The jostling of a rusty bus traveling out of the city of Atlanta roused a small boy. Corey Jobe lifted his head sleepily, who blinked away the haze before his eyes. His small, nearly bald head felt like a mass of cobwebs, hindering both thought and motor skills. He shook himself and looked about, out the window at the dingy city passing by, and wondered once more if perhaps it had all been a dream. But permanent realization, if not acceptance, had begun to take seat in his stomach. This wasn't the first night he had woken up in a strange place, not knowing how he came to be there.

For at least a week now, life had passed in a daze. Wandering about the hub of the city, trying to squeeze in unnoticed with some family at the soup kitchen and seeing if he could scare up a little more to fill his stomach. He alternated between the different streets he had walked everyday for the last few months. The names had become a part of his memory by now. It was the usual routine. Eat and walk. Walk far enough to stay out of trouble. Then eat again. Not a step in his route was changed from the last time he'd walked it a week ago. But even so, something really was different. At night, there was no acquaintance’s apartment to return to. No cheap motel bed to sleep in. Because his brother was dead. He had been killed by the Spectre.

For days, Corey's mind had alternated between trying to comprehend the situation with the Spectre, and trying to repress it. His brother, Shawn, had gotten mixed up with a vicious gangster, who hired him to kill a witness in an upcoming murder trial. It wasn't the first time Shawn had been involved in shady business. The two brothers had been living as vagrants for years, abandoned and orphaned. For Corey's safety, Shawn accepted, and killed an old man in his home. And that was when the world of the sane ended.

A being known as the Spectre had followed Shawn. The Spectre was something of a "superhero" though he wouldn't call himself that. He'd been theorized as a kind of angel, but he wouldn't agree to that either. He proclaimed himself as a force sent down by God, a vehicle to punish only the most wicked, so as to save those with any innocence in their souls. Corey didn't believe it, but divine purpose or none, the Spectre could accomplish feats outside the realm of physical possibility. And he was most definitely not human.

The two had met in some blank void, light years removed from even the concept of existence. There they were introduced to the being responsible for bonding the Spectre to human souls. For if the Spectre was to be a proper judge of human life, it was believed he needed to be anchored to the soul of a man, in order to maintain perspective. What he got was a boy. The boy whose brother he had just killed. Neither was happy about the situation.

Upon return to the real world, they'd both been swept up in the most terrifying night of Corey's life, a hostage situation in an urban church. There he first got to witness, firsthand, the Spectre in his crusade on evil, as well as the taking of a man's life. The boy and his ghost hadn't truly met since.

Corey had spent the first few days wondering if it all had been real, or some sick hallucination. But soon he knew it was real. He woke up every night, with fading images tickling the sides of his brain. Snapshots into the lives of killers and thieves. Places he couldn't remember ever seeing, but felt a familiarity with. And one predominant figure, a silent phantasm, cloaked in green, who would slip from the shadows, or appear beneath the leg of a terrified sinner, to give a guilty man one last fright before his life was taken by a spirit whose purpose was to exact revenge. But more than the dreams it was... a feeling. Like the feeling between two ex-lovers, separated by pain. A mental/spiritual connection, deniable to modern science, but not to the human soul, it exists between the two, though tainted with heartbreak, but still real to both parties. Corey and the Spectre shared a bond that was almost palpable. And more and more every day it began to rest arrogantly on Corey's shoulders like a weight.

From now on, the two were connected. A boy and his worst enemy were linked by chains from heaven itself, and wherever one went, the other must follow.

A in Gym. B in English. F in Reading. F in Math. F in Social Studies. D- in Science. "Pleasure to have in class." "Turns in homework late." "Not working up to potential." "Not working up to potential".... "Should seek help at home."

A mostly new report card sat on the top of the garbage can, next to the refrigerator, which had no pictures or letters on it. Just two free magnets from Atlanta Savings and Loan. The report card itself had been stained with grease. The folds in it were new enough that it still folded up into a neat little triangle under it's own power, but the coffee grounds on top of it weighed it down.

It was Phillip Jemas's report card. It was pretty lousy, but he really didn't care. It had sat on that garbage heap for about three days, and only barely caught his eyes when he started digging in the freezer for an ice cream sandwich. It was 5:00, almost dinner time, and he shouldn't have been spoiling his appetite, but he wanted an ice cream sandwich, and an ice cream sandwich was what he got. Nobody was going to care anyway. His dad was too busy yelling at social services again anyway.

A couple rooms away, a man fussed and fumed as he tried to multi-task both the cleaning of his bedroom, and the protests spat into his cordless phone. The man was short, and chunky, if not downright fat. He wore ripped up blue jeans, and the customary cowboy boots. An old rock'n'roll band t-shirt, sleeves cut off, hung from his frame, with a flannel over shirt, also sleeveless, draped over it. A thick brown handlebar mustache jutted out triumphantly like a growth upon his upper lip, and his ponytail swished as he walked. He had big, thick glasses, offset by a tattoo of a skull. He looked something like a crossbreed of high-school nerd, and highway biker. But his cowboy roots dominated as his southern drawl seeped into the mouthpiece.

"Yes.....Yes, I hear you, but.....No....No, I don't think so! Look mister, they can't come over today, and I don't care wut' yew' have to say 'bout it. Them people can't come over today, 'cuz we'll all be gone anyway, 'cuz Jade's got band practice!," he shot with attitude as he waddled over to his bed. He grunted as he reached under, picking up an old white t-shirt and the butt of a joint he had been smoking a month ago. He flicked the butt out the window, and shoved his shirt into a laundry basket he'd been carrying.

"This is...Hey! Jes' shut up a minute, alright? This is dirty! It's a dirty trick. Alright, yer' people sat down and told me that there was gonna' be scheduled visits from the Social Services people, and when those would be...No ma'am, they most certainly did not tell me anything about unscheduled visits!...No...No, they did n- Hey! Now, don't go tellin' me, what I heard, cuz' I know what I heard. I know when you high'n'mighty jacks up there start making up your own rules, and start tellin' folks like me them rules always been there, when they haven't..."

