well I'm writing) read, but it just shows how much fun I'm having with this. My ease with writing Corey and The Spectre is coming more readily now, and this story just about wrote itself. For any who might wonder, my inspiration for how I'm writing the Spectre at the moment come more from the movie "Unbreakable," whose main super-guy character was based on the Spectre (You mean you didn't know?) as opposed to the version from comics. At least as far as fight scenes go anyway, so you won't see a whole lot of the Spectre turning himself into a meat-grinder and chopping up bad guys.

Well, that's just my little commentary. Thanks to all the writers at FDC who have been making me feel very at home, and a special thanks to Paul Roof, for sending me my first bit of positive feedback about the series.

See you in thirty. Peace, all.

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