He pauses to let the woman on the other end speak as he hustles over to the closet. Shirts are pulled off of their hangers while the phone switches cradling positions from between the neck and the left shoulder, to the neck and the right. He moves about the room, tilting lampshades into their best position, and hanging pictures over dents in the walls.

He stops in the middle of the room, to drop the basket down onto his bed. His face is red, and he runs his hand over his ponytail, looking as though he's ready to yank it out of his head. "This is ridiculous! It's illegal is what it is! It's totally against the constitution. What about my right to no search and seizure? You people can't just come barging in here whenever you want, and... Don't you try to tell me-...Look lady, I know my rights, ok?"

He looked like he was about to continue, but a louder, though still muffled tone could just barely be heard over the phone's earpiece. His face sank, the anger still there, but fighting with other emotions. He continued to listen, and picked up a picture sitting next to his bed. It showed him and his three children at the park, when the youngest was just a newborn. His finger traced his youngest son's face as the phone droned on in his ear. Suddenly, his whole faced twitched once again, simultaneously, and threw down the picture to his feet below. It shattered in shards of glass beneath him as he returned his focus to his perceived oppressor over the phone.

"But you got no right! They're my kids, and you can't just take them away... No, I know that's not why you say you're coming over here, but I know what yew' got planned! Yew' think I ain't no good father, and maybe yer' right, but that ain't yer' choice to make...No, it ain't! I'm their Dad, and I don't need no government comin' in tellin' me how to raise my kids!," he made and effort to quiet and calm himself down. "Look, you don't understand... I just love my kids. That's all. They're all I've got, and I'm all they've got, now. So-," he stops. His voice cracks and the tears in his eyes are genuine. But after a pause on both sides, the woman's starts speaking again, and the brief respite leaves.

"No! Just.... quiet, now! No, I said! Yew' can send whoever yew' want, but they ain't gettin' in here! I'm lockin' my doors, and I ain't got to let nobody in, cuz' it's my right, and that's unconstitutional!... You can send 'em, but I don't have to let nobody in! I got a 9 millimeter shotgun, right here in my apartment!... No, ma'am, I don't mean nothin', I'm jes' sayin nobody gets through that door if I don't want 'em too....No, ma'am, I'm jes' sayin'-..."

The conversation meandered on, spiraling downwards the whole way. The yelling got more heated, and harder to understand through the door. Phillip pressed his ear to the wood and tried to pick out the words, but it became too hard... It sounded like social services was planning another short-notice visit. They stopped by the apartment a lot, and most of the time, Phil's dad was mad with them. He often complained, both when drunk and sober, that they were trying to take him and his sisters away.

Phil's dad's name was John Jemas. John had lived in Georgia all his life, and even though childhood spent in a less than stable household, which was actually a trailer, may not have been ideal, he considered the state home. He grew up to marry his high-school sweetheart, Hope Saither, despite behind-the-back snickers of his community for marrying the small town's only black girl, but they went on to raise three children together. They lived in a dingy little apartment in Atlanta until his wife died of pneumonia last winter. She had stayed out too late in the cold one night when she couldn't find the keys back into her apartment. John had accidentally taken the wrong ones away with him hours earlier, leaving for the weekend on a camping trip with his buddies. They had thought it was pretty funny at the lodge.

But when he returned he found Hope sick and broken. She endured a long, painful few months, and her weak constitution couldn't hold out any longer. The family had taken it very hard, but none so hard as John. He barely ever left the house anymore, except for work. And often times, he opted to skip work, sitting alone to look at scrapbooks of his family.

Which is why Social Services was coming. They'd been calling for months now, more and more frequently as time had gone on. They were starting to hit at things, like foster care for the children. Suggestions to improve quality of parenting were starting to sound more like threats. Which only made John leave the house less. He was paranoid. And no one was going to take his kids.

He loved them more than anything.

That what he said, and that's the way Phil saw it. And, Phil reasoned as he walked away, munching on his ice cream bar, was why he was fighting so loud with the Social Services Rep. right now. Instead of going to work. Instead of stopping Phil from eating that ice cream bar. Instead of taking out the trash, on top of which Phil's report card now sat decaying. It all made sense to the nine year old.

It was because of love.

But Phil didn't know what emotion made his Dad leave the gun cabinet unlocked more often these days...

The up and down motion of the bus had rocked Corey back to sleep. The other patrons of public transportation had long since left. His snoring bothered no one but the driver as they drove on through the nighttime streets. Suddenly the vehicle lurched to a stop, and Corey’s head bounced up once, before smacking against the window he had been using for a pillow.

“Ow!,” he winced, rubbing his nearly-bald head.

“Last stop,” the driver called back, layering his voice with thick southern drawl.

“Huh?,” Corey grunted sleepily. “Where are we?”

“I am on the last stop of my route, about to go home, and you’re on Sherry St., kid.”

“Sherry St.?,” Corey repeated, fully awake now. “I thought this bus went out to Mayville? You just took me back further into the city than I was before!”

Obviously the driver was in no mood for conversation, and was even less receptive to lost children. “I took you as far as the bus route says. If you didn’t feel like checking the route before you got on the wrong bus, that’s your problem.”

Corey looked dismayed, and was about to speak up, but got cut off. “Now, I’d be inclined to help you out, but I noticed you got on here with any change or a bus pass. So I already done you one favor, and it’s too late for me too feel especially generous. Now ‘scat, kid, before I call the cops.”

He pointed a chunky thumb towards the door, and Corey looked down at the ground as he walked past. He stepped off the bus onto the dusty street. He looked around, and wrapped his ratty gray sweatshirt around him, surprised by the cold breeze.

The bus made a “whoosh” sound as the doors shut, and it drove off into the night. Corey squinted, the only source of substantial light around having left him. He looked across the street, and saw the remaining letters of an old, dingy youth recreational center hanging above a few boarded up doors. He kicked at discarded newspapers as he crossed the street to survey the building.

The windows had been long since broken, probably by nearby neighborhood looters or gang members. The cold breeze brushed up under his clothes again and he shivered. Giving one quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he climbed in through a window, and looked around for a place to sleep.

He walked down the dark lobby, looking around at the sliding shadows, hopeful that no other vagrants might be sharing this sleeping ground with him. He turned a corner, trying to peer into the blank space, when he felt the undisputable feeling of eyes on the back of his neck. He froze.

“Running, Corey?,” a voice from behind asked.

“Gah!,” he screamed as he whipped around and fell on his rear.

The Spectre stood above him, tall and regal. His face peered out of the shadow like a villain in a 3-D movie. Corey still hadn’t gotten used to the Spectre’s presence, and really, he was terrified that a day might someday come where he was used to it. He attempted to regain his dignity, as he rose and dusted himself off. There was really no point, as his only pair of faded, baggy blue jeans had been dirtied up past the point of no return for a long time.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” The Spectre said, though from his tone, any real sincerity would be difficult to find.

“Don’t be. You just surprised me,” Corey challenged. “Not everyone’s afraid of you.”

The Spectre made no reaction, as if he hadn’t even heard the last comment. “I asked if you were running away?”

“What?,” Corey asked, dumbfounded.

“You were on a bus, headed out of the city. What are you running from?”

Corey turned away, unwilling to look at the being he hated so much.

“You. Okay?,” he shot as he walked off down the hall, not looking over his shoulder. “And you’re obviously not getting the idea.”

He only got a few steps before, a fuzzy image seemed to be walking out of the darkness in front of him. And then, once again, the Spectre was before him.

“Why?,” he asked.

Corey rubbed his temples, irritated with the theatrics, and even more irritated with the Spectre. “Because!,” he yelled. “Because I hate you! Do you get that? You’re a murderer! This and all the other spiritual stuff may be a walk in the park for you, but I’m “attached” to a ghost that’s killed more people with his own hands than probably all of America’s psychopath’s put together. I’ve seen you kill two people, and one of them was my brother! You’re not a superhero to me, you’re just a sick freak who should be locked up, but can’t be.”

“I am no “hero,” and I am no maniac. Those are human terms. I am a force, with a purpose, and that purpose is all that matters to me.”

“Yeah, obviously you’re not human. How could you be? You can walk through walls, fly, and leave Earth whenever you want to. You can’t die. At least, I don’t think you can. So you have no idea what it’s like to be one of us.”

“I have walked this world for centuries. I know human experience more deeply than you could ever imagine.”

“Right,” Corey spat, while kicking at the ground with his toe. “And that’s why you show up out of nowhere, kill whoever looks like they need a good killin’. And take off again, to let the survivors set out the mess. Like you did with me. My brother wouldn’t care about your “purpose.” If he were alive, that is.”

“I know he wouldn’t. And that is why, for the good of all those he might have killed, I had to take his life.”

Corey cringed at the words. The pain in his heart still ached, and every moment spent talking to the Spectre, and no beating him until he cried was like being stabbed in the stomach by the memory of his brother. The shadows that should have made the space around him seem more expansive, felt like it was closing in. Choking him off. He felt he could feel his brother’s dying breaths. Like the Spectre, Corey was starting to understand the concept of vengeance.

“How?! How?!,” he howled in rage. He jabbed his finger straight for the Spectre’s chest. “Who gives you the right? And don’t you dare say God! How do you decide who is too much of a bad guy to live? My brother loved me. He wasn‘t evil in any way.”

“It isn’t so much about evil. Each person’s soul is different. I do not exact revenge on any who has not committed murder. Murder is the one great sin, for in the taking of a life, you have denied someone else’s right to life, and their ability to help others. And from death, there is no recovery.”

“I only take the lives of a select few,” he continued. “Those hopeless souls who whether because of the simple inclination to do evil, or their situation, or their personal experiences, have killed, and will kill again. For whatever reason, someone who is other’s an upstanding human being, will kill, and deny another’s right to life. This can not be allowed to happen. Despite my title, I do not execute to institute punishment. I do so to save the lives of those who would have theirs taken away.”

Corey looked down at the ground. His voice was almost a whisper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Then the Spectre looked up and away, his attention focused on something else. It was as though something had fluttered across his brow, and he inquired to learn the nature of what it was. He stopped, silently, to listen to something Corey was not privy to. The sound of souls crying out for justice.

The Spectre looked back down at Corey, and stretched out his arm, peeling back the fold of his cloak.

“Wha-,” Corey started as he looked up. But his voice stalled as he peered into what should have been the blackness of the Spectre’s cloak, and could somehow make out an image in the folds of a run down building somewhere, with policemen circling it.

“You require a demonstration. Walk into the picture.”

And so he did.

The pillow clung to John's face, stuck there by thick, cold sweat. He lay in the serenity of his room, the only semblance of restlessness in an otherwise peaceful picture. Blue light filtered in from the night moon above, and was spliced into ribbons by the half-drawn shade. Illuminated objects dotted the room, standing out eerily against the pitch black, their features hidden by twilight. It was impossible to distinguish what each might have been.

A bird fluttered by outside the window. Though a thing of beauty itself, by the freakish shadows it cast on the bedroom wall, it could have been some freakish, jerking devil. It's silhouette writhed and spasmed, and was, like the bird, gone in a second, like a nightmare in the eyes of a child, erased with a parent's touch.

No sound came from the streets below. Not even the hint of a breeze let itself be known. The only sound that could be heard was the mumbling and rustling of John as he twisted under his wet sheets. The eyes beneath his fastened lids flew wildly, as though searching for something and into his pillow, he mumbled statements of fear...

Inside his mind it was like swimming through mud. Grey murk swirled about, giving forth no tangible pictures, only the feelings that would have come with them. It was like having a dream through the radio. Suddenly his feet were on some kind of a floor. His floor. In his kitchen.

John was racing through his house, flinging open the refrigerator door, and cabinets, and backpacks, looking for something. He called out, but what did he say? What was he looking for?

He searched the living room. and continued calling. His own voice became clearer... "Phil! Jamie! Sarah!," he cried. His children! Where were his children?

His bare feet beat the floor, and the halls of his apartment, darkened by dream, flew past him. He burst through the doors into his daughter's room. Two empty beds sat in their own corners. Discarded toys were strewn on the floor.

There was a knock on the door...

Fear gripped him, like cold hands massaging every muscle of his body. His heart pounded in his chest, and worse in his ears. He darted next door to his son's room. Empty bed, sheets on the floor. His toys were twisted and mangled, and pictures on the wall, were shattered.

Where were his children?

Then a small girl's scream, high and shrill, pierced the air. It was the only sound in the world at that moment, and John felt it in all of his mind. It was a scream he instantly remembered. The scream of his little girl Jamie the day Phil had put a large Spider in her sandwich. It was pure terror then, and it was pure terror now.

It had come from outside. He looked out a broken window and saw a man in black shoving his daughter into a large van as she cried out for her Daddy.

They were taking his kids!

The knock on the door had persisted. It grew louder now, more distinct. He ran for his door, desperate to save his children from these monsters.

"Knock-Knock-Knock..."

He got to his front door. Cold hands twitched as they felt the cold metal of the doorknob. He flung open the door...

And all his mind registered was the briefest of glimpses. A face took up all of the doorway. The nose and mouth of a pale white face, frowning. The eyes hidden by pure blackness. All the features were highlighted by green...

And then for one second, everything went black. And all that could be heard was the knock on the door...

"Knock-Knock-Knock!," the sound of beating on wood came harder.

John's eyes flew open, wide with fear, and he fell out of his bed with a cry. His body was still drenched in sweat, and he sat on the ground for a second to get his bearings. He felt around aimlessly in the dark, puzzled fingers discerned first the bed stand, then his glasses. Having put them on, he made his way to the light switch.

Then a more persistent knocking filtered in from outside his door.

"Just a second!," he called out over his shoulder. He looked outside his window. He couldn't tell what time it was, but then he looked down at his alarm clock. Blaring red numbers shone 10:30.

He silently cursed himself. Must have fallen asleep again, he thought.

He grabbed a shirt off it's hangar to towel the sweat off of his clammy body. He threw it into the laundry bin next to his door. He changed into another shirt, but did nothing to cover his boxer shorts. He grumbled sleepily, and still a little shocked from the effect of the dream which he had been given no time to process.

The white face...

None of the lights were on in the house. He switched on a dim lamp next to the door. He was hesitant to open it, but he quelled the momentary fear and twisted the doorknob open.

A woman and a man, sharply dressed in low-quality business suits greeted him.

"Good evening, Mr. Jemas," the woman said. The other nodded his acknowledgement. "May we come in?"

They made a move to start forward, but John moved up to block the door. "Yew' are Social Services, right? I don't see that there's a need for you to come in right now. It's late, and the kids'r in bed."

The man looked John straight in the eye, but John returned his gaze without flinching. The woman cut in the middle. "Look, I'm sorry. We haven't introduced ourselves. I'm Margery Brown, and this is my co-worker, Mr. Albot. And yes, we are from Social Services."

She stuck out her hand expectantly, but after minute's time and a withering gaze from the man inside, she recoiled it. John looked past both of them as he spoke boredly. "Well, I'm John Jemas, and you can both beat it. The kids'r fine, and I don't need you spooks pokin' yer' noses into my life no more."

Mr. Albot wiped his glasses on his tie. Though he was a young man, circles could be seen under his eyes, and wrinkles on his forehead. The life of a social worker was no simple thing. "So, you intend to allow no more visits from Social Services, despite the fact that, like you, we have the children's best interests in mind?"

"If thet's the way yew' want to say it," John spat.

"And you realize the implications of that decision?," Mr. Albot asked, no emotion escaping his voice.

"Yeah," the fat man answered.

Mr. Albot put his glasses back on his face. "I don't think you do, Mr. Jemas. We were planning to send a representative earlier today to check up on your progress, but you had a phone conversation with her, and we decided not to. Do you understand why we didn't feel we could send the woman you talked to on the phone?"

"No, and I don't-," John started.

"Because we considered it unsafe. She told us the details of the conversation, that you yelled frequently, swore often, and made repeated threats with reference to a gun you keep here in your home. Our file on you shows that your situation has deteriorated considerably. You've been showing up to work more infrequently, and thus are not paying your bills on time. From what I can see of your house, you're not keeping it clean, or even sanitary. Your children are failing in school, and in past interviews with them, they've said you spend most of your time smoking, or sleeping, or yelling at them for something-"

"Past interviews?," John queried pointedly. His breathing came out in huffs, and his face turned red in response to the accusations. "Yer' jest' twistin' their words! I've seen it before. You people come in and start trying to turn my kids against me! If you can get 'em ta' say I've done somethin' wrong, that makes it easier for you to take 'em away! Thet's why I don't want your kind around here no more!"

"Mr. Jemas!," Mr. Albot directed at the other man as he got up close and put his finger under John's nose. "You have made it perfectly easy yourself for Social Services to crack down on you. No one needs to manipulate your children to get them to incriminate you of faults you display so obviously!"

He steps back a bit, regaining his composure. "You're unsafe, Mr. Jemas. Bordering on unstable. We couldn't let our representative come down to meet with you because it may have jeapordized her life. The only reason we're here is because we have some policemen downstairs just in case you do something rash."

Albot paused only for a second, to register a quick look of fright that passed over John's face. He nervously looked back towards the rooms of his children, and his fingers started to fidget as he forced himself to look back at the business man.

Albot continued, "We know you love your children, and that's why we're here. We wanted to come by late to talk to you, so that we could really try to fix some problems you've been having, so that you could keep your kids. But if you're intent on not allowing Social Services to even come by anymore, then we have no way of knowing if they're safe. And if that's the case, we'll have no choice but to have them removed in temporary care until you've been given a full going over by the courts."

John had waited patiently for the man to stop. In truth, he didn't want to miss a word, as each one gave him an electric sense of fury he'd never experienced before. The sweat from the previous dream returned, and his red face grew even redder as he fumed. A twitch came to his left eye and it looked as though he would fly into a rage any second. But suddenly, during the long pause, he breathed again, harder at first, then softer. A spooky look of calm came over his face. The man and the woman before him felt uncomfortable at the confusing switch in behavior.

John looked down. "Maybe, you're right," he relented. "Please, c'mon in, we'll talk this over."

"Thank you," Mrs. Brown said.

The pair followed John into his living room. He switched on another lamp, but the scenario was still poorly lit. He motioned for them to have a seat, and asked would they like some water. They said yes, and thank you, and he went off for the kitchen.

They cleared off a place to sit on a big plaid couch. An old TV was set up in the corner, the only centerpiece save for a shag rug on the floor. Empty beer cans and cigarettes were stashed in corners, and a few broken toys were scattered over the floor. It was still almost completely dark, so the faces of the two adults was hidden as they talked. No light at all came from the kitchen, and it seemed to be a completely black void when looked towards. Only the vaguest sounds of hurried shuffling could be heard.

Mrs. Brown leaned over to her partner. "I don't know about this. We shouldn't stay long. Even though he seems to be improving, saying he wants to talk and all, the man still isn't fully stable. Be ready to lea-"

Margerie's words fizzled out though, as she caught a strange look on Mr. Albot's face. She followed his gaze behind her, just in time to see John Jemas standing there, in his boxer shorts, with the rage of the world in his eyes, holding a 9mm. hand-gun. She screamed, and Mr. Albot moved to get up, but in a fraction of a second, he had pored three rounds into the chests of each person respectively.

As the dead social workers fell to the floor, he went back into the kitchen for his spare ammunition, he tucked the gun back into the seat of his pants. He roused his children, who crept from bed terrified and confused, each in their own footie pajamas, the youngest cradling her stuffed rabbit doll.

He mumbled as he went, pushing them towards the kitchen. A loving tenderness was present as he spoke to them, desperately trying to quell their fears, and shielding their eyes, trying to keep them from seeing the blood on the living room floor. But their was a roughness as well, as he herded them forward. A sense of abandon. Like he wasn't sure what he was protecting.

"It's all going to be okay," he whispered softly as his girl's cried, "there are some bad men outside, but there's nothing to be scared of. Daddy's going to take care of it." He opened the door to the closet, and asked them to go inside, and sit, and say there, so it'd be safe. Before he shut the door he looked at his son, and told him to take care of his sisters. His son didn't look back at him.

He thought nothing of it as he shut the door, and turned, now all alone in the quiet, black kitchen. Sirens could be heard. Any second now, the cops would come upstairs. With their guns, he thought. He reached for the grip of his to make sure it was still there and moved out to the living room.

He would be ready for them...

A beaten down apartment building in one of the poorest neighborhoods in town. Most of the streetlights were broken, so the most vivid light came from the flashing blue and red lights of three squad cars. Angry, tired men in blue uniforms could be found in the small crowd outside the door of the building. Police tape circled the perimeter, disregarded as neighbors from different building filtered forward, roused from sleep, to see what was happening.

A few policemen were posted outside. Their jobs were to keep the crowd from getting in, and to get the other tenants in the domicile out. They wore stern expressions, but were still frightened. Their brothers and friends were either on the upper levels, or racing for them, to deal with a madman. But that was nothing new. Most of the men were older, and seen more than few poor men crack under the pressure of life before. But it never got easier.

For a moment, Corey's perceptions were bombarded, and confusion ruled. He didn't know how he had gotten there. One second he was talking to the Spectre on a street corner on the other side of town, and then they were on the outskirts of a war zone. He looked around at the cops shuffling scared families out the door.

Suddenly, he remembered the Spectre, and looked around to find him. A few feet away, the tall figure stood on, unconcerned by the events around him. He ignored the screaming and the sounds, and ignored Corey himself. In truth, it seemed as if he'd been there all along, completely familiar with the situation at hand. He didn't even direct his gaze, though it was hard to discern, at the action on the ground. Instead he looked upwards and although Corey couldn't tell, he was looking exactly at a living room on the fifth floor.

Corey ran up to him. "What's going on here?," he demanded, with more obvious curiosity than malice in his tone.

"A man," The Spectre said as he pointed upwards, "has shot and killed two people. He is a disgruntled father. Widowed. Abusive. Partakes of intoxicants. He had an argument with people trying to see to the well-being of his children. He killed them, and he will kill more. Excuse me..."

He started hovering forward, because it couldn't be called walking. Corey moved to catch up with him. "Wait," he shot, standing in front of the Spectre. "So, what, he dies, right?"

"Yes," the Spectre responded.

A chord was touched within Corey. The sight of his brother, suffocating at the hands of this creature sat in the back of his mind. It only burned brighter now. He looked up at the floor the Spectre's attention was fixed on. "Yeah? You said he had kids up there. What about them?"

The Spectre looked down at Corey. "I wouldn't kill them."

"I know," Corey said. "Just like you didn't kill me. But what are they going to do without a father? Look around! They don't exactly live in the best circumstances here. Do you really think killing their dad is going to make life any better for them?"

He turned his gaze back to the action above, that only he can see.

"Yes," he said coldly, and started to move on.

But again, Corey is in front of him. Lines of anger are drawn across his youthful face. "Hey! Whoa! No! Alright? Not good enough!," he sputtered, at a loss for words. "You don't know that!-"

"Yes, I do," the Spectre cut in.

"No! You. Don't," Corey jumps back, right on top of the Spectre's interjection. "You could mess things up even worse than they were before and you wouldn't care. You'd just go back to Heaven or space, or wherever, and leave some fatherless kids to die on the street, but who cares, because you're the Spirit of Vengeance, and you done your job!"

He fumed, turning away from the Spectre. "How do you decide who lives and who dies? How come you killed my brother, but gangsters like the guy who threatened him go free? Huh? What makes some bad guys worse than others? Or does every traffic offender get to die in your point of view?"

Corey fought back the briefest of tears, thinking about his lost family. For a long minute, the Spectre didn't speak. "Subtle differences in each case, Jobe. Your brother had committed multiple transgressions before the time of his death. He was angry and uneducated, and knew nothing else but crime as a way to provide for you. And he would have done anything for you. Including killing, time and time again. Are the lives of the people he would have killed less important than your brother's, just because you loved him? How do you decide who lives and who dies?"

"Shut up!," Corey whirled. "You don't know anything about my brother!" He lunged, and tried to punch, but the fist went straight through his adversary, with nothing but a tingle for it.

The Spectre continued, without missing a beat. "It's the same case as with the man above. He fights because he wants to see his children cared for. But he killed for it. He killed a woman who had a sick grandmother in the hospital, who she was responsible for taking care of financially. The policemen he's about to shoot have families. Like your brother, his downfall is his love. He loves his family so much, he has lost all concept of right and wrong, and will continue to kill if not stopped, because he no longer knows how..."

Once more the Spectre looked upward. "Now, John Jemas is about to shoot a man whose fiancée has AIDS. I intend to save him. I have wasted too much time here with you, Corey Jobe."

The Spectre moved forward, fast now, and though Corey raced to catch up with him, there was to be no pause for discussion this time. Some stopped and stared at the pale countenance sifting through the crowds, but others were too excited with their own business to notice. He stopped, and looked up towards the sky, before seeming to dissolve into a liquidy smoke of green and white, and then slowly snaking up in the wind.

Corey stopped in his pushing through the throng of bodies to stare wide-eyed. Then, he shoved a child a bit older than him out of his way, and charged through the doors of the building, never slowing long enough for the surprised policemen to mount much of a chase after him.

It was as black as the eyes of death in the hallway leading up to the Jemas' room. Scuttling could be heard as three policemen slowly crept up the stairwell. They stuck to the wall, eyes focused on the open door ahead of them. Only the car light from below would flash in pattern to light the way before them, and then dissipate. A flash of red burst through the window, and landed on the chest of one of the men. Then it was gone. Another second. Then all was blue. And then black again.

The man in front sweat profusely as he motioned those behind him forward. He chewed on his smoking cigarette as he thought of his fiancée, sitting at home alone. He stopped and tried to relax himself. He exhaled a mouth of strangely-colored smoke, then choked and coughed as a blast of blue light caught the full picture of a fat man in his under shorts aiming a gun right at his head.

The muzzle flashed. Yellow. The man's arm jerked as the gun fired. A loud shot rang out, bouncing off the tight walls, and a little bullet hurtled towards the policemen's face. The smoke he'd just puffed out, a detestable green and white color, hung in the air. In fact, since leaving his lungs it had grown and extended, catching the air, and seeming to develop lithe, wispy fingers. The fingers whipped out and caught the bullet in the air as the policeman fell backwards, thinking he'd been shot. Everything went black again.

The other cops behind the first rushed to catch him. They cradled him as his fingers brushed up and down his chest franticly, probing for the bullet wound. John Jemas smiled as he thought he'd downed a cop. Then red poured through the window again, and all eyes fell on a tall figure, silent and effervescent like a ghost, colored jade green and pure white, highlighted in neon red. In his long fingers was a bullet. And on his face was a grimace that could have been stolen from Satan himself.

John screamed as he fired three shots blindly, each striking the ceiling as he turned and ran. He motored his flabby body back into the apartment, and locked the door, clutching his heart and breathing so loud no other sound could be heard. He leaned back against the door, trying to collect himself. A large thump on the wood was heard, and felt in shocks through his body. He pulled away from the door, hiding behind his couch, and having stepped callously on the bodies of his other two victims in getting there. The door shattered in splinters under a mass of writhing green cloth. The Spectre hit the ground, and stood up straight, flicking both of his powerful arms and in doing so, smoothing the rustled fabric about him.

John, tripped and fell backwards. He reached up and fired of a bullet, aimed directly at his assailant's heart. The impact of the bullet hitting the wall behind him scared him to death. He grabbed a lamp and whipped around throwing it at the Spectre. An arm shot out of the cloak of shadow and simply caught the lampshade. The Spectre's arms twitched and it was broken in half.

John hustled his way into the kitchen. He grabbed a lock from above the cabinet, and latched the closet door shut, his children inside. He ignored their screams of terror, and assured himself the closet was perfectly large enough for them to breath. He just would not allow them to be heard by the mysterious thing chasing him.

He threw an adjacent bottle of dish cleaner through the window, his cheap class erupting into a pool of raining shards. He fired another two shots behind him, blindly as he climbed out the window and lunged for the fire escape. For a split second his large body weighed nothing. The cool air clung to his sweat and excited his whole body. Then he caught the briefest of glimpses downwards and he was sure he wouldn't make it. He closed his eyes, ready to die.

But the adrenaline of the chase had given his legs extra power that night. He sailed from his windowsill, up above the earth, to the railing of the fire escape. His legs shuffled as he tried to pull himself over. And in a flash, faster than he had ever done anything in his life he rocketed down the fire escape. Pure electric horror surged through his veins as he descended. His mind shut down in terror at the thought of the Spectre above him.

Back in the dark kitchen, the Spectre was taking his time. The cries of the children in their makeshift cage caught him. He reached a hand over, and gripped the lock. It squealed in protest as he squeezed, crushing the mechanisms within. Then, with a final jerk, he pulled it off the door, shattering every aspect of it as well. The door creaked open, and the children burst out.

They coughed, and tried to stop crying. The oldest was on top of the two girls, and they untangled themselves, looking about, trying to get their bearings. They looked up, expecting to see their father, but their jaws dropped at the sight of a shade from out of their nightmares. Night wrapped itself around him, hiding all semblance of humanity, and only an emotionless green cloak hung in the air, staring down at them. He pulled himself away from the confused, awestruck gaze and moved over to the window.

Two of the officers piled through the doorway, guns aimed, looking for the killer and the stranger who'd followed him. They looked about the living room then moved forward. Towards the kitchen. The third brought up the rear and directed himself towards the bedrooms.

Guns drawn, they took aim at the green-clad man perched on the windowsill. One cop turned his attention to the kids, and the other almost had enough time to shout, "Hey, you! Stop right there!," before the Spectre jumped.

Corey panted and wheezed as he flew up the last set of stairs. He was a skinny boy, and young. Living poor had made him malnourished. In no way could he be considered physically fit. But even so, he pushed his aching legs up four flights of stairs, and ignored his lungs' desperate begging for peace. His shoddy tennis shoes slapped the metal stairs as he climbed to the top.

His elbow banged a wall as he rounded the last corner but he ignored it. He had to catch up to the Spectre. He didn't know why, or what he intended to do once the Spectre was caught up to, but it didn't matter. He was compelled.

But he still couldn't keep his mind from questioning why. Why was he chasing the Spectre? Did he want to see what happened, see justice delivered? Did he want to stop the Spectre, and save a man's life, and prove the vindictive Spectre wrong? Was he trying to make sure the children were safe? Bond or no bond, he could have stayed rooted to ground outside, and let the Spectre take care of his business. There was no way to stop him anyway, even if he really wanted to. So, why?

He soared down the hallway and flung himself through the door, hoping it was the right one. The dead bodies on the floor, still freshly bleeding told him he was right. He heard a gun click, and saw a cop emerging from some bedroom. Corey instinctively, grabbed a nearby Barbie Doll and chucked it at the man's eye as he ran forward. It hit, and the guy dived, but missed Corey.

"Where is he?," he demanded. "Where'd the Spectre go?"

A cop tending to some children on the floor whirled around. "Hey! What do you think you're doing? How'd you get in here, you stupid kid!?"

But Corey ignored him. His eyes flew about wildly, and he lunged forward to the window, looking outside to see where his quarry had gone. The other two policemen continued to shout and grumble as they grabbed him, and tried to pull him away from the window. But he struggled, and looked down to see the Spectre...

The Spectre had leapt from five stories up. The wind screamed as it whipped past him, but he didn’t notice. The folds of his cloak fluttered behind him, as he fell majestically from the sky, like some great and terrifying bird of prey. He landed on the ground without a sound and looked around. His prey was gone, but it didn’t matter. A small, fenced off backyard was around him.

He listened with an ability unparallel by any alive, and heard the panting of a guilty man running down the dank street. He climbed over an old chain link fence and he was off.

John was, with no exaggeration, running for his life. And he knew it. As he blew on down the street, cradling his weapon to his chest, he could not think of his children, or his wife, or what would happen tomorrow. The only thing that existed at that moment was a street, and at one end was a chance at life, with the other offering only assured death. His glasses bounced and then fell off of his face as he sprinted forward towards life.

Suddenly, a young brown-haired cop jumped out of an alleyway.

“Freeze!,” he yelled. He pointed his gun straight forward. This cop had been the closest to the back of the apartment when the three officers upstairs had radioed down that the perp had escaped through the fire escape. He had jogged the extra block and waited.

Fat lot of good it did him. No unsuspecting police officer posed much of a mental threat compared to the terror behind John. Without a seconds break for wind, John kept up his pace, aimed his gun, and despite the bouncing, shot the man in the knee.

“BAANG!,” the shot fired!

“AGH!,” the officer screamed, as he sank to the ground, cradling his knee.

John smiled as he continued forth, rounding a corner. He was free. No one could catch him now! He lowered his head to the ground and powered forward as fast as he could…

Only to blindly collide with something. His head rang in pain as he tried to get his bearings. The world was flipped upside down and ran together like mush. He held his balding head in his hands, and looked around, wishing he’d grabbed his glasses.

A cold hand reached down, and placed his glasses on top of his nose. He fumbled around, trying to right them on his face, and look up. He craned his neck upwards, and the Spirit of Vengeance stood up above him, looking down like God himself. Sirens got louder in the distance. Then the Spectre kicked him in the face.

The glasses crunched, and John tried to squirm away. He flipped over, surprisingly fast and picked himself up on his legs. He threw himself at the Spectre hoping to catch the element of surprise. Grubby hands clutched for the Spectre’s neck. He started choking his mystery predator, but no sign of discomfort could be seen. He strained harder, and pushed, trying to force the figure to the ground, but nothing would work.

Then, before his mind could even register the change in wind, a fist as hard as a sledgehammer connected with the side of his skull. He reeled, and another fist connected with the other side. He lunged again, but the figure was no longer there.

Then, suddenly, he felt his body being left. Softly, actually, as though being picked up and held by an angel. The movement was effortless. He was grabbed by his shirt, and hefted up high. He hung there, suspended in the night air for just a moment, thinking he was somehow safe above the earth.

And then, with a mighty heave, the Spectre threw him. He flew over the entire length of the vacant city street, and collided face first with a brick wall. A sickening wet crack echoed softly, followed by a heavy thud as he his dead body fell to the dirty floor.

The Spectre walked forward, to look at the dead body. He stood there, motionless, absorbing a second of ambiance that would be so rare on a night this terrible. Red and blue flashed behind him, and away from his sight, other officers were helping their fallen comrade endure the pain in his leg. He let the sounds of commotion from around the area wash over him, and looked at the large Georgia moon as it rose in the sky…

Corey was up above, struggling with the two cops, who firmly held him by the shoulders. He had been watching all along, and had caught every aspect of the fight between the Spectre and the murderer. And he wouldn’t let the policemen keep him from watching whatever was going to happen next.

But all that happened was that the Spectre turned away. He turned around slowly, and with a flip of his long cape, he was gone, as though he had never visited that part of town before. Really, it would seem as if he had never truly existed. One of the other precinct cops had followed his injured friends directions and rounded the corner, only to find the dead body of John Jemas, cradling the ground.

And the two policemen back in the building scratched their heads and blinked their eyes, because the kid they were sure they had been holding was gone, vanished completely. Eventually they would convince themselves there had never really been another kid, and they had just gotten excited.

But their was a kid, and their was a Spectre. And when evil had been sufficiently punished, they disappeared into the night, off to wherever it is they go. Because a boy and his worst enemy were linked by chains from heaven itself, and wherever one went, the other must follow.

Spirited Writings

Hey, and thanks for reading #4 of the Spectre. I know, so much for keeping it consistent, but hey, #5 should be out in no time. Anyway, because I know you all get bored with me talking, I actually have some mail. It may not be exactly, the format for a letters page, as it’s more of a review, but who’s being picky? Besides, I like to show off whatever feedback I get, at least to encourage others to write in as well. This one comes from Dale Glaser, FDC stalwart, and author of the fantastic Bad Blood and Tales of the GLC series’ at FDC’s site (along with other fan fiction sites abroad). Go check ‘em out! Anyway, without further introduction, Dale writes:

I'm trying to get back into the habit of reviewing the work of my fellow writers here at FDC (hopefully encouraging others – writers and readers alike – to do the same, hint, hint). I thought I'd start with a relative newcomer to the FDC scene, so I'm taking a look at the introductory arc of our new SPECTRE series by Jonah Rite. I'll try to steer clear of major spoilers, for those of you who haven't read it yet, but if you want an absolutely unspoiled experience, go read it now (bottom line, I do recommend it as a good read) and then come back and see what I thought of it in more detail.

The Good:
Jonah is taking a very fresh approach to the title character here, and I definitely applaud him for that. Fanfic is all about shaking up the status quo a bit, in my opinion. The best part is, it's not just a re-imagining-for-its-own-sake, or at least it doesn't come off like one. He's using the established concept of the Spectre as the embodiment of God's wrath, matching that with a blank slate for the setting and supporting cast, and then giving us a story that is very intriguing. He gets to have all sorts of fun raising philosophical differences of opinion between the Spectre and his new human host. And the best part is, by the end of the first 3-part story arc, there's still plenty of tension between spirit and host. Jonah doesn't back away from the conflict and have the two make nice in issue 3 so they can fight crime together. I get the feeling we're in for a long, rough road over the course of the series, and that's cool. And if seeing how the two beings who comprise the Spectre get along (or don't) wasn't enough to keep me coming back, there's the added mystery of who brought them together in the first place. Hopefully Jonah will keep dropping hints to this as well.

-It’s good to hear that the philosophical approach is cool with people. I know that didn’t go over extremely well with DC’s own short-lived Hal Jordan/Spectre title. But I actually liked that series, and I like the approach to the character. And yes, the title characters of this book won’t be making nice for a very long time, which is one of my favorite parts about writing the two.

Another thing I think Jonah's doing well is balancing between the gritty realism of inner city life in Atlanta and the supernatural realms from which the Spectre originates. It's a striking contrast and I think it's being played up that way for maximum effect, so well done there.

The Bad:
I was a little thrown off at times by the tense shifts, especially in issue #3. Sometimes it's present tense, sometimes past tense. A little proofreading might help clear that up, along with some of the spelling errors along the way, as well. Jonah also lost me a few times when he changed scenes. I mentioned above that the contrast between scenes sometimes was very well done, and I meant it, but now and then I had to get to the middle of the scene before I really knew where the narrative had taken me and what was going on. A couple of things might help with that. One, just putting in more horizontal rules in the HTML version to physically separate different scenes. They seemed to be used inconsistently. And Jonah, if you're not coding your own stories, then yell at whoever is to stop dropping the lines! ;-> Two, most of the scenes are centered around a particular character – the Spectre OR the bad guy OR the Spectre's host OR the Spectre's mysterious master/benefactor. Often times Jonah will start a scene very ambiguously, describing a building or a street scene or something else and then focusing in on a (sometimes nameless) character, dropping subtle hints as to who it is we're watching. That can be cool for some stylistic effects, but during a fast-paced action climax it's more distracting. I'd rather have a scene shift start with the sentence "The Spectre entered the church," than "The church loomed before the approaching figure," which leaves me wondering which approaching figure it is. Just something to think about.

-This is a great example of how constructive criticism can make an issue better. By the time I got done with this issue, and checked to see that I stayed in the same tense the whole time, and that I introduced characters whenever the POV shifted to them, and the story turned out a lot better than it would have otherwise.

THE PURELY SUBJECTIVE:
As I was reading the third issue, something occurred to me, and I wondered if Jonah was even aware of it. Then in reading his author's notes I realized he was completely aware of it. Without giving too much away, the climax of the story played out like "Die Hard" in a church – lots of wrestling, punching, and shooting. This surprised me considering the Spectre is a supernatural force of nature who's been known to turn rapists into pillars of salt with a wave of his hand. Turns out the choice to make the Spectre more scrappy was a conscious choice of Jonah's. So, apparently, I'm not going to get the kind of supernatural craziness I might have expected. And, honestly, that bums me out a little. BUT, I'd be perfectly happy IF Jonah incorporates this into the storyline somehow. The Spectre has a new host and a new set of rules, so perhaps that means a new set of powers (or lack of powers) as well? I'd love to see this addressed directly – if the Spectre no longer has godlike powers, why not? If he does still have them, why does he choose to get up close and personal with the bad guys rather than use them? I think – again, purely subjective opinion here – that would be worth writing about. Consider it a personal request from me to you, Jonah, but it's totally up to you whether or not to follow up on it.

-When the dilemma came up with whether to display how to display the Spectre’s powers (that is, to make him grow 10 stories high and turn his hands into knives, or to make him more of a brawler) I decided to just screw logic, and go for whatever was more atmospheric. So despite what it might make sense for the Spectre to do in a fight, you’ll see him doing whatever’s darker and scarier instead. I think I showed a little bit of each in this issue. But there is an answer to why he opts more and more for fistfights, and I intend to get to it somewhere far down the line.

THE BOTTOM LINE:
Definitely worth checking out for something a little bit different. I look forward to seeing more of this series from Jonah in the future.

-Thanks a lot, Dale. Dale’s been great at helping me get started on the site, and I wish him thanks for that too. So, I’ve got my first review in the bag, which means I must be doing something right. So anyone else glorifying praise or a bone to pick, send it in, to jonah_rite@hotmail.com. That’s all for now.

Peace.

Jonah